Author: kenwoodley3

By Ken Woodley

“So it is with those who store up treasures for themselves but are not rich toward God”

Please forgive me if you find me swanking about the place as if I owned it. But, you see, I had forgotten that I’m a millionaire. Just rolling in the stuff. Got in sackfuls. The lucre’s just busting out everywhere. 

I feel, in fact, as if I am writing this week’s meditation for Forbes Magazine. You know, from one millionaire to another.

Because I mean, dash it all, that what with one thing or another, some of you may have forgotten that you are millionaires, too. 

What, not true? Not millionaires?

Au contraire.

The take-away from this week’s Gospel lesson requires a Brink’s truck and a good vault at a bank.

Or, no, it doesn’t.

Our capital gains have nothing to do with the stock market. Neither Dow nor Jones—what crazy, amped up, knee-jerking reactionaries those two Wall Streeters are, eh?—can diminish our wealth one little bit. 

We fear neither bull nor bear.

Why?

Jesus said so.

In today’s lesson from Luke, someone asks Jesus to tell his (the speaker’s) brother to divide up the family inheritance rather than hogging it all. “Take care,” Jesus responds, “Be on your guard against all kinds of greed; for one’s life does not consist in the abundance of possessions.’

Then Jesus tells the parable of the rich man whose farm lands gave him so many bumper crops that the granary should have been made by Ford or Chevy. So large a harvest does he get that his existing barns can’t hold it all and he decides to tear them down and build bigger and better ones for his grains and goods.

“And I will say to my soul,” the farmer continues, “‘Soul, you have ample goods laid up for many years; relax, eat, drink and be merry.’”

But, God doesn’t endorse this fiscal policy and calls the man a fool because “this very night your life is being demanded of you. And the things you have prepared, whose will they be?”

Pertinent question. God’s usually are.

“So it is,” Jesus goes on to explain, “for those who store up treasures for themselves but are not rich toward God.”

Rich toward God.

What a phrase, and one that can be interpreted several ways. It can mean, of course, that we should share our time, talents and treasure to bring the kingdom of heaven closer for people in need.

But, as I read the lesson, it struck me more forcefully that acting rich toward God means acting like, well, we are rich.

Not because of our own fiscal accumulation but because the wealth that matters to our soul is the love and grace freely given to us by God. And God is not stingy with that love and grace.

We got it by the Brink’s truckload.

But “being rich toward God” means acting like we know it, opening our hearts and souls to the deposits of love and grace that God has for us. 

“Toward God” means pointing ourselves, inclining our heart, mind and soul in that direction, and moving toward that love and grace. It means acting like the millionaires we truly are.

It also means being generous millionaire philanthropists and sharing that love and grace with others to bring them closer to the kingdom of heaven.

Sharing it like we’re just rolling in the stuff. Like we got it in sackfuls. Like it’s falling from the pockets of our soul.

Because we do, and it is.

By Ken Woodley

“So it is with those who store up treasures for themselves but are not rich toward God”

Please forgive me if you find me swanking about the place as if I owned it. But, you see, I had forgotten that I’m a millionaire. Just rolling in the stuff. Got in sackfuls. The lucre’s just busting out everywhere.
I feel, in fact, as if I am writing this week’s meditation for Forbes Magazine. You know, from one millionaire to another.
Because I mean, dash it all, that what with one thing or another, some of you may have forgotten that you are millionaires, too.
What, not true? Not millionaires?
Au contraire.
The take-away from this week’s Gospel lesson requires a Brink’s truck and a good vault at a bank.
Or, no, it doesn’t.
Our capital gains have nothing to do with the stock market. Neither Dow nor Jones—what crazy, amped up, knee-jerking reactionaries those two Wall Streeters are, eh?—can diminish our wealth one little bit.
We fear neither bull nor bear.
Why?
Jesus said so.
In today’s lesson from Luke, someone asks Jesus to tell his (the speaker’s) brother to divide up the family inheritance rather than hogging it all. “Take care,” Jesus responds, “Be on your guard against all kinds of greed; for one’s life does not consist in the abundance of possessions.’
Then Jesus tells the parable of the rich man whose farm lands gave him so many bumper crops that the granary should have been made by Ford or Chevy. So large a harvest does he get that his existing barns can’t hold it all and he decides to tear them down and build bigger and better ones for his grains and goods.
“And I will say to my soul,” the farmer continues, “‘Soul, you have ample goods laid up for many years; relax, eat, drink and be merry.’”
But, God doesn’t endorse this fiscal policy and calls the man a fool because “this very night your life is being demanded of you. And the things you have prepared, whose will they be?”
Pertinent question. God’s usually are.
“So it is,” Jesus goes on to explain, “for those who store up treasures for themselves but are not rich toward God.”
Rich toward God.
What a phrase, and one that can be interpreted several ways. It can mean, of course, that we should share our time, talents and treasure to bring the kingdom of heaven closer for people in need.
But, as I read the lesson, it struck me more forcefully that acting rich toward God means acting like, well, we are rich.
Not because of our own fiscal accumulation but because the wealth that matters to our soul is the love and grace freely given to us by God. And God is not stingy with that love and grace.
We got it by the Brink’s truckload.
But “being rich toward God” means acting like we know it, opening our hearts and souls to the deposits of love and grace that God has for us.
“Toward God” means pointing ourselves, inclining our heart, mind and soul in that direction, and moving toward that love and grace. It means acting like the millionaires we truly are.
It also means being generous millionaire philanthropists and sharing that love and grace with others to bring them closer to the kingdom of heaven.
Sharing it like we’re just rolling in the stuff. Like we got it in sackfuls. Like it’s falling from the pockets of our soul.
Because we do, and it is.

By Ken Woodley

I throw myself into the water,

just where Jesus tells me to,

his voice reaching out through the darkness from the shore

where small flames begin to flicker into fire,

and I swim around the fishing boat on my back

looking up at all of the sudden stars

that twinkle like happy eyes

a very long way away

that still seem right beside me

and I open my own eyes wider

to catch all of their light

and twinkle back,

hoping they will feel that I am 

right beside them, too.

And this was my catch:

light,

not fish,

so much light 

that my net could not contain it.

All of the light went shining off in every direction

toward everyone else fishing in the darkness

for a reason to keep sailing upon this often stormy sea.

Just as their light has often found me

and led me on

to this very moment

where I understand that light 

is not meant to be caught, scaled and sold in the marketplace.

This passage through the darkness is meant for sharing.

Meant for a holy and loving communion with others,

Jesus explains when I stand

warming my water-dripping shivers by his fire

on the shore,

his eyes twinkling like two happy stars

right beside me

as he gives me a roasted fish to eat for breakfast

and a loaf of bread that he has broken for me

and for you

as we embrace in this shimmering pool of light.

By Ken Woodley

I throw myself into the water,

just where Jesus tells me to,

his voice reaching out through the darkness from the shore

where small flames begin to flicker into fire,

and I swim around the fishing boat on my back

looking up at all of the sudden stars

that twinkle like happy eyes

a very long way away

that still seem right beside me

and I open my own eyes wider

to catch all of their light

and twinkle back,

hoping they will feel that I am

right beside them, too.

And this was my catch:

light,

not fish,

so much light

that my net could not contain it.

All of the light went shining off in every direction

toward everyone else fishing in the darkness

for a reason to keep sailing upon this often stormy sea.

Just as their light has often found me

and led me on

to this very moment

where I understand that light

is not meant to be caught, scaled and sold in the marketplace.

This passage through the darkness is meant for sharing.

Meant for a holy and loving communion with others,

Jesus explains when I stand

warming my water-dripping shivers by his fire

on the shore,

his eyes twinkling like two happy stars

right beside me

as he gives me a roasted fish to eat for breakfast

and a loaf of bread that he has broken for me

and for you

as we embrace in this shimmering pool of light.

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 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 lighter because we do not carry it alone.

Jesus knows all about crosses.

That is why he can help us carry our own.

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 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 lighter because we do not carry it alone.
Jesus knows all about crosses.
That is why he can help us carry our own.

By Ken Woodley

With God and with Jesus, it is never too late.

Never too late for love to triumph over hate.

Never too late for light to rise above darkness.

Never too late for that which is torn to be mended.

Never too late for goodness to make evil cry “Uncle!”

Never too late to find passage through the narrow gate that leads to the wide, open, green pasture that our Good Shepherd has waiting for us.

That is one of several messages in a story made famous in the Gospel of Luke, in which Jesus has appointed seventy of his followers to travel ahead, in pairs, to every town where he intends to go. 

And his instructions to those emissaries are quite specific. Carry no purse, he tells them, carry no bag, no sandals. 

Furthermore, whenever you enter a town and the townspeople welcome you, Jesus instructs them, cure the sick who are there and say to them, “The kingdom of God has come near you.”

But, Jesus adds—after letting them know he is sending them out like lambs into the midst of wolves—whenever you enter a town and its people do not welcome you, go out into the streets and say, “Even the dust of your town that clings to our feet, we wipe off in protest against you.”

Wow, pretty dramatic stuff right there. Wiping even the dust of such a town off their feet sends quite a messages to the townspeople. But a message to his disciples, too, who suffered what would have been an aggressive lack of hospitality. 

“Don’t let it get you down, don’t let that experience burden you,” Jesus is telling them without saying it. “Wipe it off your feet.” He knows the physical act of wiping the dust from their feet will make its point in a powerful way to any disciples who find themselves leaving indifference, or outright hostility, behind.

But even such towns and the people who live in them are left with one last perpetual chance. Not simply one last chance. One last perpetual chance. Because that is what God and Jesus offer us—one last perpetual chance, a last chance that is going nowhere. A last chance that will follow us around, perhaps even tapping us on the shoulder from time to time, as if to say, “Hey, remember me? I’m still here.”

Even after all of that dust-wiping, Jesus informs the seventy disciples, there is one last thing they must do before they leave such towns and their people behind. Words they plant. Words that might still one day grow.

“Yet know this: the kingdom of God has come near.”

Those are the last words and while they might seem to be part of a final rebuke they can equally, and perhaps even certainly, be regarded as a marker Jesus has his disciples lay down. Because, going back to the beginning of Luke’s lesson, sharing the news that the kingdom of God has come near you is the precise message Jesus told them to share with townspeople in towns that welcomed them.

So the blessing is the same, no matter what.

A perpetual signpost.

The open hand of Jesus left behind, offering the kingdom of God to any who wish to receive it.

A mustard seed that one day might sprout in the hearts and souls of at least some of those townspeople who think, and re-think, about what Jesus’ disciples had meant when they had told them “the Kingdom of God has come near to you.”

That is the message Jesus sent the seventy off to deliver and he has them share it even in the towns that are callously indifferent to them.

Not a final threat, not a final curse, not a final “this is what you missed.”

Instead, it is a final offer of God’s love. Or, “this is what you can still have.”

A final offer that will live forever somewhere in the memory of those who heard it, no matter how the town welcomed, or did not welcome, the disciples.

There each day, there every day, simply waiting for acceptance.

Because, with God and with Jesus, it is never too late.

Not for them.

Or us.

By Ken Woodley
With God and with Jesus, it is never too late.
Never too late for love to triumph over hate.
Never too late for light to rise above darkness.
Never too late for that which is torn to be mended.
Never too late for goodness to make evil cry “Uncle!”
Never too late to find passage through the narrow gate that leads to the wide, open, green pasture that our Good Shepherd has waiting for us.
That is one of several messages in a story made famous in the Gospel of Luke, in which Jesus has appointed seventy of his followers to travel ahead, in pairs, to every town where he intends to go.
And his instructions to those emissaries are quite specific. Carry no purse, he tells them, carry no bag, no sandals.
Furthermore, whenever you enter a town and the townspeople welcome you, Jesus instructs them, cure the sick who are there and say to them, “The kingdom of God has come near you.”
But, Jesus adds—after letting them know he is sending them out like lambs into the midst of wolves—whenever you enter a town and its people do not welcome you, go out into the streets and say, “Even the dust of your town that clings to our feet, we wipe off in protest against you.”
Wow, pretty dramatic stuff right there. Wiping even the dust of such a town off their feet sends quite a messages to the townspeople. But a message to his disciples, too, who suffered what would have been an aggressive lack of hospitality.
“Don’t let it get you down, don’t let that experience burden you,” Jesus is telling them without saying it. “Wipe it off your feet.” He knows the physical act of wiping the dust from their feet will make its point in a powerful way to any disciples who find themselves leaving indifference, or outright hostility, behind.
But even such towns and the people who live in them are left with one last perpetual chance. Not simply one last chance. One last perpetual chance. Because that is what God and Jesus offer us—one last perpetual chance, a last chance that is going nowhere. A last chance that will follow us around, perhaps even tapping us on the shoulder from time to time, as if to say, “Hey, remember me? I’m still here.”
Even after all of that dust-wiping, Jesus informs the seventy disciples, there is one last thing they must do before they leave such towns and their people behind. Words they plant. Words that might still one day grow.
“Yet know this: the kingdom of God has come near.”
Those are the last words and while they might seem to be part of a final rebuke they can equally, and perhaps even certainly, be regarded as a marker Jesus has his disciples lay down. Because, going back to the beginning of Luke’s lesson, sharing the news that the kingdom of God has come near you is the precise message Jesus told them to share with townspeople in towns that welcomed them.
So the blessing is the same, no matter what.
A perpetual signpost.
The open hand of Jesus left behind, offering the kingdom of God to any who wish to receive it.
A mustard seed that one day might sprout in the hearts and souls of at least some of those townspeople who think, and re-think, about what Jesus’ disciples had meant when they had told them “the Kingdom of God has come near to you.”
That is the message Jesus sent the seventy off to deliver and he has them share it even in the towns that are callously indifferent to them.
Not a final threat, not a final curse, not a final “this is what you missed.”
Instead, it is a final offer of God’s love. Or, “this is what you can still have.”
A final offer that will live forever somewhere in the memory of those who heard it, no matter how the town welcomed, or did not welcome, the disciples.
There each day, there every day, simply waiting for acceptance.
Because, with God and with Jesus, it is never too late.
Not for them.
Or us.

“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

Imagine being one of the apostles near the Mount of Olivet during the scene described in verses six through 14 in the first chapter of the Book of Acts. There we are, with the risen Jesus, who is giving us our marching orders: to be his witnesses, empowered by the Holy Spirit, to the ends of the earth.

If being with the resurrected Jesus isn’t mind-blowing enough, we then watch as he is lifted up and taken out of our sight in a cloud. As we’re gazing up toward heaven, two men in white robes suddenly appear at our side and ask why we’re looking up into the sky. Jesus, they tell us, has been taken away  from us into heaven but will come back in the same way.

What a conversation we would have had during the day-long walk back to Jerusalem after this experience. Dumbfounded silence would have been interspersed with gushing voices falling over each other recounting what had just happened.

But, what had just happened?

In all likelihood, I suppose, the two men were angels. They match the description of the two who appeared to Mary Magdalene when she went to Jesus’ tomb on Easter morning.

The one thing I know better than anything else … the one thing I know best of all—is that there is a ton of stuff that I don’t know. This passage from the Book of Acts is among the many things I cannot explain.

And that makes me very happy.

You and I—all of us—need far more than what the human mind could possibly conceive. The transformation of humanity into a world of love and compassion requires far more than anything I could dissect and explain. Knowing that God is in the process of lifting us all toward one another—if we allow it to happen by not misusing our free will—is incredibly reassuring.

We can feel ripples of God’s movement, like a breeze against our skin or a river’s current and the pulling of a tide along the shore as we wade out together. But I cannot take the wind in my hands and hold it tightly, even for a second. Rivers and tides flow right through my fingers. I cannot begin to grasp the awesome fullness of what is happening and how it is happening. 

There are clues all around but I won’t pretend to solve the mystery before your very eyes.

God is on the case and I thank God for that.

All I know is what I have faith in: there is an awesome transformation underway and taking shape. It is, indeed, happening. The love and grace of God will eventually prevail in the world because it will some day prevail in our hearts. Prevailing in the human heart, one human being at a time, is how that love and grace shine like beams of light into the dark corners of the world.

The alternative, so often clearly illustrated, is darkness spreading one human heart at a time.

So, here we are. Gathered with Peter and John. Gathered with James and Andrew, with Phillip and Thomas. Here we are, gathered with the mother and brothers of Jesus.

Gathered with each other.

Something wondrous has happened on our journey to Jerusalem—and is unstoppably underway—that we cannot fully explain.

Or stop.

And we wouldn’t have it any other way.

Thank God, indeed, that we cannot make it stop.

By Ken Woodley

Imagine being one of the apostles near the Mount of Olivet during the scene described in verses six through 14 in the first chapter of the Book of Acts. There we are, with the risen Jesus, who is giving us our marching orders: to be his witnesses, empowered by the Holy Spirit, to the ends of the earth.
If being with the resurrected Jesus isn’t mind-blowing enough, we then watch as he is lifted up and taken out of our sight in a cloud. As we’re gazing up toward heaven, two men in white robes suddenly appear at our side and ask why we’re looking up into the sky. Jesus, they tell us, has been taken away from us into heaven but will come back in the same way.
What a conversation we would have had during the day-long walk back to Jerusalem after this experience. Dumbfounded silence would have been interspersed with gushing voices falling over each other recounting what had just happened.
But, what had just happened?
In all likelihood, I suppose, the two men were angels. They match the description of the two who appeared to Mary Magdalene when she went to Jesus’ tomb on Easter morning.
The one thing I know better than anything else … the one thing I know best of all—is that there is a ton of stuff that I don’t know. This passage from the Book of Acts is among the many things I cannot explain.
And that makes me very happy.
You and I—all of us—need far more than what the human mind could possibly conceive. The transformation of humanity into a world of love and compassion requires far more than anything I could dissect and explain. Knowing that God is in the process of lifting us all toward one another—if we allow it to happen by not misusing our free will—is incredibly reassuring.
We can feel ripples of God’s movement, like a breeze against our skin or a river’s current and the pulling of a tide along the shore as we wade out together. But I cannot take the wind in my hands and hold it tightly, even for a second. Rivers and tides flow right through my fingers. I cannot begin to grasp the awesome fullness of what is happening and how it is happening.
There are clues all around but I won’t pretend to solve the mystery before your very eyes.
God is on the case and I thank God for that.
All I know is what I have faith in: there is an awesome transformation underway and taking shape. It is, indeed, happening. The love and grace of God will eventually prevail in the world because it will some day prevail in our hearts. Prevailing in the human heart, one human being at a time, is how that love and grace shine like beams of light into the dark corners of the world.
The alternative, so often clearly illustrated, is darkness spreading one human heart at a time.
So, here we are. Gathered with Peter and John. Gathered with James and Andrew, with Phillip and Thomas. Here we are, gathered with the mother and brothers of Jesus.
Gathered with each other.
Something wondrous has happened on our journey to Jerusalem—and is unstoppably underway—that we cannot fully explain.
Or stop.
And we wouldn’t have it any other way.
Thank God, indeed, that we cannot make it stop.

By Ken Woodley

The Road to Emmaus is all around us.

There is no set path. No particular interstate highway or country lane.

The Road to Emmaus just is—stretching out in every direction. 

North. South. East. And west.

We journey upon it each day, whether we realize it or not. Every paved mile that we drive is upon the Road to Emmaus. Each sidewalk step that we take is upon the Road to Emmaus. 

Left, right, left.

Through the woods.

Across a field.

Upstairs and down.

For our entire life.

Forward, or backward, day by day.

Curiously, however, we often fail to sense its presence. There are so many distractions along the way. One moment we are deep in contemplative prayer and the next minute we suddenly find ourselves in the middle of life’s often tumultuous cacophony of desperate voices and events. 

We become like the two disciples described in the Gospel of Luke, walking toward Emmaus and so busy talking about the crucifixion of Jesus and rumors of his resurrection that they fail to see that he is walking right  beside them.

The experience is not unlike walking out from a forest of wondrous peace into Times Square.

But even Times Square is part of the Road to Emmaus. 

The Road to Emmaus is everywhere—no exceptions.

And Jesus is there—no exceptions—for those who seek him.

Jesus is there, waiting for us to recognize him.

Waiting for us to recognize him in our hearts.

To recognize him in our souls.

To recognize him in each other when we walk his footsteps into the world.

Every day and every step we take hold such promise.

Every day and every step offer us the chance to make the dreams that Jesus has for us come true in this world that so desperately needs those dreams to come true.

But how?

Sometimes, we just need to pull over into a spiritual rest stop and let the tumultuous caterwauling of the world’s traffic of distractions wash over us and away.

Often, we most readily recognize the Road to Emmaus—and who journeys upon it by our side—only when we stop for a moment to look around and feel the scenery of our soul and the sunrise of our hearts burning within us.

That is when Jesus is able to “break bread” with us, even if there is not a crumb or a crust or a loaf in sight. 

Quite possibly, however, another person is by your side, walking the same steps on the Road to Emmaus. In close proximity physically, but also close in the spirit of friendship or love. So close that it is as if the two of you are one single loaf of bread. 

But it can also be a fleeting moment, paths crossing briefly in the middle of one single day.  Even a handful of minutes or seconds can  be enough, and whether you truly know each other or are strangers at a shared crossroad.

For a brief moment there is true communion.

Because the Road to Emmaus is entirely inside us.

Wrapped up in our soul.

We are the pavement and dusty windings.

We are the journey and the destination.

So, stop now and feel what might be all around you, waiting to be recognized for what it is.

And for who he is.

By Ken Woodley

The Road to Emmaus is all around us.
There is no set path. No particular interstate highway or country lane.
The Road to Emmaus just is—stretching out in every direction.
North. South. East. And west.
We journey upon it each day, whether we realize it or not. Every paved mile that we drive is upon the Road to Emmaus. Each sidewalk step that we take is upon the Road to Emmaus.
Left, right, left.
Through the woods.
Across a field.
Upstairs and down.
For our entire life.
Forward, or backward, day by day.
Curiously, however, we often fail to sense its presence. There are so many distractions along the way. One moment we are deep in contemplative prayer and the next minute we suddenly find ourselves in the middle of life’s often tumultuous cacophony of desperate voices and events.
We become like the two disciples described in the Gospel of Luke, walking toward Emmaus and so busy talking about the crucifixion of Jesus and rumors of his resurrection that they fail to see that he is walking right beside them.
The experience is not unlike walking out from a forest of wondrous peace into Times Square.
But even Times Square is part of the Road to Emmaus.
The Road to Emmaus is everywhere—no exceptions.
And Jesus is there—no exceptions—for those who seek him.
Jesus is there, waiting for us to recognize him.
Waiting for us to recognize him in our hearts.
To recognize him in our souls.
To recognize him in each other when we walk his footsteps into the world.
Every day and every step we take hold such promise.
Every day and every step offer us the chance to make the dreams that Jesus has for us come true in this world that so desperately needs those dreams to come true.
But how?
Sometimes, we just need to pull over into a spiritual rest stop and let the tumultuous caterwauling of the world’s traffic of distractions wash over us and away.
Often, we most readily recognize the Road to Emmaus—and who journeys upon it by our side—only when we stop for a moment to look around and feel the scenery of our soul and the sunrise of our hearts burning within us.
That is when Jesus is able to “break bread” with us, even if there is not a crumb or a crust or a loaf in sight.
Quite possibly, however, another person is by your side, walking the same steps on the Road to Emmaus. In close proximity physically, but also close in the spirit of friendship or love. So close that it is as if the two of you are one single loaf of bread.
But it can also be a fleeting moment, paths crossing briefly in the middle of one single day. Even a handful of minutes or seconds can be enough, and whether you truly know each other or are strangers at a shared crossroad.
For a brief moment there is true communion.
Because the Road to Emmaus is entirely inside us.
Wrapped up in our soul.
We are the pavement and dusty windings.
We are the journey and the destination.
So, stop now and feel what might be all around you, waiting to be recognized for what it is.
And for who he is.

“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 invited 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.

A wound is more than a cut, bruise or scratch, and all of us are 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.

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.

“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 invited 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.
A wound is more than a cut, bruise or scratch, and all of us are 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.
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.

By Ken Woodley

He is risen.

Jesus, the great gardener of souls—capable of transforming the most wintered of life’s landscapes into spring—has bloomed and blossomed out of the grave. No wonder Mary Magdalene mistook him for the gardener when she went to his tomb in the pre-dawn darkness.

Just as nature pulls spring out of winter’s hat, like a magician—so an Easter bunny is an apt symbol, after all—Jesus turned death inside out and upside down. 

And now he stands there, outside our own tomb, reaching out to place flowers on whatever cross life has nailed us to, to turn the nails into petals.

Few people live an entire life without enduring some sense of crucifixion, however momentary it may be. 

No, there are no literal nails, no actual hammers. Roman soldiers have not made a crown of thorns for our head. 

But it is not blasphemy to have a glimpse of understanding toward the horror that Jesus endured based on moments when life for us became really, really dark, very, very painful and extremely frightening. 

Jesus, the great gardener of our soul, is there now. Is here now on Easter Day. Sharing Easter Day with us. Offering a sense of resurrection right here and right now.

Jesus knows.

Jesus understands.

And that is why he stands there, outside our tomb. He has rolled the stone away. He is stepping inside. Reaching out his hand to us. 

Where we feel barren, he can sow any crop and the harvest day will come.

Where our limbs feel bare, he can bring leaves budding.

Birdsong in our silence.

Light washing our shadows away.

A sky so blue it sticks to our eyes even in the darkness, which suddenly doesn’t seem so dark anymore.

We all get wintered by life at one time or another. The seasons of life come and go, like tides, but Jesus will never fall away from our tree like dried leaves for which summer is barely a memory and spring is no more.

Love and grace are perpetual blossoms and blooms.

It is Easter Day, and we celebrate the resurrection of Jesus.

It is Easter Day, and Jesus celebrates the resurrection of us all into new life in the hereafter but also in the here and now.

Not THE resurrection for all eternity.

Not yet.

But a resurrection for today and tomorrow until eternity comes.

That is the prayer we hear Jesus whispering in our heart and in our soul.

The cure we most need may have to wait for heaven, but the healing we need is here now. Jesus is reaching out his hand to lead us away from our grave and walk with us away from our tomb so that we may experience the wonder of the flowers that suddenly surround us.

Jesus, the great gardener of our souls, offers to keep the weeds from consuming the petals he promises are inside us.

And he offers another promise, too.

Easter Day is not just this Sunday. Easter Day doesn’t die at sunset. Easter Day is not buried as the dark of night returns. Easter Day lives on and on and on because every day offers us resurrected moments in the garden with Jesus.

Just when it seems the winters of our life won’t ever let us go, there are sudden daffodils in us all.

Just where God put them.

By Ken Woodley

He is risen.
Jesus, the great gardener of souls—capable of transforming the most wintered of life’s landscapes into spring—has bloomed and blossomed out of the grave. No wonder Mary Magdalene mistook him for the gardener when she went to his tomb in the pre-dawn darkness.
Just as nature pulls spring out of winter’s hat, like a magician—so an Easter bunny is an apt symbol, after all—Jesus turned death inside out and upside down.
And now he stands there, outside our own tomb, reaching out to place flowers on whatever cross life has nailed us to, to turn the nails into petals.
Few people live an entire life without enduring some sense of crucifixion, however momentary it may be.
No, there are no literal nails, no actual hammers. Roman soldiers have not made a crown of thorns for our head.
But it is not blasphemy to have a glimpse of understanding toward the horror that Jesus endured based on moments when life for us became really, really dark, very, very painful and extremely frightening.
Jesus, the great gardener of our soul, is there now. Is here now on Easter Day. Sharing Easter Day with us. Offering a sense of resurrection right here and right now.
Jesus knows.
Jesus understands.
And that is why he stands there, outside our tomb. He has rolled the stone away. He is stepping inside. Reaching out his hand to us.
Where we feel barren, he can sow any crop and the harvest day will come.
Where our limbs feel bare, he can bring leaves budding.
Birdsong in our silence.
Light washing our shadows away.
A sky so blue it sticks to our eyes even in the darkness, which suddenly doesn’t seem so dark anymore.
We all get wintered by life at one time or another. The seasons of life come and go, like tides, but Jesus will never fall away from our tree like dried leaves for which summer is barely a memory and spring is no more.
Love and grace are perpetual blossoms and blooms.
It is Easter Day, and we celebrate the resurrection of Jesus.
It is Easter Day, and Jesus celebrates the resurrection of us all into new life in the hereafter but also in the here and now.
Not THE resurrection for all eternity.
Not yet.
But a resurrection for today and tomorrow until eternity comes.
That is the prayer we hear Jesus whispering in our heart and in our soul.
The cure we most need may have to wait for heaven, but the healing we need is here now. Jesus is reaching out his hand to lead us away from our grave and walk with us away from our tomb so that we may experience the wonder of the flowers that suddenly surround us.
Jesus, the great gardener of our souls, offers to keep the weeds from consuming the petals he promises are inside us.
And he offers another promise, too.
Easter Day is not just this Sunday. Easter Day doesn’t die at sunset. Easter Day is not buried as the dark of night returns. Easter Day lives on and on and on because every day offers us resurrected moments in the garden with Jesus.
Just when it seems the winters of our life won’t ever let us go, there are sudden daffodils in us all.
Just where God put them.

By Ken Woodley

“Darkness cannot drive out darkness,” said the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., who was assassinated 47 years ago tomorrow evening. “Only light can do that. 

“Hate cannot drive out hate,” he said.  “Only love can do that.”

Light and love will rise on Sunday and, if we let it, resurrect the world from both the darkness and the hate.

But on this day 2,000 years ago, it hardly seemed possible.

Darkness seemed to have driven out all of the light. 

Hatred seemed to have swallowed love in its entirety.

Easter is all about the triumph of light over darkness.

The victory of love over hate.

Light that is inside us, Jesus teaches.

The love within us all, is what he said.

And for that, they nailed him to a cross.

Sometimes we have to resurrect that light and love within us on a daily basis. At other times, when the world’s gravity doesn’t feel so heavy to us, both seem to rise up on their own and never set.

Life is tidal.

There is a rise and fall.

High tide never lasts forever. Low tide, too, ebbs away into waves that splash first around our ankles and then invite us deeper.

Deeper into the light.

Deeper into the love.

Head over heels in light.

Heels over head in love.

Good Friday seemed destined to be an endless reminder that darkness and hate can drive their nails in forever.

What is about to happen, however, shows us that light and love can shine from our deepest, darkest wounds into the world, freeing someone locked in their own darkness right beside us.

Even, sometimes, freeing the very reflection we see in our own mirrors, illuminating the path from which we have stumbled into a crown of thorns on our own Good Friday.

Easter is not a one-man show.

No pantomime act.

And thank God for that.

By remaining true to his faith, his message, ministry and calling, despite the hammer blows that drove the nails deeper and deeper, Jesus set loose the spirit and power of God’s love and light in a way that turned the balance.

Darkness and hate became the hunted.

Not hunted, however, with weapons.

Or, in fact, yes, hunted with the very best of weapons.

Hunted only by light.

Hunted simply by love.

Hunted to turn darkness into light.

Hunted to transform hatred into love.

How terribly and temptingly easy it would have been for Jesus, on Good Friday or at any point in the days and hours and minutes leading up to his agonizing death, to deny the truth that God had filled him with up to the brim, filling him so full that there would be—and is—enough for everyone to drink from that endless well.

A holy communion of light and love.

Living with the light and living with the love is not meant to be a spectator sport, however.

We’re meant to get in the game ourselves.

God wants us to run with the light as far as we can.

To carry love to the utmost limit of our ability.

Into the world around us.

Down that block. Around a corner. To the other side of a table. Across the room.

And sometimes, to do that, we have to get down from our own crosses, first.

Get down and feel a ripple within us from a resurrection that is both 2,000 years old and constantly alive among us.

This day and the two that follow—72 hours that forever changed the world—remind us that we can.

The decision, and oftentimes it can seem we must make that decision on a daily basis, is ours.

The love and the light are waiting.

Even on Good Friday.

Perhaps especially on Good Friday.

The one Jesus endured. And our own.

God put the love and the light there inside each of us.

But they are not for us, alone, to keep only to ourselves.

We are meant to share them both with each other.

Utterly and completely.

Just as we are meant to accept, with reckless abandon, 

the complete and utter love that God feels for each of us.

When we do, there is no Good Friday on earth 

that can keep us nailed to the cross.

By Ken Woodley


“Darkness cannot drive out darkness,” said the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., who was assassinated 47 years ago tomorrow evening. “Only light can do that.

“Hate cannot drive out hate,” he said. “Only love can do that.”

Light and love will rise on Sunday and, if we let it, resurrect the world from both the darkness and the hate.

But on this day 2,000 years ago, it hardly seemed possible.
Darkness seemed to have driven out all of the light.
Hatred seemed to have swallowed love in its entirety.

Easter is all about the triumph of light over darkness.
The victory of love over hate.
Light that is inside us, Jesus teaches.
The love within us all, is what he said.

And for that, they nailed him to a cross.

Sometimes we have to resurrect that light and love within us on a daily basis. At other times, when the world’s gravity doesn’t feel so heavy to us, both seem to rise up on their own and never set.

Life is tidal.
There is a rise and fall.
High tide never lasts forever. Low tide, too, ebbs away into waves that splash first around our ankles and then invite us deeper.

Deeper into the light.
Deeper into the love.
Head over heels in light.
Heels over head in love.

Good Friday seemed destined to be an endless reminder that darkness and hate can drive their nails in forever.

What is about to happen, however, shows us that light and love can shine from our deepest, darkest wounds into the world, freeing someone locked in their own darkness right beside us.

Even, sometimes, freeing the very reflection we see in our own mirrors, illuminating the path from which we have stumbled into a crown of thorns on our own Good Friday.

Easter is not a one-man show.
No pantomime act.
And thank God for that.

By remaining true to his faith, his message, ministry and calling, despite the hammer blows that drove the nails deeper and deeper, Jesus set loose the spirit and power of God’s love and light in a way that turned the balance.

Darkness and hate became the hunted.
Not hunted, however, with weapons.

Or, in fact, yes, hunted with the very best of weapons.

Hunted only by light.
Hunted simply by love.
Hunted to turn darkness into light.
Hunted to transform hatred into love.

How terribly and temptingly easy it would have been for Jesus, on Good Friday or at any point in the days and hours and minutes leading up to his agonizing death, to deny the truth that God had filled him with up to the brim, filling him so full that there would be—and is—enough for everyone to drink from that endless well.

A holy communion of light and love.

Living with the light and living with the love is not meant to be a spectator sport, however.
We’re meant to get in the game ourselves.

God wants us to run with the light as far as we can.
To carry love to the utmost limit of our ability.
Into the world around us.

Down that block. Around a corner. To the other side of a table. Across the room.
And sometimes, to do that, we have to get down from our own crosses, first.
Get down and feel a ripple within us from a resurrection that is both 2,000 years old and constantly alive among us.

This day and the two that follow—72 hours that forever changed the world—remind us that we can.

The decision, and oftentimes it can seem we must make that decision on a daily basis, is ours.

The love and the light are waiting.
Even on Good Friday.

Perhaps especially on Good Friday.

The one Jesus endured. And our own.

God put the love and the light there inside each of us.

But they are not for us, alone, to keep only to ourselves.

We are meant to share them both with each other.

Utterly and completely.

Just as we are meant to accept, with reckless abandon,
the complete and utter love that God feels for each of us.

When we do, there is no Good Friday on earth
that can keep us nailed to the cross.