Author: kenwoodley3

By Ken Woodley

Here we are, gathered in this upstairs room somewhere in the secret heart of Jerusalem on Maundy Thursday. 

The Garden of Gesthemane is not far away. Neither are those coming to arrest Jesus as he prays for some other way. Any other way. 

We can almost hear their footsteps. So can Jesus but he does not run away. Jesus does not leave us even though he knows what those footsteps mean, even though he knows where those footsteps are going to take him.

The darkness is coming. It is falling all around us, and yet Jesus does not abandon us to the darkness of the world.

Instead of running away to save his own life, Jesus gets up from the table. We watch as he takes off his outer robe and then ties a towel around himself, the footsteps growing closer in the closing darkness.

Jesus pours water in a basin. We see it there. And then Jesus begins to wash our feet.

We feel the touch of his hands upon the dusty soles of our own footsteps that brought us to this upstairs room to be with him tonight. But, more than that, we feel the touch of his heart upon the soul that is deep within us.

And footsteps that are not ours grow ever closer as the darkness of the night grows ever deeper.

When we are not looking, Judas will slip out through that door, down the steps and around the corner to make certain those footsteps find their way to the garden where Jesus is going to pray that the hammered nails and the crucifixion cross will not be necessary.

But just a word before Judas leaves. Just a word before we follow Jesus into the garden, directly into the path of the footsteps hammering their way with nailed certainty. 

Jesus has just one more thing to say to us in this upstairs room. One last word. And so it must be of utmost importance. The one thought Jesus wants to leave behind in our hearts, yeast for our souls, communion words for all those that will follow us, in later years, into this upstairs room with Jesus on Maundy Thursday.

“I give you a new commandment,” Jesus tells us, as Judas gets closer and closer to the door. “To love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another. By this, everyone will know you are my disciples, if you love one another.”

Judas never understood and leaves for a rendezvous in the garden, a rendezvous with the footsteps in the darkness.

We can almost see Judas shaking his head in bitter disappointment. “Love,” he says. “No true messiah would leave us with nothing more than love.”

Oh, and how Judas was so very wrong.

By Ken Woodley

What earthly good is it for humanity to wave the palms of a tree on Sunday if we ball our own palms up into fists on Monday?

Let’s drop the palm leaves now and offer our own open palms to one another.

The promise of just that sort of resurrection moment calls out to us as we wait, like some kind of Lazarus, in the “tomb” of our fists.

Jesus is coming.  Jesus is on the way. The blooms of spring are real.

But are we going to believe in the garden and have the faith of a gardener?

Look into the distance and see dust rising from the road, punctuating his approach on foot.

Jesus doesn’t covet the hosannah palms of kingship. He’s reaching for the palms of our fragile humanity, instead. For our wrinkles and the no-two-alike whorls on our fingers.

His footsteps have a heartbeat of loving purpose that have nothing to do with him and everything to do with us.

We don’t have to strain to hear the voice of our own soul crying out. “Lord, the light you want me to shine is flickering into fists of darkness.”

There are moments in all of our lifetimes when we feel “entombed” by everything in the world that makes us ball up our palms into fists. A world that can produce the horrors being committed against the people of Ukraine.

I hear your soul crying out, too.

We look at each other.

You and me together in this “tomb” of fists.

Our eyes meet.

Our hearts know the answer.

Jesus is here now. And with Jesus it is never too late.

“Where have you laid them?” Jesus asks, wondering where he will find us, you and me together in this “tomb.”

Jesus is deeply moved. He weeps. The tears roll down his cheeks. 

Now he stands there, just outside our “tomb.” 

There are so many “tombs” scattered like cloud shadows fisting their way across the world and the exit often feels sealed by a heavy stone we cannot move.

But the voice of Jesus in our heart is never as far away as we think it is.

“Remove the stone,” we hear him say. 

If we act in faith, we don’t just see the stone of our “tomb” being removed—we feel it. The lifting of the weight that was so ponderous, the burden we could not bear, the mountain-high stone that held us prisoner in this grave of hopeless fists.

Jesus now calls to us. “Come out,” he cries.

We move into the light of his presence, the light of his love, and feel our own light rekindling as our fists begin unclenching. 

We are, in that moment, resurrected. You and me. Freed from this “tomb” and able to rise back into the fulness of our lives, hope renewed, our own light growing brighter in the world as our fists open into palms.

In the quiet of our souls we hear him speaking these words:

“Leave now.

“It’s time to go.”

Jesus is right.

We clasp his hand.

Palm to palm.

We journey onward.

Out from Earth’s tomb of fists and toward heaven’s promise of open palms.

Jesus will soon turn back toward Jerusalem and the destiny awaiting him, but not before making certain we understand:

The eternal kingdom of heaven is inside us now.

Right there in the palm of our hand.

In mine.

In yours.

In every palm in every corner of the world.

If we’d only just open them toward one another, and leave our fists behind, making every day a palm Sun Day to shine the fists of darkness away.

By Ken Woodley
What earthly good is it for humanity to wave the palms of a tree on Sunday if we ball our own palms up into fists on Monday?
Let’s drop the palm leaves now and offer our own open palms to one another.
The promise of just that sort of resurrection moment calls out to us as we wait, like some kind of Lazarus, in the “tomb” of our fists.
Jesus is coming. Jesus is on the way. The blooms of spring are real.
But are we going to believe in the garden and have the faith of a gardener?
Look into the distance and see dust rising from the road, punctuating his approach on foot.
Jesus doesn’t covet the hosannah palms of kingship. He’s reaching for the palms of our fragile humanity, instead. For our wrinkles and the no-two-alike whorls on our fingers.
His footsteps have a heartbeat of loving purpose that have nothing to do with him and everything to do with us.
We don’t have to strain to hear the voice of our own soul crying out. “Lord, the light you want me to shine is flickering into fists of darkness.”
There are moments in all of our lifetimes when we feel “entombed” by everything in the world that makes us ball up our palms into fists. A world that can produce the horrors being committed against the people of Ukraine.
I hear your soul crying out, too.
We look at each other.
You and me together in this “tomb” of fists.
Our eyes meet.
Our hearts know the answer.
Jesus is here now. And with Jesus it is never too late.
“Where have you laid them?” Jesus asks, wondering where he will find us, you and me together in this “tomb.”
Jesus is deeply moved. He weeps. The tears roll down his cheeks.
Now he stands there, just outside our “tomb.”
There are so many “tombs” scattered like cloud shadows fisting their way across the world and the exit often feels sealed by a heavy stone we cannot move.
But the voice of Jesus in our heart is never as far away as we think it is.
“Remove the stone,” we hear him say.
If we act in faith, we don’t just see the stone of our “tomb” being removed—we feel it. The lifting of the weight that was so ponderous, the burden we could not bear, the mountain-high stone that held us prisoner in this grave of hopeless fists.
Jesus now calls to us. “Come out,” he cries.
We move into the light of his presence, the light of his love, and feel our own light rekindling as our fists begin unclenching.
We are, in that moment, resurrected. You and me. Freed from this “tomb” and able to rise back into the fulness of our lives, hope renewed, our own light growing brighter in the world as our fists open into palms.
In the quiet of our souls we hear him speaking these words:
“Leave now.
“It’s time to go.”
Jesus is right.
We clasp his hand.
Palm to palm.
We journey onward.
Out from Earth’s tomb of fists and toward heaven’s promise of open palms.
Jesus will soon turn back toward Jerusalem and the destiny awaiting him, but not before making certain we understand:
The eternal kingdom of heaven is inside us now.
Right there in the palm of our hand.
In mine.
In yours.
In every palm in every corner of the world.
If we’d only just open them toward one another, and leave our fists behind, making every day a palm Sun Day to shine the fists of darkness away.

By Ken Woodley

Two of the most important and powerful words in the English language have been wounded. 

Left bleeding by the side of the road.

Beaten down by cynicism.

Overpowered by our unswerving belief in the power of their antonyms.

We have no doubt that hate and war can destroy the world.

But we have no similar faith that peace and love can save us.

They must be reclaimed in every language on Earth.

We must re-take their true power in this world and embrace their genuine potential within us. 

Cynicism too often erases our awareness of their presence in the world. If I were to tell you, to tell anyone, about the power of hate and the power of war or violence, nobody would chuckle and shake their head.

Not a soul would doubt me. 

Evidence of their destructive power surrounds us. It is in headlines dug like armed trenches around us all. 

Why, then, shake our heads and doubt the power of peace and love? It is, after all, a law of physics, woven into the very fabric of the universe and ourselves: 

For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. 

For hate, therefore, there must be love. 

For war there must be peace. 

We must not regard “peace” and “love” as hippie-speak pie-in-the-sky. 

They are absolutely real. 

We doubt them at our own peril. 

Because only we can prevent their appearance, with power, in this world. 

We must, therefore, reclaim and launch their light into the darkness. 

And we can.

Anyone who has unclenched a physical or mental fist knows the truth of this.

So, let’s do so now.

Even if it’s just you and me letting go of whatever encourages us to clench, rather than open, our soul.

Yes, our doing so is just a drop in the world’s bucket.

But we’ve got to start somewhere if that bucket is ever going to overflow with peace and with love.

By Ken Woodley
Two of the most important and powerful words in the English language have been wounded.
Left bleeding by the side of the road.
Beaten down by cynicism.
Overpowered by our unswerving belief in the power of their antonyms.
We have no doubt that hate and war can destroy the world.
But we have no similar faith that peace and love can save us.
They must be reclaimed in every language on Earth.
We must re-take their true power in this world and embrace their genuine potential within us.
Cynicism too often erases our awareness of their presence in the world. If I were to tell you, to tell anyone, about about the power of hate and the power of war or violence, nobody would chuckle and shake their head.
Not a soul would doubt me.
Evidence of their destructive power surrounds us. It is in headlines dug like armed trenches around us all.
Why, then, shake our heads and doubt the power of peace and love? It is, after all, a law of physics, woven into the very fabric of the universe and ourselves:
For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.
For hate, therefore, there must be love.
For war there must be peace.
We must not regard “peace” and “love” as hippie-speak pie-in-the-sky.
They are absolutely real.
We doubt them at our own peril.
Because only we can prevent their appearance, with power, in this world.
We must, therefore, reclaim and launch their light into the darkness.
And we can.
Anyone who has unclenched a physical or mental fist knows the truth of this.
So, let’s do so now.
Even if it’s just you and me letting go of whatever encourages us to clench, rather than open, our soul.
Yes, our doing so is just a drop in the world’s bucket.
But we’ve got to start somewhere if that bucket is ever going to overflow with peace and with love.

By Ken Woodley

From blindness to sight in the blink of an eye.

A flash of light.

A world of darkness dissolving into a kaleidoscope of colors.

Previously, the entire world had been in our imagination, fed only by what our sense of touch told us about how things might look.

Sighted people can close their eyes and touch a lamp or a chair or another human being and understand their appearance—but only because they have the memory of them in our minds. Someone blind from birth would have nothing at all to go on. 

So imagine how the man felt in the Gospel of John after receiving his sight from Jesus. My imagination can’t come close to appreciating the man’s astonishing experience. 

Jesus had been walking down a road when he saw the man and declared “I am the light of the world.” Then Jesus spat on the ground and made mud with his saliva. He spread the mud on the man’s unseeing eyes and told him to go wash in the pool of Siloam.

Ironically, this man is able to see but many of those around him suddenly suffer from a different kind of blindness. The man who was once blind can see them but they cannot see him.

“The neighbors and those who had seen him before as a beggar began to ask, ‘Is this not the man who used to sit and beg?’” the Gospel of John tells us. “Some were saying, ‘It is he.’ Others were saying, ‘No, but it is someone like him.’”

The once-blind man insists, “I am the man” but some people simply refuse to believe him.

There is an old saying that applies to these doubters: No one is as a blind as those who refuse to see.

Jesus has worked a miracle but some people simply refuse to see it.

That got me thinking about life and my own experiences in this world. It struck me with sudden forcefulness that we, too, are sometimes blind to a miracle that Jesus or God has worked in our own lives.

And what struck me most forcefully was the realization that this blindness doesn’t always come from disbelief. Most of the time, in fact, this form of blindness comes from the fact that we have become too familiar with a miracle. We have lived with it for so long that it no longer strikes us as miraculous. We take it for granted. 

I imagine that within a handful of years, the man in the Gospel of John also came to take his sight for granted. Not intentionally. He wasn’t ungrateful for the miracle that Jesus had worked in his life. 

Through the years, every day he woke up and saw he sun rise made that new dawn seem gradually less and less miraculous. Every color emerging from the darkness of night was so familiar to him. 

The same thing can happen when Jesus leads us through and out of one of life’s deep, wounding pains. It seems miraculous at first but in time we take the gentle scar for granted. Or, worse, we grump about the scar, forgetting how the wound, itself, felt.

Every now and then it’s a good idea to close our eyes and remind ourselves of a miracle worked in our own lives. Then, keeping our eyes shut, give thoughtful, meditative thanks for that miracle. We might imagine Jesus by our side. We might hear him spit on the ground, and then sense him kneeling beside us, making mud with his saliva. 

We might feel his touch upon our closed eyes, the mud warmed by his caring hands.

Then, when we next open our eyes—with Jesus as the light of our world—we might see the miracles in our life more clearly.

And they include the reflection in your mirror.

By Ken Woodley

From blindness to sight in the blink of an eye.
A flash of light.
A world of darkness dissolving into a kaleidoscope of colors.
Previously, the entire world had been in our imagination, fed only by what our sense of touch told us about how things might look.
Sighted people can close their eyes and touch a lamp or a chair or another human being and understand their appearance—but only because they have the memory of them in our minds. Someone blind from birth would have nothing at all to go on.
So imagine how the man felt in the Gospel of John after receiving his sight from Jesus. My imagination can’t come close to appreciating the man’s astonishing experience.
Jesus had been walking down a road when he saw the man and declared “I am the light of the world.” Then Jesus spat on the ground and made mud with his saliva. He spread the mud on the man’s unseeing eyes and told him to go wash in the pool of Siloam.
Ironically, this man is able to see but many of those around him suddenly suffer from a different kind of blindness. The man who was once blind can see them but they cannot see him.
“The neighbors and those who had seen him before as a beggar began to ask, ‘Is this not the man who used to sit and beg?’” the Gospel of John tells us. “Some were saying, ‘It is he.’ Others were saying, ‘No, but it is someone like him.’”
The once-blind man insists, “I am the man” but some people simply refuse to believe him.
There is an old saying that applies to these doubters: No one is as a blind as those who refuse to see.
Jesus has worked a miracle but some people simply refuse to see it.
That got me thinking about life and my own experiences in this world. It struck me with sudden forcefulness that we, too, are sometimes blind to a miracle that Jesus or God has worked in our own lives.
And what struck me most forcefully was the realization that this blindness doesn’t always come from disbelief. Most of the time, in fact, this form of blindness comes from the fact that we have become too familiar with a miracle. We have lived with it for so long that it no longer strikes us as miraculous. We take it for granted.
I imagine that within a handful of years, the man in the Gospel of John also came to take his sight for granted. Not intentionally. He wasn’t ungrateful for the miracle that Jesus had worked in his life.
Through the years, every day he woke up and saw he sun rise made that new dawn seem gradually less and less miraculous. Every color emerging from the darkness of night was so familiar to him.
The same thing can happen when Jesus leads us through and out of one of life’s deep, wounding pains. It seems miraculous at first but in time we take the gentle scar for granted. Or, worse, we grump about the scar, forgetting how the wound, itself, felt.
Every now and then it’s a good idea to close our eyes and remind ourselves of a miracle worked in our own lives. Then, keeping our eyes shut, give thoughtful, meditative thanks for that miracle. We might imagine Jesus by our side. We might hear him spit on the ground, and then sense him kneeling beside us, making mud with his saliva.
We might feel his touch upon our closed eyes, the mud warmed by his caring hands.
Then, when we next open our eyes—with Jesus as the light of our world—we might see the miracles in our life more clearly.
And they include the reflection in your mirror.

By Ken Woodley

I hold the door to the world’s wilderness in the palm of my hand because my smartphone makes this third planet from the sun seem more of a wilderness every day. 

A vastness where love and compassion have been utterly consumed.

Where only March madness remains and has nothing at all to do with brackets and Cinderella stories.

As a pandemic seems to be receding, the threat of nuclear weapons appears over the horizon, with Russia pushing the world toward the brink of a wilderness we can’t even imagine.

Every time I push “unsubscribe” the news updates come more furiously  through my “in” box.

“Hope” sometimes seems like the cruelest four-letter word in the world because it feels ever-present but never real.

And if Earth’s trembling landscape isn’t enough, we all have our own private wildernesses and wilderness moments, too.

The wildernesses most of us face in our lifetime are those occasions that make us feel lost and alone. Whether it’s the loss of a job, an illness, the death of a loved one…or a difficult memory, life is full of wilderness moments that turn our lives into a tangled maze.

The world’s chaos only makes it worse.

I know God has promised to make “a way through the wilderness” but, honestly, there are times—like this morning—when my heart and soul cry out: “How? How can you possibly make a way through all of this wilderness?”

And this morning I felt God’s answer: “All of this wilderness is not yours. Do not be pulled into every corner of wilderness in the world. Trust me to guide you lovingly through your own wilderness. Let that be enough today.”

And then I felt a moment of peace. A moment that grew into another moment, and another and another. Dominos of peaceful moments falling into each other, creating a pathway forward.

No, it’s not always going to be straightforward, but the pathway will always be one I share with God if I embrace the promise of God’s loving presence.

“Don’t let every wilderness in the world surround you,” I feel God telling me.

But I know that doesn’t mean I should ignore everyone else crying out from their own wilderness, or leave Ukraine and the world out of my daily prayers.

On the contrary, it is only by walking on with God through my own wilderness that I have any chance of helping anyone else lost in their own moment of desolation.

By Ken Woodley
I hold the door to the world’s wilderness in the palm of my hand because my smartphone makes this third planet from the sun seem more of a wilderness every day.
A vastness where love and compassion have been utterly consumed.
Where only March madness remains and has nothing at all to do with brackets and Cinderella stories.
As a pandemic seems to be receding, the threat of nuclear weapons appears over the horizon, with Russia pushing the world toward the brink of a wilderness we can’t even imagine.
Every time I push “unsubscribe” the news updates come more furiously through my “in” box.
“Hope” sometimes seems like the cruelest four-letter word in the world because it feels ever-present but never real.
And if Earth’s trembling landscape isn’t enough, we all have our own private wildernesses and wilderness moments, too.
The wildernesses most of us face in our lifetime are those occasions that make us feel lost and alone. Whether it’s the loss of a job, an illness, the death of a loved one…or a difficult memory, life is full of wilderness moments that turn our lives into a tangled maze.
The world’s chaos only makes it worse.
I know God has promised to make “a way through the wilderness” but, honestly, there are times—like this morning—when my heart and soul cry out: “How? How can you possibly make a way through all of this wilderness?”
And this morning I felt God’s answer: “All of this wilderness is not yours. Do not be pulled into every corner of wilderness in the world. Trust me to guide you lovingly through your own wilderness. Let that be enough today.”
And then I felt a moment of peace. A moment that grew into another moment, and another and another. Dominos of peaceful moments falling into each other, creating a pathway forward.
No, it’s not always going to be straightforward, but the pathway will always be one I share with God if I embrace the promise of God’s loving presence.
“Don’t let every wilderness in the world surround you,” I feel God telling me.
But I know that doesn’t mean I should ignore everyone else crying out from their own wilderness, or leave Ukraine and the world out of my daily prayers.
On the contrary, it is only by walking on with God through my own wilderness that I have any chance of helping anyone else lost in their own places of desolation.

By Ken Woodley

Lent can sometimes feel like a complicated intersection on the liturgical calendar and along our spiritual journey.

Should we give something up? If so, what?

I’ve lived Lent on both sides of that aisle. There have been years when I gave something up—or tried to—and other years when I decided to take something on: reading a new and specific spiritual book every day, for example.

I was raised “old school” where you definitely gave something up, generally some beloved candy, but that hasn’t stuck. Gorging myself on chocolate after weeks of abstinence hardly seems the best way to celebrate the glory of Easter.

As I got older, and slightly—perhaps—wiser, I sometimes gave up something that maybe wasn’t so good for me anyway. But then I felt bad on Easter when I took it up again. That ain’t the way to celebrate Easter, either.

This year, I am taking something up: trying to heighten my awareness on a daily basis that I am a beloved child of God. Trying to make that be my first thought every morning and a constant companion throughout the day.

That would be a wonderful way to celebrate Easter and just keep on keeping on with that discipline for the rest of my life.

The bottom line, in my opinion, is whatever works for you. Whatever helps you on your spiritual journey. If that means giving something up, then by all means give something up. If taking something on helps you more, then take that something on.

And who says you can’t do both? Give something up and take something else on. There are no rules.

Take on two things.

You can take something on because it’s good for your health, like walking each day, and using that time for prayerful meditation.

Mix it up. Find what works best for you and your spiritual journey.

Jesus, I believe, wants us to do whatever it is that helps us feel the loving proximity of God. Every day. Not just during Lent.

Lent shouldn’t make us feel beaten down or bad about ourselves.

Make Lent work for you instead of you working for Lent.

As I have said before about our Lenten journey: let the ashes remind us of the flame.

By Ken Woodley

Lent can sometimes feel like a complicated intersection on the liturgical calendar and along our spiritual journey.
Should we give something up? If so, what?
I’ve lived Lent on both sides of that aisle. There have been years when I gave something up—or tried to—and other years when I decided to take something on: reading a new and specific spiritual book every day, for example.
I was raised “old school” where you definitely gave something up, generally some beloved candy, but that hasn’t stuck. Gorging myself on chocolate after weeks of abstinence hardly seems the best way to celebrate the glory of Easter.
As I got older, and slightly—perhaps—wiser, I sometimes gave up something that maybe wasn’t so good for me anyway. But then I felt bad on Easter when I took it up again. That ain’t the way to celebrate Easter, either.
This year, I am taking something up: trying to heighten my awareness on a daily basis that I am a beloved child of God. Trying to make that be my first thought every morning and a constant companion throughout the day.
That would be a wonderful way to celebrate Easter and just keep on keeping on with that discipline for the rest of my life.
The bottom line, in my opinion, is whatever works for you. Whatever helps you on your spiritual journey. If that means giving something up, then by all means give something up. If taking something on helps you more, then take that something on.
And who says you can’t do both? Give something up and take something else on. There are no rules.
Take on two things.
You can take something on because it’s good for your health, like walking each day, and using that time for prayerful meditation.
Mix it up. Find what works best for you and your spiritual journey.
Jesus, I believe, wants us to do whatever it is that helps us feel the loving proximity of God. Every day. Not just during Lent.
Lent shouldn’t make us feel beaten down or bad about ourselves.
Make Lent work for you instead of you working for Lent.
As I have said before about our Lenten journey: let the ashes remind us of the flame.

By Ken Woodley

A bird feels the silent darkness 

of a world invading love,

of a world laying siege to tenderness,

of a world seeking air supremacy over compassion,

and so the bird does the only thing it can:

fills the world with the song of one bird.

One bird outside our window,

you next to me

holding on to our holding on,

the silent darkness spreading its convoy

across the continent of all hopes

as our souls spread their wings

and follow the melody

of one bird singing, instead,

flying toward heaven’s skin,

goosebumps breaking out all over it—

we feel them all—

the beating heart of heaven hoping 

that we will share the splashing light 

now breaking like waves 

on the shoreline of the continent of all hopes,

under the wrinkled sky

above a world that spins in space

as vulnerable as a child

and filled with children of so many ages

in so many places

even more vulnerable than

the world that spins them

round and round and round

in space,

praying for the soft contours

of the everlasting light

that will spread across the edges 

of everything

and everyone

after everything 

and everyone 

lets go

of the darkness. 

By Ken Woodley

A bird feels the silent darkness
of a world invading love,
of a world laying siege to tenderness,
of a world seeking air supremacy over compassion,
and so the bird does the only thing it can:
fills the world with the song of one bird.
One bird outside our window,
you next me
holding on to our holding on,
the silent darkness spreading its convoy
across the continent of all hopes
as our souls spread their wings
and follow the melody
of one bird singing, instead,
flying toward heaven’s skin,
goosebumps breaking out all over it—
we feel them all—
the beating heart of heaven hoping
that we will share the splashing light
now breaking like waves
on the shoreline of the continent of all hopes,
under the wrinkled sky
above a world that spins in space
as vulnerable as a child
and filled with children of so many ages
in so many places
even more vulnerable than
the world that spins them
round and round and round
in space,
praying for the soft contours
of the everlasting light
that will spread across the edges
of everything
and everyone
after everything
and everyone
lets go
of the darkness.

By Ken Woodley

What a transcendent moment for Peter, James and John.

And, my God, doesn’t  the world need to follow them today.

Jesus leads them up a high mountain, the Gospel of Matthew tells us, and is suddenly transfigured, right before their eyes. His face shines like the sun and his clothes are a dazzling white. Then Moses and Elijah appear and the apostles next hear the voice of God. Clearly, something extraordinary was happening. 

And doesn’t the world need to feel that today.

Though they are unlikely to replicate the experience of Peter, James and John, transcendent moments also await us upon our own “holy mountain”—the places where we feel most connected to God’s holy spirit and the presence of Jesus Christ. Where we experience a spiritual understanding or revelation, an answer to prayer.

And doesn’t the world need all of that today.

Nurturing and cultivating these moments is essential. Peter, James and John had to follow Jesus up the mountain. We do, too. By regularly and consistently setting aside time for God—quieting ourselves with prayerful meditation—we offer an invitation that, we will come to realize, has already been accepted.

No matter what else is going on in the world today.

Don’t assume that God is distant. Expect God to be beside you. Talk to God—silently or aloud. Write God a note or a letter and slip it into your Bible. Read it to God every morning or evening. Pray about those words during the day. When that letter has been answered, if something is else troubling you, write God another one.

So many millions of letters need to be written today.

The Holy Spirit will deliver an answer. We’ll sense God or Jesus telling us something. We can feel a nudge in our soul or, as Peter describes it, “the morning star” rising in our hearts: the peace that passes all understanding.

Oh, Lord, how we need that peace in the world today.

No, it is not always the answer that we expect or, perhaps, even want. But there are bends in the road around which only God knows what is waiting. God is with us on the way to that bend in the road, and God will remain with us afterwards after that bend has become the next straight stretch of our lives. Jesus will too.

So, let’s go climb our “holy mountain” with Jesus and see what we find there, discover what happens. Right now. Right where we are. We don’t need to go anywhere because the “holy mountain” most worth climbing is the one deep inside us, that special place in our soul where we are revealed as our deepest selves.

There, with Christ, we are transfigured.

So much climbing needs to be done in the world today, deep down inside the world’s deepest self.

No, our face may not shine like the sun, and our clothes won’t become dazzlingly white, but we will feel the voice of God telling us that we, too, are beloved. And that love transfigures our inner landscape, transforms the topography of our soul. 

Love that changes our small, tiny, vital corner of the world today.

The feeling that we have heard God’s answering voice, and the spirit of Jesus, may only last a second, but the echoes go on and on and they are worth holding on to like a strong and sturdy hiking stick.

Our own transfiguration is a journey that sometimes feels so long.

Walk on.

Persevere.

You are not alone.

Your prayer is being answered.

Even in the world today.

By Ken Woodley

What a transcendent moment for Peter, James and John.
And, my God, doesn’t the world need to follow them today.
Jesus leads them up a high mountain, the Gospel of Matthew tells us, and is suddenly transfigured, right before their eyes. His face shines like the sun and his clothes are a dazzling white. Then Moses and Elijah appear and the apostles next hear the voice of God. Clearly, something extraordinary was happening.
And doesn’t the world need to feel that today.
Though they are unlikely to replicate the experience of Peter, James and John, transcendent moments also await us upon our own “holy mountain”—the places where we feel most connected to God’s holy spirit and the presence of Jesus Christ. Where we experience a spiritual understanding or revelation, an answer to prayer.
And doesn’t the world need all of that today.
Nurturing and cultivating these moments is essential. Peter, James and John had to follow Jesus up the mountain. We do, too. By regularly and consistently setting aside time for God—quieting ourselves with prayerful meditation—we offer an invitation that, we will come to realize, has already been accepted.
No matter what else is going on in the world today.
Don’t assume that God is distant. Expect God to be beside you. Talk to God—silently or aloud. Write God a note or a letter and slip it into your Bible. Read it to God every morning or evening. Pray about those words during the day. When that letter has been answered, if something is else troubling you, write God another one.
So many millions of letters need to be written today.
The Holy Spirit will deliver an answer. We’ll sense God or Jesus telling us something. We can feel a nudge in our soul or, as Peter describes it, “the morning star” rising in our hearts: the peace that passes all understanding.
Oh, Lord, how we need that peace in the world today.
No, it is not always the answer that we expect or, perhaps, even want. But there are bends in the road around which only God knows what is waiting. God is with us on the way to that bend in the road, and God will remain with us afterwards after that bend has become the next straight stretch of our lives. Jesus will too.
So, let’s go climb our “holy mountain” with Jesus and see what we find there, discover what happens. Right now. Right where we are. We don’t need to go anywhere because the “holy mountain” most worth climbing is the one deep inside us, that special place in our soul where we are revealed as our deepest selves.
There, with Christ, we are transfigured.
So much climbing needs to be done in the world today, deep down inside the world’s deepest self.
No, our face may not shine like the sun, and our clothes won’t become dazzlingly white, but we will feel the voice of God telling us that we, too, are beloved. And that love transfigures our inner landscape, transforms the topography of our soul.
Love that changes our small, tiny, vital corner of the world today.
The feeling that we have heard God’s answering voice, and the spirit of Jesus, may only last a second, but the echoes go on and on and they are worth holding on to like a strong and sturdy hiking stick.
Our own transfiguration is a journey that sometimes feels so long.
Walk on.
Persevere.
You are not alone.
Your prayer is being answered.
Even in the world today.

Pray.

Pray.