Author: kenwoodley3

By Ken Woodley

My ark is sinking,

the world around me 

coming apart at the seams,

colors receding everywhere,

directionless

and without meaning.

The sky is a riptide

of green-becoming-violet

and then nothing

but an empty box waiting

for my ashes and dust.

The non-colors begin breaking through

and soak up anything that retains 

the slightest slivered hue 

of the storm-ending rainbow

for which I prayed.

A dove falls at my feet,

wings spread

but motionless,

exhausted.

The Anti-Color sounds its trumpet

as Jericho’s walls begin to re-assemble and rise

on stones of darkness.

I gently lift the dove

and hold it in my hands.

Something falls from its beak.

A torn petal from the final flower.

I pick it up,

my ark about to go under,

and decide,

as the water rises around me, 

to some how, some day

become its stem.

In the quiet stillness of that faith

a voice speaks to my soul.

The gardener of Golgotha.

“Walk on the water of this moment,” he tells me 

as my ark disappears beneath the sea. 

I take a tentative step.

Then another.

Not sinking.

Now I’m striding

toward the distant mountains

of a sudden shoreline.

Just like he said I could,

holding the dove against my chest,

feeling all the colors of his love.

Some day the torn petal will bloom.

One day we all will.

Walking on the water of our moment.

By Ken Woodley

My ark is sinking,
the world around me
coming apart at the seams,
colors receding everywhere,
directionless
and without meaning.
The sky is a riptide
of green-becoming-violet
and then nothing
but an empty box waiting
for my ashes and dust.
The non-colors begin breaking through
and soak up anything that retains
the slightest slivered hue
of the storm-ending rainbow
for which I prayed.
A dove falls at my feet,
wings spread
but motionless,
exhausted.
The Anti-Color sounds its trumpet
as Jericho’s walls begin to re-assemble and rise
on stones of darkness.
I gently lift the dove
and hold it in my hands.
Something falls from its beak.
A torn petal from the final flower.
I pick it up,
my ark about to go under,
and decide,
as the water rises around me,
to some how, some day
become its stem.
In the quiet stillness of that faith
a voice speaks to my soul.
The gardener of Golgotha.
“Walk on the water of this moment,” he tells me
as my ark disappears beneath the sea.
I take a tentative step.
Then another.
Not sinking.
Now I’m striding
toward the distant mountains
of a sudden shoreline.
Just like he said I could,
holding the dove against my chest,
feeling all the colors of his love.
Some day the torn petal will bloom.
One day we all will.
Walking on the water of our moment.

By Ken Woodley

A flutter of stained-glass

shares my path

through the last stand of this flowered field

in the final days of summer

and the gossamer of eternity

touches my sight 

like the whisper of angels.

A Monarch butterfly rises 

from the sweet swan song of nectar

among dying petals

and doesn’t stop ascending,

leaving the world, 

and this meadow we briefly shared,

behind.

We both grow smaller in the distance

of each other’s sight.

So fragile,

like a passing thought,

its migration bends toward the sky,

wings beating like a rapid heart,

higher and higher.

Grounded to earth,

I watch this splash of orange into blue

rippling through the sky

until I am left with the dust of its wings

upon my soul

as it disappears

into the brightness

of a sun-filled cloud.

I lose it now

as my eyes close in reflex

to the intensity of illumination,

listening still

to something spoken,

not left unsaid,

my feet barely touching the ground.

By Ken Woodley

A flutter of stained-glass
shares my path
through the last stand of this flowered field
in the final days of summer
and the gossamer of eternity
touches my sight
like the whisper of angels.
A Monarch butterfly rises
from the sweet swan song of nectar
among dying petals
and doesn’t stop ascending,
leaving the world,
and this meadow we briefly shared,
behind.
We both grow smaller in the distance
of each other’s sight.
So fragile,
like a passing thought,
its migration bends toward the sky,
wings beating like a rapid heart,
higher and higher.
Grounded to earth,
I watch this splash of orange into blue
rippling through the sky
until I am left with the dust of its wings
upon my soul
as it disappears
into the brightness
of a sun-filled cloud.
I lose it now
as my eyes close in reflex
to the intensity of illumination,
listening still
to something spoken,
not left unsaid,
my feet barely touching the ground.

By Ken Woodley

A trapeze

swings down

from heaven,

out from the clouds,

through my astonished

disbelief.

You hang from it

by your legs,

both arms outstretched,

reaching for me,

swinging  back and forth

like the pendulum

on a grandfather clock,

time ticking away 

from me

with each pass you make,

hanging somehow by your feet now,

closer and closer.

I raise one arm.

Then both.

Our fingers brush—

an agony of brief possibility—

like a river flowing

past reeds. 

Impossible to grasp.

Now you hang on by your toes

and I take a leap of faith.

You fall into my arms.

We catch each other,

holding tightly

to the sound of flowers

we see in our barefoot eyes,

defying the gravity of hammered nails.

Just as you hoped we could.

Just as you knew we would

after climbing through

the open window

of Calvary’s closed door

and into the acrobat sky

where crosses spread their wings and sing.

By Ken Woodley

A trapeze
swings down
from heaven,
out from the clouds,
through my astonished
disbelief.
You hang from it
by your legs,
both arms outstretched,
reaching for me,
swinging back and forth
like the pendulum
on a grandfather clock,
time ticking away
from me
with each pass you make,
hanging somehow by your feet now,
closer and closer.
I raise one arm.
Then both.
Our fingers brush—
an agony of brief possibility—
like a river flowing
past reeds.
Impossible to grasp.
Now you hang on by your toes
and I take a leap of faith.
You fall into my arms.
We catch each other,
holding tightly
to the sound of flowers
we see in our barefoot eyes,
defying the gravity of hammered nails.
Just as you hoped we could.
Just as you knew we would
after climbing through
the open window
of Calvary’s closed door
and into the acrobat sky
where crosses spread their wings and sing.

“About that time there arose a great disturbance about the Way”

                                                                                —Acts 19:23

By Ken Woodley

I believe.

I believe in God.

I believe in Jesus.

I believe Jesus lived for me and was crucified because he refused to betray the life he lived for me.

And so he died for me.

I believe in the Holy Spirit.

I believe in love.

In loving.

In being loved.

I believe in forgiveness.

In forgiving.

In being forgiven.

I believe the people living in darkness have seen a great light.

I believe the lion shall lay down with the lamb.

I believe those who mourn will be comforted.

The meek will inherit the earth.

Those who hunger and thirst for righteousness will be filled.

The merciful will be shown mercy.

The pure in heart will see God.

The peacemakers will be called children of God.

I believe we can be the light of the world.

I believe the Lord is our shepherd.

I believe in the resurrection of Jesus.

I believe in our own resurrection.

I believe God’s kingdom will come and God’s will shall be done on earth, as it is in heaven, in our hearts, through our hands and along the pathway of our soles.

I believe that if we love one another, God lives in us and God’s love is made complete in us.

I believe that God is love.

I believe.

“About that time there arose a great disturbance about the Way”

—Acts 19:23
By Ken Woodley

I believe.
I believe in God.
I believe in Jesus.
I believe Jesus lived for me and was crucified because he refused to betray the life he lived for me.
And so he died for me.
I believe in the Holy Spirit.
I believe in love.
In loving.
In being loved.
I believe in forgiveness.
In forgiving.
In being forgiven.
I believe the people living in darkness have seen a great light.
I believe the lion shall lay down with the lamb.
I believe those who mourn will be comforted.
The meek will inherit the earth.
Those who hunger and thirst for righteousness will be filled.
The merciful will be shown mercy.
The pure in heart will see God.
The peacemakers will be called children of God.
I believe we can be the light of the world.
I believe the Lord is our shepherd.
I believe in the resurrection of Jesus.
I believe in our own resurrection.
I believe God’s kingdom will come and God’s will shall be done on earth, as it is in heaven, in our hearts, through our hands and along the pathway of our soles.
I believe that if we love one another, God lives in us and God’s love is made complete in us.
I believe that God is love.
I believe.

Outlines On The Sky

By Ken Woodley

To feel the tips of your fingers in the clouds

reaching out for my wishing you were there.

Then your hand touches mine

and my heart-of-a-child wish comes true.

Our fingers intertwine

and you trace outlines on the sky

that mean nothing but love

for those wandering alone

and lonely in a crowd of people

wandering alone and lonely

seeking thoughts that seem blown

like butterflies fluttering in a breeze,

desperately close but just out of reach.

Prayers they were composing.

Prayers praying to be composed.

Prayers trying to compose those trying to pray.

Answers that are waiting

along their yearning journey.

Then one person stops, looks skyward, staring,

and reaches out to another,

who reaches out for someone else.

They point toward the sky

and I feel your heart beating deeper, 

further into the world

as I join them 

and look up in wonder

at the outlines on the sky.

By Ken Woodley

To feel the tips of your fingers in the clouds
reaching out for my wishing you were there.
Then your hand touches mine
and my heart-of-a-child wish comes true.
Our fingers intertwine
and you trace outlines on the sky
that mean nothing but love
for those wandering alone
and lonely in a crowd of people
wandering alone and lonely
seeking thoughts that seem blown
like butterflies fluttering in a breeze,
desperately close but just out of reach.
Prayers they were composing.
Prayers praying to be composed.
Prayers trying to compose those trying to pray.
Answers that are waiting
along their yearning journey.
Then one person stops, looks skyward, staring,
and reaches out to another,
who reaches out for someone else.
They point toward the sky
and I feel your heart beating deeper,
further into the world
as I join them
and look up in wonder
at the outlines on the sky.

By Ken Woodley

In the beginning

I was a soul

on the sheer vertical side 

of forever

and never,

of infinity

and nothing,

of symphony

and silence,

of Alpha

and Omega.

I felt a vision pulling me

into the first crying breath

of a newborn child.

And I breathed with them.

The child.

The vision.

And me.

We breathed as one.

There were rainbows all around

and thunder nowhere to be heard.

Just the beating of a heart

that was now mine.

“It’s a boy,” someone said,

pulling me out by the head

with forceps that marked me

with its signs and intentions.

“Yes, a boy,” someone else said

before performing the last rites

because there was no hope

of visions and souls and little boys

surviving in a world

that reveled in target practice.

Some hearts are filled with hammers.

Others with nails.

But the rainbows 

wrapped me in their swaddling prism

and threw away the key.

I fell silent and listened

as if my life depended on it

and discovered that the streaks of lightning

were only prayers

looking for the sky to see them.

And I heard the sound of flowers

speaking to the darkness

with their petal tongues,

promising gardens filled with light.

Love then surrounded me with itself.

Wrapped me up with itself.

Filled me up with itself.

And so began my lifetime

of trying to understand

what it all means,

following echoes that haven’t spoken,

except inside me.

By Ken Woodley


In the beginning
I was a soul
on the sheer vertical side
of forever
and never,
of infinity
and nothing,
of symphony
and silence,
of Alpha
and Omega.
I felt a vision pulling me
into the first crying breath
of a newborn child.
And I breathed with them.
The child.
The vision.
And me.
We breathed as one.
There were rainbows all around
and thunder nowhere to be heard.
Just the beating of a heart
that was now mine.
“It’s a boy,” someone said,
pulling me out by the head
with forceps that marked me
with its signs and intentions.
“Yes, a boy,” someone else said
before performing the last rites
because there was no hope
of visions and souls and little boys
surviving in a world
that reveled in target practice.
Some hearts are filled with hammers.
Others with nails.
But the rainbows
wrapped me in their swaddling prism
and threw away the key.
I fell silent and listened
as if my life depended on it
and discovered that the streaks of lightning
were only prayers
looking for the sky to see them.
And I heard the sound of flowers
speaking to the darkness
with their petal tongues,
promising gardens filled with light.
Love then surrounded me with itself.
Wrapped me up with itself.
Filled me up with itself.
And so began my lifetime
of trying to understand
what it all means,
following echoes that haven’t spoken,
except inside me.

By Ken Woodley

“Take my yoke upon you and learn from me; for I am humble and gentle in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”

                                                    —Jesus

The weight is so heavy.

Too burdensome.

I don’t see how I can go any further.

No way.

It has been so hard for so long.

Years and years, it seems, so another single step feels impossible.

The valley of this dark shadow seems to stretch forever and the slopes that surround me look and feel too steep. 

Each time I try to climb up and out of this, I slip and slide and stumble and fall. I am cut and bleeding and still this burden refuses to fall from my shoulders, fall away from my heart, or from my soul. Its weeds are everywhere and there are days when I cannot see my flowers. Can’t even smell them.

Today is one of those days.

The weeds of this burden blind me to even a single petal of one solitary flower.

And all around me are people on the same journey.

Carrying their own burdens that are too burdensome.

They don’t see how they can go any further.

No way.

It has been so hard for them, too, for so long.

Years and years, it seems, even if it has been a few days, weeks or months, so another step feels impossible to them.

The valley of the shadow surrounding them seems to stretch forever and the slopes surrounding them look and feel too steep.

Weeds surround them. Their flowers are nowhere to be seen. They can’t even smell them.

All of us have stumbled and fallen and the weeds seem certain to take every one of our blossoms away.

But, on our bruised and bleeding knees we pray.

Unable to gaze skyward any longer, we look down and see our bent and humbled shadow in prayer.

Prayer is all we have left, hopeless words searching for hope.

And that—yes, that—is when we see the second shadow.

A second shadow beside us.

Beside every one of us.

The shadow of someone carrying a yoke across his shoulders.

This shadow of the man and his yoke look just like the shadow of a cross, a crucified man somehow journeying right by our side.

Has he been there all along?

Did we mistake our burden for his?

Or his burden for ours?

None of that matters, we realize, as the flowers of this moment bloom, the sudden petals painting even the weeds into some kind of rainbow pasture where we rest and feel our burdens lifted. Our heads are anointed with oil. 

In a moment, we shall all journey on.

Our burden won’t be gone but it will feel less heavy because we do not carry it alone.

Jesus knows all about crosses.

That’s why he can help us carry our own.

The only thing Jesus adds to our darkness is light.

The one thing he adds to our burden is love.

That is why there are occasional moments when we’ll actually feel weightless, defying the world’s gravity.

For just a moment or two, perhaps, but they make the next few miles so much easier than they might have been.

And we move on toward beyond.

By Ken Woodley

“Take my yoke upon you and learn from me; for I am humble and gentle in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”
—Jesus

The weight is so heavy.
Too burdensome.
I don’t see how I can go any further.
No way.
It has been so hard for so long.
Years and years, it seems, so another single step feels impossible.
The valley of this dark shadow seems to stretch forever and the slopes that surround me look and feel too steep.
Each time I try to climb up and out of this, I slip and slide and stumble and fall. I am cut and bleeding and still this burden refuses to fall from my shoulders, fall away from my heart, or from my soul. Its weeds are everywhere and there are days when I cannot see my flowers. Can’t even smell them.
Today is one of those days.
The weeds of this burden blind me to even a single petal of one solitary flower.
And all around me are people on the same journey.
Carrying their own burdens that are too burdensome.
They don’t see how they can go any further.
No way.
It has been so hard for them, too, for so long.
Years and years, it seems, even if it has been a few days, weeks or months, so another step feels impossible to them.
The valley of the shadow surrounding them seems to stretch forever and the slopes surrounding them look and feel too steep.
Weeds surround them. Their flowers are nowhere to be seen. They can’t even smell them.
All of us have stumbled and fallen and the weeds seem certain to take every one of our blossoms away.
But, on our bruised and bleeding knees we pray.
Unable to gaze skyward any longer, we look down and see our bent and humbled shadow in prayer.
Prayer is all we have left, hopeless words searching for hope.
And that—yes, that—is when we see the second shadow.
A second shadow beside us.
Beside every one of us.
The shadow of someone carrying a yoke across his shoulders.
This shadow of the man and his yoke look just like the shadow of a cross, a crucified man somehow journeying right by our side.
Has he been there all along?
Did we mistake our burden for his?
Or his burden for ours?
None of that matters, we realize, as the flowers of this moment bloom, the sudden petals painting even the weeds into some kind of rainbow pasture where we rest and feel our burdens lifted. Our heads are anointed with oil.
In a moment, we shall all journey on.
Our burden won’t be gone but it will feel less heavy because we do not carry it alone.
Jesus knows all about crosses.
That’s why he can help us carry our own.
The only thing Jesus adds to our darkness is light.
The one thing he adds to our burden is love.
That is why there are occasional moments when we’ll actually feel weightless, defying the world’s gravity.
For just a moment or two, perhaps, but they make the next few miles so much easier than they might have been.
And we move on toward beyond.

“He also said, ‘With what can we compare the kingdom of God, or what parable will we use for it? It is like a mustard seed, which, when sown upon the ground, is the smallest of all the seeds on earth; yet when it is sown it grows up and becomes the greatest of all shrubs, and puts forth large branches, so that the birds of the air can make nests in its shade.’”

—The Gospel of Mark

By Ken Woodley

We are all mustard seeds.

A mustard seed in the womb.

And then a mustard seed in this world.

One small piece of God’s dream for love and peace on Earth.

A punctuation mark in the great unending novel of humanity and its journey through darkness into light. 

But, we are not just mustard seeds. This isn’t a case of having to settle for only being a mustard seed. 

There is nothing “only” or “just” about being a mustard seed and a mark of punctuation.

Because punctuation makes all the difference. 

And so can we.

Which is what Jesus wants us to understand.

What could be smaller than a period, comma or semicolon?

But, what has more potential?

A period, and something ends.

A comma, and something continues.

A semicolon, and two things are joined together.

We are all sown into this world as completely helpless babies. Totally vulnerable mustard seeds. Not even aware of our own two hands and unable to hold up our head. 

But, oh, how that changes. How that mustard seed grows through the years until we truly do have the power to make things end or continue, and the ability to join things together.

For better or for worse.

How fortunate—given our ability to build up with love or break down with hate—that each of us human mustard seeds has the ultimate mustard seed inside us:

Our soul.

And, man, how that mustard seed can grow.

Our souls can become gigantic Redwood Trees of compassion and towering Sequoias of peace and reconciliation.

And when that happens we are able to provide “shade” for so much more than nesting birds.

Human beings can find shelter in our acts of determined kindness toward one another. Especially when we put our mustard seeds together.

When two or more of us gather together to address the world’s great need for love, that is how we become an entire forest of “shade” for those abandoned in the tree-less wilderness of indifference.

Wonderfully, however long we live we never grow up and out of our “mustard seed-ness.” 

When we keep our hearts tuned to the Holy Spirit, we can remain mustard seeds until the day we die, able to put our comma, our period or our semicolon in just the right place to completely change the story.

Because the mustard seed inside us is the kingdom of God.

“He also said, ‘With what can we compare the kingdom of God, or what parable will we use for it? It is like a mustard seed, which, when sown upon the ground, is the smallest of all the seeds on earth; yet when it is sown it grows up and becomes the greatest of all shrubs, and puts forth large branches, so that the birds of the air can make nests in its shade.’”

—The Gospel of Mark

By Ken Woodley

We are all mustard seeds.
A mustard seed in the womb.
And then a mustard seed in this world.
One small piece of God’s dream for love and peace on Earth.
A punctuation mark in the great unending novel of humanity and its journey through darkness into light.
But, we are not just mustard seeds. This isn’t a case of having to settle for only being a mustard seed.
There is nothing “only” or “just” about being a mustard seed and a mark of punctuation.
Because punctuation makes all the difference.
And so can we.
Which is what Jesus wants us to understand.
What could be smaller than a period, comma or semicolon?
But, what has more potential?
A period, and something ends.
A comma, and something continues.
A semicolon, and two things are joined together.
We are all sown into this world as completely helpless babies. Totally vulnerable mustard seeds. Not even aware of our own two hands and unable to hold up our head.
But, oh, how that changes. How that mustard seed grows through the years until we truly do have the power to make things end or continue, and the ability to join things together.
For better or for worse.
How fortunate—given our ability to build up with love or break down with hate—that each of us human mustard seeds has the ultimate mustard seed inside us:
Our soul.
And, man, how that mustard seed can grow.
Our souls can become gigantic Redwood Trees of compassion and towering Sequoias of peace and reconciliation.
And when that happens we are able to provide “shade” for so much more than nesting birds.
Human beings can find shelter in our acts of determined kindness toward one another. Especially when we put our mustard seeds together.
When two or more of us gather together to address the world’s great need for love, that is how we become an entire forest of “shade” for those abandoned in the tree-less wilderness of indifference.
Wonderfully, however long we live we never grow up and out of our “mustard seed-ness.”
When we keep our hearts tuned to the Holy Spirit, we can remain mustard seeds until the day we die, able to put our comma, our period or our semicolon in just the right place to completely change the story.
Because the mustard seed inside us is the kingdom of God.

By Ken Woodley

“Who, me?”

The young Jeremiah’s reaction is completely understandable. He’s not even old for his prophetic learner’s permit, much less a prophets license.

God, after all, had told him this:

“Before I formed you in the womb I knew you,

and before you were born I consecrated you;

I appointed you a prophet to the nations.”

Those words from God are enough to make anyone’s head spin fast enough to dizzy them. Jeremiah is incredulous, as we’d all be.

“Ah, Lord God! Truly I do not know how to speak, for I am only a boy,” Jeremiah replies, unaware that God doesn’t mind at all if a little child shall lead them.

God’s not-so-fast reply leaves nothing to the imagination. And it refuses, as God often does, to take “No” for an answer.

“Do not say, ‘I am only a boy’;

for you shall go to all to whom I send you,

and you shall speak whatever I command you,

Do not be afraid of them,

for I am with you to deliver you.”

Moreover, God also lets Jeremiah know what to say when he does speak truth to power. 

“Now I have put my words in your mouth,” God tells the youthful prophet.

The real truth is that God sees far more potential in each of us than we see in ourselves. He saw more in the young Jeremiah than the boy could ever imagine. And God sees more in you and me than we could ever dream of.

God gives us clues to how much potential waits within us as we pray. Our prayer time opens up the channel of communication. Or sometimes it’s just a sudden inspiration or an idea God drops into the mailbox of our mind. 

But just as often, God speaks to us through other people who seemingly come up to us out of the blue and give us opportunities to do things we never saw ourselves doing.

God wants all of us to feel loved and valued. God wants us to have a sense of our own self-worth and as having a meaningful place in God’s world and its redemption through love and grace. 

Not in a grandiose egotistical way. But in a way that is simultaneously incredibly uplifting and beautifully humbling.

We can also have faith—whenever God tells us “I want you to do this” and we move beyond “Who, me?” to “Okay, Lord, I’ll try”—that God will give us exactly what we need precisely when we need it. 

Who, me?

“Yes,” God replies, “definitely.”

By Ken Woodley

“Who, me?”
The young Jeremiah’s reaction is completely understandable. He’s not even old for his prophetic learner’s permit, much less a prophets license.
God, after all, had told him this:

“Before I formed you in the womb I knew you,
and before you were born I consecrated you;
I appointed you a prophet to the nations.”

Those words from God are enough to make anyone’s head spin fast enough to dizzy them. Jeremiah is incredulous, as we’d all be.
“Ah, Lord God! Truly I do not know how to speak, for I am only a boy,” Jeremiah replies, unaware that God doesn’t mind at all if a little child shall lead them.
God’s not-so-fast reply leaves nothing to the imagination. And it refuses, as God often does, to take “No” for an answer.

“Do not say, ‘I am only a boy’;
for you shall go to all to whom I send you,
and you shall speak whatever I command you,
Do not be afraid of them,
for I am with you to deliver you.”

Moreover, God also lets Jeremiah know what to say when he does speak truth to power.

“Now I have put my words in your mouth,” God tells the youthful prophet.

The real truth is that God sees far more potential in each of us than we see in ourselves. He saw more in the young Jeremiah than the boy could ever imagine. And God sees more in you and me than we could ever dream of.
God gives us clues to how much potential waits within us as we pray. Our prayer time opens up the channel of communication. Or sometimes it’s just a sudden inspiration or an idea God drops into the mailbox of our mind.
But just as often, God speaks to us through other people who seemingly come up to us out of the blue and give us opportunities to do things we never saw ourselves doing.
God wants all of us to feel loved and valued. God wants us to have a sense of our own self-worth and as having a meaningful place in God’s world and its redemption through love and grace.
Not in a grandiose egotistical way. But in a way that is simultaneously incredibly uplifting and beautifully humbling.
We can also have faith—whenever God tells us “I want you to do this” and we move beyond “Who, me?” to “Okay, Lord, I’ll try”—that God will give us exactly what we need precisely when we need it.
Who, me?
“Yes,” God replies, “definitely.”

By Ken Woodley

Imagine a life without fear. Just none at all. Ever.

Personally, I am rather certain I’ll never achieve that goal, much as I’d like to. Too much stuff goes on in the world, and all of it beyond my control. I don’t think I will ever live a fear-less life.

But maybe, just maybe, I can live a life with less fear. Jesus would be so happy if I could. And I know he’s there to help me.

“Do not be afraid, little flock, for it is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom,” Jesus tells us.

That doesn’t mean a life free of things that can make us afraid. The world will never be free of such things. But we don’t have to let them swallow us.

Jesus knows how debilitating fear can be. That is why the Gospels are full of him telling us not to be afraid.

Fear is a primal emotion in human beings. Fear grabs us by the throat, by the heart, and, Jesus knows, it can grab us by the soul, too.

Fear is like that “dark matter” in space. Fear, in fact, is exactly like a “black hole” in space. Their dense gravity grabs anything within reach and inexorably pulls it into the black hole. 

Even light cannot escape. Even light cannot free itself from a black hole, once it has been swallowed.

Life throws “dense gravity” at us. Hard times, difficult challenges that make us afraid for ourselves or our loved ones.

And we all know what fear can then do to us.

Fear robs our favorite song of its melody.

Fear steals laughter from our favorite comedies.

When we are afraid, we can read our favorite book by our favorite author without feeling anything like our usual joy.

Fear erases the colors from our favorite paintings.

Our favorite food or meal tastes dull when we are afraid.

Fear diminishes everything.

Jesus knows.

Jesus understands.

“Do not be afraid, little flock,” Jesus tells us, hoping we will listen and feel our Good Shepherd’s arms around us as he lifts us out of the thorny grasp of fear.

Fear is the valley of the shadow of death through which, at various times of our lives, we must travel.

But never alone.

Psalm 23 tells the truth and reading it is one of the quickest ways to fall into our Good Shepherd’s arms when we are afraid because fear is a wolf that Jesus will stop in its tracks.

“I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and staff, they comfort me.”

Or, let us say, “I will fear no fear, for you are with me…You prepare a table before me in the presence of my fears. You anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows. Surely goodness and love will follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”

A house in which there is no fear.

Nobody to be afraid of at all.

By Ken Woodley
Imagine a life without fear. Just none at all. Ever.
Personally, I am rather certain I’ll never achieve that goal, much as I’d like to. Too much stuff goes on in the world, and all of it beyond my control. I don’t think I will ever live a fear-less life.
But maybe, just maybe, I can live a life with less fear. Jesus would be so happy if I could. And I know he’s there to help me.
“Do not be afraid, little flock, for it is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom,” Jesus tells us.
That doesn’t mean a life free of things that can make us afraid. The world will never be free of such things. But we don’t have to let them swallow us.
Jesus knows how debilitating fear can be. That is why the Gospels are full of him telling us not to be afraid.
Fear is a primal emotion in human beings. Fear grabs us by the throat, by the heart, and, Jesus knows, it can grab us by the soul, too.
Fear is like that “dark matter” in space. Fear, in fact, is exactly like a “black hole” in space. Their dense gravity grabs anything within reach and inexorably pulls it into the black hole.
Even light cannot escape. Even light cannot free itself from a black hole, once it has been swallowed.
Life throws “dense gravity” at us. Hard times, difficult challenges that make us afraid for ourselves or our loved ones.
And we all know what fear can then do to us.
Fear robs our favorite song of its melody.
Fear steals laughter from our favorite comedies.
When we are afraid, we can read our favorite book by our favorite author without feeling anything like our usual joy.
Fear erases the colors from our favorite paintings.
Our favorite food or meal tastes dull when we are afraid.
Fear diminishes everything.
Jesus knows.
Jesus understands.
“Do not be afraid, little flock,” Jesus tells us, hoping we will listen and feel our Good Shepherd’s arms around us as he lifts us out of the thorny grasp of fear.
Fear is the valley of the shadow of death through which, at various times of our lives, we must travel.
But never alone.
Psalm 23 tells the truth and reading it is one of the quickest ways to fall into our Good Shepherd’s arms when we are afraid because fear is a wolf that Jesus will stop in its tracks.
“I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and staff, they comfort me.”
Or, let us say, “I will fear no fear, for you are with me…You prepare a table before me in the presence of my fears. You anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows. Surely goodness and love will follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”
A house in which there is no fear.
Nobody to be afraid of at all.