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“‘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.

By Ken Woodley

“Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.”

Those words comprise one of our favorite communion hymns. They come from the Gospel of Luke and are spoken by one of the criminals crucified alongside Jesus.

Confronting the crucifixion of Jesus is difficult at any time and even more disconcerting  a month before Christmas.

Death before life, in a way, prior to his life after death.

But don’t all of us have to die to something before we really live?

I need to die to my worrying about things too much, things I cannot control. My worrying keeps me from living fully in the moments of my life as Jesus and God wish that I would.

Jesus knows how easy it is for us worriers to be “nailed” to our anxieties, allowing them to become a cross we do not need to bear. I know I too often allow my worries to “crucify” my sense of peace and wellbeing, making it impossible to see the beauty that surrounds me.

“Do not worry about tomorrow,” Jesus constantly urges me during the Sermon on the Mount, “for tomorrow will worry about itself.”

I know that to be true, Lord, just as I know that whatever comes tomorrow will find you there right by my side.

My faith is strong but sometimes, no matter how hard I try, my fear is stronger.

“Jesus,” I call out, much like the criminal hanging on the cross beside the Lord, “remember me.”

And then I look over and Jesus does better than remember. Jesus is next to me, pulling out my nails of worry, taking me down from that moment of “crucifixion” and raising me up into God’s love and grace.

Resurrecting that moment in that day.

Just as Jesus is next to you in your own times of “crucifixion,” whatever they might be—we all have them; they are part of our human condition.

“Truly I tell you,” we hear Jesus say, “today you will be with me in Paradise.”

And a feeling of “paradise” is just what it feels like when we allow our worried minds to escape fear and ascend into the certain knowledge that we are loved by God.

As the author of Psalm 46 assures us: “God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.”

Not a “past” help.

A help right here and right now.

By Ken Woodley

“Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.”
Those words comprise one of our favorite communion hymns. They come from the Gospel of Luke and are spoken by one of the criminals crucified alongside Jesus.
Confronting the crucifixion of Jesus is difficult at any time and even more disconcerting a month before Christmas.
Death before life, in a way, prior to his life after death.
But don’t all of us have to die to something before we really live?
I need to die to my worrying about things too much, things I cannot control. My worrying keeps me from living fully in the moments of my life as Jesus and God wish that I would.
Jesus knows how easy it is for us worriers to be “nailed” to our anxieties, allowing them to become a cross we do not need to bear. I know I too often allow my worries to “crucify” my sense of peace and wellbeing, making it impossible to see the beauty that surrounds me.
“Do not worry about tomorrow,” Jesus constantly urges me during the Sermon on the Mount, “for tomorrow will worry about itself.”
I know that to be true, Lord, just as I know that whatever comes tomorrow will find you there right by my side.
My faith is strong but sometimes, no matter how hard I try, my fear is stronger.
“Jesus,” I call out, much like the criminal hanging on the cross beside the Lord, “remember me.”
And then I look over and Jesus does better than remember. Jesus is next to me, pulling out my nails of worry, taking me down from that moment of “crucifixion” and raising me up into God’s love and grace.
Resurrecting that moment in that day.
Just as Jesus is next to you in your own times of “crucifixion,” whatever they might be—we all have them; they are part of our human condition.
“Truly I tell you,” we hear Jesus say, “today you will be with me in Paradise.”
And a feeling of “paradise” is just what it feels like when we allow our worried minds to escape fear and ascend into the certain knowledge that we are loved by God.
As the author of Psalm 46 assures us: “God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.”
Not a “past” help.
A help right here and right now.
And for that I give thanks.

By Ken Woodley

Wars and rumors of wars. Nation rising up against nation. Kingdom against kingdom. Earthquakes and famines.

Jesus certainly isn’t papering over the cracks presented by the reality of the world. But he’s no “doomsday” prophet, either.

It was not then, nor is it now, an easy world to live in with who knows what headline right around the corner.

But Jesus never ever tells his disciples to give up and stop striving to make the kingdom of heaven come just a little bit closer for a few more people. And so he isn’t telling us to do so, either.

The specific advice Jesus gives the disciples in today’s Gospel lesson is “do not be alarmed.”

That is often easier said than done. Certainly for me, anyway, as someone who can make a fine art out of anxiety.

But it becomes less difficult when we follow the example of Jesus and keep plugging away in God’s vineyard, pulling up weeds even though they come back next week.

It is, in fact, good for our peace of mind to keep tending the corner of God’s vineyard that has been entrusted to our care. 

No corner of the vineyard is unimportant. Every inch impacts somebody’s life in some way. 

And so it’s never a waste of time to drop to our knees and cultivate with our bare hands. 

To get dirty. 

Scraped and bruised as we dig out the rocks and plow the soil.

To plant the seeds God has given us for the harvest that only we can produce, a harvest without which something of goodness—a meaningful vintage from the vineyard—would be lost.

No, we aren’t likely to change the world. But there is every chance for something good that might make all the difference in the corner of the vineyard that God has given us.

And when we change a corner of the vineyard we change that part of the world and so the world, itself, is changed after all.

Despite the wars and rumors of wars and the nations and kingdoms and earthquakes and famines.

The most meaningful mountaintop experiences in life often happen—not on some glittering summit—but down in the darkened valleys, where we take the light God has given us and plant it in the vineyard.

Even if we feel alone and vulnerable with only a plowshare in our hands in a world filled with wars and rumors of wars.

In truth, we are never alone when we choose to work in God’s vineyard because the landowner’s son is with us.

The spirit of Jesus by our side. 

No, we won’t see him. We aren’t likely to hear him. But there are moments across the passing days of the flowing seasons where we sense his presence.

A warm feeling in our heart. A gentle ripple through our soul. Perhaps simply an unexpected smile from a stranger.

Jesus there, on his knees, too. 

His hands dirty and bruised. 

His sweat falling into the earth as we lift the heavier stones together, pull up the most stubborn weeds, and gently nurture the vines.

Cultivating more fruits for the kingdom.

Because every corner of the vineyard matters to God.

And Jesus cares about them all.

The vineyard is all around us but we are needed in the corner God has led us to. We are needed to plant not only our seeds in the soil, but ourselves, as well. 

Having faith that somehow, no matter how many people surrounding the vineyard have swords in their hands, our work with the spirit of Jesus by our side will some way, some day, bear fruits of the kingdom that would not have been possible had we kept our backs turned and our hearts headed in the opposite direction.

We may think we haven’t any experience with vineyards and wonder if we shouldn’t let someone with more expertise do the job. But we have far more experience with God’s vineyard than we know.

Because, in truth, there is a corner of God’s vineyard inside each and every one of us.

That place where God’s love and grace first grows fruits of the kingdom before we plant any of their seeds out in the world.

Nothing happens out in the world until it happens first in our hearts. Darkness leans toward the light when our hearts respond to God’s love and grace like a seed responds to rich soil, water and sunshine.

And, Jesus tells us over and over again, that is God’s most fervent wish.

For our own sakes, but also for others, because either the vines of the vineyard within us reach out into the world, or else the choking weeds do.

Wars and rumors of wars? Nation against nation and kingdom against kingdom? It all sounds so terribly depressing. But, crucially, Jesus speaks of these as “but the beginnings of the birth pangs.”

What is actually going to be born into the world—the kingdom of heaven, or something else entirely—very much depends on each of us and what we do in our corner of the vineyard.

As Archbishop Desmond Tutu said, “Each one of us is a God-carrier.”

If enough swords are turned into plowshares in enough corners of the vineyard then just maybe the nations and kingdoms will eventually join us.

Even if it’s just one person at a time. Starting with you and me.

Perhaps the only earthquake will be a seismic shift in love over hate and the only famine a lack of anything for the world’s darkness to feed upon.

Is the kingdom of heaven really likely to materialize around us as far as the eye can see? On most days, to be honest, I would answer, No.

But, honestly, every single solitary day I would say that it IS worth spending the rest of our lives believing in and working to achieve.

Because, with God, anything is possible.

And our faith in the work God has given each of us to do may be the tipping point that makes all the difference in the world.

All the difference ….. in the world.

By Ken Woodley


Wars and rumors of wars. Nation rising up against nation. Kingdom against kingdom. Earthquakes and famines.

Jesus certainly isn’t papering over the cracks presented by the reality of the world. But he’s no “doomsday” prophet, either.

It was not then, nor is it now, an easy world to live in with who knows what headline right around the corner.

But Jesus never ever tells his disciples to give up and stop striving to make the kingdom of heaven come just a little bit closer for a few more people. And so he isn’t telling us to do so, either.

The specific advice Jesus gives the disciples in today’s Gospel lesson is “do not be alarmed.”

That is often easier said than done. Certainly for me, anyway, as someone who can make a fine art out of anxiety.

But it becomes less difficult when we follow the example of Jesus and keep plugging away in God’s vineyard, pulling up weeds even though they come back next week.

It is, in fact, good for our peace of mind to keep tending the corner of God’s vineyard that has been entrusted to our care.

No corner of the vineyard is unimportant. Every inch impacts somebody’s life in some way.

And so it’s never a waste of time to drop to our knees and cultivate with our bare hands.

To get dirty.

Scraped and bruised as we dig out the rocks and plow the soil.

To plant the seeds God has given us for the harvest that only we can produce, a harvest without which something of goodness—a meaningful vintage from the vineyard—would be lost.

No, we aren’t likely to change the world. But there is every chance for something good that might make all the difference in the corner of the vineyard that God has given us.

And when we change a corner of the vineyard we change that part of the world and so the world, itself, is changed after all.

Despite the wars and rumors of wars and the nations and kingdoms and earthquakes and famines.

The most meaningful mountaintop experiences in life often happen—not on some glittering summit—but down in the darkened valleys, where we take the light God has given us and plant it in the vineyard.
Even if we feel alone and vulnerable with only a plowshare in our hands in a world filled with wars and rumors of wars.

In truth, we are never alone when we choose to work in God’s vineyard because the landowner’s son is with us.

The spirit of Jesus by our side.

No, we won’t see him. We aren’t likely to hear him. But there are moments across the passing days of the flowing seasons where we sense his presence.

A warm feeling in our heart. A gentle ripple through our soul. Perhaps simply an unexpected smile from a stranger.

Jesus there, on his knees, too.

His hands dirty and bruised.

His sweat falling into the earth as we lift the heavier stones together, pull up the most stubborn weeds, and gently nurture the vines.

Cultivating more fruits for the kingdom.

Because every corner of the vineyard matters to God.

And Jesus cares about them all.

The vineyard is all around us but we are needed in the corner God has led us to. We are needed to plant not only our seeds in the soil, but ourselves, as well.

Having faith that somehow, no matter how many people surrounding the vineyard have swords in their hands, our work with the spirit of Jesus by our side will some way, some day, bear fruits of the kingdom that would not have been possible had we kept our backs turned and our hearts headed in the opposite direction.

We may think we haven’t any experience with vineyards and wonder if we shouldn’t let someone with more expertise do the job. But we have far more experience with God’s vineyard than we know.

Because, in truth, there is a corner of God’s vineyard inside each and every one of us.

That place where God’s love and grace first grows fruits of the kingdom before we plant any of their seeds out in the world.

Nothing happens out in the world until it happens first in our hearts. Darkness leans toward the light when our hearts respond to God’s love and grace like a seed responds to rich soil, water and sunshine.

And, Jesus tells us over and over again, that is God’s most fervent wish.

For our own sakes, but also for others, because either the vines of the vineyard within us reach out into the world, or else the choking weeds do.

Wars and rumors of wars? Nation against nation and kingdom against kingdom? It all sounds so terribly depressing. But, crucially, Jesus speaks of these as “but the beginnings of the birth pangs.”

What is actually going to be born into the world—the kingdom of heaven, or something else entirely—very much depends on each of us and what we do in our corner of the vineyard.

As Archbishop Desmond Tutu said, “Each one of us is a God-carrier.”

If enough swords are turned into plowshares in enough corners of the vineyard then just maybe the nations and kingdoms will eventually join us.

Even if it’s just one person at a time. Starting with you and me.

Perhaps the only earthquake will be a seismic shift in love over hate and the only famine a lack of anything for the world’s darkness to feed upon.

Is the kingdom of heaven really likely to materialize around us as far as the eye can see? On most days, to be honest, I would answer, No.

But, honestly, every single solitary day I would say that it IS worth spending the rest of our lives believing in and working to achieve.

Because, with God, anything is possible.

And our faith in the work God has given each of us to do may be the tipping point that makes all the difference in the world.

All the difference ….. in the world.

By Ken Woodley

God must be a fan of jazz, a musical form that encourages individual freedom and creativity.

“Sing to the Lord a new song,” we are told in Psalm 98, “for he has done marvelous things.”

But what new song? What new notes? What key is this new song in? Does it have lyrics? If so, what are they? 

We aren’t told. There are pieces of advice, but it’s all very jazzy—and that means a lot of improvisation.

“Shout with joy … lift up your voice … sing to the Lord with the harp … with trumpets and the sound of the horn …”

Fairly standard stuff, in terms of jazz instruments, even though we have no idea what to play.

But then it gets jazzily surreal, a kind of otherworldly jazz-heaven-fusion.

“Let the sea make a noise,” we are advised.

The sea?

And not just the sea but “all that is in it.”

Wow. I’m not sure Miles Davis and John Coltrane could even do that.

But that’s not all.

“Let the rivers clap their hands.”

Okay … um … sure. But rivers don’t have hands.

“And let the hills ring out with joy.”

Please, yes, hills, do so whenever you’re ready. A one and a two and a three…

But what do we do?

We do this:

We play what we feel inside, our new song, our own unique notes and voice.

God is hip to the beat of our different drums.

God cheers on our improvisations, our polyrhythms, and our syncopation as we respond to the very real joys and the very tough challenges of living in a world that often seems fearsomely chaotic.

Life is nothing like the songs in our hymnals. All the notes we will need to sing have not been composed. We don’t even know how many people are going to be in the band, or how long we’ll be playing together.

But that’s okay.

There is a lot we do not know about the new songs we’ll need to play on life’s journey, but we do know what key to play those new songs in.

We play them in the key of God’s grace and love as shown us by Jesus. If we do that the new song will take care of itself.

Jesus makes this clear in today’s Gospel lesson from Luke as he advises those who may face trials and tribulations—arrested and brought before kings and governors to testify.

“Make up your minds not to prepare your defense in advance,” Jesus tells them. 

Compose nothing.

Trust, in other words, the jazz-like improvisation that will flow through you from the grace and love of God.

“I will give you words and a wisdom that none of your opponents will be able to withstand or contradict,” Jesus assures us.

So, pick up your trumpet and blow. The new notes will come, and there is no telling who the Holy Spirit will bring by your side to provide harmony.

When that happens, the walls—from Jericho to whatever dark moment surrounds you—will surely come tumbling down, revealing the way out, a path through life’s rubble and debris.

And what about the rivers?

Their clapping hands will be your joyous hill-ringing percussion.

By Ken Woodley

God must be a fan of jazz, a musical form that encourages individual freedom and creativity.
“Sing to the Lord a new song,” we are told in Psalm 98, “for he has done marvelous things.”
But what new song? What new notes? What key is this new song in? Does it have lyrics? If so, what are they?
We aren’t told. There are pieces of advice, but it’s all very jazzy—and that means a lot of improvisation.
“Shout with joy … lift up your voice … sing to the Lord with the harp … with trumpets and the sound of the horn …”
Fairly standard stuff, in terms of jazz instruments, even though we have no idea what to play.
But then it gets jazzily surreal, a kind of otherworldly jazz-heaven-fusion.
“Let the sea make a noise,” we are advised.
The sea?
And not just the sea but “all that is in it.”
Wow. I’m not sure Miles Davis and John Coltrane could even do that.
But that’s not all.
“Let the rivers clap their hands.”
Okay … um … sure. But rivers don’t have hands.
“And let the hills ring out with joy.”
Please, yes, hills, do so whenever you’re ready. A one and a two and a three…
But what do we do?
We do this:
We play what we feel inside, our new song, our own unique notes and voice.
God is hip to the beat of our different drums.
God cheers on our improvisations, our polyrhythms, and our syncopation as we respond to the very real joys and the very tough challenges of living in a world that often seems fearsomely chaotic.
Life is nothing like the songs in our hymnals. All the notes we will need to sing have not been composed. We don’t even know how many people are going to be in the band, or how long we’ll be playing together.
But that’s okay.
There is a lot we do not know about the new songs we’ll need to play on life’s journey, but we do know what key to play those new songs in.
We play them in the key of God’s grace and love as shown us by Jesus. If we do that the new song will take care of itself.
Jesus makes this clear in today’s Gospel lesson from Luke as he advises those who may face trials and tribulations—arrested and brought before kings and governors to testify.
“Make up your minds not to prepare your defense in advance,” Jesus tells them.
Compose nothing.
Trust, in other words, the jazz-like improvisation that will flow through you from the grace and love of God.
“I will give you words and a wisdom that none of your opponents will be able to withstand or contradict,” Jesus assures us.
So, pick up your trumpet and blow. The new notes will come, and there is no telling who the Holy Spirit will bring by your side to provide harmony.
When that happens, the walls—from Jericho to whatever dark moment surrounds you—will surely come tumbling down, revealing the way out, a path through life’s rubble and debris.
And what about the rivers?
Their clapping hands will be your joyous hill-ringing percussion.

By Ken Woodley

Great. Wonderful. Just right. But look around you and see for yourselves.

We’ve all got our costumes on. We’re wearing our All Saints Day outfits. Yes, you and you and you. And even me.

And the really strange thing is that they’re not really costumes at all. We’re wearing the stuff we wear every day of the week.

That’s the point. As hard as it is to believe.

Me? A saint?

Not hardly. Couldn’t be. I know myself too well to stake any claim to sainthood. But the rest of you? Absolutely. 

I know. Each of you is shaking your head, as well. You have the same doubts as me. You don’t believe for a moment that you’re a saint. You know yourself too well to stake any claim to sainthood.

But, that’s really the point. Saints aren’t perfect. The actual canonized, hall-of-fame, stained-glass-window saints weren’t perfect at all.

Look at Saint Peter and Saint Paul, for crying out loud. They were as flawed as anybody. You and I can’t walk on water. But neither could Peter, even with Jesus there reaching out to him.

And, gosh, how about Paul? 

During the time he went around calling himself Saul, he was an accomplice to many acts of violence, and at least one death—he was there holding the cloaks of those who stoned Saint Stephen.

None of us has done anything like that. Still, we doubt our saintliness. So, consider this:

Jesus has called each one of us the light of the world.

To me, being thought of by Jesus as the light of the world is more amazing than being a saint. But it’s true. Jesus said so. We’ve all been lit up by Jesus in our lives. We’ve all been kindled by God to shine evidence of heavenly love and grace in the world.

If we’re good enough for Jesus, and good enough for God, that should be good enough for anyone. Good enough, even, for ourselves to realize how loved by God and Christ we really are.

Loved as individuals and collectively as a human family.

And how brightly that love shines through us out into the world, filling corners of darkness with light. Because that’s what saints do and, trust me, none of the saints ever thought of themselves as saints. Only we think of them that way. But saints, in spite of their human foibles, give people a glimpse of God’s presence in the world. 

Or maybe, just perhaps, it’s actually through their—through our—fractured places that God is most able to shine into us, and out through us into the world.

By Ken Woodley
Great. Wonderful. Just right. But look around you and see for yourselves.
We’ve all got our costumes on. We’re wearing our All Saints Day outfits. Yes, you and you and you. And even me.
And the really strange thing is that they’re not really costumes at all. We’re wearing the stuff we wear every day of the week.
That’s the point. As hard as it is to believe.
Me? A saint?
Not hardly. Couldn’t be. I know myself too well to stake any claim to sainthood. But the rest of you? Absolutely.
I know. Each of you is shaking your head, as well. You have the same doubts as me. You don’t believe for a moment that you’re a saint. You know yourself too well to stake any claim to sainthood.
But, that’s really the point. Saints aren’t perfect. The actual canonized, hall-of-fame, stained-glass-window saints weren’t perfect at all.
Look at Saint Peter and Saint Paul, for crying out loud. They were as flawed as anybody. You and I can’t walk on water. But neither could Peter, even with Jesus there reaching out to him.
And, gosh, how about Paul?
During the time he went around calling himself Saul, he was an accomplice to many acts of violence, and at least one death—he was there holding the cloaks of those who stoned Saint Stephen.
None of us has done anything like that. Still, we doubt our saintliness. So, consider this:
Jesus has called each one of us the light of the world.
To me, being thought of by Jesus as the light of the world is more amazing than being a saint. But it’s true. Jesus said so. We’ve all been lit up by Jesus in our lives. We’ve all been kindled by God to shine evidence of heavenly love and grace in the world.
If we’re good enough for Jesus, and good enough for God, that should be good enough for anyone. Good enough, even, for ourselves to realize how loved by God and Christ we really are.
Loved as individuals and collectively as a human family.
And how brightly that love shines through us out into the world, filling corners of darkness with light. Because that’s what saints do and, trust me, none of the saints ever thought of themselves as saints. Only we think of them that way. But saints, in spite of their human foibles, give people a glimpse of God’s presence in the world.
Or maybe, just perhaps, it’s actually through their—through our—fractured places that God is most able to shine into us, and out through us into the world.