Author: kenwoodley3

By Ken Woodley

A handful of years ago, I bought an English/Aramaic dictionary because I wanted to learn something of the language of Jesus.
Feel how some of the words that he spoke felt on my lips and tongue.
How they sounded in my voice, but imagining I was able to hear him, instead.
If we were able to journey back in time to the hillsides, shore and mountains along the Sea of Galilee, of course, we wouldn’t understand a word that Jesus was saying.
We’d have to decipher the meaning by listening carefully to the timbre of his voice.
By the look in his eyes toward us as he spoke them.
And from the reaction by those around us who understood the language but were, in many cases, stunned by the meaning of what Jesus was saying.
All of his words were turning the world upside down and inside out in ways that were as unexpectedly hopeful as a second sunrise on a day that had promised only total eclipse.
So, I decided to translate one of The Beatitudes from English into Aramaic. I don’t know how successful I was but I do know the words are genuinely Aramaic. They are the language Jesus spoke every day.
I don’t have a pronunciation guide for the vowels and combinations of consonants, so I guess at the exact sound of the words, just as you may do now:

“wSalxani imassayu latbirai libba tubaihon labile dhinnon itbayun.”

Or: Blessed are those who mourn for they shall be comforted.
I have written that sentence at the end of Compline in the Book of Common Prayer by my bedside. I read Compline every night and the last words I speak, quietly but aloud, are those that Jesus spoke.
It is a humble exercise. I only want to ensure that at least once, somewhere in this world, the language of Jesus is heard speaking one of Christ’s sentences of love.
It would be beautiful if you’d join me so that we can become a chorus, speaking the language of love. Jot them down. Put them in your prayer book or Bible. Speak them some time.
Whatever the words say—even if I’ve botched the translation—what they mean to us as we speak them in remembrance of him is all that matters.
And maybe speaking with Jesus’ voice will help us walk those words out into the world with greater strength and purpose in the morning.
I do know that hearing them every night brings Jesus a little closer to me as I turn out the light and let the stars above shine wherever they can to all who are praying in the darkness to hear the voice of Jesus speaking to them.
Jesus answering our own quiet prayer in the suddenly bright night.

By Ken Woodley

A handful of years ago, I bought an English/Aramaic dictionary because I wanted to learn something of the language of Jesus.
Feel how some of the words that he spoke felt on my lips and tongue.
How they sounded in my voice, but imagining I was able to hear him, instead.
If we were able to journey back in time to the hillsides, shore and mountains along the Sea of Galilee, of course, we wouldn’t understand a word that Jesus was saying.
We’d have to decipher the meaning by listening carefully to the timbre of his voice.
By the look in his eyes toward us as he spoke them.
And from the reaction by those around us who understood the language but were, in many cases, stunned by the meaning of what Jesus was saying.
All of his words were turning the world upside down and inside out in ways that were as unexpectedly hopeful as a second sunrise on a day that had promised only total eclipse.
So, I decided to translate one of The Beatitudes from English into Aramaic. I don’t know how successful I was but I do know the words are genuinely Aramaic. They are the language Jesus spoke every day.
I don’t have a pronunciation guide for the vowels and combinations of consonants, so I guess at the exact sound of the words, just as you may do now:

“wSalxani imassayu latbirai libba tubaihon labile dhinnon itbayun.”

Or: Blessed are those who mourn for they shall be comforted.
I have written that sentence at the end of Compline in the Book of Common Prayer by my bedside. I read Compline every night and the last words I speak, quietly but aloud, are those that Jesus spoke.
It is a humble exercise. I only want to ensure that at least once, somewhere in this world, the language of Jesus is heard speaking one of Christ’s sentences of love.
It would be beautiful if you’d join me so that we can become a chorus, speaking the language of love. Jot them down. Put them in your prayer book or Bible. Speak them some time.
Whatever the words say—even if I’ve botched the translation—what they mean to us as we speak them in remembrance of him is all that matters.
And maybe speaking with Jesus’ voice will help us walk those words out into the world with greater strength and purpose in the morning.
I do know that hearing them every night brings Jesus a little closer to me as I turn out the light and let the stars above shine wherever they can to all who are praying in the darkness to hear the voice of Jesus speaking to them.
Jesus answering our own quiet prayer in the suddenly bright night.

“He said to them, ‘Wherever you enter a house, stay there until you leave the place. If any place will not welcome you and they refuse to hear you, as you leave, shake off the dust that is on your feet as a testimony against them.’”

—The Gospel of Mark

By Ken Woodley
At some point in our lives, we’ve all wanted to shake someone’s dust off our feet. Perhaps we are trying to do so at this very moment.
Nobody goes through life without encountering somebody who, in one way or another, doesn’t welcome us and refuses to hear us. Such hurtful encounters can leave us covered in the metaphorical “dust” of that moment.
We come home from work and we bring that dust with us.
We bring the rudeness home.
We bring the refusal to listen.
And we tell our family all about it.
“You would not believe how rude this so-and-so was today!” we report, feeling our tension and anger rise all over again.
That so-and-so isn’t literally at the dinner table with us, but that so-and-so’s dust is all over our feet, so to speak.
In fact, we can sometimes feel like Pig-Pen from the Peanuts comicstrip. Pig-Pen was a mess. A walking cloud of dust and dirt. And we can be just like him.
That so-and-so’s dust isn’t just on the soles of our feet. That so-and-so’s dust covers us from head to foot. It gets on the furniture, embedded in rug fibers, covers the dog, collects on lampshades, dimming the light.
Sometimes, it can even feel like some of it is dusting our soul.
And that’s not good. It’s not what Jesus wanted for his disciples as he sent them out to preach about the kingdom of heaven. And it’s not what Jesus wants for us.
That’s why Jesus gave them—and us—really good advice.
What better way for the disciples to leave an unfriendly place completely behind than by ensuring they don’t carry any part of the unfriendliness with them as they journey forward.
Not even the dust.
But Jesus was talking about more than literal dust. He was talking about that metaphorical dust, too.
Jesus knew from personal experience that someone’s “dust” on our feet can soon feel like “baggage” in our heart, our mind and our soul. A burden we carry around, weighing us down with a whole menagerie of negative emotions.
Who needs that?
It is important to share key moments of our lives with our loved ones. The happy moments of fulfillment and the “dusty” encounters of frustration and disappointment. Doing so can be part of the process of shaking that so-and-so’s dust off our feet.
But it doesn’t work if, in our minds, we turn right back around and walk through that so-and-so’s dust all over again. Which, being human, is so easy to do. Been there. Done that.
But I’d rather be Linus than Pig-Pen.
So, let’s you and I stop lugging that so-and-so’s “baggage” around on a backwards journey.
Let’s shake that dust right off of our feet and keep on moving forward.
Day by day.
Soon enough, our soles will feel the warm, soft touch of green pastures.

“He said to them, ‘Wherever you enter a house, stay there until you leave the place. If any place will not welcome you and they refuse to hear you, as you leave, shake off the dust that is on your feet as a testimony against them.’”

—The Gospel of Mark

By Ken Woodley
At some point in our lives, we’ve all wanted to shake someone’s dust off our feet. Perhaps we are trying to do so at this very moment.
Nobody goes through life without encountering somebody who, in one way or another, doesn’t welcome us and refuses to hear us. Such hurtful encounters can leave us covered in the metaphorical “dust” of that moment.
We come home from work and we bring that dust with us.
We bring the rudeness home.
We bring the refusal to listen.
And we tell our family all about it.
“You would not believe how rude this so-and-so was today!” we report, feeling our tension and anger rise all over again.
That so-and-so isn’t literally at the dinner table with us, but that so-and-so’s dust is all over our feet, so to speak.
In fact, we can sometimes feel like Pig-Pen from the Peanuts comicstrip. Pig-Pen was a mess. A walking cloud of dust and dirt. And we can be just like him.
That so-and-so’s dust isn’t just on the soles of our feet. That so-and-so’s dust covers us from head to foot. It gets on the furniture, embedded in rug fibers, covers the dog, collects on lampshades, dimming the light.
Sometimes, it can even feel like some of it is dusting our soul.
And that’s not good. It’s not what Jesus wanted for his disciples as he sent them out to preach about the kingdom of heaven. And it’s not what Jesus wants for us.
That’s why Jesus gave them—and us—really good advice.
What better way for the disciples to leave an unfriendly place completely behind than by ensuring they don’t carry any part of the unfriendliness with them as they journey forward.
Not even the dust.
But Jesus was talking about more than literal dust. He was talking about that metaphorical dust, too.
Jesus knew from personal experience that someone’s “dust” on our feet can soon feel like “baggage” in our heart, our mind and our soul. A burden we carry around, weighing us down with a whole menagerie of negative emotions.
Who needs that?
It is important to share key moments of our lives with our loved ones. The happy moments of fulfillment and the “dusty” encounters of frustration and disappointment. Doing so can be part of the process of shaking that so-and-so’s dust off our feet.
But it doesn’t work if, in our minds, we turn right back around and walk through that so-and-so’s dust all over again. Which, being human, is so easy to do. Been there. Done that.
But I’d rather be Linus than Pig-Pen.
So, let’s you and I stop lugging that so-and-so’s “baggage” around on a backwards journey.
Let’s shake that dust right off of our feet and keep on moving forward.
Day by day.
Soon enough, our soles will feel the warm, soft touch of green pastures.

“A crowd was sitting around him and they said to him, ‘Your mother and your brothers and sisters are outside asking for you.’ And he replied, ‘Who are my mothers and my brothers?’ And looking at those who were around him, he said, ‘Here are my mother and my brothers.’”

—The Gospel of Mark

By Ken Woodley

The most wonderful thing might just be that we are never alone in this world.
Even when we’re all by ourselves.
Perhaps most especially when the solitude seems to be all that’s left.
In fact, our loneliness might just bring us closer to the one who never leaves our side.
No, we don’t see our brother.
And the world is so crazy and filled with so much noise and flashing distractions that we don’t often feel his presence unless we do find a quiet corner of our soul to pull a chair up beside him.
Or a tree to lean against together.
A moment looking out the window at the sunrise.
The sunset.
Or the utter darkness of midnight when the moon feels gone.
But our brother is there.
When we open our hearts, we find he’s never, ever left us.
It’s only us who lose track of him amid the roiling boil of emotions that can mask the sublime peace of his presence.
And, in our humanity, sometimes we seem to want to embrace an emotion that has nothing to do with that peace that passes all understanding.
We’d much rather be angry.
We’d rather be hurt.
Pinned down by a grudge.
Filled with a joy that can’t possibly last.
Tuned into the latest insane news story in a world that too often feels like an asylum.
But our brother is there beside us.
Even in the madhouse.
Especially in the despair of compassion falling apart in this corner of the world and being blown apart in that corner over there.
Our brother is waiting for us to realize that he is there.
Always has been.
Ever shall be.
Moonlight that never wanes.
A midnight sun.
The aurora borealis in our soul.
Vesper whispers at dawn.
Sunrise sanctuary in the gloaming.
The slightest touch on our shoulder that might have been a gentle breeze.
Was it really him?
Yes, it was.
Jesus.

“Again he entered the synagogue, and a man was there who had a withered hand. They watched him to see whether he would cure him on the sabbath, so that they might accuse him. And he said to the man who had the withered hand, ‘Come forward … Stretch out your hand.’”

—The Gospel of Mark

By Ken Woodley

The letter of the law never meant very much to Jesus. He was interested in the spirit behind the letters spelling out the “do’s and don’ts.”
Far too many exponents of the letter of the law carry a set of keys around inside their head. Keys that lock their heart up tightly.
Keys they use to try and lock up the spirit of the law by putting it behind the bars of the letter of the law.
But heartless laws must be questioned, challenged and, if necessary, disobeyed when a situation demands it until such laws are changed or removed entirely.
Jesus believed this moment in the synagogue demanded it and so he honored and obeyed the spirit of the law, rather than obeying the dictates of those who seek to assert human control over God’s love and healing grace.
It was the right thing to do, of course.
There are speed limits set for all of our roads and highways but emergency responders, such as the police, routinely break speed limit laws if the situation demands it.
Jesus was all about speeding God’s healing love to everyone who needed it. He had the pedal to the metal in the synagogue that day.
Civil disobedience has an honored history in our nation, and in other parts of the world.
Slavery used to be the law in the land of the free and the home of the brave. Abolitionists operating the Underground Railroad to help slaves escape to relative freedom in the North would have felt Jesus by their side.
“White’s only” Jim Crow segregation soon followed the end of slavery. Those laws, with their evil letter and diabolical spirit, deserved to be broken. Jesus would have sat at lunch counters with African Americans.
Our nation, itself, was founded on disobedience and finally open rebellion against both the letter and the spirit of unjust laws.
I can’t imagine Jesus tossing crates of tea into Boston Harbor but I can see him giving his life to affirm that all people are created equal and endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights.
God’s love isn’t measured out in teaspoons and tablespoons by dispensary doctors of the law. Jesus demonstrates that truth over and over again.
The Holy Spirit is always urging us to “Come forward” with whatever feels withered in our lives.
If we truly stretch out our souls a healing answer will come. It may not always cure but it will provide healing.
Nor will the answer always be in the exact way, shape or form that we wish. It often arrives in other raiment and will likely be what God knows we desperately need more than what we passionately want.
I have learned that it’s best not to answer our own prayers by putting words into God’s mouth, something I have done too many times in my life. I’ve come to realize that I can, in all good faith and sincerity, mistake my own hopeful anticipation as a promise from God.
But, I have also learned to trust that an answer will come and that God will be with us as that answer unfolds in our lives.
The Holy Spirit will point us toward the North Star and tell us to keep going in that direction to escape whatever it is that enslaves any portion of our lives or makes us feel segregated from God’s love.
We can faithfully follow Jesus’ advice and “stretch out” to the Lord, confident that he is already stretching out to us.
And have no fear. If Jesus believes it is necessary to break the speed limit to reach us in time, he will.

“Again he entered the synagogue, and a man was there who had a withered hand. They watched him to see whether he would cure him on the sabbath, so that they might accuse him. And he said to the man who had the withered hand, ‘Come forward … Stretch out your hand.’”

—The Gospel of Mark

By Ken Woodley

The letter of the law never meant very much to Jesus. He was interested in the spirit behind the letters spelling out the “do’s and don’ts.”
Far too many exponents of the letter of the law carry a set of keys around inside their head. Keys that lock their heart up tightly.
Keys they use to try and lock up the spirit of the law by putting it behind the bars of the letter of the law.
But heartless laws must be questioned, challenged and, if necessary, disobeyed when a situation demands it until such laws are changed or removed entirely.
Jesus believed this moment in the synagogue demanded it and so he honored and obeyed the spirit of the law, rather than obeying the dictates of those who seek to assert human control over God’s love and healing grace.
It was the right thing to do, of course.
There are speed limits set for all of our roads and highways but emergency responders, such as the police, routinely break speed limit laws if the situation demands it.
Jesus was all about speeding God’s healing love to everyone who needed it. He had the pedal to the metal in the synagogue that day.
Civil disobedience has an honored history in our nation, and in other parts of the world.
Slavery used to be the law in the land of the free and the home of the brave. Abolitionists operating the Underground Railroad to help slaves escape to relative freedom in the North would have felt Jesus by their side.
“White’s only” Jim Crow segregation soon followed the end of slavery. Those laws, with their evil letter and diabolical spirit, deserved to be broken. Jesus would have sat at lunch counters with African Americans.
Our nation, itself, was founded on disobedience and finally open rebellion against both the letter and the spirit of unjust laws.
I can’t imagine Jesus tossing crates of tea into Boston Harbor but I can see him giving his life to affirm that all people are created equal and endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights.
God’s love isn’t measured out in teaspoons and tablespoons by dispensary doctors of the law. Jesus demonstrates that truth over and over again.
The Holy Spirit is always urging us to “Come forward” with whatever feels withered in our lives.
If we truly stretch out our souls a healing answer will come. It may not always cure but it will provide healing.
Nor will the answer always be in the exact way, shape or form that we wish. It often arrives in other raiment and will likely be what God knows we desperately need more than what we passionately want.
I have learned that it’s best not to answer our own prayers by putting words into God’s mouth, something I have done too many times in my life. I’ve come to realize that I can, in all good faith and sincerity, mistake my own hopeful anticipation as a promise from God.
But, I have also learned to trust that an answer will come and that God will be with us as that answer unfolds in our lives.
The Holy Spirit will point us toward the North Star and tell us to keep going in that direction to escape whatever it is that enslaves any portion of our lives or makes us feel segregated from God’s love.
We can faithfully follow Jesus’ advice and “stretch out” to the Lord, confident that he is already stretching out to us.
And have no fear. If Jesus believes it is necessary to break the speed limit to reach us in time, he will.

By Ken Woodley

“You must be born from above. The wind blows where it chooses, and you hear the sound of it, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes. So it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit.”

—The Gospel of John

We heard the wind blowing in the tops of the trees at the dawning of this new day.
A vast sea of breeze skimming along the bottom of the sky.
The leaves reaching for the passing skirt of the wind as it skipped along the uppermost limbs and branches.
We stood in the greening shadows of a night that lingered but could no longer grip its darkness.
Alone and wondering beneath the trees.
Wondering what we might find as we followed the Galilean words that had led us here.
If only the wind—and he—could reach us, we said, though we knew he could not hear us.
If only it would touch us, let us taste its spirit.
If only we could feel its soft caress of love.
We took a few steps and heard a shepherd’s bell ring.
A note of soft beauty.
But we saw no lambs at all.
There was only us.
And then it happened.
The wind was all around.
Whispered something in our ears.
The wind wanted us.
Desired all of us.
No matter what.
“I give myself to you entirely,” we heard the wind declare.
And we knew that it was true because we felt it filling every pore.
As if the sky were wrapping us up with the ribbons and bows of heaven.
Oh, wondrous gift.
But the wind was not alone.
“Raise your eyes, my beloved ones,” the wind told us.
So we did.
The light of a new day dawning was brush-stroking the tops of the trees.
“Touch the light. I brought it here with me for you,” the wind urged.
“But we cannot possibly reach such heights,” we protested, raising our arms in sheer futility.
We felt the wind smiling. “Lift your spirit up to the Lord. Lift your heart and raise your soul,” we heard it say. “That is where the light will find you, as if you were the tallest tree that ever grew from the earth.”
And the light did find us.
The light becoming one with the wind.
The windy light brushing through our own leaves.
The sun shining right down to our deepest roots.
Newly born in this shimmering forest of our souls.
A symphony of shepherd’s bells caroling in our hearts as we feel a hand upon our shoulder.
“This way,” we hear you say with the voice of the morning wind in the sun-dappled trees.
And then suddenly we are alone.
Clinging to the memory.
And its meaning.
Beneath the stillness of the trees.
Our souls still rustling.

By Ken Woodley

“You must be born from above. The wind blows where it chooses, and you hear the sound of it, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes. So it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit.”

—The Gospel of John

We heard the wind blowing in the tops of the trees at the dawning of this new day.
A vast sea of breeze skimming along the bottom of the sky.
The leaves reaching for the passing skirt of the wind as it skipped along the uppermost limbs and branches.
We stood in the greening shadows of a night that lingered but could no longer grip its darkness.
Alone and wondering beneath the trees.
Wondering what we might find as we followed the Galilean words that had led us here.
If only the wind—and he—could reach us, we said, though we knew he could not hear us.
If only it would touch us, let us taste its spirit.
If only we could feel its soft caress of love.
We took a few steps and heard a shepherd’s bell ring.
A note of soft beauty.
But we saw no lambs at all.
There was only us.
And then it happened.
The wind was all around.
Whispered something in our ears.
The wind wanted us.
Desired all of us.
No matter what.
“I give myself to you entirely,” we heard the wind declare.
And we knew that it was true because we felt it filling every pore.
As if the sky were wrapping us up with the ribbons and bows of heaven.
Oh, wondrous gift.
But the wind was not alone.
“Raise your eyes, my beloved ones,” the wind told us.
So we did.
The light of a new day dawning was brush-stroking the tops of the trees.
“Touch the light. I brought it here with me for you,” the wind urged.
“But we cannot possibly reach such heights,” we protested, raising our arms in sheer futility.
We felt the wind smiling. “Lift your spirit up to the Lord. Lift your heart and raise your soul,” we heard it say. “That is where the light will find you, as if you were the tallest tree that ever grew from the earth.”
And the light did find us.
The light becoming one with the wind.
The windy light brushing through our own leaves.
The sun shining right down to our deepest roots.
Newly born in this shimmering forest of our souls.
A symphony of shepherd’s bells caroling in our hearts as we feel a hand upon our shoulder.
“This way,” we hear you say with the voice of the morning wind in the sun-dappled trees.
And then suddenly we are alone.
Clinging to the memory.
And its meaning.
Beneath the stillness of the trees.
Our souls still rustling.

By Ken Woodley

“Jesus said to his disciples, ‘When the Advocate comes, whom I will send to you from the Father, the Spirit of truth who comes from the Father, he will testify on my behalf.’”

—The Gospel of John

Trying to catch the Holy Spirit for even a moment would be like attempting to wrap the wind around a fork as if it were spaghetti.
No chance of that happening.
Thank God for that.
Can you imagine what might go wrong in the world if the Holy Spirit could be tracked down, domesticated and kept on a leash?
Look what happened after we split the atom.
Celtic Christians accurately described the Holy Spirit as the “Wild Goose” because it cannot be predicted and will not be tamed. It comes and goes as it pleases, plotting its own course in our lives.
Just when we think we’ll never feel it so close again, the Holy Spirit knocks on our soul’s front door.
The Holy Spirit most often comes to us in brief inspirational flashes, sudden, deep intuitive understandings. The Holy Spirit zips us a “tweet” or a “text” out of the blue.
The difference, however, is that, where so much of social media is inherently too abbreviated to be truly meaningful, the Holy Spirit’s “tweets” and “posts” are deeper than the sky.
And they invite us to go further still with the insights and understandings they provide.
It can be like someone raising the shade in a darkened room. The shade had been only slightly raised previously, letting in just a glimmer of light. Now the room—our inner self—is filled with illumination.
The Holy Spirit’s messages guide us on our spiritual journey, showing which way to turn when we arrive at a crossroads and pray for direction.
And even when we don’t pray for guidance the Holy Spirit is fully capable of picking the lock of our closed door if we refuse to answer its knocking.
This “Wild Goose” is not constrained or restricted by any flight pattern. The “Wild Goose” doesn’t join flocks of geese in the sky. Instead, it cares for each sheep and every single lamb in the Good Shepherd’s flock.
Loving and caring for you and I.
Loving all men and women all over the world unconditionally.
All men and women.
Whether we accept and share that love is up to us.
The Holy Spirit’s “voice” can make seemingly trivial and mundane things take on great meaning: a passing car with a message license plate that speaks like a direct answer to prayer. God-incidence, not coincidence.
The Holy Spirit is able to use anything and everything to communicate with us. It might be an otherwise completely inexplicable occurrence or experience.
If we are watching, if we listen.
The clearest sign that we have received and understood a message from the Holy Spirit will be a deep sense of inner peace, as if every blustering gust of wind has been calmed inside us.
None of us can fly on our own but, if we follow its “nudge,” the “Wild Goose” will give us its wings—even if just for a moment—when we need it most, and in the way we most need it: a flight to our soul’s next understanding of how much God loves us.
Just as Jesus promised.
Just as he promised us all.
A promise big enough to wrap the world in peace and love if we’d only let it.

By Ken Woodley

“Jesus said to his disciples, ‘When the Advocate comes, whom I will send to you from the Father, the Spirit of truth who comes from the Father, he will testify on my behalf.’”

—The Gospel of John


Trying to catch the Holy Spirit for even a moment would be like attempting to wrap the wind around a fork as if it were spaghetti.
No chance of that happening.
Thank God for that.
Can you imagine what might go wrong in the world if the Holy Spirit could be tracked down, domesticated and kept on a leash?
Look what happened after we split the atom.
Celtic Christians accurately described the Holy Spirit as the “Wild Goose” because it cannot be predicted and will not be tamed. It comes and goes as it pleases, plotting its own course in our lives.
Just when we think we’ll never feel it so close again, the Holy Spirit knocks on our soul’s front door.
The Holy Spirit most often comes to us in brief inspirational flashes, sudden, deep intuitive understandings. The Holy Spirit zips us a “tweet” or a “text” out of the blue.
The difference, however, is that, where so much of social media is inherently too abbreviated to be truly meaningful, the Holy Spirit’s “tweets” and “posts” are deeper than the sky.
And they invite us to go further still with the insights and understandings they provide.
It can be like someone raising the shade in a darkened room. The shade had been only slightly raised previously, letting in just a glimmer of light. Now the room—our inner self—is filled with illumination.
The Holy Spirit’s messages guide us on our spiritual journey, showing which way to turn when we arrive at a crossroads and pray for direction.
And even when we don’t pray for guidance the Holy Spirit is fully capable of picking the lock of our closed door if we refuse to answer its knocking.
This “Wild Goose” is not constrained or restricted by any flight pattern. The “Wild Goose” doesn’t join flocks of geese in the sky. Instead, it cares for each sheep and every single lamb in the Good Shepherd’s flock.
Loving and caring for you and I.
Loving all men and women all over the world unconditionally.
All men and women.
Whether we accept and share that love is up to us.
The Holy Spirit’s “voice” can make seemingly trivial and mundane things take on great meaning: a passing car with a message license plate that speaks like a direct answer to prayer. God-incidence, not coincidence.
The Holy Spirit is able to use anything and everything to communicate with us. It might be an otherwise completely inexplicable occurrence or experience.
If we are watching, if we listen.
The clearest sign that we have received and understood a message from the Holy Spirit will be a deep sense of inner peace, as if every blustering gust of wind has been calmed inside us.
None of us can fly on our own but, if we follow its “nudge,” the “Wild Goose” will give us its wings—even if just for a moment—when we need it most, and in the way we most need it: a flight to our soul’s next understanding of how much God loves us.
Just as Jesus promised.
Just as he promised us all.
A promise big enough to wrap the world in peace and love if we’d only let it.

By Ken Woodley

The 7th Sunday of Easter is coming and I am very glad for that.

After what felt like 12 straight months of Ash Wednesdays because of COVID-19, I’m not ready to let go of Easter.

And I don’t want Easter to let go of me.
Or let go of you.

Not today.
Not tomorrow.
Not next week or next month.
Not ever.

I want Easter and me to keep on hugging each other.

I want Easter and you to cling to your embrace.

I want to feel all of our fingers intertwined with Easter.

I want to keep falling in love with Easter and I want Easter to never stop falling in love with me.

I want to say “I do” to Easter and I want Easter to say “I do” to me.

I want Easter to live with me in my house, ride with me in my car, and stand in line with me at the grocery store.

I want Easter to say good morning when the sunrises and goodnight before I turn off the light and fall asleep.

I want to dream beside Easter all night long and I want Easter to dream beside me through all of the darkness.

Not just the darkness of night but all of the darkness in the world around me even after the sun rises.

And I want Easter to live with you, give hay to the cows and pick flowers in the garden with you, turn the same pages in the same books with you.

I want Easter to tell you which mask matches your dress before you walk out of the door and I want Easter to dream by your side every night through all of night’s darkness and then through all of darkness in the world that the sun cannot shine away.

The fact of the matter is, however, that the Easter season is about to end, as far as the liturgical calendar is concerned. This seventh Sunday of Easter is the last Sunday in the church’s Easter season.

But only on the liturgical calendar.

Because on my calendar I have to keep hanging on to Easter because, really, it’s my only chance of making sure the crucifixion doesn’t turn around and come back and hang on to me, turning Good Friday into Good Mondays and Tuesdays and Wednesdays.

No, none of us can go back in time and keep re-living Easter morning over and over like Bill Murray in some Holy version of the movie Groundhog’s Day.

But we can try to bring Easter morning into the present and carry Easter morning forward with us into the future.

We can try to have Easter Sundays all year long.

And Easter Mondays, Easter Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays, too.

Rather than a week full of Good Fridays.

Light and love rose on Easter and we don’t have to let go of that.

Easter is the day that pulls out all the nails and removes the crown of thorns.

We don’t have to wave good-bye to that.

Darkness and hate won’t ever give up so I want to cling as long as I can to the light and love of Easter.

But I have lived with myself my whole life and I know that, in my own case, that is far easier said than done.

If Easter were a vaccine, there are some days when I’d need a booster shot every hour.

Sometimes the tiny crucifixions that come into all of our lives, past and present, get the best of me.

The world is a master at throwing its weight around and knocking us down.

Looking around the world it can be pretty easy to see all of its hammers and nails.

After all, the world has kept so many of us from sharing our own church sanctuary, temple, synagogue or mosque as a congregation together for more than a year.

So sometimes the meaning of the empty cross seems lost to me. I look at it sometimes and only think of the crucifixion. But the empty cross carries the most powerful message of all and it is not a message of crucifixion.

My wife, Kim, has rubbed off on me in many good ways and one of them is encouraging me to keep a journal, which I have been doing for over a decade now. Mostly, it’s a spiritual diary.

I was re-reading one of them recently from nearly a decade ago and found I had written down a key phrase from an Easter sermon delivered by the Rev. Glenn Busch.

Look at the world, he urged us, with Easter eyes. I wrote down just that one phrase in my journal. That one phrase is enough.

Looking at the world with Easter eyes is a discipline that I am going to try and embrace.

Looking at the cross and seeing, and feeling, resurrection instead of crucifixion.

Looking at the world, looking at every one of its nooks and crannies, and seeing and feeling resurrection, not crucifixion.

Looking at the mundane until I am able to see the miraculous.

Looking at things I’ve stopped paying attention to because they are around me every day and I take them for granted, looking at them until I see them through Easter eyes.

Looking at one fallen leaf, brown and years old, perhaps, or a leaf from this spring blown from its tree by a storm, looking at a leaf that is bent and broken on the ground, trampled underfoot, and see how that one leaf is lifted up by a sudden breeze.

See that one ordinary leaf raised up by a wind none of us can see and think to myself, Hey, that’s me. I am that leaf and God is the wind that lifts me, raises me up—raises all of us up—on Easter Sunday 365 days a year.

The calendar doesn’t matter. It never has and never could. Easter cannot be contained or limited to any one single season.

I should have realized that.

So next Sunday on the liturgical calendar is Pentecost. The Holy Spirit’s going to come. Hurray! Bring it on!

No, wait a minute, I’m wrong there, too.

The Holy Spirit’s flight has already arrived.

The Holy Spirit is in here. The Holy Spirit out there. No one day, no crucifixion large or small, can hold it in and none can hold it back.

So I want to look at all of the world’s crosses with Easter eyes and see all of them empty except for a note that reads: “I have gone on ahead, blazing a trail for all eternity, look for the signs in everything that you see.”

And the note is signed: “Jesus.”

We can see blaze marks of that trail when we look at the world with Easter eyes.

The signs are everywhere.

We can even look at litter by the side of the road with Easter eyes and understand that even that one discarded hamburger wrapper fluttering across the road allows us to do the impossible.

That piece of trash allows us to see God’s breath in the wind.

A wind that is filled with Easter.

Easter in every breeze.

Every moment of every day.

Even when the air is as still as a brick wall too high for us to climb over, Easter, with its always and ever-blooming message, has already found us.

So even on those inevitable days when I let go of Easter, despite these bold statements of mine and my best intentions, I can be absolutely certain of one thing:

Easter will never let go of me.

And for a promise like that, a simple Hallelujah just won’t do. When I was a kid, the Walt Disney movie Mary Poppins taught me a word. I’m going to use it now:

Halle—supercalifragilisticexpealliedotious—lujah!

By Ken Woodley

The 7th Sunday of Easter is coming and I am very glad for that.

After what felt like 12 straight months of Ash Wednesdays because of COVID-19, I’m not ready to let go of Easter.

And I don’t want Easter to let go of me.
Or let go of you.

Not today.
Not tomorrow.
Not next week or next month.
Not ever.

I want Easter and me to keep on hugging each other.

I want Easter and you to cling to your embrace.

I want to feel all of our fingers intertwined with Easter.

I want to keep falling in love with Easter and I want Easter to never stop falling in love with me.

I want to say “I do” to Easter and I want Easter to say “I do” to me.

I want Easter to live with me in my house, ride with me in my car, and stand in line with me at the grocery store.

I want Easter to say good morning when the sunrises and goodnight before I turn off the light and fall asleep.

I want to dream beside Easter all night long and I want Easter to dream beside me through all of the darkness.

Not just the darkness of night but all of the darkness in the world around me even after the sun rises.

And I want Easter to live with you, give hay to the cows and pick flowers in the garden with you, turn the same pages in the same books with you.

I want Easter to tell you which mask matches your dress before you walk out of the door and I want Easter to dream by your side every night through all of night’s darkness and then through all of darkness in the world that the sun cannot shine away.

The fact of the matter is, however, that the Easter season is about to end, as far as the liturgical calendar is concerned. This seventh Sunday of Easter is the last Sunday in the church’s Easter season.

But only on the liturgical calendar.

Because on my calendar I have to keep hanging on to Easter because, really, it’s my only chance of making sure the crucifixion doesn’t turn around and come back and hang on to me, turning Good Friday into Good Mondays and Tuesdays and Wednesdays.

No, none of us can go back in time and keep re-living Easter morning over and over like Bill Murray in some Holy version of the movie Groundhog’s Day.

But we can try to bring Easter morning into the present and carry Easter morning forward with us into the future.

We can try to have Easter Sundays all year long.

And Easter Mondays, Easter Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays, too.

Rather than a week full of Good Fridays.

Light and love rose on Easter and we don’t have to let go of that.

Easter is the day that pulls out all the nails and removes the crown of thorns.

We don’t have to wave good-bye to that.

Darkness and hate won’t ever give up so I want to cling as long as I can to the light and love of Easter.

But I have lived with myself my whole life and I know that, in my own case, that is far easier said than done.

If Easter were a vaccine, there are some days when I’d need a booster shot every hour.

Sometimes the tiny crucifixions that come into all of our lives, past and present, get the best of me.

The world is a master at throwing its weight around and knocking us down.

Looking around the world it can be pretty easy to see all of its hammers and nails.

After all, the world has kept so many of us from sharing our own church sanctuary, temple, synagogue or mosque as a congregation together for more than a year.

So sometimes the meaning of the empty cross seems lost to me. I look at it sometimes and only think of the crucifixion. But the empty cross carries the most powerful message of all and it is not a message of crucifixion.

My wife, Kim, has rubbed off on me in many good ways and one of them is encouraging me to keep a journal, which I have been doing for over a decade now. Mostly, it’s a spiritual diary.

I was re-reading one of them recently from nearly a decade ago and found I had written down a key phrase from an Easter sermon delivered by the Rev. Glenn Busch.

Look at the world, he urged us, with Easter eyes. I wrote down just that one phrase in my journal. That one phrase is enough.

Looking at the world with Easter eyes is a discipline that I am going to try and embrace.

Looking at the cross and seeing, and feeling, resurrection instead of crucifixion.

Looking at the world, looking at every one of its nooks and crannies, and seeing and feeling resurrection, not crucifixion.

Looking at the mundane until I am able to see the miraculous.

Looking at things I’ve stopped paying attention to because they are around me every day and I take them for granted, looking at them until I see them through Easter eyes.

Looking at one fallen leaf, brown and years old, perhaps, or a leaf from this spring blown from its tree by a storm, looking at a leaf that is bent and broken on the ground, trampled underfoot, and see how that one leaf is lifted up by a sudden breeze.

See that one ordinary leaf raised up by a wind none of us can see and think to myself, Hey, that’s me. I am that leaf and God is the wind that lifts me, raises me up—raises all of us up—on Easter Sunday 365 days a year.

The calendar doesn’t matter. It never has and never could. Easter cannot be contained or limited to any one single season.

I should have realized that.

So next Sunday on the liturgical calendar is Pentecost. The Holy Spirit’s going to come. Hurray! Bring it on!

No, wait a minute, I’m wrong there, too.

The Holy Spirit’s flight has already arrived.

The Holy Spirit is in here. The Holy Spirit out there. No one day, no crucifixion large or small, can hold it in and none can hold it back.

So I want to look at all of the world’s crosses with Easter eyes and see all of them empty except for a note that reads: “I have gone on ahead, blazing a trail for all eternity, look for the signs in everything that you see.”

And the note is signed: “Jesus.”

We can see blaze marks of that trail when we look at the world with Easter eyes.

The signs are everywhere.

We can even look at litter by the side of the road with Easter eyes and understand that even that one discarded hamburger wrapper fluttering across the road allows us to do the impossible.

That piece of trash allows us to see God’s breath in the wind.

A wind that is filled with Easter.

Easter in every breeze.

Every moment of every day.

Even when the air is as still as a brick wall too high for us to climb over, Easter, with its always and ever-blooming message, has already found us.

So even on those inevitable days when I let go of Easter, despite these bold statements of mine and my best intentions, I can be absolutely certain of one thing:

Easter will never let go of me.

And for a promise like that, a simple Hallelujah just won’t do. When I was a kid, the Walt Disney movie Mary Poppins taught me a word. I’m going to use it now:

Halle—supercalifragilisticexpealliedotious—lujah!

By Ken Woodley

“As the Father has loved me, so I have loved you; abide in my love … I have said these things to you so that my joy may be in you, and that your joy may be complete … This is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you. No one has greater love than this, to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.

—The Gospel of John—

If love isn’t all I need, it sure comes close.
Food?
Without love, I’d starve.
Water?
Without love, I’d die of thirst.
Shelter?
Without love, I’d be vulnerable to every tempest.
But, yes, let’s be practical. I do need food, and water. Shelter, as well. A glass of wine never comes amiss, either, and where would I be without music and books. And did I mention tea?
But without love none of them would taste so very good and the music would fail to transport me and the words between the covers would take me nowhere.
The four-letter ‘love’ word dominates the Gospel of John as Jesus seeks to counter the obscenity of hate, indifference, intolerance, self-absorption and apathy being displayed toward the needs of others.
The kind of love that Jesus is talking about is a love that we can swallow, a love that we can breathe, a love that comes through every pore of our skin, saturates our soul and leaves us joyfully splashing in the wonder of it all.
The love that Jesus is talking about is a love that we can call home. Literally.
That’s why Jesus tells us to,“Abide in my love.”
The kind of love that Jesus is talking about is a love that keeps all of its windows and doors wide open.
Nobody is locked out. God, in fact, has removed all locks and thrown away the keys. Locks and keys that too often we human beings use to exclude others from any sense that they are truly loved and equally welcomed by God to call this love their home.
It’s the kind of love that convinced Jesus to lay down his life for us to ensure that the message and meaning of this mind-boggling love would be passed down through the ages to us all. As he said:
“No one has greater love than this, to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.”
Thankfully, we can follow this teaching without being crucified.
But we do lay down our lives when we put aside our own desires and give ourselves to the needs of someone else.
It may even be someone for whom our life by their side may just be the missing ingredient in their life’s journey. The answer to a prayer. Balm for a wound.
And when we allow the orbit of our lives to intersect we may be surprised to discover that the love of God has been guiding both of us toward each other for that very purpose.
For the purpose of love.
Only by laying down our own life can we be picked up and carried, as well, by the love of someone else.
We may even be startled to discover that they somehow are the missing ingredient in our own life, the answer to a prayer, balm for a wound.
Our two orbits have become one and around the same sun.
In such shining, radiant love is God made vividly manifest. Feeding us. Quenching our deepest thirst. Sheltering us like no roof ever could. In that audacious love is our joy made complete in ways we could never expect, ways we could never envision.
The love of God carrying us both.
The love of God bearing us all.
And that really is all we truly need.

By Ken Woodley

“As the Father has loved me, so I have loved you; abide in my love … I have said these things to you so that my joy may be in you, and that your joy may be complete … This is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you. No one has greater love than this, to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.

—The Gospel of John—

If love isn’t all I need, it sure comes close.
Food?
Without love, I’d starve.
Water?
Without love, I’d die of thirst.
Shelter?
Without love, I’d be vulnerable to every tempest.
But, yes, let’s be practical. I do need food, and water. Shelter, as well. A glass of wine never comes amiss, either, and where would I be without music and books. And did I mention tea?
But without love none of them would taste so very good and the music would fail to transport me and the words between the covers would take me nowhere.
The four-letter ‘love’ word dominates the Gospel of John as Jesus seeks to counter the obscenity of hate, indifference, intolerance, self-absorption and apathy being displayed toward the needs of others.
The kind of love that Jesus is talking about is a love that we can swallow, a love that we can breathe, a love that comes through every pore of our skin, saturates our soul and leaves us joyfully splashing in the wonder of it all.
The love that Jesus is talking about is a love that we can call home. Literally.
That’s why Jesus tells us to,“Abide in my love.”
The kind of love that Jesus is talking about is a love that keeps all of its windows and doors wide open.
Nobody is locked out. God, in fact, has removed all locks and thrown away the keys. Locks and keys that too often we human beings use to exclude others from any sense that they are truly loved and equally welcomed by God to call this love their home.
It’s the kind of love that convinced Jesus to lay down his life for us to ensure that the message and meaning of this mind-boggling love would be passed down through the ages to us all. As he said:
“No one has greater love than this, to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.”
Thankfully, we can follow this teaching without being crucified.
But we do lay down our lives when we put aside our own desires and give ourselves to the needs of someone else.
It may even be someone for whom our life by their side may just be the missing ingredient in their life’s journey. The answer to a prayer. Balm for a wound.
And when we allow the orbit of our lives to intersect we may be surprised to discover that the love of God has been guiding both of us toward each other for that very purpose.
For the purpose of love.
Only by laying down our own life can we be picked up and carried, as well, by the love of someone else.
We may even be startled to discover that they somehow are the missing ingredient in our own life, the answer to a prayer, balm for a wound.
Our two orbits have become one and around the same sun.
In such shining, radiant love is God made vividly manifest. Feeding us. Quenching our deepest thirst. Sheltering us like no roof ever could. In that audacious love is our joy made complete in ways we could never expect, ways we could never envision.
The love of God carrying us both.
The love of God bearing us all.
And that really is all we truly need.

“Jesus said, ‘I am the good shepherd. The good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep. The hired hand, who is not the shepherd and does not own the sheep, sees the wolf coming and leaves the sheep and runs away—and the wolf snatches them and scatters them.’”

—The Gospel of John

By Ken Woodley
We are lost.
Doomed.
Wolves are everywhere.
Before us and behind us.
To the left and the right of us.
Above and below.
There is no place where there are not wolves.
And they are ravenous.
They howl like a terrible storm.
Our power lines are down.
Trees tumble.
Limbs are broken.
The sky looks and sounds as if it is being torn to shreds.
Our green pastures are scorched.
The still waters have tidal waves.
And the wolves want more.
They want all of us.
Every bit of us.
We thought we were brave enough, smart enough, faithful enough.
What fools we were to wander off on our own.
The wolves begin taunting us.
‘Where,’ they ask, ‘is your good shepherd now? Ha! Nailed to a cross. Crucified. Dead and buried.’
We open our mouths to reply and that is when we hear your voice.
“I am their shepherd,” you say to the wolves. “Now and forever.”
And we are found. We are saved.
Goodness and mercy surround us.
You are before us and behind us.
To the left and to the right of us.
Above and below.
There is no place where you are not with us.
We feel weightless as you revive our souls, anointing our heads with oil. The howling is silenced and the sky is made whole.
The wolves vanish like shadows at noon.
With you by our side that is all they ever could be.
Shadows.
And nothing more.
We pass through them with you, Jesus, into the undying light of love.

“Jesus said, ‘I am the good shepherd. The good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep. The hired hand, who is not the shepherd and does not own the sheep, sees the wolf coming and leaves the sheep and runs away—and the wolf snatches them and scatters them.’”

—The Gospel of John


By Ken Woodley
We are lost.
Doomed.
Wolves are everywhere.
Before us and behind us.
To the left and the right of us.
Above and below.
There is no place where there are not wolves.
And they are ravenous.
They howl like a terrible storm.
Our power lines are down.
Trees tumble.
Limbs are broken.
The sky looks and sounds as if it is being torn to shreds.
Our green pastures are scorched.
The still waters have tidal waves.
And the wolves want more.
They want all of us.
Every bit of us.
We thought we were brave enough, smart enough, faithful enough.
What fools we were to wander off on our own.
The wolves begin taunting us.
‘Where,’ they ask, ‘is your good shepherd now? Ha! Nailed to a cross. Crucified. Dead and buried.’
We open our mouths to reply and that is when we hear your voice.
“I am their shepherd,” you say to the wolves. “Now and forever.”
And we are found. We are saved.
Goodness and mercy surround us.
You are before us and behind us.
To the left and to the right of us.
Above and below.
There is no place where you are not with us.
We feel weightless as you revive our souls, anointing our heads with oil. The howling is silenced and the sky is made whole.
The wolves vanish like shadows at noon.
With you by our side that is all they ever could be.
Shadows.
And nothing more.
We pass through them with you, Jesus, into the undying light of love.

“Jesus himself stood among the disciples and said to them, ‘Peace be with you.’ They were startled and terrified, and thought that they were seeing a ghost. He said to them, ‘Why are you frightened, and why do doubts arise in your hearts? Look at my hands and my feet; see that it is I myself. Touch me and see.’”

—The Gospel of John

By Ken Woodley

Jesus wasn’t afraid of his wounds.
They plainly showed.
He did not try to hide them.
He points them out to his disbelieving disciples as proof that he has risen from the dead and that he is no ghost.
The disciples evidently believed that they were being haunted rather than visited by their risen Savior. That is why Jesus invites them to touch him, to touch his wounds, so that their haunted fears may vanish.
No, Jesus was not afraid of his wounds.
And he allowed others to touch them.
By touching his wounds, Jesus knew, his disciples would be healed of the raw anxiety that was so destructive to the life Jesus hoped they would live after his crucifixion and resurrection.
Jesus offers us a great lesson.
Like Jesus, we should not be afraid of our wounds, either.
True, Jesus is resurrected by the time he shows the disciples his wounds. These particular wounds are no longer something for him to fear. But, crucially, Jesus didn’t run away and hide from those wounds before they were inflicted upon him. Even though he knew they were coming.
So the example resonates, if anything, even more deeply.
Each of us is wounded in some way. Nobody goes through life wound-free.
Some are wounded more deeply than others but there are no trivial wounds. Wounds are terribly real. For that reason it can be easy to be afraid of them, perhaps even ashamed. We want to hide them from others. Hide them from ourselves. Pretend they don’t exist.
But running from our wounds is not the path toward healing.
Personal experience has taught me this truth.
Instead, trying to escape leads to us feeling hunted and haunted by our wounds, just as the disciples were hunted and haunted by the wounding loss of Jesus in their lives when he was crucified. That escapist mentality makes the wound worse, not better.
No, we don’t have to parade our wounds around or make a big song and dance about them. There is no “Wound Olympics.” It’s not a competition.
But we do need to acknowledge them, believe that we can live with them and, crucially, be open to the way God can bring healing through the loving touch of others in our lives.
Because, so often, that is the way God reaches out to us. The way the risen Christ is able to anoint our heads with oil and restore our soul:
By bringing someone into our life who is not afraid of our wounds and who seeks, through loving compassion, to bring us healing.
But, the healing of wounds is a double-edge plowshare. Sometimes the effect of our own wounding empowers us to be effective healers of others. Sometimes the shape of our lives fits perfectly into the wound of someone else.
Therefore, just as we must not be afraid of our own wounds, we also must not fear the wounds of others. We must not be afraid to touch their wounds with God’s loving purpose that can, if we allow the Holy Spirit to guide us, have our fingerprints all over that touch of divine grace.
And, sometimes, when we reach out with that divine healing grace toward others, we find God reaching out to us through them. Our reach meets theirs and in that moment God’s love for us is made most profoundly manifest.
That is a truth worth embracing with all of our might.
And I thank God personal experience has taught me that, too.

“Jesus himself stood among the disciples and said to them, ‘Peace be with you.’ They were startled and terrified, and thought that they were seeing a ghost. He said to them, ‘Why are you frightened, and why do doubts arise in your hearts? Look at my hands and my feet; see that it is I myself. Touch me and see.’”

—The Gospel of John

By Ken Woodley

Jesus wasn’t afraid of his wounds.
They plainly showed.
He did not try to hide them.
He points them out to his disbelieving disciples as proof that he has risen from the dead and that he is no ghost.
The disciples evidently believed that they were being haunted rather than visited by their risen Savior. That is why Jesus invites them to touch him, to touch his wounds, so that their haunted fears may vanish.
No, Jesus was not afraid of his wounds.
And he allowed others to touch them.
By touching his wounds, Jesus knew, his disciples would be healed of the raw anxiety that was so destructive to the life Jesus hoped they would live after his crucifixion and resurrection.
Jesus offers us a great lesson.
Like Jesus, we should not be afraid of our wounds, either.
True, Jesus is resurrected by the time he shows the disciples his wounds. These particular wounds are no longer something for him to fear. But, crucially, Jesus didn’t run away and hide from those wounds before they were inflicted upon him. Even though he knew they were coming.
So the example resonates, if anything, even more deeply.
Each of us is wounded in some way. Nobody goes through life wound-free.
Some are wounded more deeply than others but there are no trivial wounds. Wounds are terribly real. For that reason it can be easy to be afraid of them, perhaps even ashamed. We want to hide them from others. Hide them from ourselves. Pretend they don’t exist.
But running from our wounds is not the path toward healing.
Personal experience has taught me this truth.
Instead, trying to escape leads to us feeling hunted and haunted by our wounds, just as the disciples were hunted and haunted by the wounding loss of Jesus in their lives when he was crucified. That escapist mentality makes the wound worse, not better.
No, we don’t have to parade our wounds around or make a big song and dance about them. There is no “Wound Olympics.” It’s not a competition.
But we do need to acknowledge them, believe that we can live with them and, crucially, be open to the way God can bring healing through the loving touch of others in our lives.
Because, so often, that is the way God reaches out to us. The way the risen Christ is able to anoint our heads with oil and restore our soul:
By bringing someone into our life who is not afraid of our wounds and who seeks, through loving compassion, to bring us healing.
But, the healing of wounds is a double-edge plowshare. Sometimes the effect of our own wounding empowers us to be effective healers of others. Sometimes the shape of our lives fits perfectly into the wound of someone else.
Therefore, just as we must not be afraid of our own wounds, we also must not fear the wounds of others. We must not be afraid to touch their wounds with God’s loving purpose that can, if we allow the Holy Spirit to guide us, have our fingerprints all over that touch of divine grace.
And, sometimes, when we reach out with that divine healing grace toward others, we find God reaching out to us through them. Our reach meets theirs and in that moment God’s love for us is made most profoundly manifest.
That is a truth worth embracing with all of our might.
And I thank God personal experience has taught me that, too.