Author: kenwoodley3

By Ken Woodley

Sometimes,

when the moon seems skillfully slung

to skip across the rushing clouds,

I imagine you as a child wondering whose wrist and fingers

give this crescent light its motion

and if the heart behind the hand knows you’re watching,

wading toward the deep end of the sky,

up to your neck now

and wanting to swim

in communion

with the reflection of the sun

along the surface of the lunar song

being sung across the skin of heaven.

Sometimes,

the light splashes

and you feel its current all around,

lifting you for a moment so brief

that it seems unreal,

as if it were only a fantasy of your own desperate yearning.

But also of my own.

Because I am there, too, Dad.

Beside you.

Both of us children.

Sharing the same dream.

Sometimes, we feel the heart behind the hand

send us skipping, too, across the clouds

in the wake of the singing moon.

And then our wondering turns to wonder,

turning sometimes into

Always and Forever

until the shouting, weeping, tumbling world sweeps 

Always and Forever aside

and we find ourselves

looking up into the night-time sky

when the moon seems skillfully slung

to skip across the rushing clouds,

both of us wondering whose wrist and fingers

give this crescent light its motion

and if the heart behind the hand knows we’re watching.

And that is where we find God

finding us together.

Always

and Forever.

(Note: I wrote this for my father’s funeral. He left this world for heaven six months ago.)

By Ken Woodley

Sometimes,
when the moon seems skillfully slung
to skip across the rushing clouds,
I imagine you as a child wondering whose wrist and fingers
give this crescent light its motion
and if the heart behind the hand knows you’re watching,
wading toward the deep end of the sky,
up to your neck now
and wanting to swim
in communion
with the reflection of the sun
along the surface of the lunar song
being sung across the skin of heaven.
Sometimes,
the light splashes
and you feel its current all around,
lifting you for a moment so brief
that it seems unreal,
as if it were only a fantasy of your own desperate yearning.
But also of my own.
Because I am there, too, Dad.
Beside you.
Both of us children.
Sharing the same dream.
Sometimes, we feel the heart behind the hand
send us skipping, too, across the clouds
in the wake of the singing moon.
And then our wondering turns to wonder,
turning sometimes into
Always and Forever
until the shouting, weeping, tumbling world sweeps
Always and Forever aside
and we find ourselves
looking up into the night-time sky
when the moon seems skillfully slung
to skip across the rushing clouds,
both of us wondering whose wrist and fingers
give this crescent light its motion
and if the heart behind the hand knows we’re watching.
And that is where we find God
finding us together.
Always
and Forever.


(Note: I wrote this for my father’s funeral. He left this world for heaven six months ago.)

“He went into all the region around the Jordan, proclaiming a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins, as it is written in the book of the words of the prophet Isaiah: ‘The voice of one crying in the wilderness. Prepare the way of the Lord, make his paths straight. Every valley shall be filled and every mountain and hill shall be made low, and the crooked shall be made straight, and the rough ways made smooth; and all flesh shall see the salvation of God.’”

                                                              —The Gospel of Luke

By Ken Woodley

The region around the Jordan River isn’t the only wilderness. 

Each of us has our own “wilderness” and our own “wilderness moments” in life.

Around us.

And within us.

Places with fearfully tall mountains that we feel we cannot possibly climb. Or, once they are scaled, that it would be impossible to descend without falling from their great height.

Places with deep, dark valleys of shadows that we fear passing through or feel lost within.

Crooked places that twist us up in knots and where we lose our sense of self and direction in their maze-like zig-zagging.

Rough places that wouldn’t understand the meaning of smooth even if they were surrounded by velvet.

In the passage above, Luke is talking about John the Baptist crying out in the wilderness, preparing the way for Jesus.

But John the Baptist isn’t the only one crying out in the wilderness.

Each of us has had times when we, too, cried out in the wilderness. And we will have them again. That is life.

But there is another voice, too, crying out in our lives.

Another voice in the wilderness crying out around us.

Another voice in the wilderness crying out within us.

And that voice is the Holy Spirit of God and Christ.

That voice is Jesus with us.

Emmanuel.

God with us.

Emmanuel.

Oh come, oh come, Emmanuel.

And Emmanuel comes.

Emmanuel is there. Is here.

Emmanuel will find a way to make our paths feel straight even if they remain crooked.

Emmanuel will find a way to make every mountain feel as if it has been made low even if it still rises.

We climb.

We ascend.

We reach the summit.

And we do not fall off on the way back down the other side on our continuing journey.

Our rough places have been made smoother, even if they are still rough.

And we see, and we feel, the salvation of God.

We feel the salvation of God so strongly that the only response we can think of is to try and make crooked paths feel straight for others, to take their hand as they cross over their mountains, to shine a light as we travel through their dark valleys with them.

To be a voice of love and compassion in their wilderness.

And a voice of love and compassion when their wilderness is gone and there is nothing left at all but Emmanuel.

Emmanuel all around. In every footprint and every heartbeat.

“He went into all the region around the Jordan, proclaiming a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins, as it is written in the book of the words of the prophet Isaiah: ‘The voice of one crying in the wilderness. Prepare the way of the Lord, make his paths straight. Every valley shall be filled and every mountain and hill shall be made low, and the crooked shall be made straight, and the rough ways made smooth; and all flesh shall see the salvation of God.’”

—The Gospel of Luke

By Ken Woodley
The region around the Jordan River isn’t the only wilderness.
Each of us has our own “wilderness” and our own “wilderness moments” in life.
Around us.
And within us.
Places with fearfully tall mountains that we feel we cannot possibly climb. Or, once they are scaled, that it would be impossible to descend without falling from their great height.
Places with deep, dark valleys of shadows that we fear passing through or feel lost within.
Crooked places that twist us up in knots and where we lose our sense of self and direction in their maze-like zig-zagging.
Rough places that wouldn’t understand the meaning of smooth even if they were surrounded by velvet.
In the passage above, Luke is talking about John the Baptist crying out in the wilderness, preparing the way for Jesus.
But John the Baptist isn’t the only one crying out in the wilderness.
Each of us has had times when we, too, cried out in the wilderness. And we will have them again. That is life.
But there is another voice, too, crying out in our lives.
Another voice in the wilderness crying out around us.
Another voice in the wilderness crying out within us.
And that voice is the Holy Spirit of God and Christ.
That voice is Jesus with us.
Emmanuel.
God with us.
Emmanuel.
Oh come, oh come, Emmanuel.
And Emmanuel comes.
Emmanuel is there. Is here.
Emmanuel will find a way to make our paths feel straight even if they remain crooked.
Emmanuel will find a way to make every mountain feel as if it has been made low even if it still rises.
We climb.
We ascend.
We reach the summit.
And we do not fall off on the way back down the other side on our continuing journey.
Our rough places have been made smoother, even if they are still rough.
And we see, and we feel, the salvation of God.
We feel the salvation of God so strongly that the only response we can think of is to try and make crooked paths feel straight for others, to take their hand as they cross over their mountains, to shine a light as we travel through their dark valleys with them.
To be a voice of love and compassion in their wilderness.
And a voice of love and compassion when their wilderness is gone and there is nothing left at all but Emmanuel.
Emmanuel all around. In every footprint and every heartbeat.

By Ken Woodley

Lost in this shadow-soaked valley,

I howl your name

into a darkness that seems to know me too well

using notes I didn’t know were mine,

yearning to hear your voice 

approaching in the distance.

I am huddled beneath a star-less sky 

with wolves that call me brother,

all of us dying to howl at the sun some day,

each of us ravenous for my stumbling prayer 

to lead you across a landscape scarred

by wounds we never saw coming,

woundings so deep they couldn’t even bleed.

Might you find us and soften the serrated hunger

that has devoured us for so long,

leaving us starving to become nothing 

more than sheep in wolves’ clothing

before shedding every hair on our counterfeit skin.

Exhausted by years of crying out words

I’ve been told are holy,

I fall silently to the ground

and hear something approaching through the dry leaves

of a season that is already dead.

Lifeless twigs are breaking underfoot

like promises made without knowing the cost.

Hope teases the outskirts of our desperation

and we are slowly surrounded by lambs

that begin howling at a moon so full

we hadn’t seen it shining.

In its light, we see green leaves on the trees

above your approaching shadow

through the sudden flowers.

Prayer for a Shepherd 

By Ken Woodley

Lost in this shadow-soaked valley,

I howl your name

into a darkness that seems to know me too well

using notes I didn’t know were mine,

yearning to hear your voice 

approaching in the distance.

I am huddled beneath a star-less sky 

with wolves that call me brother,

all of us dying to howl at the sun some day,

each of us ravenous for my stumbling prayer 

to lead you across a landscape scarred

by wounds we never saw coming,

woundings so deep they couldn’t even bleed.

Might you find us and soften the serrated hunger

that has devoured us for so long,

leaving us starving to become nothing 

more than sheep in wolves’ clothing

before shedding every hair on our counterfeit skin.

Exhausted by years of crying out words

I’ve been told are holy,

I fall silently to the ground

and hear something approaching through the dry leaves

of a season that is already dead.

Lifeless twigs are breaking underfoot

like promises made without knowing the cost.

Hope teases the outskirts of our desperation

and we are slowly surrounded by lambs

that begin howling at a moon so full

we hadn’t seen it shining.

In its light, we see green leaves on the trees

above your approaching shadow

through the sudden flowers.

Prayer for a Shepherd


By Ken Woodley

Lost in this shadow-soaked valley,
I howl your name
into a darkness that seems to know me too well
using notes I didn’t know were mine,
yearning to hear your voice
approaching in the distance.
I am huddled beneath a star-less sky
with wolves that call me brother,
all of us dying to howl at the sun some day,
each of us ravenous for my stumbling prayer
to lead you across a landscape scarred
by wounds we never saw coming,
woundings so deep they couldn’t even bleed.

Might you find us and soften the serrated hunger
that has devoured us for so long,
leaving us starving to become nothing
more than sheep in wolves’ clothing
before shedding every hair on our counterfeit skin.

Exhausted by years of crying out words
I’ve been told are holy,
I fall silently to the ground
and hear something approaching through the dry leaves
of a season that is already dead.
Lifeless twigs are breaking underfoot
like promises made without knowing the cost.
Hope teases the outskirts of our desperation
and we are slowly surrounded by lambs
that begin howling at a moon so full
we hadn’t seen it shining.
In its light, we see green leaves on the trees
above your approaching shadow
through the sudden flowers.



By Ken Woodley

Lost in this shadow-soaked valley,
I howl your name
into a darkness that seems to know me too well
using notes I didn’t know were mine,
yearning to hear your voice
approaching in the distance.
I am huddled beneath a star-less sky
with wolves that call me brother,
all of us dying to howl at the sun some day,
each of us ravenous for my stumbling prayer
to lead you across a landscape scarred
by wounds we never saw coming,
woundings so deep they couldn’t even bleed.

Might you find us and soften the serrated hunger
that has devoured us for so long,
leaving us starving to become nothing
more than sheep in wolves’ clothing
before shedding every hair on our counterfeit skin.

Exhausted by years of crying out words
I’ve been told are holy,
I fall silently to the ground
and hear something approaching through the dry leaves
of a season that is already dead.
Lifeless twigs are breaking underfoot
like promises made without knowing the cost.
Hope teases the outskirts of our desperation
and we are slowly surrounded by lambs
that begin howling at a moon so full
we hadn’t seen it shining.
In its light, we see green leaves on the trees
above your approaching shadow
through the sudden flowers.

By Ken Woodley

“Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.”

Those words comprise one of our favorite communion hymns. They come from the Gospel of Luke and are spoken by one of the criminals crucified alongside Jesus.

Confronting the crucifixion of Jesus is difficult at any time and even more disconcerting  a month before Christmas.

Death before life, in a way, prior to his life after death.

But don’t all of us have to die to something before we really live?

I need to die to my worrying about things too much, things I cannot control. My worrying keeps me from living fully in the moments of my life as Jesus and God wish that I would.

Jesus knows how easy it is for us worriers to be “nailed” to our anxieties, allowing them to become a cross we do not need to bear. I know I too often allow my worries to “crucify” my sense of peace and wellbeing, making it impossible to see the beauty that surrounds me.

“Do not worry about tomorrow,” Jesus constantly urges me during the Sermon on the Mount, “for tomorrow will worry about itself.”

I know that to be true, Lord, just as I know that whatever comes tomorrow will find you there right by my side.

My faith is strong but sometimes, no matter how hard I try, my fear is stronger.

“Jesus,” I call out, much like the criminal hanging on the cross beside the Lord, “remember me.”

And then I look over and Jesus does better than remember. Jesus is next to me, pulling out my nails of worry, taking me down from that moment of “crucifixion” and raising me up into God’s love and grace.

Resurrecting that moment in that day.

Just as Jesus is next to you in your own times of “crucifixion,” whatever they might be—we all have them; they are part of our human condition.

“Truly I tell you,” we hear Jesus say, “today you will be with me in Paradise.”

And a feeling of “paradise” is just what it feels like when we allow our worried minds to escape fear and ascend into the certain knowledge that we are loved by God.

As the author of Psalm 46 assures us: “God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.”

Not a “past” help.

A help right here and right now.

By Ken Woodley

“Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.”
Those words comprise one of our favorite communion hymns. They come from the Gospel of Luke and are spoken by one of the criminals crucified alongside Jesus.
Confronting the crucifixion of Jesus is difficult at any time and even more disconcerting a month before Christmas.
Death before life, in a way, prior to his life after death.
But don’t all of us have to die to something before we really live?
I need to die to my worrying about things too much, things I cannot control. My worrying keeps me from living fully in the moments of my life as Jesus and God wish that I would.
Jesus knows how easy it is for us worriers to be “nailed” to our anxieties, allowing them to become a cross we do not need to bear. I know I too often allow my worries to “crucify” my sense of peace and wellbeing, making it impossible to see the beauty that surrounds me.
“Do not worry about tomorrow,” Jesus constantly urges me during the Sermon on the Mount, “for tomorrow will worry about itself.”
I know that to be true, Lord, just as I know that whatever comes tomorrow will find you there right by my side.
My faith is strong but sometimes, no matter how hard I try, my fear is stronger.
“Jesus,” I call out, much like the criminal hanging on the cross beside the Lord, “remember me.”
And then I look over and Jesus does better than remember. Jesus is next to me, pulling out my nails of worry, taking me down from that moment of “crucifixion” and raising me up into God’s love and grace.
Resurrecting that moment in that day.
Just as Jesus is next to you in your own times of “crucifixion,” whatever they might be—we all have them; they are part of our human condition.
“Truly I tell you,” we hear Jesus say, “today you will be with me in Paradise.”
And a feeling of “paradise” is just what it feels like when we allow our worried minds to escape fear and ascend into the certain knowledge that we are loved by God.
As the author of Psalm 46 assures us: “God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.”
Not a “past” help.
A help right here and right now.
And for that I give thanks.

By Ken Woodley

Wars and rumors of wars. Nation rising up against nation. Kingdom against kingdom. Earthquakes and famines.

Jesus certainly isn’t papering over the cracks presented by the reality of the world. But he’s no “doomsday” prophet, either.

It was not then, nor is it now, an easy world to live in with who knows what headline right around the corner.

But Jesus never ever tells his disciples to give up and stop striving to make the kingdom of heaven come just a little bit closer for a few more people. And so he isn’t telling us to do so, either.

The specific advice Jesus gives the disciples in today’s Gospel lesson is “do not be alarmed.”

That is often easier said than done. Certainly for me, anyway, as someone who can make a fine art out of anxiety.

But it becomes less difficult when we follow the example of Jesus and keep plugging away in God’s vineyard, pulling up weeds even though they come back next week.

It is, in fact, good for our peace of mind to keep tending the corner of God’s vineyard that has been entrusted to our care. 

No corner of the vineyard is unimportant. Every inch impacts somebody’s life in some way. 

And so it’s never a waste of time to drop to our knees and cultivate with our bare hands. 

To get dirty. 

Scraped and bruised as we dig out the rocks and plow the soil.

To plant the seeds God has given us for the harvest that only we can produce, a harvest without which something of goodness—a meaningful vintage from the vineyard—would be lost.

No, we aren’t likely to change the world. But there is every chance for something good that might make all the difference in the corner of the vineyard that God has given us.

And when we change a corner of the vineyard we change that part of the world and so the world, itself, is changed after all.

Despite the wars and rumors of wars and the nations and kingdoms and earthquakes and famines.

The most meaningful mountaintop experiences in life often happen—not on some glittering summit—but down in the darkened valleys, where we take the light God has given us and plant it in the vineyard.

Even if we feel alone and vulnerable with only a plowshare in our hands in a world filled with wars and rumors of wars.

In truth, we are never alone when we choose to work in God’s vineyard because the landowner’s son is with us.

The spirit of Jesus by our side. 

No, we won’t see him. We aren’t likely to hear him. But there are moments across the passing days of the flowing seasons where we sense his presence.

A warm feeling in our heart. A gentle ripple through our soul. Perhaps simply an unexpected smile from a stranger.

Jesus there, on his knees, too. 

His hands dirty and bruised. 

His sweat falling into the earth as we lift the heavier stones together, pull up the most stubborn weeds, and gently nurture the vines.

Cultivating more fruits for the kingdom.

Because every corner of the vineyard matters to God.

And Jesus cares about them all.

The vineyard is all around us but we are needed in the corner God has led us to. We are needed to plant not only our seeds in the soil, but ourselves, as well. 

Having faith that somehow, no matter how many people surrounding the vineyard have swords in their hands, our work with the spirit of Jesus by our side will some way, some day, bear fruits of the kingdom that would not have been possible had we kept our backs turned and our hearts headed in the opposite direction.

We may think we haven’t any experience with vineyards and wonder if we shouldn’t let someone with more expertise do the job. But we have far more experience with God’s vineyard than we know.

Because, in truth, there is a corner of God’s vineyard inside each and every one of us.

That place where God’s love and grace first grows fruits of the kingdom before we plant any of their seeds out in the world.

Nothing happens out in the world until it happens first in our hearts. Darkness leans toward the light when our hearts respond to God’s love and grace like a seed responds to rich soil, water and sunshine.

And, Jesus tells us over and over again, that is God’s most fervent wish.

For our own sakes, but also for others, because either the vines of the vineyard within us reach out into the world, or else the choking weeds do.

Wars and rumors of wars? Nation against nation and kingdom against kingdom? It all sounds so terribly depressing. But, crucially, Jesus speaks of these as “but the beginnings of the birth pangs.”

What is actually going to be born into the world—the kingdom of heaven, or something else entirely—very much depends on each of us and what we do in our corner of the vineyard.

As Archbishop Desmond Tutu said, “Each one of us is a God-carrier.”

If enough swords are turned into plowshares in enough corners of the vineyard then just maybe the nations and kingdoms will eventually join us.

Even if it’s just one person at a time. Starting with you and me.

Perhaps the only earthquake will be a seismic shift in love over hate and the only famine a lack of anything for the world’s darkness to feed upon.

Is the kingdom of heaven really likely to materialize around us as far as the eye can see? On most days, to be honest, I would answer, No.

But, honestly, every single solitary day I would say that it IS worth spending the rest of our lives believing in and working to achieve.

Because, with God, anything is possible.

And our faith in the work God has given each of us to do may be the tipping point that makes all the difference in the world.

All the difference ….. in the world.

By Ken Woodley


Wars and rumors of wars. Nation rising up against nation. Kingdom against kingdom. Earthquakes and famines.

Jesus certainly isn’t papering over the cracks presented by the reality of the world. But he’s no “doomsday” prophet, either.

It was not then, nor is it now, an easy world to live in with who knows what headline right around the corner.

But Jesus never ever tells his disciples to give up and stop striving to make the kingdom of heaven come just a little bit closer for a few more people. And so he isn’t telling us to do so, either.

The specific advice Jesus gives the disciples in today’s Gospel lesson is “do not be alarmed.”

That is often easier said than done. Certainly for me, anyway, as someone who can make a fine art out of anxiety.

But it becomes less difficult when we follow the example of Jesus and keep plugging away in God’s vineyard, pulling up weeds even though they come back next week.

It is, in fact, good for our peace of mind to keep tending the corner of God’s vineyard that has been entrusted to our care.

No corner of the vineyard is unimportant. Every inch impacts somebody’s life in some way.

And so it’s never a waste of time to drop to our knees and cultivate with our bare hands.

To get dirty.

Scraped and bruised as we dig out the rocks and plow the soil.

To plant the seeds God has given us for the harvest that only we can produce, a harvest without which something of goodness—a meaningful vintage from the vineyard—would be lost.

No, we aren’t likely to change the world. But there is every chance for something good that might make all the difference in the corner of the vineyard that God has given us.

And when we change a corner of the vineyard we change that part of the world and so the world, itself, is changed after all.

Despite the wars and rumors of wars and the nations and kingdoms and earthquakes and famines.

The most meaningful mountaintop experiences in life often happen—not on some glittering summit—but down in the darkened valleys, where we take the light God has given us and plant it in the vineyard.
Even if we feel alone and vulnerable with only a plowshare in our hands in a world filled with wars and rumors of wars.

In truth, we are never alone when we choose to work in God’s vineyard because the landowner’s son is with us.

The spirit of Jesus by our side.

No, we won’t see him. We aren’t likely to hear him. But there are moments across the passing days of the flowing seasons where we sense his presence.

A warm feeling in our heart. A gentle ripple through our soul. Perhaps simply an unexpected smile from a stranger.

Jesus there, on his knees, too.

His hands dirty and bruised.

His sweat falling into the earth as we lift the heavier stones together, pull up the most stubborn weeds, and gently nurture the vines.

Cultivating more fruits for the kingdom.

Because every corner of the vineyard matters to God.

And Jesus cares about them all.

The vineyard is all around us but we are needed in the corner God has led us to. We are needed to plant not only our seeds in the soil, but ourselves, as well.

Having faith that somehow, no matter how many people surrounding the vineyard have swords in their hands, our work with the spirit of Jesus by our side will some way, some day, bear fruits of the kingdom that would not have been possible had we kept our backs turned and our hearts headed in the opposite direction.

We may think we haven’t any experience with vineyards and wonder if we shouldn’t let someone with more expertise do the job. But we have far more experience with God’s vineyard than we know.

Because, in truth, there is a corner of God’s vineyard inside each and every one of us.

That place where God’s love and grace first grows fruits of the kingdom before we plant any of their seeds out in the world.

Nothing happens out in the world until it happens first in our hearts. Darkness leans toward the light when our hearts respond to God’s love and grace like a seed responds to rich soil, water and sunshine.

And, Jesus tells us over and over again, that is God’s most fervent wish.

For our own sakes, but also for others, because either the vines of the vineyard within us reach out into the world, or else the choking weeds do.

Wars and rumors of wars? Nation against nation and kingdom against kingdom? It all sounds so terribly depressing. But, crucially, Jesus speaks of these as “but the beginnings of the birth pangs.”

What is actually going to be born into the world—the kingdom of heaven, or something else entirely—very much depends on each of us and what we do in our corner of the vineyard.

As Archbishop Desmond Tutu said, “Each one of us is a God-carrier.”

If enough swords are turned into plowshares in enough corners of the vineyard then just maybe the nations and kingdoms will eventually join us.

Even if it’s just one person at a time. Starting with you and me.

Perhaps the only earthquake will be a seismic shift in love over hate and the only famine a lack of anything for the world’s darkness to feed upon.

Is the kingdom of heaven really likely to materialize around us as far as the eye can see? On most days, to be honest, I would answer, No.

But, honestly, every single solitary day I would say that it IS worth spending the rest of our lives believing in and working to achieve.

Because, with God, anything is possible.

And our faith in the work God has given each of us to do may be the tipping point that makes all the difference in the world.

All the difference ….. in the world.

By Ken Woodley

God must be a fan of jazz, a musical form that encourages individual freedom and creativity.

“Sing to the Lord a new song,” we are told in Psalm 98, “for he has done marvelous things.”

But what new song? What new notes? What key is this new song in? Does it have lyrics? If so, what are they? 

We aren’t told. There are pieces of advice, but it’s all very jazzy—and that means a lot of improvisation.

“Shout with joy … lift up your voice … sing to the Lord with the harp … with trumpets and the sound of the horn …”

Fairly standard stuff, in terms of jazz instruments, even though we have no idea what to play.

But then it gets jazzily surreal, a kind of otherworldly jazz-heaven-fusion.

“Let the sea make a noise,” we are advised.

The sea?

And not just the sea but “all that is in it.”

Wow. I’m not sure Miles Davis and John Coltrane could even do that.

But that’s not all.

“Let the rivers clap their hands.”

Okay … um … sure. But rivers don’t have hands.

“And let the hills ring out with joy.”

Please, yes, hills, do so whenever you’re ready. A one and a two and a three…

But what do we do?

We do this:

We play what we feel inside, our new song, our own unique notes and voice.

God is hip to the beat of our different drums.

God cheers on our improvisations, our polyrhythms, and our syncopation as we respond to the very real joys and the very tough challenges of living in a world that often seems fearsomely chaotic.

Life is nothing like the songs in our hymnals. All the notes we will need to sing have not been composed. We don’t even know how many people are going to be in the band, or how long we’ll be playing together.

But that’s okay.

There is a lot we do not know about the new songs we’ll need to play on life’s journey, but we do know what key to play those new songs in.

We play them in the key of God’s grace and love as shown us by Jesus. If we do that the new song will take care of itself.

Jesus makes this clear in today’s Gospel lesson from Luke as he advises those who may face trials and tribulations—arrested and brought before kings and governors to testify.

“Make up your minds not to prepare your defense in advance,” Jesus tells them. 

Compose nothing.

Trust, in other words, the jazz-like improvisation that will flow through you from the grace and love of God.

“I will give you words and a wisdom that none of your opponents will be able to withstand or contradict,” Jesus assures us.

So, pick up your trumpet and blow. The new notes will come, and there is no telling who the Holy Spirit will bring by your side to provide harmony.

When that happens, the walls—from Jericho to whatever dark moment surrounds you—will surely come tumbling down, revealing the way out, a path through life’s rubble and debris.

And what about the rivers?

Their clapping hands will be your joyous hill-ringing percussion.

By Ken Woodley

God must be a fan of jazz, a musical form that encourages individual freedom and creativity.
“Sing to the Lord a new song,” we are told in Psalm 98, “for he has done marvelous things.”
But what new song? What new notes? What key is this new song in? Does it have lyrics? If so, what are they?
We aren’t told. There are pieces of advice, but it’s all very jazzy—and that means a lot of improvisation.
“Shout with joy … lift up your voice … sing to the Lord with the harp … with trumpets and the sound of the horn …”
Fairly standard stuff, in terms of jazz instruments, even though we have no idea what to play.
But then it gets jazzily surreal, a kind of otherworldly jazz-heaven-fusion.
“Let the sea make a noise,” we are advised.
The sea?
And not just the sea but “all that is in it.”
Wow. I’m not sure Miles Davis and John Coltrane could even do that.
But that’s not all.
“Let the rivers clap their hands.”
Okay … um … sure. But rivers don’t have hands.
“And let the hills ring out with joy.”
Please, yes, hills, do so whenever you’re ready. A one and a two and a three…
But what do we do?
We do this:
We play what we feel inside, our new song, our own unique notes and voice.
God is hip to the beat of our different drums.
God cheers on our improvisations, our polyrhythms, and our syncopation as we respond to the very real joys and the very tough challenges of living in a world that often seems fearsomely chaotic.
Life is nothing like the songs in our hymnals. All the notes we will need to sing have not been composed. We don’t even know how many people are going to be in the band, or how long we’ll be playing together.
But that’s okay.
There is a lot we do not know about the new songs we’ll need to play on life’s journey, but we do know what key to play those new songs in.
We play them in the key of God’s grace and love as shown us by Jesus. If we do that the new song will take care of itself.
Jesus makes this clear in today’s Gospel lesson from Luke as he advises those who may face trials and tribulations—arrested and brought before kings and governors to testify.
“Make up your minds not to prepare your defense in advance,” Jesus tells them.
Compose nothing.
Trust, in other words, the jazz-like improvisation that will flow through you from the grace and love of God.
“I will give you words and a wisdom that none of your opponents will be able to withstand or contradict,” Jesus assures us.
So, pick up your trumpet and blow. The new notes will come, and there is no telling who the Holy Spirit will bring by your side to provide harmony.
When that happens, the walls—from Jericho to whatever dark moment surrounds you—will surely come tumbling down, revealing the way out, a path through life’s rubble and debris.
And what about the rivers?
Their clapping hands will be your joyous hill-ringing percussion.

By Ken Woodley

Great. Wonderful. Just right. But look around you and see for yourselves.

We’ve all got our costumes on. We’re wearing our All Saints Day outfits. Yes, you and you and you. And even me.

And the really strange thing is that they’re not really costumes at all. We’re wearing the stuff we wear every day of the week.

That’s the point. As hard as it is to believe.

Me? A saint?

Not hardly. Couldn’t be. I know myself too well to stake any claim to sainthood. But the rest of you? Absolutely. 

I know. Each of you is shaking your head, as well. You have the same doubts as me. You don’t believe for a moment that you’re a saint. You know yourself too well to stake any claim to sainthood.

But, that’s really the point. Saints aren’t perfect. The actual canonized, hall-of-fame, stained-glass-window saints weren’t perfect at all.

Look at Saint Peter and Saint Paul, for crying out loud. They were as flawed as anybody. You and I can’t walk on water. But neither could Peter, even with Jesus there reaching out to him.

And, gosh, how about Paul? 

During the time he went around calling himself Saul, he was an accomplice to many acts of violence, and at least one death—he was there holding the cloaks of those who stoned Saint Stephen.

None of us has done anything like that. Still, we doubt our saintliness. So, consider this:

Jesus has called each one of us the light of the world.

To me, being thought of by Jesus as the light of the world is more amazing than being a saint. But it’s true. Jesus said so. We’ve all been lit up by Jesus in our lives. We’ve all been kindled by God to shine evidence of heavenly love and grace in the world.

If we’re good enough for Jesus, and good enough for God, that should be good enough for anyone. Good enough, even, for ourselves to realize how loved by God and Christ we really are.

Loved as individuals and collectively as a human family.

And how brightly that love shines through us out into the world, filling corners of darkness with light. Because that’s what saints do and, trust me, none of the saints ever thought of themselves as saints. Only we think of them that way. But saints, in spite of their human foibles, give people a glimpse of God’s presence in the world. 

Or maybe, just perhaps, it’s actually through their—through our—fractured places that God is most able to shine into us, and out through us into the world.

By Ken Woodley
Great. Wonderful. Just right. But look around you and see for yourselves.
We’ve all got our costumes on. We’re wearing our All Saints Day outfits. Yes, you and you and you. And even me.
And the really strange thing is that they’re not really costumes at all. We’re wearing the stuff we wear every day of the week.
That’s the point. As hard as it is to believe.
Me? A saint?
Not hardly. Couldn’t be. I know myself too well to stake any claim to sainthood. But the rest of you? Absolutely.
I know. Each of you is shaking your head, as well. You have the same doubts as me. You don’t believe for a moment that you’re a saint. You know yourself too well to stake any claim to sainthood.
But, that’s really the point. Saints aren’t perfect. The actual canonized, hall-of-fame, stained-glass-window saints weren’t perfect at all.
Look at Saint Peter and Saint Paul, for crying out loud. They were as flawed as anybody. You and I can’t walk on water. But neither could Peter, even with Jesus there reaching out to him.
And, gosh, how about Paul?
During the time he went around calling himself Saul, he was an accomplice to many acts of violence, and at least one death—he was there holding the cloaks of those who stoned Saint Stephen.
None of us has done anything like that. Still, we doubt our saintliness. So, consider this:
Jesus has called each one of us the light of the world.
To me, being thought of by Jesus as the light of the world is more amazing than being a saint. But it’s true. Jesus said so. We’ve all been lit up by Jesus in our lives. We’ve all been kindled by God to shine evidence of heavenly love and grace in the world.
If we’re good enough for Jesus, and good enough for God, that should be good enough for anyone. Good enough, even, for ourselves to realize how loved by God and Christ we really are.
Loved as individuals and collectively as a human family.
And how brightly that love shines through us out into the world, filling corners of darkness with light. Because that’s what saints do and, trust me, none of the saints ever thought of themselves as saints. Only we think of them that way. But saints, in spite of their human foibles, give people a glimpse of God’s presence in the world.
Or maybe, just perhaps, it’s actually through their—through our—fractured places that God is most able to shine into us, and out through us into the world.

“Jesus and his disciples came to Jericho. As he and his disciples and a large crowd were leaving Jericho, Bartimaeus son of Timaeus, a blind beggar, was sitting by the roadside. When he heard that it was Jesus of Nazareth, he began to shout and say, ‘Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!’ Many sternly ordered him to be quiet, but he cried out even more loudly, ‘Son of David, have mercy on me!’ Jesus stood still and said, ‘Call him here.’ And they called the blind man, saying to him, ‘Take heart; get up, he is calling you.’ So throwing off his cloak, he sprang up and came to Jesus.”

—The Gospel of Mark

By Ken Woodley

One can read a piece of scripture many times and feel complete familiarity with the words and their message. Then read it one more time and find a new kernel of revelatory truth. That happened to me with this passage from Mark.
What hit me right between the eyes—this time—was that, rather than go to the blind man, Jesus instructed that the beggar Bartimaeus be told to come to him, instead.
I thought that was just a bit insensitive. It would have been much easier for Jesus to go to the blind man. But Bartimaeus had no difficulty at all. “So throwing off his cloak, he sprang up and came to Jesus,” the Gospel of Mark tells us. No problem. And that is a crucial point.
Despite the potentially confusing presence of the disciples and the “large crowd” leaving Jericho, a man who cannot see was able find and stand face to face with Jesus, not having to hunt and search by trial and error, person to person. Surrounded by the darkness of being blind, the man was able to zero in on the light of Christ.
It was as if he had a homing signal. As if his soul had radar and sonar capabilities that led him unerringly to Jesus.
Jesus, of course, heals the man, telling him that his faith has made him well. But the events leading up to that healing are relevant to everyone. As is the healing, itself.
We all suffer from some form of at least momentary “blindness.” There are events and circumstances (both past and present), fears and anxieties, any and all of life’s challenges that can make us feel that we are surrounded by darkness, suddenly blind to the light of Christ and his message of God’s love and grace.
When that happens—and at some point in our lives it happens to us all, at least once—it is best to follow the example of Bartimaeus and shout with our soul for Jesus to come and heal our blindness.
And continue shouting with stubborn persistence, no matter how much the darkness that has blinded us tries to keep us silent, as those around Bartimaeus had attempted to silence him. Because: when our yearning soul persists in crying out for Jesus, we will be found by Christ.
Our eyes will be opened to his light.
And in that light we will understand that Jesus never went anywhere. He never left us behind, outside the walls of our own Jerichos. In our blindness, we couldn’t see that he was right there beside us all the time.
In our moments of blindness, it is our faith that truly is a homing signal for our soul, radar and sonar that will unerringly lead us to the truth of the ceaseless presence of Holy love in our lives.
But there is something else we need to remember:
We mustn’t forget to throw off our cloaks, just as Bartimaeus did. That cloak had become a cocoon of imprisonment. That cloak was the “skin” of Bartimaeus’ former, blind existence.
Throwing it off, as he sprang up and came to Jesus, he became like a butterfly pulling free of its chrysalis.
Spreading the wings of his new life of sight.
So, too, can we realize that vision.
Because the deepest “sight” we possess has nothing at all to do with our eyes.

“Jesus and his disciples came to Jericho. As he and his disciples and a large crowd were leaving Jericho, Bartimaeus son of Timaeus, a blind beggar, was sitting by the roadside. When he heard that it was Jesus of Nazareth, he began to shout and say, ‘Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!’ Many sternly ordered him to be quiet, but he cried out even more loudly, ‘Son of David, have mercy on me!’ Jesus stood still and said, ‘Call him here.’ And they called the blind man, saying to him, ‘Take heart; get up, he is calling you.’ So throwing off his cloak, he sprang up and came to Jesus.”

—The Gospel of Mark

By Ken Woodley

One can read a piece of scripture many times and feel complete familiarity with the words and their message. Then read it one more time and find a new kernel of revelatory truth. That happened to me with this passage from Mark.
What hit me right between the eyes—this time—was that, rather than go to the blind man, Jesus instructed that the beggar Bartimaeus be told to come to him, instead.
I thought that was just a bit insensitive. It would have been much easier for Jesus to go to the blind man. But Bartimaeus had no difficulty at all. “So throwing off his cloak, he sprang up and came to Jesus,” the Gospel of Mark tells us. No problem. And that is a crucial point.
Despite the potentially confusing presence of the disciples and the “large crowd” leaving Jericho, a man who cannot see was able find and stand face to face with Jesus, not having to hunt and search by trial and error, person to person. Surrounded by the darkness of being blind, the man was able to zero in on the light of Christ.
It was as if he had a homing signal. As if his soul had radar and sonar capabilities that led him unerringly to Jesus.
Jesus, of course, heals the man, telling him that his faith has made him well. But the events leading up to that healing are relevant to everyone. As is the healing, itself.
We all suffer from some form of at least momentary “blindness.” There are events and circumstances (both past and present), fears and anxieties, any and all of life’s challenges that can make us feel that we are surrounded by darkness, suddenly blind to the light of Christ and his message of God’s love and grace.
When that happens—and at some point in our lives it happens to us all, at least once—it is best to follow the example of Bartimaeus and shout with our soul for Jesus to come and heal our blindness.
And continue shouting with stubborn persistence, no matter how much the darkness that has blinded us tries to keep us silent, as those around Bartimaeus had attempted to silence him. Because: when our yearning soul persists in crying out for Jesus, we will be found by Christ.
Our eyes will be opened to his light.
And in that light we will understand that Jesus never went anywhere. He never left us behind, outside the walls of our own Jerichos. In our blindness, we couldn’t see that he was right there beside us all the time.
In our moments of blindness, it is our faith that truly is a homing signal for our soul, radar and sonar that will unerringly lead us to the truth of the ceaseless presence of Holy love in our lives.
But there is something else we need to remember:
We mustn’t forget to throw off our cloaks, just as Bartimaeus did. That cloak had become a cocoon of imprisonment. That cloak was the “skin” of Bartimaeus’ former, blind existence.
Throwing it off, as he sprang up and came to Jesus, he became like a butterfly pulling free of its chrysalis.
Spreading the wings of his new life of sight.
So, too, can we realize that vision.
Because the deepest “sight” we possess has nothing at all to do with our eyes.

“‘Let the little children come to me; do not stop them; for it is to such as these that the kingdom of God belongs. Truly I tell you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God as a little child will never enter it.’”

—The Gospel of Mark

By Ken Woodley

When I was a child, I believed in Santa Claus.
I believed in God.
And I believed in Jesus.
I was told by adults that all three of them are real, and I unequivocally believed what I was told.
There was no doubt in my mind, or in my heart, of their existence.
When I was a child, all three of them were as real as real can be.
For years, I believed that all three of them genuinely existed. I clung to that faith long after many of my friends had peeled away the veneer and discovered the fiction behind it all.
Eventually, I grew up, and also accepted the truth that I’d been trying to avoid.
I learned that Santa Claus lives in our hearts.
But that is all. That is the only place where Santa Claus resides. The North Pole is a frozen wasteland. None of the animals there have red noses. Only the wind-chilled scientists and explorers have red noses, and none of them guide Santa’s sleigh.
As an adult, I have also grown to understand that God, too, lives within our hearts. Or can reside there.
As does Jesus. If we let him.
But—and this is a gloriously hallelujah ‘but’—that is not all.
That is not the only place.
God is real.
Jesus is real.
Both of them genuinely exist whether I let them live in my heart or not.
I simply know that to be true.
I believe it to be true.
Nor do I feel compelled to prove it to anyone in order to reinforce my own faith. But there is still plenty of evidence.
The existence of God and the risen Jesus are demonstrably proved by the post-crucifixion turnaround in the disciples, from cowering cowards to bold preachers who feared nothing for their physical safety.
Only a genuine encounter with the resurrected Jesus can account for that. And Jesus can only exist as our resurrected savior if God exists. Therefore, the fact of Christ confirms the fact of God, and a loving God, at that.
Paul’s conversion on the road to Damascus, transforming him from a murderer of Christians—an accessory before, during and after the fact—to an obsessed disciple of Christ, is another stunning piece of forensic evidence.
Nor are those two examples the only New Testament “exhibits” one could place before any jury that doubts the existence of God and Christ.
But I have also had enough “thin moments” and “close encounters” with the Holy Spirit, and with Jesus (therefore with God, as well) to personally cement my faith.
And I accept those “thin moments” as genuine encounters, as a child would accept Santa Claus, sitting on his lap at the mall. I do not look cynically for any other “explanation” that might seem more rational to an adult mind.
One moment, on July 2, 1980, was so intimate—beyond “thin”—that it felt like nothing at all was separating me from the love of God, the Love that is God, of which Jesus spoke.
I was driving home from a Buckingham County School Board meeting—wrestling with a profound years-old wound—and had to pull off to the side of the road, sobbing with joy. That Loving Presence embraced me for hours.
Such a moment hasn’t happened again but it has been enough to sustain me with the truth about God’s Love. And that helps me to keep rising above that wound.
I know that I can pull on the beard of Christ as hard as I want but it isn’t coming off. He’s no seasonal, moonlighting phony.
The kingdom of Heaven is real.
Waiting for us to enter.
And so transform the world through our own individual, intimate and ongoing transformation.

“‘Let the little children come to me; do not stop them; for it is to such as these that the kingdom of God belongs. Truly I tell you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God as a little child will never enter it.’”

—The Gospel of Mark

By Ken Woodley

When I was a child, I believed in Santa Claus.
I believed in God.
And I believed in Jesus.
I was told by adults that all three of them are real, and I unequivocally believed what I was told.
There was no doubt in my mind, or in my heart, of their existence.
When I was a child, all three of them were as real as real can be.
For years, I believed that all three of them genuinely existed. I clung to that faith long after many of my friends had peeled away the veneer and discovered the fiction behind it all.
Eventually, I grew up, and also accepted the truth that I’d been trying to avoid.
I learned that Santa Claus lives in our hearts.
But that is all. That is the only place where Santa Claus resides. The North Pole is a frozen wasteland. None of the animals there have red noses. Only the wind-chilled scientists and explorers have red noses, and none of them guide Santa’s sleigh.
As an adult, I have also grown to understand that God, too, lives within our hearts. Or can reside there.
As does Jesus. If we let him.
But—and this is a gloriously hallelujah ‘but’—that is not all.
That is not the only place.
God is real.
Jesus is real.
Both of them genuinely exist whether I let them live in my heart or not.
I simply know that to be true.
I believe it to be true.
Nor do I feel compelled to prove it to anyone in order to reinforce my own faith. But there is still plenty of evidence.
The existence of God and the risen Jesus are demonstrably proved by the post-crucifixion turnaround in the disciples, from cowering cowards to bold preachers who feared nothing for their physical safety.
Only a genuine encounter with the resurrected Jesus can account for that. And Jesus can only exist as our resurrected savior if God exists. Therefore, the fact of Christ confirms the fact of God, and a loving God, at that.
Paul’s conversion on the road to Damascus, transforming him from a murderer of Christians—an accessory before, during and after the fact—to an obsessed disciple of Christ, is another stunning piece of forensic evidence.
Nor are those two examples the only New Testament “exhibits” one could place before any jury that doubts the existence of God and Christ.
But I have also had enough “thin moments” and “close encounters” with the Holy Spirit, and with Jesus (therefore with God, as well) to personally cement my faith.
And I accept those “thin moments” as genuine encounters, as a child would accept Santa Claus, sitting on his lap at the mall. I do not look cynically for any other “explanation” that might seem more rational to an adult mind.
One moment, on July 2, 1980, was so intimate—beyond “thin”—that it felt like nothing at all was separating me from the love of God, the Love that is God, of which Jesus spoke.
I was driving home from a Buckingham County School Board meeting—wrestling with a profound years-old wound—and had to pull off to the side of road, sobbing with joy. That Loving Presence embraced me for hours.
Such a moment hasn’t happened again but it has been enough to sustain me with the truth about God’s Love. And that helps me to keep rising above that wound.
I know that I can pull on the beard of Christ as hard as I want but it isn’t coming off. He’s no seasonal, moonlighting phony.
The kingdom of Heaven is real.
Waiting for us enter.
And so transform the world through our own individual, intimate and ongoing transformation.

“Are any among you suffering? They should pray … The prayer of faith will save the sick, and the Lord will raise them up … The prayer of the righteous is powerful and effective…”

—The Epistle of James

By Ken Woodley

Life can sometimes make us feel as if we’ve suddenly been caught in an avalanche or a collapsed mineshaft.
We’re buried miles away from our former happiness.
Our former understanding of the world.
Perhaps even our faith, as we remember it.
We’re nearly suffocating in the darkness and the doubts.
Unable to reach the light of day.
Despair and a sense of helplessness toss dice to see which one wins us for its own.
But we are not helpless and should not despair for longer than it takes to find the gleam of truth in our souls.
Nor are we abandoned and alone.
Prayer is the tool we can use to dig our way out.
Every prayer.
Each day.
All of our spoken and silent words of prayer can tunnel through the layers of darkness that cover us just as if we’d literally been trapped in an avalanche or a mineshaft that had given way.
“The Lord is my shepherd…”
And we penetrate a little further toward the light.
“Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…”
And we dig ourselves a bit closer to the fresh air that we were breathing only yesterday.
“I will fear no evil…”
And now the Holy Spirit can feel us praying.
“Because you are with me…”
God knows where we are and what has happened, and why would we ever think that God doesn’t pray? And Jesus too.
Digging down toward our words of faith.
So we must keep praying so they can reach us.
Praying and believing that they will.
It is too easy for some people to dismiss prayer as merely a ritual. And, truthfully, mindlessly repeating the same words over and over every day does rob them of their power.
True prayer can be far more than that. And it can be all of one single word. Faithfully repeating “Jesus” can both calm my inner storm and connect me with the Holy Spirit. Pick a word or phrase of your own and use it to hammer upward toward the light.
The words in the Epistle are powerful reminders of the true power of real prayer—the prayer, as James tells us, “of faith.”
James is speaking to us as a compelling firsthand witness of what the early church experienced through faith-filled prayer after the death and resurrection of Jesus.
There is no avalanche too heavy.
James knew this.
And no mine shaft too deep.
Do we understand everything about prayer and how it works? No, not at all. I suspect we never shall.
But that is what makes the prayer of faith so powerful. It is all about faith, rather than possessing the blueprints about how everything works.
Faith that taps into the deepest recesses of our soul and connects us to the power of God’s love and grace.
When that happens, the light finds us before we even see it with our eyes.

“Are any among you suffering? They should pray … The prayer of faith will save the sick, and the Lord will raise them up … The prayer of the righteous is powerful and effective…”

—The Epistle of James

By Ken Woodley

Life can sometimes make us feel as if we’ve suddenly been caught in an avalanche or a collapsed mineshaft.
We’re buried miles away from our former happiness.
Our former understanding of the world.
Perhaps even our faith, as remember it.
We’re nearly suffocating in the darkness and the doubts.
Unable to reach the light of day.
Despair and a sense of helplessness toss dice to see which one wins us for its own.
But we are not helpless and should not despair for longer than it takes to find the gleam of truth in our souls.
Nor are we abandoned and alone.
Prayer is the tool we can use to dig our way out.
Every prayer.
Each day.
All of our spoken and silent words of prayer can tunnel through the layers of darkness that cover us just as if we’d literally been trapped in an avalanche or a mineshaft that had given way.
“The Lord is my shepherd…”
And we penetrate a little further toward the light.
“Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…”
And we dig ourselves a bit closer to the fresh air that we were breathing only yesterday.
“I will fear no evil…”
And now the Holy Spirit can feel us praying.
“Because you are with me…”
God knows where we are and what has happened, and why would we ever think that God doesn’t pray? And Jesus too.
Digging down toward our words of faith.
So we must keep praying so they can reach us.
Praying and believing that they will.
It is too easy for some people to dismiss prayer as merely a ritual. And, truthfully, mindlessly repeating the same words over and over every day does rob them of their power.
True prayer can be far more than that. And it can be all of one single word. Faithfully repeating “Jesus” can both calm my inner storm and connect me with the Holy Spirit. Pick a word or phrase of your own and use it to hammer upward toward the light.
The words in the Epistle are powerful reminders of the true power of real prayer—the prayer, as James tells us, “of faith.”
James is speaking to us as a compelling firsthand witness of what the early church experienced through faith-filled prayer after the death and resurrection of Jesus.
There is no avalanche too heavy.
James knew this.
And no mineshaft too deep.
Do we understand everything about prayer and how it works? No, not at all. I suspect we never shall.
But that is what makes the prayer of faith so powerful. It is all about faith, rather than possessing the blueprints about how everything works.
Faith that taps into the deepest recesses of our soul and connects us to the power of God’s love and grace.
When that happens, the light finds us before we even see it with our eyes.