Author: kenwoodley3

By Ken Woodley

A single ray of light

flickers its way through a small, thin crack

in the asphalt sky

where darkness paved over heaven,

a ray of light so small and seemingly insignificant—

like a blade of grass

rising through a fissure

in the city’s sidewalk maze—

that the darkness ignores it entirely,

disregards the flickering twinkle

that has come to find us,

to answer our prayer,

here

where we have been walking and stumbling 

and rising

and falling 

and rising again

through seasons of ourselves 

that lost all of their leaves

and then budded all over again,

spiritual springs

following every winter of our soul.

We stand on the tips of our toes.

We jump up and down,

arms upraised,

trying to touch

even the shadows of this single ray of light,

if only for the heartbeat of a moment,

because that would be enough

to reach the other side

of everything that tells us 

there is no other side of anything.

Suddenly, the single ray of light

takes this darkness by surprise,

blooming

into a garden of rainbows,

shimmering hues that look like the music of wind chimes,

and then

—somehow, some way—

we blossom, too,

like bouquets pulled from a magician’s hat,

astonished

that all of these colors are part of us,

embracing us,

loving us all

as the darkness opens its eyes

too late to pave over the small, thin crack

that has now widened into an eternity

where darkness is only the handful of hours,

and then just the small, thin moment,

right before dawn.

By Ken Woodley

A single ray of light
flickers its way through a small, thin crack
in the asphalt sky
where darkness paved over heaven,
a ray of light so small and seemingly insignificant—
like a blade of grass
rising through a fissure
in the city’s sidewalk maze—
that the darkness ignores it entirely,
disregards the flickering twinkle
that has come to find us,
to answer our prayer,
here
where we have been walking and stumbling
and rising
and falling
and rising again
through seasons of ourselves
that lost all of their leaves
and then budded all over again,
spiritual springs
following every winter of our soul.
We stand on the tips of our toes.
We jump up and down,
arms upraised,
trying to touch
even the shadows of this single ray of light,
if only for the heartbeat of a moment,
because that would be enough
to reach the other side
of everything that tells us
there is no other side of anything.
Suddenly, the single ray of light
takes this darkness by surprise,
blooming
into a garden of rainbows,
shimmering hues that look like the music of wind chimes,
and then
—somehow, some way—
we blossom, too,
like bouquets pulled from a magician’s hat,
astonished
that all of these colors are part of us,
embracing us,
loving us all
as the darkness opens its eyes
too late to pave over the small, thin crack
that has now widened into an eternity
where darkness is only the handful of hours,
and then just the small, thin moment,
right before dawn.

By Ken Woodley

The walls of Jericho came tumbling down.

But what about our own, and those around us?

Walls of doubt.

Walls of fear.

Of anxiety.

Of pain, rejection, sadness, or longing for love.

Walls of misunderstanding.

Each of us knows what effect they can have on our lives, keeping us from feeling the full measure of God’s love and grace in the world—not the walls—around us.

Everyone’s walls are unique, individual, like a fingerprint.

Not every wall is the same height, or thickness, or strength.

But all of us know the way walls feel in our lives.

There is, however, something else that we know, too.

Jesus is in the walled darkness of our anxieties and pain with us.

Jesus is standing with us in the midst of everything we are facing.

In a quiet voice deep within our souls, Jesus is asking you and me, today, right now, “What do you want me to do for you?”

That question is so very full of love because we know that Jesus will take our answer into his heart and respond to us with unconditional love and compassion. Respond in ways that are sometimes not so obvious at first but become prayerfully and powerfully revealed in God’s time.

And when our walls come tumbling down that isn’t the end of the story. There is more to come because we can all become like Joshua in this world, sounding the refrain of God’s love and grace voiced through us, shining from us into a world where wounded people sit in dark silence waiting, surrounded by their own walls.

Maybe we don’t go shouting or blasting the trumpet but there are so many ways to sound that refrain in words and deeds that quietly offer love, peace, understanding.

There is no wall that anyone can build around us, or that we can build around ourselves, strong enough to keep out Christ’s simple question to each of one of us:

What do you want me to do for you?

Those nine words add up to infinity because there are no limits on the answer that Jesus will provide.

If you want to catch one single leaf rushing down from the sky in a windstorm, it can be done.

And from that leaf a forest might grow.

And in that forest might be shade and peace for all.

Sweet shade and peace that no season can change, because there are no seasons, when it comes to God’s love.

The harvest of amazing grace waits constantly for our hearts to see that the walls can come tumbling down and free us to go wherever Christ leads us.

The bricks and mortar are crumbling even now.

By Ken Woodley
The walls of Jericho came tumbling down.
But what about our own, and those around us?
Walls of doubt.
Walls of fear.
Of anxiety.
Of pain, rejection, sadness, or longing for love.
Walls of misunderstanding.
Each of us knows what effect they can have on our lives, keeping us from feeling the full measure of God’s love and grace in the world—not the walls—around us.
Everyone’s walls are unique, individual, like a fingerprint.
Not every wall is the same height, or thickness, or strength.
But all of us know the way walls feel in our lives.
There is, however, something else that we know, too.
Jesus is in the walled darkness of our anxieties and pain with us.
Jesus is standing with us in the midst of everything we are facing.
In a quiet voice deep within our souls, Jesus is asking you and me, today, right now, “What do you want me to do for you?”
That question is so very full of love because we know that Jesus will take our answer into his heart and respond to us with unconditional love and compassion. Respond in ways that are sometimes not so obvious at first but become prayerfully and powerfully revealed in God’s time.
And when our walls come tumbling down that isn’t the end of the story. There is more to come because we can all become like Joshua in this world, sounding the refrain of God’s love and grace voiced through us, shining from us into a world where wounded people sit in dark silence waiting, surrounded by their own walls.
Maybe we don’t go shouting or blasting the trumpet but there are so many ways to sound that refrain in words and deeds that quietly offer love, peace, understanding.
There is no wall that anyone can build around us, or that we can build around ourselves, strong enough to keep out Christ’s simple question to each of one of us:
What do you want me to do for you?
Those nine words add up to infinity because there are no limits on the answer that Jesus will provide.
If you want to catch one single leaf rushing down from the sky in a windstorm, it can be done.
And from that leaf a forest might grow.
And in that forest might be shade and peace for all.
Sweet shade and peace that no season can change, because there are no seasons, when it comes to God’s love.
The harvest of amazing grace waits constantly for our hearts to see that the walls can come tumbling down and free us to go wherever Christ leads us.
The bricks and mortar are crumbling even now.

By Ken Woodley

If the Roman Empire had written the Sermon on the Mount, it might have sounded like this:

“Blessed are the rich in spirit, for they will get even richer.

“Blessed are those with no feelings, for they shall hurt everyone without caring.

“Blessed are the strong, for they shall take everything on earth.

The human race continues to produce people who have not only thought and spoken such words, in their own way, but acted them out, too. They cause great wounds, and time can’t come close to healing them all. 

For some, “The Golden Rule” is: “Gold rules.” Or power. Or anything they believe will let them lord themselves over everyone else. 

Beware of those who live by this code:

“Punch the other cheek, too.”

“Do unto others. Again and again and again.”

Jesus tells us, in today’s Gospel lesson, that we are the salt of the earth and the light of the world. Those were astonishingly revolutionary things to say in a world in which only the very wealthy and those in power thought of themselves in such terms. The poor, struggling and downtrodden people listening to Jesus would have been just as amazed to think of themselves in that way as we are today. 

The world, of course, tries to smother the light of Jesus’ words. Tiberius was emperor of Rome in Jesus’ day. One imagines the emperor’s alternative advice to his cronies and legions:

“You are the salt of the earth. Corner the market on pepper.”

“You are the light of the world. Turn it off.”

When the world shouts that all is darkness, let us cup a hand to an ear so that we don’t miss a word that is being said on the mountainside by the Sea of Galilee. 

Come, let us get a little closer to the spirit of what Jesus is saying. 

Let us stand together and be poor in spirit when that is our honest feeling. 

Let us mourn when we must. 

Let us be meek, and hunger and thirst for righteousness. 

We will strive for mercy and seek pureness of heart. 

We will try to be peacemakers and season the earth with our “salt” and keep our light shining. 

No, it won’t always be easy but it will always be worth it.

We won’t ever stop trying to be the best version of ourselves.

No matter what the world, or anyone in it, might shout at us.

Because the Jesus said we could.

By Ken Woodley

If the Roman Empire had written the Sermon on the Mount, it might have sounded like this:

“Blessed are the rich in spirit, for they will get even richer.
“Blessed are those with no feelings, for they shall hurt everyone without caring.
“Blessed are the strong, for they shall take everything on earth.

The human race continues to produce people who have not only thought and spoken such words, in their own way, but acted them out, too. They cause great wounds, and time can’t come close to healing them all.
For some, “The Golden Rule” is: “Gold rules.” Or power. Or anything they believe will let them lord themselves over everyone else.
Beware of those who live by this code:

“Punch the other cheek, too.”
“Do unto others. Again and again and again.”

Jesus tells us, in today’s Gospel lesson, that we are the salt of the earth and the light of the world. Those were astonishingly revolutionary things to say in a world in which only the very wealthy and those in power thought of themselves in such terms. The poor, struggling and downtrodden people listening to Jesus would have been just as amazed to think of themselves in that way as we are today.
The world, of course, tries to smother the light of Jesus’ words. Tiberius was emperor of Rome in Jesus’ day. One imagines the emperor’s alternative advice to his cronies and legions:

“You are the salt of the earth. Corner the market on pepper.”
“You are the light of the world. Turn it off.”

When the world shouts that all is darkness, let us cup a hand to an ear so that we don’t miss a word that is being said on the mountainside by the Sea of Galilee.
Come, let us get a little closer to the spirit of what Jesus is saying.
Let us stand together and be poor in spirit when that is our honest feeling.
Let us mourn when we must.
Let us be meek, and hunger and thirst for righteousness.
We will strive for mercy and seek pureness of heart.
We will try to be peacemakers and season the earth with our “salt” and keep our light shining.
No, it won’t always be easy but it will always be worth it.
We won’t ever stop trying to be the best version of ourselves.
No matter what the world, or anyone in it, might shout at us.
Because the Jesus said we could.

By Ken Woodley

Blessed are the winter trees, for they shall see leaves.

Blessed are the fallow fields, for the harvest is theirs.

Blessed are the empty skies, for they shall be given wings.

Blessed are the darkened days, for the light is coming toward them.

Each of us has winter trees inside us, even if they are rooted in the past.

At various times in our lives just about all of us are going to feel like a fallow field.

As if our spiritual journey is over and didn’t really lead where we hoped that it would.

And very lucky indeed is the human being who hasn’t felt a moment of desolation beneath a sky that seemed too empty for words.

And we just stand there, unable to take another step.

Sometimes a sharp spearpoint of pain stabs us out of the blue, turning azure into obsidian. 

And rooting us to that moment in time.

Something of deep sadness happens that we just didn’t see coming and we don’t simply cry inside, or with tears streaming down our cheeks. 

There are days when we rain, our sadness erupting like a cloudburst, drenching us in mourning for what we have lost.

Or, even more painful, what has been taken from us in ways that never should have been allowed.

But, we are not alone.

“Blessed are those who mourn,” Jesus said, “for they will be comforted.”

That is one of our most common English translations of that famous line from the Beatitudes. But a French translation of the New Testament that I have doesn’t employ the word “mourn.” Instead, it uses a word that is a form of “rain.”

“Blessed are those who rain…” Whether that is literally an accurate translation, or my own interpretation, it speaks a profound truth.

Those who have truly mourned will immediately relate to “rain.” If we “rain” we aren’t simply crying. When we are so inundated by sadness that we “rain” then we are like a cloud that is capable of one thing and one thing only: rain.

We have become the rain—we have become sadness—itself.

But Jesus doesn’t make an idle promise. Those who rain will be blessed because they will be comforted. 

In such moments of desolation our guard is down and we are utterly vulnerable. Completely vulnerable to the darkness surrounding us, yes, but also totally vulnerable to the promised light of comfort and consolation.

Even the darkest days that surround us are a blessing, in their own way, because they do set the stage and draw back the curtain for the promised light.

It is darkness, after all, that illuminates light.

True, when the light comes we will see our own shadows. But we mustn’t act like spiritual groundhogs and run back into our holes of hurt and sadness because that will only bring us six more weeks—or longer—of whatever is wintering our souls.

Our shadows, when the light comes, are only shadows.

They testify to the darkness which has fled and the light which now embraces us.

But reaching that “now” doesn’t happen all at once. It takes time. One step, one moment, one day, and then one week, at  a time.

We’ve got to keep walking down that spiritual road.

Like the slow but inexorable approach of spring.

Winter is still all around us but the days are growing a little bit longer and the longest night is slowly receding. 

Just as our “rain” gradually clears into sunshine.

The inner journey takes time but our spiritual footsteps don’t represent the only movement. We can take heart, knowing the “light” of comfort and consolation is on its own intersecting journey toward us.

The light is coming to meet us.

So…..keep walking.

By Ken Woodley
Blessed are the winter trees, for they shall see leaves.
Blessed are the fallow fields, for the harvest is theirs.
Blessed are the empty skies, for they shall be given wings.
Blessed are the darkened days, for the light is coming toward them.
Each of us has winter trees inside us, even if they are rooted in the past.
At various times in our lives just about all of us are going to feel like a fallow field.
As if our spiritual journey is over and didn’t really lead where we hoped that it would.
And very lucky indeed is the human being who hasn’t felt a moment of desolation beneath a sky that seemed too empty for words.
And we just stand there, unable to take another step.
Sometimes a sharp spearpoint of pain stabs us out of the blue, turning azure into obsidian.
And rooting us to that moment in time.
Something of deep sadness happens that we just didn’t see coming and we don’t simply cry inside, or with tears streaming down our cheeks.
There are days when we rain, our sadness erupting like a cloudburst, drenching us in mourning for what we have lost.
Or, even more painful, what has been taken from us in ways that never should have been allowed.
But, we are not alone.
“Blessed are those who mourn,” Jesus said, “for they will be comforted.”
That is one of our most common English translations of that famous line from the Beatitudes. But a French translation of the New Testament that I have doesn’t employ the word “mourn.” Instead, it uses a word that is a form of “rain.”
“Blessed are those who rain…” Whether that is literally an accurate translation, or my own interpretation, it speaks a profound truth.
Those who have truly mourned will immediately relate to “rain.” If we “rain” we aren’t simply crying. When we are so inundated by sadness that we “rain” then we are like a cloud that is capable of one thing and one thing only: rain.
We have become the rain—we have become sadness—itself.
But Jesus doesn’t make an idle promise. Those who rain will be blessed because they will be comforted.
In such moments of desolation our guard is down and we are utterly vulnerable. Completely vulnerable to the darkness surrounding us, yes, but also totally vulnerable to the promised light of comfort and consolation.
Even the darkest days that surround us are a blessing, in their own way, because they do set the stage and draw back the curtain for the promised light.
It is darkness, after all, that illuminates light.
True, when the light comes we will see our own shadows. But we mustn’t act like spiritual groundhogs and run back into our holes of hurt and sadness because that will only bring us six more weeks—or longer—of whatever is wintering our souls.
Our shadows, when the light comes, are only shadows.
They testify to the darkness which has fled and the light which now embraces us.
But reaching that “now” doesn’t happen all at once. It takes time. One step, one moment, one day, and then one week, at a time.
We’ve got to keep walking down that spiritual road.
Like the slow but inexorable approach of spring.
Winter is still all around us but the days are growing a little bit longer and the longest night is slowly receding.
Just as our “rain” gradually clears into sunshine.
The inner journey takes time but our spiritual footsteps don’t represent the only movement. We can take heart, knowing the “light” of comfort and consolation is on its own intersecting journey toward us.
The light is coming to meet us.
So…..keep walking.

“‘The Spirit of the Lord is upon me,

because he has anointed me

to bring good news to the poor.

He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives

and recovery of sight to the blind,

to let the oppressed go free,

and proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.’

… Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.’”

—The Gospel of Luke

By Ken Woodley

Living with the Holy Spirit is not a spectator sport.

We don’t change any corner of the world from a comfy recliner.

Nor does God want us doubting ourselves and what we can achieve with the Holy Spirit as a teammate.

Who, me? Change the world?

Yes! Yes! Yes! 

The Spirit of the Lord is upon all of us who open ourselves to what the Celtic Christians aptly called the “Wild Goose.” In our chosen moments we will be lifted by its wings to do the work that God has given us to do—even if we may not fully know exactly where we’re going or how we’re going to get there.

No, we’re not likely to become a member of the Prophet Hall of Fame like Samuel, Isaiah or Jeremiah. 

But we don’t have to become legendary. 

We need to open our widows and doors, and our heart, to God. And re-open them day-by-day and, if necessary, hour-by-hour. And sometimes it is necessary because they can slide shut without our noticing it.

Our prophetic mission will make itself clear when that moment, or those moments, are manifested to us by the Holy Spirit.

Whether it’s a clothing exchange, making food available to those in need, putting our arm around someone when they need that most or sending someone a healing note of companionship. 

The small moments need filling just as desperately as the great big ones do. And there’s nothing small about filling any moment with love.

We are also called to speak out against injustice by writing, emailing or telephoning our elected representatives and fighting for a cause: local, regional, statewide, national or global in scope.

Or standing up in person to speak face to face with those elected officials.

Speaking truth to power isn’t a First Amendment right reserved for a chosen few.

And to move mountains you’ve got to start with the pebbles and the stones.

That’s the only way the mountains know you mean business.

When we give the Holy Spirit of God the use of our tongues, there’s no telling what we might say and who might be listening.

And how they might respond.

Even if we’re only speaking to ourselves.

Sometimes—and sometimes especially—when we’re speaking truth only to ourselves because we all need reminding that we are no longer held captive away from God’s love and grace.

That our sight of God’s love and grace has been recovered.

That the our oppression has ended and we are free to wrap our arms and hearts and minds and souls around that love and grace.

That the Lord’s favor has been announced to us.

To all of us.

Without exception.

Jesus said so.

And that Good News is worth believing, and sharing.

Even if nobody’s listening but you.

“‘The Spirit of the Lord is upon me,
because he has anointed me
to bring good news to the poor.
He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives
and recovery of sight to the blind,
to let the oppressed go free,
and proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.’
… Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.’”

—The Gospel of Luke

By Ken Woodley
Living with the Holy Spirit is not a spectator sport.
We don’t change any corner of the world from a comfy recliner.
Nor does God want us doubting ourselves and what we can achieve with the Holy Spirit as a teammate.
Who, me? Change the world?
Yes! Yes! Yes!
The Spirit of the Lord is upon all of us who open ourselves to what the Celtic Christians aptly called the “Wild Goose.” In our chosen moments we will be lifted by its wings to do the work that God has given us to do—even if we may not fully know exactly where we’re going or how we’re going to get there.
No, we’re not likely to become a member of the Prophet Hall of Fame like Samuel, Isaiah or Jeremiah.
But we don’t have to become legendary.
We need to open our widows and doors, and our heart, to God. And re-open them day-by-day and, if necessary, hour-by-hour. And sometimes it is necessary because they can slide shut without our noticing it.
Our prophetic mission will make itself clear when that moment, or those moments, are manifested to us by the Holy Spirit.
Whether it’s a clothing exchange, making food available to those in need, putting our arm around someone when they need that most or sending someone a healing note of companionship.
The small moments need filling just as desperately as the great big ones do. And there’s nothing small about filling any moment with love.
We are also called to speak out against injustice by writing, emailing or telephoning our elected representatives and fighting for a cause: local, regional, statewide, national or global in scope.
Or standing up in person to speak face to face with those elected officials.
Speaking truth to power isn’t a First Amendment right reserved for a chosen few.
And to move mountains you’ve got to start with the pebbles and the stones.
That’s the only way the mountains know you mean business.
When we give the Holy Spirit of God the use of our tongues, there’s no telling what we might say and who might be listening.
And how they might respond.
Even if we’re only speaking to ourselves.
Sometimes—and sometimes especially—when we’re speaking truth only to ourselves because we all need reminding that we are no longer held captive away from God’s love and grace.
That our sight of God’s love and grace has been recovered.
That the our oppression has ended and we are free to wrap our arms and hearts and minds and souls around that love and grace.
That the Lord’s favor has been announced to us.
To all of us.
Without exception.
Jesus said so.
And that Good News is worth believing, and sharing.
Even if nobody’s listening but you.

By Ken Woodley

When we are born into this world all of us are like small clear streams sprung from the earth.

A baby boy or girl is crystal clear.

Pure.

Like liquid spirit.

From that moment on, however, anything can happen to the stream of our lives, and much of it is beyond our control.

As with nature’s watery streams, our own lives pick up bits and pieces of the world.

Our streams flow where gravity takes them.

And gravity always takes us, as it does all streams, toward tributaries.

We encounter the streams of others.

People we meet in life and with whom we form relationships. People whose clear, crystal streams strengthen our own.

And we grow toward the strong and good river that we can become.

But our streams can also become polluted by others. Contaminated.

There are people who are more like a hit-and-run accident in our lives. They run into us, dent us, scratch us. Perhaps even break us in some way. And then they drive off, drive away, and we are left only with the scars.

Good, bad, ugly and beautiful streams join our own, just as we become tributaries to the streams—to the lives—of others.

The passing of years has an undoubted and cumulative effect. No matter how much we want to believe that the stream of our life is as crystal clear and pure as it was when we first flowed into the world, the truth is that life has muddied us in some way.

Muddied us all.

There is no way to avoid it.

Some of our pollution is our own fault.

Some is the fault of others.

But no matter how muddy and polluted life makes us, that mud and that pollution is not the end of the story.

If we keep on flowing.

If we don’t allow the world’s pollution to dam our stream and keep it from the sea of God’s love.

If we keep flowing around the next bend of our life’s river and believe that we will find Jesus waiting for us.

Where Jesus will turn our water into wine.

Where Jesus will draw out the water of our lives and, with mercy and love, offer us a taste of a pure vintage that we never knew was inside us.

Where Jesus will show us how the dents and scratches and scars of our lives—even where we are broken—can fit miraculously into the dents, scratches, scars and broken places in the lives of others.

And how that miracle can heal us all.

Jesus turning the water of our lives into wine, a communion of God’s love and grace for each of us.

Saving the best for last.

By Ken Woodley
When we are born into this world all of us are like small clear streams sprung from the earth.
A baby boy or girl is crystal clear.
Pure.
Like liquid spirit.
From that moment on, however, anything can happen to the stream of our lives, and much of it is beyond our control.
As with nature’s watery streams, our own lives pick up bits and pieces of the world.
Our streams flow where gravity takes them.
And gravity always takes us, as it does all streams, toward tributaries.
We encounter the streams of others.
People we meet in life and with whom we form relationships. People whose clear, crystal streams strengthen our own.
And we grow toward the strong and good river that we can become.
But our streams can also become polluted by others. Contaminated.
There are people who are more like a hit-and-run accident in our lives. They run into us, dent us, scratch us. Perhaps even break us in some way. And then they drive off, drive away, and we are left only with the scars.
Good, bad, ugly and beautiful streams join our own, just as we become tributaries to the streams—to the lives—of others.
The passing of years has an undoubted and cumulative effect. No matter how much we want to believe that the stream of our life is as crystal clear and pure as it was when we first flowed into the world, the truth is that life has muddied us in some way.
Muddied us all.
There is no way to avoid it.
Some of our pollution is our own fault.
Some is the fault of others.
But no matter how muddy and polluted life makes us, that mud and that pollution is not the end of the story.
If we keep on flowing.
If we don’t allow the world’s pollution to dam our stream and keep it from the sea of God’s love.
If we keep flowing around the next bend of our life’s river and believe that we will find Jesus waiting for us.
Where Jesus will turn our water into wine.
Where Jesus will draw out the water of our lives and, with mercy and love, offer us a taste of a pure vintage that we never knew was inside us.
Where Jesus will show us how the dents and scratches and scars of our lives—even where we are broken—can fit miraculously into the dents, scratches, scars and broken places in the lives of others.
And how that miracle can heal us all.
Jesus turning the water of our lives into wine, a communion of God’s love and grace for each of us.
Saving the best for last.

(This is the sermon I preached for Christmas Eve at St. Anne’s)

By Ken Woodley

What child is this, away in the manger on this silent, holy night? 

Let me tell you about the time I believe I met him. I’ve shared a small snapshot version of this story in Forward Day By Day and mentioned  it once in a Gleaning, but I’ve never told the full story.

First, I was always a spiritual kid. I was baptized in the Catholic Church and cried when Pope John the 23rd died in 1963 when I was six years old. I thought it meant that something bad had happened to God. In fact, I had to leave a birthday party, and all that ice cream and cake, because I was so distraught.

Secondly, like many people, I’ve been deeply wounded by life and I’ve been on a journey of healing for decades.

George Harrison came out with one of the best albums ever recorded, All Things Must Pass, in 1971. One of the songs, “Hear Me, Lord,” ends with the former Beatle pleading, “Hear me, Lord, won’t you please hear me, Lord,” over and over.

There were times, as a teenager and alone in the house, when I would play that song very loud and sing along at the top of my lungs. But I never seemed to get an answer. It never seemed that the Lord was listening.

I still believed in God. I still believed in Jesus. But they seemed so distant, absolutely unknowable in any kind of personal way.

I knew them only in an academic sense. Like I knew George Washington was the first president of the United States. 

But there were also moments when it seemed as if a spiritual breeze was touching my skin, hoping to get my attention.

In college, I studied the Old and New Testaments, as well as the religions of India and the Far East. I was still on a spiritual journey and still feeling that wound.

On Wednesday, July 2, 1980, fourteen months after I’d graduated from Hampden-Sydney College, I was 23-years-old and driving home from a Buckingham County School Board meeting, which I’d covered as a reporter with the Farmville Herald.

I was feeling the heavy gravity of that wound when I heard a voice. It was about 3:30 in the afternoon. I hadn’t been drinking. And I’d given up smoking in college.

The voice spoke two words: “Be happy.” And though the verbal message was brief it was accompanied by an overwhelming feeling of deepest pure love that filled my Volkswagen Bug, oddly enough, a VW Love Bug edition.

I burst into tears. My emotions were so overflowing that I had to pull off to the side of the road just south of Sprouses Corner.

When I say Love, I mean the thing itself. The presence of the Being that is LOVE—all capital letters. I was sure it was God and I was blubbering and blabbering my thanks, a thunderstorm of tears raining down my face.

Eventually, I drove home to the trailer I rented on the Five Forks Road in Prince Edward County, about a mile from the site where this church was built 150 years ago. That loving presence still filled my car and had been palpable for the entire 40-mile journey.

I was filled with a happiness that went beyond joy, went beyond any word or description. It was the air I was breathing. LOVE was loving me. It hadn’t spoken two words and departed. 

Not only did that loving presence fill my VW bug but it filled the entire world around me. I was literally “in love”—inside it—as if I were a fish in water.

The experience was very much like this description in the Gospel of John, the 20th verse of the 14th chapter: “On that day,” Jesus states in the New International Version, “you will realize that I am in my Father, and you are in me, and I am in you.”

At the trailer, I collected my dirty laundry and drove the 20 or so miles to Hampden-Sydney College where I still stuck quarters in the washing machines and driers.

I was surrounded by my dirty socks and underwear and still LOVE persisted in filling me with an intimate holy ecstasy that found every centimeter of my mind, my heart, my soul.

And its resonating presence covered the entire campus. Love had become the world around me.

Only in the morning did I awake to find that it had gone. But ripples lingered. My entire life had been transformed. Jesus taught that God is love and Jesus told the truth. On July 2, 1980, I experienced the truth of that love firsthand. Up close and personal.

Through the years, however, I often wondered about the two words spoken to me: “Be happy.” They seemed trite and simplistic. A T-shirt phrase. 

And there had been no accompanying advice. Be happy? How? And what is true happiness, anyway?

Meeting and marrying Kim was absolutely pivotal. Becoming a father, and now grandfather, still feels like a miracle. I have been learning the pathways and contours of true happiness, though I don’t always get there and when I do it’s not always so easy to stay there as long as I’d like. 

But signs declaring the loving redemption of my life are all around  me. I’m with some of them now in this sanctuary.

But I still wondered: Did I hear God on July 2, 1980, or had I heard Jesus? I was never quite sure, though I knew I might have experienced the Trinity and so the distinction wouldn’t matter.

Recently, however, thanks to a book first owned by Evelyn Ford’s mom, Willeta Heising, I have concluded that the voice which spoke to me with such transcendent love 41 years ago must have belonged to Jesus.

Kim read the book, entitled, “The Sermon On The Mount,” and then passed it on to me last month. Reading it, I learned about a crucial word Jesus used over and over in the Beatitudes. A word I’d heard before.

He did not use the word “blessed.” Instead, Jesus chose the word “happy,” which conveys deep good fortune in Christ’s language. “Happy are the poor in spirit. Happy are those who mourn…”

Clearly, “happy” was Jesus’ word of choice by the Sea of Galilee, just as it was, I believe, on Rt. 15, south of Sprouses Corner, 2,000 years later. And it was anything but trite.

And why are they happy, why are they fortunate, even though they  still suffer?

The book’s author Pinchas Lapide, who has a doctorate in Judaic Studies, writes that all nine beatitudes “give eloquent evidence of that … divine love, directed not simply toward humanity in general but especially toward the victims of human unkindness … who especially need comfort and affection.”

That would have been me driving through Buckingham County on July 2, 1980. And I believe it was Jesus speaking to me.

“Pay attention,” Lapide imagines an Old Testament psalmist imploring us—and I have felt the truth of these words—“for there is a secret good fortune, hidden by the hands of life, itself, which counterbalances and outbalances all misfortune. You do not see it, but it is the true, indeed the only good fortune.”

As the French translation of the Beatitudes has Jesus declaring: “Happy are those who cry because God will console them.”

No, my wound has not been cured—I think only heaven will be able to do that—but I can see where the Lord has turned the muddy water of my life into wine to be poured out and shared with others. 

And that is a consolation, though not a cure, which brings healing to the deepest wound.

I’m still a torn page but the Lord’s love has taped me back together. For over four decades, I’ve been trying to fill that page with words that shine a light into the darkness, a darkness where I once was and where too many others remain.

But only the totality of my life experience—and that very much includes my deep wound—has provided me with the tools to try and do that. 

Just as each of you work so hard through so much to shine your own light into the darkness.

I have never heard the voice of Jesus for a second time, but there has been an ongoing series of experiences where the Holy Spirit has reached out and continued the personal relationship begun on that summer’s day 41 years ago. 

Clearly, my wound tuned me into a different frequency and that frequency has made all the difference in my life.

I am no wise man, and have no gold, frankincense or myrrh, but I am desperately thankful that we are here tonight celebrating the birth of someone who is very real and loves us very much.

Hallelujah, Merry Christmas and Amen.

The Day I Met Jesus
(This is the sermon I preached for Christmas Eve at St. Anne’s)

By Ken Woodley

What child is this, away in the manger on this silent, holy night?

Let me tell you about the time I believe I met him. I’ve shared a small snapshot version of this story in Forward Day By Day and mentioned it once in a Gleaning, but I’ve never told the full story.

First, I was always a spiritual kid. I was baptized in the Catholic Church and cried when Pope John the 23rd died in 1963 when I was six years old. I thought it meant that something bad had happened to God. In fact, I had to leave a birthday party, and all that ice cream and cake, because I was so distraught.

Secondly, like many people, I’ve been deeply wounded by life and I’ve been on a journey of healing for decades.

George Harrison came out with one of the best albums ever recorded, All Things Must Pass, in 1971. One of the songs, “Hear Me, Lord,” ends with the former Beatle pleading, “Hear me, Lord, won’t you please hear me, Lord,” over and over.

There were times, as a teenager and alone in the house, when I would play that song very loud and sing along at the top of my lungs. But I never seemed to get an answer. It never seemed that the Lord was listening.

I still believed in God. I still believed in Jesus. But they seemed so distant, absolutely unknowable in any kind of personal way.

I knew them only in an academic sense. Like I knew George Washington was the first president of the United States.

But there were also moments when it seemed as if a spiritual breeze was touching my skin, hoping to get my attention.

In college, I studied the Old and New Testaments, as well as the religions of India and the Far East. I was still on a spiritual journey and still feeling that wound.

On Wednesday, July 2, 1980, fourteen months after I’d graduated from Hampden-Sydney College, I was 23-years-old and driving home from a Buckingham County School Board meeting, which I’d covered as a reporter with the Farmville Herald.

I was feeling the heavy gravity of that wound when I heard a voice. It was about 3:30 in the afternoon. I hadn’t been drinking. And I’d given up smoking in college.

The voice spoke two words: “Be happy.” And though the verbal message was brief it was accompanied by an overwhelming feeling of deepest pure love that filled my Volkswagen Bug, oddly enough, a VW Love Bug edition.

I burst into tears. My emotions were so overflowing that I had to pull off to the side of the road just south of Sprouses Corner.

When I say Love, I mean the thing itself. The presence of the Being that is LOVE—all capital letters. I was sure it was God and I was blubbering and blabbering my thanks, a thunderstorm of tears raining down my face.

Eventually, I drove home to the trailer I rented on the Five Forks Road in Prince Edward County, about a mile from the site where this church was built 150 years ago. That loving presence still filled my car and had been palpable for the entire 40-mile journey.

I was filled with a happiness that went beyond joy, went beyond any word or description. It was the air I was breathing. LOVE was loving me. It hadn’t spoken two words and departed.

Not only did that loving presence fill my VW bug but it filled the entire world around me. I was literally “in love”—inside it—as if I were a fish in water.

The experience was very much like this description in the Gospel of John, the 20th verse of the 14th chapter: “On that day,” Jesus states in the New International Version, “you will realize that I am in my Father, and you are in me, and I am in you.”

At the trailer, I collected my dirty laundry and drove the 20 or so miles to Hampden-Sydney College where I still stuck quarters in the washing machines and driers.

I was surrounded by my dirty socks and underwear and still LOVE persisted in filling me with an intimate holy ecstasy that found every centimeter of my mind, my heart, my soul.

And its resonating presence covered the entire campus. Love had become the world around me.

Only in the morning did I awake to find that it had gone. But ripples lingered. My entire life had been transformed. Jesus taught that God is love and Jesus told the truth. On July 2, 1980, I experienced the truth of that love firsthand. Up close and personal.

Through the years, however, I often wondered about the two words spoken to me: “Be happy.” They seemed trite and simplistic. A T-shirt phrase.

And there had been no accompanying advice. Be happy? How? And what is true happiness, anyway?

Meeting and marrying Kim was absolutely pivotal. Becoming a father, and now grandfather, still feels like a miracle. I have been learning the pathways and contours of true happiness, though I don’t always get there and when I do it’s not always so easy to stay there as long as I’d like.

But signs declaring the loving redemption of my life are all around me. I’m with some of them now in this sanctuary.

But I still wondered: Did I hear God on July 2, 1980, or had I heard Jesus? I was never quite sure, though I knew I might have experienced the Trinity and so the distinction wouldn’t matter.

Recently, however, thanks to a book first owned by Evelyn Ford’s mom, Willeta Heising, I have concluded that the voice which spoke to me with such transcendent love 41 years ago must have belonged to Jesus.

Kim read the book, entitled, “The Sermon On The Mount,” and then passed it on to me last month. Reading it, I learned about a crucial word Jesus used over and over in the Beatitudes. A word I’d heard before.

He did not use the word “blessed.” Instead, Jesus chose the word “happy,” which conveys deep good fortune in Christ’s language. “Happy are the poor in spirit. Happy are those who mourn…”

Clearly, “happy” was Jesus’ word of choice by the Sea of Galilee, just as it was, I believe, on Rt. 15, south of Sprouses Corner, 2,000 years later. And it was anything but trite.

And why are they happy, why are they fortunate, even though they still suffer?

The book’s author Pinchas Lapide, who has a doctorate in Judaic Studies, writes that all nine beatitudes “give eloquent evidence of that … divine love, directed not simply toward humanity in general but especially toward the victims of human unkindness … who especially need comfort and affection.”

That would have been me driving through Buckingham County on July 2, 1980. And I believe it was Jesus speaking to me.

“Pay attention,” Lapide imagines an Old Testament psalmist imploring us—and I have felt the truth of these words—“for there is a secret good fortune, hidden by the hands of life, itself, which counterbalances and outbalances all misfortune. You do not see it, but it is the true, indeed the only good fortune.”

As the French translation of the Beatitudes has Jesus declaring: “Happy are those who cry because God will console them.”

No, my wound has not been cured—I think only heaven will be able to do that—but I can see where the Lord has turned the muddy water of my life into wine to be poured out and shared with others.

And that is a consolation, though not a cure, which brings healing to the deepest wound.

I’m still a torn page but the Lord’s love has taped me back together. For over four decades, I’ve been trying to fill that page with words that shine a light into the darkness, a darkness where I once was and where too many others remain.

But only the totality of my life experience—and that very much includes my deep wound—has provided me with the tools to try and do that.

Just as each of you work so hard through so much to shine your own light into the darkness.

I have never heard the voice of Jesus for a second time, but there has been an ongoing series of experiences where the Holy Spirit has reached out and continued the personal relationship begun on that summer’s day 41 years ago.

Clearly, my wound tuned me into a different frequency and that frequency has made all the difference in my life.

I am no wise man, and have no gold, frankincense or myrrh, but I am desperately thankful that we are here tonight celebrating the birth of someone who is very real and loves us very much.

Hallelujah, Merry Christmas and Amen.

By Ken Woodley

Sometimes,

when the moon seems skillfully slung

to skip across the rushing clouds,

I imagine you as a child wondering whose wrist and fingers

give this crescent light its motion

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

wading toward the deep end of the sky,

up to your neck now

and wanting to swim

in communion

with the reflection of the sun

along the surface of the lunar song

being sung across the skin of heaven.

Sometimes,

the light splashes

and you feel its current all around,

lifting you for a moment so brief

that it seems unreal,

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

But also of my own.

Because I am there, too, Dad.

Beside you.

Both of us children.

Sharing the same dream.

Sometimes, we feel the heart behind the hand

send us skipping, too, across the clouds

in the wake of the singing moon.

And then our wondering turns to wonder,

turning sometimes into

Always and Forever

until the shouting, weeping, tumbling world sweeps 

Always and Forever aside

and we find ourselves

looking up into the night-time sky

when the moon seems skillfully slung

to skip across the rushing clouds,

both of us wondering whose wrist and fingers

give this crescent light its motion

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

And that is where we find God

finding us together.

Always

and Forever.

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

By Ken Woodley

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


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

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

                                                              —The Gospel of Luke

By Ken Woodley

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

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

Around us.

And within us.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another voice in the wilderness crying out around us.

Another voice in the wilderness crying out within us.

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

That voice is Jesus with us.

Emmanuel.

God with us.

Emmanuel.

Oh come, oh come, Emmanuel.

And Emmanuel comes.

Emmanuel is there. Is here.

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

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

We climb.

We ascend.

We reach the summit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Emmanuel all around. In every footprint and every heartbeat.

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

—The Gospel of Luke

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

By Ken Woodley

Lost in this shadow-soaked valley,

I howl your name

into a darkness that seems to know me too well

using notes I didn’t know were mine,

yearning to hear your voice 

approaching in the distance.

I am huddled beneath a star-less sky 

with wolves that call me brother,

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

each of us ravenous for my stumbling prayer 

to lead you across a landscape scarred

by wounds we never saw coming,

woundings so deep they couldn’t even bleed.

Might you find us and soften the serrated hunger

that has devoured us for so long,

leaving us starving to become nothing 

more than sheep in wolves’ clothing

before shedding every hair on our counterfeit skin.

Exhausted by years of crying out words

I’ve been told are holy,

I fall silently to the ground

and hear something approaching through the dry leaves

of a season that is already dead.

Lifeless twigs are breaking underfoot

like promises made without knowing the cost.

Hope teases the outskirts of our desperation

and we are slowly surrounded by lambs

that begin howling at a moon so full

we hadn’t seen it shining.

In its light, we see green leaves on the trees

above your approaching shadow

through the sudden flowers.

Prayer for a Shepherd 

By Ken Woodley

Lost in this shadow-soaked valley,

I howl your name

into a darkness that seems to know me too well

using notes I didn’t know were mine,

yearning to hear your voice 

approaching in the distance.

I am huddled beneath a star-less sky 

with wolves that call me brother,

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

each of us ravenous for my stumbling prayer 

to lead you across a landscape scarred

by wounds we never saw coming,

woundings so deep they couldn’t even bleed.

Might you find us and soften the serrated hunger

that has devoured us for so long,

leaving us starving to become nothing 

more than sheep in wolves’ clothing

before shedding every hair on our counterfeit skin.

Exhausted by years of crying out words

I’ve been told are holy,

I fall silently to the ground

and hear something approaching through the dry leaves

of a season that is already dead.

Lifeless twigs are breaking underfoot

like promises made without knowing the cost.

Hope teases the outskirts of our desperation

and we are slowly surrounded by lambs

that begin howling at a moon so full

we hadn’t seen it shining.

In its light, we see green leaves on the trees

above your approaching shadow

through the sudden flowers.

Prayer for a Shepherd


By Ken Woodley

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

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

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



By Ken Woodley

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

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

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