Blog

By Ken Woodley

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fear robs our favorite song of its melody.

Fear steals laughter from our favorite comedies.

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

Fear erases the colors from our favorite paintings.

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

Fear diminishes everything.

Jesus knows.

Jesus understands.

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

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

But never alone.

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

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

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

A house in which there is no fear.

Nobody to be afraid of at all.

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

By Ken Woodley

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

—The Gospel of John

Trying to catch the Holy Spirit for even a moment would be like attempting to wrap the wind around a fork as if it were spaghetti.

No chance of that happening.

Thank God for that.

Can you imagine what might go wrong in the world if the Holy Spirit could be tracked down, domesticated and kept on a leash?

Look what happened after we split the atom.

Celtic Christians accurately described the Holy Spirit as the “Wild Goose” because it cannot be predicted and will not be tamed. It comes and goes as it pleases, plotting its own course in our lives. 

Just when we think we’ll never feel it so close again, the Holy Spirit knocks on our soul’s front door. 

The Holy Spirit most often comes to us in brief inspirational flashes, sudden, deep intuitive understandings. The Holy Spirit zips us a “tweet” or a “text” out of the blue.

The difference, however, is that, where so much of social media is inherently too abbreviated to be truly meaningful, the Holy Spirit’s “tweets” and “posts” are deeper than the sky.

And they invite us to go further still with the insights and understandings they provide.

It can be like someone raising the shade in a darkened room. The shade had been only slightly raised previously, letting in just a glimmer of light. Now the room—our inner self—is filled with illumination.

The Holy Spirit’s messages guide us on our spiritual journey, showing which way to turn when we arrive at a crossroads and pray for direction.

And even when we don’t pray for guidance the Holy Spirit is fully capable of picking the lock of our closed door if we refuse to answer its knocking.

This “Wild Goose” is not constrained or restricted by any flight pattern. The “Wild Goose” doesn’t join flocks of geese in the sky. Instead, it cares for each sheep and every single lamb in the Good Shepherd’s flock.

Loving and caring for you and I.

Loving all men and women all over the world unconditionally.

All men and women.

Whether we accept and share that love is up to us.

The Holy Spirit’s “voice” can make seemingly trivial and mundane things take on great meaning: a passing car with a message license plate that speaks like a direct answer to prayer. God-incidence, not coincidence. 

The Holy Spirit is able to use anything and everything to communicate with us. It might be an otherwise completely inexplicable occurrence or experience.

If we are watching, if we listen.

The clearest sign that we have received and understood a message from the Holy Spirit will be a deep sense of inner peace, as if every blustering gust of wind has been calmed inside us. 

None of us can fly on our own but, if we follow its “nudge,” the “Wild Goose” will give us its wings—even if just for a moment—when we need it most, and in the way we most need it: a flight to our soul’s next understanding of how much God loves us.

Just as Jesus promised.

Just as he promised us all.

A promise big enough to wrap the world in peace and love if we’d only get out of the way.

By Ken Woodley

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

—The Gospel of John


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

The Alabaster Jars We Bring

By Ken Woodley

We never know when a “Jesus moment” might happen. We may not even realize that it’s underway.

That certainly happened to a Pharisee, according to the Gospel of Luke. The Pharisee invited Jesus to eat with him, and some others. Hearing that Jesus would be dining at that house, a woman, described as a “sinner,” slipped inside. She brought an alabaster jar of ointment and stood behind Jesus throughout the meal, weeping and bathing his feet with her tears, then drying them with her hair.

The Pharisee—as might some day happen with us—has no idea who is really eating with him. “If this man were a prophet,” he said to himself, “he would have known who and what kind of woman this is who is touching him—that she is a sinner.”

Jesus reads his mind, which must have unsettled the Pharisee, and tells him, “Do you see this woman? I entered your house; you gave me no water for my feet, but she has bathed my feet with her tears and dried them with her hair. You gave me no kiss, but from the time I came in she has not stopped kissing my feet. You did not anoint my head with oil, but she has anointed my feet with ointment. Therefore, I tell you, her sins, which were many, have been forgiven; hence she has shown great love.”

Jesus describes the woman’s actions with perfect clarity. Great love is exactly what she showed him.

Importantly, Jesus never once tried to stop her. The tears, the kisses, the hair, the ointment—he accepted them all with tremendous grace, with an open heart, with, in fact, love. He accepted them in the same spirit with which they had been given. The woman knocked, so to speak, and the door to Christ’s love was opened for her.

One might surmise that the Pharisee was so taken aback at what he was seeing that he was speechless and did not have the woman thrown out. He wasn’t saying any such thing but he was certainly thinking that Jesus should not have engaged in such behavior.

Several things are going on in this lesson—forgiveness is certainly a theme, as is, of course, the role of faith in healing and salvation, and also the prominent role of women in the ministry of Jesus. But what also declares itself is the deep intimacy of what Jesus and the woman shared together and what it tells us about the kind of relationship Jesus and God, through the Holy Spirit, wish to have with the us—a loving relationship. Or, in the words of Jesus, himself, a relationship of “great love.”

God wants to do more than go out with people on Sunday mornings. God wants it all, the whole enchilada, to go steady,  a full-on relationship of great love and deep commitment.

But, with all the static the world throws at humanity, it can sometimes be hard for people to know that they would be on the receiving end of a “Jesus moment” if they’d only stop and free themselves to receive the Holy Spirit’s “hug.” The learned and well-respected Pharisee let his sense of self-importance, self-righteousness, and the great store of “religious wisdom” that filled his head blind him to what his eyes saw but his heart did not understand.

There is no evidence that the Pharisee, and the others sharing the meal, had any idea at all about the true significance of the “Jesus moment” that was happening right under their noses.

They were too busy being judgmental, about the woman and Jesus, who tells the woman her sins are forgiven, stirring the indignation of those around the table.

Jesus is not dissuaded from showing the woman that God loves her, however. “Your faith has saved you,” he says. “Go in peace.” 

We have no idea how the remainder of this woman’s life story goes. She is one of many people who come and go, in and out of profound scenes with Jesus, never to be heard from again within the Bible.

It’s probably safe to say, however, that the seed of God’s love that Jesus undoubtedly planted in her heart that day blossomed into full bloom. 

And what of the Pharisee? We don’t know about him, either. It’s nice to imagine that the dramatic scene between Jesus and the woman, and how Jesus explained his message of “great love” to the Pharisee, eventually worked its way through the intellectual wall that so often keeps people from receiving the kingdom of God like a little child.

Or, like a woman who knew a “Jesus moment” when she was having one.

By Ken Woodley
We never know when a “Jesus moment” might happen. We may not even realize that it’s underway.
That certainly happened to a Pharisee, according to the Gospel of Luke. The Pharisee invited Jesus to eat with him, and some others. Hearing that Jesus would be dining at that house, a woman, described as a “sinner,” slipped inside. She brought an alabaster jar of ointment and stood behind Jesus throughout the meal, weeping and bathing his feet with her tears, then drying them with her hair.
The Pharisee—as might some day happen with us—has no idea who is really eating with him. “If this man were a prophet,” he said to himself, “he would have known who and what kind of woman this is who is touching him—that she is a sinner.”
Jesus reads his mind, which must have unsettled the Pharisee, and tells him, “Do you see this woman? I entered your house; you gave me no water for my feet, but she has bathed my feet with her tears and dried them with her hair. You gave me no kiss, but from the time I came in she has not stopped kissing my feet. You did not anoint my head with oil, but she has anointed my feet with ointment. Therefore, I tell you, her sins, which were many, have been forgiven; hence she has shown great love.”
Jesus describes the woman’s actions with perfect clarity. Great love is exactly what she showed him.
Importantly, Jesus never once tried to stop her. The tears, the kisses, the hair, the ointment—he accepted them all with tremendous grace, with an open heart, with, in fact, love. He accepted them in the same spirit with which they had been given. The woman knocked, so to speak, and the door to Christ’s love was opened for her.
One might surmise that the Pharisee was so taken aback at what he was seeing that he was speechless and did not have the woman thrown out. He wasn’t saying any such thing but he was certainly thinking that Jesus should not have engaged in such behavior.
Several things are going on in this lesson—forgiveness is certainly a theme, as is, of course, the role of faith in healing and salvation, and also the prominent role of women in the ministry of Jesus. But what also declares itself is the deep intimacy of what Jesus and the woman shared together and what it tells us about the kind of relationship Jesus and God, through the Holy Spirit, wish to have with the us—a loving relationship. Or, in the words of Jesus, himself, a relationship of “great love.”
God wants to do more than go out with people on Sunday mornings. God wants it all, the whole enchilada, to go steady, a full-on relationship of great love and deep commitment.
But, with all the static the world throws at humanity, it can sometimes be hard for people to know that they would be on the receiving end of a “Jesus moment” if they’d only stop and free themselves to receive the Holy Spirit’s “hug.” The learned and well-respected Pharisee let his sense of self-importance, self-righteousness, and the great store of “religious wisdom” that filled his head blind him to what his eyes saw but his heart did not understand.
There is no evidence that the Pharisee, and the others sharing the meal, had any idea at all about the true significance of the “Jesus moment” that was happening right under their noses.
They were too busy being judgmental, about the woman and Jesus, who tells the woman her sins are forgiven, stirring the indignation of those around the table.
Jesus is not dissuaded from showing the woman that God loves her, however. “Your faith has saved you,” he says. “Go in peace.”
We have no idea how the remainder of this woman’s life story goes. She is one of many people who come and go, in and out of profound scenes with Jesus, never to be heard from again within the Bible.
It’s probably safe to say, however, that the seed of God’s love that Jesus undoubtedly planted in her heart that day blossomed into full bloom.
And what of the Pharisee? We don’t know about him, either. It’s nice to imagine that the dramatic scene between Jesus and the woman, and how Jesus explained his message of “great love” to the Pharisee, eventually worked its way through the intellectual wall that so often keeps people from receiving the kingdom of God like a little child.
Or, like a woman who knew a “Jesus moment” when she was having one.

By Ken Woodley

The first notes of the song outside the living room window told me that light was coming into the world, just beginning to lift the surrounding darkness.

The dawn of a new day.

The caroling bird wasn’t going to wait for all the darkness to depart.

The caroling bird wasn’t going to wait until every last ray of sunshine had come into the world.

The caroling bird wasn’t going to wait until it was absolutely proven that sunrise had begun.

The caroling bird was just going to sing.

Out on its limb of faith.

Nothing else to do but just fill the air with a song of joy.

The sky was still nearly completely dark, even to the east, and totally dark in every other direction of the compass.

But that bird didn’t need to touch the wounds. That bird didn’t need to feel the scars. The bird didn’t need to continue plumbing the depths of the darkness which had surrounded it since the light left the world the day before.

That bird simply believed.

“Do you,” Jesus asked the man who had been ill for 38 years, “want to be made well?”

The answer to that question means everything. Absolutely everything is at stake.

What are we going to say?

How are we going to answer the question?

What are we going to tell Jesus?

We’ve got to really want to sing.

We’ve got to really want to shout out joyfully into the darkness.

We’ve got to really want to believe in that sliver of light coming toward us, that thin wedge of something so much better.

“Sir,” the man tells Jesus, “I have no one to put me into the pool when the water is stirred up; and while I am making my way, someone else steps down ahead of me.”

Jesus seems to know that the man had grown too comfortable with his suffering. Why else would he ask the man if he really wanted to be made well?

Jesus seems to know that the man had become perhaps a little addicted to, dependent upon, his illness.

That is why he asked the question. 

And sometimes the same thing can happen to us and our emotional wounds. We grow too comfortable with a certain sadness, a certain pain in our lives—however real and painful it truly is. Sometimes we can allow a certain pain and sadness to become a crutch.

The man probably could have made it into the pool in time for the stirring water to heal him at least once in the course of 38 years. That’s just common sense. Jesus knows that.

But Jesus also knows that the man really does need his healing touch to turn his heart around from the illness that afflicted him toward restoration of full life.

Just as we really do. Of course we want to be made well. But sometimes there is a corner of our heart that won’t let go of the sadness or the pain or the affliction. A final step we haven’t been able to take on the journey to healing—not necessarily a cure, but being healed on Earth until heaven can finally cure us entirely. And that is the corner of our heart that makes all the difference. That is the corner Jesus can touch and make us well.

But we have to want it.

“Stand up, take your mat and walk,” Jesus tells the man.

“Stand up, take your mat and walk,” Jesus tells us.

Sing with a joyful heart at the crack of dawn rising inside you.

Let us all sing with a caroling heart of joy at the crack of dawn that is rising inside us.

We all know this new day is coming. We all know the new day is here.

By Ken Woodley

The first notes of the song outside the living room window told me that light was coming into the world, just beginning to lift the surrounding darkness.
The dawn of a new day.
The caroling bird wasn’t going to wait for all the darkness to depart.
The caroling bird wasn’t going to wait until every last ray of sunshine had come into the world.
The caroling bird wasn’t going to wait until it was absolutely proven that sunrise had begun.
The caroling bird was just going to sing.
Out on its limb of faith.
Nothing else to do but just fill the air with a song of joy.
The sky was still nearly completely dark, even to the east, and totally dark in every other direction of the compass.
But that bird didn’t need to touch the wounds. That bird didn’t need to feel the scars. The bird didn’t need to continue plumbing the depths of the darkness which had surrounded it since the light left the world the day before.
That bird simply believed.

“Do you,” Jesus asked the man who had been ill for 38 years, “want to be made well?”
The answer to that question means everything. Absolutely everything is at stake.
What are we going to say?
How are we going to answer the question?
What are we going to tell Jesus?
We’ve got to really want to sing.
We’ve got to really want to shout out joyfully into the darkness.
We’ve got to really want to believe in that sliver of light coming toward us, that thin wedge of something so much better.
“Sir,” the man tells Jesus, “I have no one to put me into the pool when the water is stirred up; and while I am making my way, someone else steps down ahead of me.”
Jesus seems to know that the man had grown too comfortable with his suffering. Why else would he ask the man if he really wanted to be made well?
Jesus seems to know that the man had become perhaps a little addicted to, dependent upon, his illness.
That is why he asked the question.
And sometimes the same thing can happen to us and our emotional wounds. We grow too comfortable with a certain sadness, a certain pain in our lives—however real and painful it truly is. Sometimes we can allow a certain pain and sadness to become a crutch.
The man probably could have made it into the pool in time for the stirring water to heal him at least once in the course of 38 years. That’s just common sense. Jesus knows that.
But Jesus also knows that the man really does need his healing touch to turn his heart around from the illness that afflicted him toward restoration of full life.
Just as we really do. Of course we want to be made well. But sometimes there is a corner of our heart that won’t let go of the sadness or the pain or the affliction. A final step we haven’t been able to take on the journey to healing—not necessarily a cure, but being healed on Earth until heaven can finally cure us entirely. And that is the corner of our heart that makes all the difference. That is the corner Jesus can touch and make us well.
But we have to want it.
“Stand up, take your mat and walk,” Jesus tells the man.
“Stand up, take your mat and walk,” Jesus tells us.
Sing with a joyful heart at the crack of dawn rising inside you.
Let us all sing with a caroling heart of joy at the crack of dawn that is rising inside us.
We all know this new day is coming. We all know the new day is here.

By Ken Woodley

Into everyone’s life, philosophers and meteorologists have told us, some rain must fall.

Floods and droughts. 

The past year has been a series of recurring flash floods. That’s the weather report for today. Now we move on to floods and droughts of another kind.

Each of us knows through our own experiences about life’s non-meteorological floods and about its droughts. “Some rain must fall” hardly tells the story, despite its figurative truth that life is not without its challenging difficulties and difficult challenges. 

There are times of suffering. We’ve all of us been there and done that. We’ve all of felt about to drown or die of thirst. “Some rain” sure fell but we needed a lot less or we were desperate for so much more.

Throughout human existence, “meteorologists” have sought to see the sunshine through the rain that falls. No, I am not talking about weather forecasters but, rather, philosophers who delve deeply into the human condition.

Suffering they say breeds character. And, yes, it does—if we endure. If we do not succumb. If we do not give up or give in.

What doesn’t kill us, they tell us, makes us stronger. Surely this is true—if we do not allow the wounds, whatever they might be, to swallow us. 

Resisting the temptation to give up or give in or allow life’s physical and mental aches and pains to dictate the rest of the day, the remainder of the week, or the duration of our lives is not always easy.

In fact, it is frequently quite hard.

None of us has the power to control what happens to us in life and so feeling helpless is often our first response, and a response that seems quite reasonable and logical given the circumstances of our powerlessness over life’s hardships.

However, each of us can control how we respond to those hardships. That is something we very much have the ability to direct.

As the Roman emperor, and Stoic philosopher, Marcus Aurelius wrote:

“If you are distressed by anything external, the pain is not due to the thing itself but to your own estimate of it; and this you have the power to revoke at any moment.”

But how do we harness this power and use it to “revoke” that distress?

Paul gives his Roman audience what amounts to a lesson in Judo. That is, using your opponent’s momentum against them. Don’t push back against their onslaught. Instead, take advantage of their onrush to flip them head over heels and then pin them to the mat.

“…But we also boast of our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not disappoint us, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit that has been given to us.”

Instead of complaining, Paul advises, rejoice. That is classic “mental Judo” strategy. And very good advice, if we can wrap our head around the reverse psychology of it all.

In many ways, taking control of how we respond to life’s pain and hardship is very much like climbing a difficult mountain. It takes great endurance to reach the summit. Real character is required. But the further we climb the more hope we kindle inside us that one day we will reach the top.

And, with God’s love as our Sherpa guide, even life’s Mount Everests are within our power to scale. Shadows, by their very nature, are not real. Walking out of them into the light is.

And the view from the top of that mountain is a glory to behold. 

By Ken Woodley

Into everyone’s life, philosophers and meteorologists have told us, some rain must fall.
Floods and droughts.
The past year has been a series of recurring flash floods. That’s the weather report for today. Now we move on to floods and droughts of another kind.
Each of us knows through our own experiences about life’s non-meteorological floods and about its droughts. “Some rain must fall” hardly tells the story, despite its figurative truth that life is not without its challenging difficulties and difficult challenges.
There are times of suffering. We’ve all of us been there and done that. We’ve all of felt about to drown or die of thirst. “Some rain” sure fell but we needed a lot less or we were desperate for so much more.
Throughout human existence, “meteorologists” have sought to see the sunshine through the rain that falls. No, I am not talking about weather forecasters but, rather, philosophers who delve deeply into the human condition.
Suffering they say breeds character. And, yes, it does—if we endure. If we do not succumb. If we do not give up or give in.
What doesn’t kill us, they tell us, makes us stronger. Surely this is true—if we do not allow the wounds, whatever they might be, to swallow us.
Resisting the temptation to give up or give in or allow life’s physical and mental aches and pains to dictate the rest of the day, the remainder of the week, or the duration of our lives is not always easy.
In fact, it is frequently quite hard.
None of us has the power to control what happens to us in life and so feeling helpless is often our first response, and a response that seems quite reasonable and logical given the circumstances of our powerlessness over life’s hardships.
However, each of us can control how we respond to those hardships. That is something we very much have the ability to direct.
As the Roman emperor, and Stoic philosopher, Marcus Aurelius wrote:
“If you are distressed by anything external, the pain is not due to the thing itself but to your own estimate of it; and this you have the power to revoke at any moment.”
But how do we harness this power and use it to “revoke” that distress?
Paul gives his Roman audience what amounts to a lesson in Judo. That is, using your opponent’s momentum against them. Don’t push back against their onslaught. Instead, take advantage of their onrush to flip them head over heels and then pin them to the mat.
“…But we also boast of our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not disappoint us, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit that has been given to us.”
Instead of complaining, Paul advises, rejoice. That is classic “mental Judo” strategy. And very good advice, if we can wrap our head around the reverse psychology of it all.
In many ways, taking control of how we respond to life’s pain and hardship is very much like climbing a difficult mountain. It takes great endurance to reach the summit. Real character is required. But the further we climb the more hope we kindle inside us that one day we will reach the top.
And, with God’s love as our Sherpa guide, even life’s Mount Everests are within our power to scale. Shadows, by their very nature, are not real. Walking out of them into the light is.
And the view from the top of that mountain is a glory to behold.

By Ken Woodley

The Road to Emmaus is all around us.

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

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

North. South. East. And west.

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

Left, right, left.

Through the woods.

Across a field.

Upstairs and down.

The Road to Emmaus is, consciously or not, part of the journey to every destination we consciously try to reach.

For our entire life.

Forward, or backward, day by day.

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

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

The experience is not unlike walking out from a forest of wondrous peace onto the Las Vegas strip.

But even Vegas is part of the Road to Emmaus. 

The Road to Emmaus is everywhere—no exceptions.

And Jesus is there—no exceptions.

Jesus is there, waiting for us to recognize him.

Waiting for us to recognize him in our hearts.

To recognize him in our souls.

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

Every day and every step we take hold such promise.

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

But how?

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

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

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

Quite possibly, however, another person is by your side, walking the same steps on the Road to Emmaus. In close proximity physically, but also close in the spirit of friendship or love. So close that it is as if the two of you are one single loaf of bread. In opening up your hearts to each other—in breaking this human bread—Jesus is able to reveal his presence among you in a way that is impossibly palpable.

And there is true communion.

Because the Road to Emmaus is almost entirely inside us.

By Ken Woodley

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

By Ken Woodley

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

—The Gospel of John

We are lost.

Doomed.

Wolves are everywhere.

Before us and behind us.

To the left and the right of us.

Above and below.

There is no place where there are not wolves.

And they are ravenous.

They howl like a terrible storm.

Our power lines are down.

Trees tumble.

Limbs are broken.  

The sky looks and sounds as if it is being torn to shreds.

Our green pastures are scorched.

The still waters have tidal waves.

And the wolves want more.

They want all of us.

Every bit of us.

We thought we were brave enough, smart enough, faithful enough.

What fools we were to wander off on our own.

The wolves are taunting us now.

‘Where,’ they ask, ‘is your good shepherd now? Ha! Nailed to a cross. Crucified. Dead and buried.’

We open our mouths to reply and that is when we hear your voice. 

“I am their shepherd,” you say to the wolves. “Now and forever.”

And we are found. We are saved.

Goodness and mercy surround us.

You are before us and behind us.

To the left and to the right of us.

Above and below.

There is no place where you are not with us.

We feel weightless as you revive our souls, anointing our heads with oil. The howling is silenced and the sky is made whole.

The wolves vanish like shadows at noon.

With you by our side that is all they ever could be.

Shadows.

And nothing more.

We pass through them with you, Jesus, into the undying light of love.

By Ken Woodley

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

—The Gospel of John

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

By Ken Woodley

From blindness to sight. In a flash of light.

A world of darkness dissolves into amazing colors.

Previously, the entire world had been in your imagination—the way everything looked—fed only by what your sense of touch told you about how they might appear if you could only see them.

We can close our eyes and touch a lamp or a chair or another human being and understand their appearance—but only because we 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 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. Like our spouse, for example. Choosing to live with someone, for better or worse, for a lifetime—and then following through with it—is not un-miraculous.

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 we might see the miracles in our life more clearly.

That includes the reflection in your mirror.

Jesus calls that person you see looking back at you the light of the world.

By Ken Woodley

From blindness to sight. In a flash of light.
A world of darkness dissolves into amazing colors.
Previously, the entire world had been in your imagination—the way everything looked—fed only by what your sense of touch told you about how they might appear if you could only see them.
We can close our eyes and touch a lamp or a chair or another human being and understand their appearance—but only because we 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 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. Like our spouse, for example. Choosing to live with someone, for better or worse, for a lifetime—and then following through with it—is not un-miraculous.
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 we might see the miracles in our life more clearly.
That includes the reflection in your mirror.
Jesus calls that person you see looking back at you the light of the world.

By Ken Woodley

There is a flower

from your garden

that blooms

beneath my scars

and carries the whispered song

of sunrise

across the distant place

where I saw your glance

upon the surface

of a stream

as you touched

the petals you had given me

and the light began to sing

in the ripples

of your wake.

By Ken Woodley


There is a flower
from your garden
that blooms
beneath my scars
and carries the whispered song
of sunrise
across the distant place
where I saw your glance
upon the surface
of a stream
as you touched
the petals you had given me
and the light began to sing
in the ripples
of your wake.

By Ken Woodley

Every pore 

yearns for starlight

to flicker in the darkness 

of my solitude.

I am frozen by suns of mourning,

praying only to melt 

into your earth

and that place 

where the ice of this despair

cannot find me,

where I could still feel child-painted,

as you showed me,

and see the living colors 

so outrageously miraculous

and snowing all around me

like a shimmering aurora borealis 

wind-blown from the sky

so that I can

melt

again and again and again

into your footsteps,

to follow

and perhaps one day

to bloom, somehow,

with you

in the eternal gardens.

By Ken Woodley



Every pore

yearns for starlight

to flicker in the darkness

of my solitude.

I am frozen by suns of mourning,

praying only to melt

into your earth

and that place

where the ice of this despair

cannot find me,

where I could still feel child-painted,

as you showed me,

and see the living colors

so outrageously miraculous

and snowing all around me

like a shimmering aurora borealis

wind-blown from the sky

so that I can

melt

again and again and again

into your footsteps,

to follow

and perhaps one day

to bloom, somehow,

with you.

in the eternal gardens.