Blog

By Ken Woodley

“Do not be conformed to this world.”

Seven words.

Eight syllables to live by.

Paul’s advice, delivered in his letter to the Romans, is as important today as it was 2,000 years ago. Perhaps, even more so, as one looks around at the state of the world in which we live.

Seriously, checking out the daily news headlines and soundbites, who would want to be conformed to any of that?

But, as soon as we’re born, the world tries mighty hard to achieve that goal. Almost like some military bootcamp aimed at squeezing out our unique personality traits so that we’ll obey orders without thinking. 

“Conformation” classes begin almost immediately and the conformity blues play its tune right on along the rest of our lives, trying to coax us into thinking like everyone else, believing like everyone else, dreaming like everyone else, shopping like everyone else, voting like everyone else, eating like everyone else, dressing like everyone else, shaving, smelling, driving, you-name-it like everyone else.

Oh, and there’s surely one more: Hating like everyone else.

Mass individuality.

Uniform distinctness.

Fighting to wade ashore against the riptide of conformity to find our own grains of sand with which to build dream castles is a difficult, ongoing struggle.

The temptation to fit snuggly into a comfortable and desirable profile or demographic is powerful. We want to belong to something bigger than ourselves so that we don’t feel so terribly small.

That’s one reason history is littered with dictators who found it so easy to manipulate populations, to conform them.

Assimilate them.

Force them into capitulation by tricking them into believing the choice was theirs.

That’s why Jesus is so wonderfully dangerous.

Not for us, but for the powers that wish to conform us to this world.

Jesus was—and is—the ultimate non-conformist and his path of non-conformity is open wide for us. So wide that it’s not even a path. So wide that wherever each of us goes individually the path of non-conformity exists.

Cross the road like the non-conformist Good Samaritan.

Turn swords into plowshares and spears into pruning hooks.

Move a mountain.

Plant a mustard seed.

Be a mustard seed.

Turn someone’s water into wine.

Touch a leper.

Enter through the narrow gate because the other side brings you to a place that is not the least bit narrow at all and wide open to every possibility.

Believe in love.

Not cookie-cutter love.

Not conformist love.

Not one-size-fits-all love.

But love.

The actual thing, itself.

The living, breathing holy presence that is God among us.

Unconformable.

Waiting for us—longing for us—to become something bigger than ourselves:

LOVE.

By Ken Woodley

“Do not be conformed to this world.”
Seven words.
Eight syllables to live by.
Paul’s advice, delivered in his letter to the Romans, is as important today as it was 2,000 years ago. Perhaps, even more so, as one looks around at the state of the world in which we live.
Seriously, checking out the daily news headlines and soundbites, who would want to be conformed to any of that?
But, as soon as we’re born, the world tries mighty hard to achieve that goal. Almost like some military bootcamp aimed at squeezing out our unique personality traits so that we’ll obey orders without thinking.
“Conformation” classes begin almost immediately and the conformity blues play its tune right on along the rest of our lives, trying to coax us into thinking like everyone else, believing like everyone else, dreaming like everyone else, shopping like everyone else, voting like everyone else, eating like everyone else, dressing like everyone else, shaving, smelling, driving, you-name-it like everyone else.
Oh, and there’s surely one more: Hating like everyone else.
Mass individuality.
Uniform distinctness.
Fighting to wade ashore against the riptide of conformity to find our own grains of sand with which to build dream castles is a difficult, ongoing struggle.
The temptation to fit snuggly into a comfortable and desirable profile or demographic is powerful. We want to belong to something bigger than ourselves so that we don’t feel so terribly small.
That’s one reason history is littered with dictators who found it so easy to manipulate populations, to conform them.
Assimilate them.
Force them into capitulation by tricking them into believing the choice was theirs.
That’s why Jesus is so wonderfully dangerous.
Not for us, but for the powers that wish to conform us to this world.
Jesus was—and is—the ultimate non-conformist and his path of non-conformity is open wide for us. So wide that it’s not even a path. So wide that wherever each of us goes individually the path of non-conformity exists.
Cross the road like the non-conformist Good Samaritan.
Turn swords into plowshares and spears into pruning hooks.
Move a mountain.
Plant a mustard seed.
Be a mustard seed.
Turn someone’s water into wine.
Touch a leper.
Enter through the narrow gate because the other side brings you to a place that is not the least bit narrow at all and wide open to every possibility.
Believe in love.
Not cookie-cutter love.
Not conformist love.
Not one-size-fits-all love.
But love.
The actual thing, itself.
The living, breathing holy presence that is God among us.
Unconformable.
Waiting for us—longing for us—to become something bigger than ourselves:
LOVE.

By Ken Woodley

As the mid-August birdsong around us begins to thin with the first wings of migration south for the coming winter, it’s worth noting that the Bible is full of music that never flies away. The book of Lamentations, for example, plays the blues. And I’ve been hearing the blues, feeling the blues, since my favorite summer sound—the fluted notes of the wood thrush—flew away.

“How lonely sits the city

that once was full of people!

How like a widow she has become …

She weeps bitterly in the night

with tears on her cheeks …

Her pursuers have all overtaken her

in the midst of her distress …

All her gates are desolate …”

“Lamentation” is defined as “the passionate expression of grief or sorrow.”

To lament something is to fall into the deep end of sadness and sink toward the bottom. Lamentation knows no shallow end. We are in over our heads.

There are times in our lives when we feel grief and sorrow with such passion that it nearly tears us apart inside. At such times it is wise to remember that it is not an act of faithlessness to feel and express such sorrow. The passionate expression of grief is not contrary to having faith in God.

Indeed, the act of lamentation may be considered an act of great faith.

The Bible is full of lamentations. The Book of Lamentations is far from the only chapter of pages where we will find them. There are as many psalms that cry out to God in despair as there are those which shout Hallelujah.

Playing the blues in our lives helps us feel and express our sorrow and, therefore, find a way to transcend the sadness.

Nor must we do so alone.

Another verse from Lamentations illustrates the point:

“The thought of my affliction and my homelessness

is wormwood and gall!

My soul continually thinks of it

and is bowed down within me ….”

But that soul—like our own—has not been abandoned by God.

The very next verse declares:

“But this I call to mind,

and therefore have hope:

The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases,

his mercies never come to an end;

they grow every morning;

great is their faithfulness.”

And then the soul itself speaks:

“‘The Lord is my portion,’” says my soul,

“‘therefore I will hope in him.’”

The speaker then ends the lamentation with this consoling wisdom:

“The Lord is good to those who wait for him,

to the soul that seeks him.

It is good that one should wait quietly

for the salvation of the Lord.”

Embracing our moments of sorrow is an act of faithfulness because we may do so with the full knowledge that the love of God will get us through any journey of lamentation. That love is by our side.

The bottom line is that when we play our blues our blues cannot play us and God will keep us in tune. The melody will give us wings.

By Ken Woodley
As the mid-August birdsong around us begins to thin with the first wings of migration south for the coming winter, it’s worth noting that the Bible is full of music that never flies away. The book of Lamentations, for example, plays the blues. And I’ve been hearing the blues, feeling the blues, since my favorite summer sound—the fluted notes of the wood thrush—flew away.

“How lonely sits the city
that once was full of people!
How like a widow she has become …
She weeps bitterly in the night
with tears on her cheeks …
Her pursuers have all overtaken her
in the midst of her distress …
All her gates are desolate …”

“Lamentation” is defined as “the passionate expression of grief or sorrow.”
To lament something is to fall into the deep end of sadness and sink toward the bottom. Lamentation knows no shallow end. We are in over our heads.
There are times in our lives when we feel grief and sorrow with such passion that it nearly tears us apart inside. At such times it is wise to remember that it is not an act of faithlessness to feel and express such sorrow. The passionate expression of grief is not contrary to having faith in God.
Indeed, the act of lamentation may be considered an act of great faith.
The Bible is full of lamentations. The Book of Lamentations is far from the only chapter of pages where we will find them. There are as many psalms that cry out to God in despair as there are those which shout Hallelujah.
Playing the blues in our lives helps us feel and express our sorrow and, therefore, find a way to transcend the sadness.
Nor must we do so alone.
Another verse from Lamentations illustrates the point:

“The thought of my affliction and my homelessness
is wormwood and gall!
My soul continually thinks of it
and is bowed down within me ….”

But that soul—like our own—has not been abandoned by God.
The very next verse declares:

“But this I call to mind,
and therefore have hope:
The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases,
his mercies never come to an end;
they grow every morning;
great is their faithfulness.”

And then the soul itself speaks:

“‘The Lord is my portion,’” says my soul,
“‘therefore I will hope in him.’”

The speaker then ends the lamentation with this consoling wisdom:

“The Lord is good to those who wait for him,
to the soul that seeks him.
It is good that one should wait quietly
for the salvation of the Lord.”

Embracing our moments of sorrow is an act of faithfulness because we may do so with the full knowledge that the love of God will get us through any journey of lamentation. That love is by our side.
The bottom line is that when we play our blues our blues cannot play us and God will keep us in tune. The melody will give us wings.

July 7, 2024 sermon for St. Anne’s Episcopal Church

By Ken Woodley

There is no record of a dog tagging along with Jesus and the apostles, but I suspect there was a beloved canine companion somewhere along the way.

Just as we are blessed by Ranger’s presence.

One possible clue—from the Gospel of Matthew—is how immediately Jesus reacts to the Canannite woman who stands up to him, and pleads for her daughter’s healing, by replying that even dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their master’s table. 

Tellingly the Greek translation of the word Jesus used, and the Canaanite woman repeated, specifically means a “small dog” or a “pet dog.” Jesus did not choose the word “dog” that means an unspiritual person or unclean animal.

Jesus had probably shared more than a few crumbs with a doe-eyed tail-wagging pet dog at some point. He was too compassionate not to have done so. 

And so I like to believe that the woman’s comment took him straight back to the feel of a dog’s warm, wet and grateful tongue on the palm of his hand as the crumbs were licked up.

The clearest indication of paw prints on Jesus’s heart might be the advice he gives the twelve apostles in today’s Gospel lesson before he sends them out to spread the Good News.

“If any place will not welcome you and they refuse to hear you,” Jesus tells them, “as you leave, shake off the dust that is on your feet as a testimony against them.”

That wise counsel has been acted out by dogs for thousands of years. It is a well-known fact that dogs shake as a coping mechanism to relieve and reduce stress. It’s a way they calm themselves down.

That may be where we get the expression, “Shake it off,” mostly used in sports after an error or dropped pass. “Shake it off. Next play, go get ‘em.”

Pugsley, my dear departed four-legged best friend, hated baths. He’d always shake after Kim took him out of the tub, but it wasn’t to get dry. It was to calm himself down and get rid of the tension.

Our little pug, who I still miss so deeply, also hated the snow. I always shoveled out part of the front yard for him, but he would still shake vigorously when he got back inside the warm house after doing his business.

So, yes, I believe Jesus had seen more than one dog shake off a difficult experience and knew why it had done so. That physical act sent a calming get-beyond-it message to the dog’s brain. It’s over and done. Time to move on.

That is the message Jesus wanted the apostles to send themselves.

A focused, intentional and physical way to help rid themselves of the pain and disappointment—the stress—of rejection, an affirming action to keep them from losing heart along the way.

If the rejecting community took it as a sign against their hard-heartedness, fine. But I believe Jesus was thinking more about uplifting the apostles than putting down those who wouldn’t listen.

The physical dust in the Gospel of Mark is a symbol of how negative, stressful experiences can cover us with an invisible layer of painful memory, unseen but keenly felt.

There are many times in our lives when we need to shake someone’s metaphoric dust off our feet. Big or little moments of rudeness or rejection, or stressful challenges in a tension-filled day.

Even minor irritations can hurt way more than they should—like  a splinter left in the skin—if we don’t deal with them.

It can be so helpful to follow the advice of Jesus and the example of dogs and find some way to shake that “dust” off our feet.

If we don’t, then it comes home with us. It gets all over the rug, covers the furniture. It even gets on the people we live with and love. 

The irritation, stress or hurt that we haven’t shaken off affects our mood and our mood impacts everyone around us.

It begins to “dust” our soul. And theirs.

The things we don’t shake off also distract us from the many ways God is trying to open our hearts to the healing, loving and compassionately-wise presence of the Holy Spirit within us.

There are any number of ways to shake off the world’s “dust” but we have to be focused and intentional about it.  We tell ourselves, I’m going to do this to shake off the “dust.”

Then we say a thoughtful prayer, play a favorite record album or cd, go for a walk, read a treasured passage of scripture, make a bowl of popcorn, share a great big hug with someone we love.

We can even write the word “dust” on a sheet of paper, then ball that piece of paper up and throw it in the trash. I have a friend who received that precise advice from a therapist: Write down what’s hurting you, ball it up and throw it away.

Shake it off. Turn the page. 

Find whatever works for you and make that be your declaration of independence over the “dust” of the world. 

Ring your liberty bell loud and clear. Wag your tail and bark to heaven.

Because God is able to serve us far more than crumbs from the table when we do. Abundant love will fill our plate. 

Enough love to share. Enough love for Pugsley. Enough love for Ranger. Enough love for everyone in the world. But we must be careful. The dust of others isn’t the only “dust of the world.”

There is also our own. 

The dust we create that could cover others and the love we have to share. In the end, shaking off our own “dust” is the most important thing of all. That is where the revolutionary war of love is first won or lost.

July 7, 2024 sermon for St. Anne’s Episcopal Church

By Ken Woodley

There is no record of a dog tagging along with Jesus and the apostles, but I suspect there was a beloved canine companion somewhere along the way.

Just as we are blessed by Ranger’s presence.

One possible clue—from the Gospel of Matthew—is how immediately Jesus reacts to the Canannite woman who stands up to him, and pleads for her daughter’s healing, by replying that even dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their master’s table.

Tellingly the Greek translation of the word Jesus used, and the Canaanite woman repeated, specifically means a “small dog” or a “pet dog.” Jesus did not choose the word “dog” that means an unspiritual person or unclean animal.

Jesus had probably shared more than a few crumbs with a doe-eyed tail-wagging pet dog at some point. He was too compassionate not to have done so.

And so I like to believe that the woman’s comment took him straight back to the feel of a dog’s warm, wet and grateful tongue on the palm of his hand as the crumbs were licked up.

The clearest indication of paw prints on Jesus’s heart might be the advice he gives the twelve apostles in today’s Gospel lesson before he sends them out to spread the Good News.

“If any place will not welcome you and they refuse to hear you,” Jesus tells them, “as you leave, shake off the dust that is on your feet as a testimony against them.”

That wise counsel has been acted out by dogs for thousands of years. It is a well-known fact that dogs shake as a coping mechanism to relieve and reduce stress. It’s a way they calm themselves down.

That may be where we get the expression, “Shake it off,” mostly used in sports after an error or dropped pass. “Shake it off. Next play, go get ‘em.”

Pugsley, my dear departed four-legged best friend, hated baths. He’d always shake after Kim took him out of the tub, but it wasn’t to get dry. It was to calm himself down and get rid of the tension.

Our little pug, who I still miss so deeply, also hated the snow. I always shoveled out part of the front yard for him, but he would still shake vigorously when he got back inside the warm house after doing his business.

So, yes, I believe Jesus had seen more than one dog shake off a difficult experience and knew why it had done so. That physical act sent a calming get-beyond-it message to the dog’s brain. It’s over and done. Time to move on.

That is the message Jesus wanted the apostles to send themselves.

A focused, intentional and physical way to help rid themselves of the pain and disappointment—the stress—of rejection, an affirming action to keep them from losing heart along the way.

If the rejecting community took it as a sign against their hard-heartedness, fine. But I believe Jesus was thinking more about uplifting the apostles than putting down those who wouldn’t listen.

The physical dust in the Gospel of Mark is a symbol of how negative, stressful experiences can cover us with an invisible layer of painful memory, unseen but keenly felt.

There are many times in our lives when we need to shake someone’s metaphoric dust off our feet. Big or little moments of rudeness or rejection, or stressful challenges in a tension-filled day.

Even minor irritations can hurt way more than they should—like a splinter left in the skin—if we don’t deal with them.

It can be so helpful to follow the advice of Jesus and the example of dogs and find some way to shake that “dust” off our feet.

If we don’t, then it comes home with us. It gets all over the rug, covers the furniture. It even gets on the people we live with and love.

The irritation, stress or hurt that we haven’t shaken off affects our mood and our mood impacts everyone around us.

It begins to “dust” our soul. And theirs.

The things we don’t shake off also distract us from the many ways God is trying to open our hearts to the healing, loving and compassionately-wise presence of the Holy Spirit within us.

There are any number of ways to shake off the world’s “dust” but we have to be focused and intentional about it. We tell ourselves, I’m going to do this to shake off the “dust.”

Then we say a thoughtful prayer, play a favorite record album or cd, go for a walk, read a treasured passage of scripture, make a bowl of popcorn, share a great big hug with someone we love.

We can even write the word “dust” on a sheet of paper, then ball that piece of paper up and throw it in the trash. I have a friend who received that precise advice from a therapist: Write down what’s hurting you, ball it up and throw it away.

Shake it off. Turn the page.

Find whatever works for you and make that be your declaration of independence over the “dust” of the world.

Ring your liberty bell loud and clear. Wag your tail and bark to heaven.

Because God is able to serve us far more than crumbs from the table when we do. Abundant love will fill our plate.

Enough love to share. Enough love for Pugsley. Enough love for Ranger. Enough love for everyone in the world. But we must be careful. The dust of others isn’t the only “dust of the world.”

There is also our own.

The dust we create that could cover others and the love we have to share. In the end, shaking off our own “dust” is the most important thing of all. That is where the revolutionary war of love is first won or lost.

“A great windstorm arose, and the waves beat into the boat, so that the boat was already being swamped. But he was in the stern, asleep on the cushion; and they woke him up and said to him, ‘Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?’ He woke up and rebuked the wind, and said to the sea, ‘Peace! Be still!’ Then the wind ceased, and there was dead calm.”

—The Gospel of Mark

By Ken Woodley

I really can’t blame the disciples.

The Sea of Galilee is the lowest freshwater lake in the world and the second lowest lake of any kind on Earth.

Because it is so far below sea level and surrounded by mountains, it is notorious for the ferocity and sudden onslaught of its storms. The surrounding mountains, in fact, can focus the force of the wind in a particularly frightening way. 

Peace one moment, then the lake feels like it has gone to war against you, torpedos and depth-charges exploding all around you.

Had I been in that boat with Jesus, I would have been freaking out. No question. 

My voice would have joined the panicky chorus of the other disciples.

“Hey!” I would have shouted, shaking Jesus by the shoulders with both hands, “don’t you care that this storm threatens my very existence?!?!”

We’ve all been there, experiencing a sudden difficulty that rises up over the top of our lives and threatens to swamp and sink us.

What I wouldn’t give to be able to sleep through the sudden storms in my life and simply wake up when the passing trouble—whatever it might be—had gone.

How comforting were we able to rebuke the wind and say to the sea—and have the wind and waves listen and obey—“Peace! Be still!”

If only we could be like Jesus, I think to myself, before realizing that we do have the ability to shush the wind and end the storm.

Sort of. In a way. 

We simply need to recall one vital fact.

We just need to remember that in every circumstance Jesus is in our boat. Wherever our boat is and even if our own Sea of Galilee is acting like the scariest special effect Hollywood can muster.

And if Jesus is in our boat then we cannot sink. But even if we do sink then Jesus will raise us up.

Remembering that, of course, is not always so very easy for us. Worries about so many different things come calling and we often invite them in and make them really comfortable.

When we do that it has the very same effect as the mountains and the very low sea level of the Sea of Galilee: we focus the force of our worries until they become storming anxieties in a particularly frightening way.

We make them so strong that we can’t make them leave. They stay right where they are and take up residency in our lives. We start getting their mail and answering their phone calls.

We ask them what they want for dinner, what game they want to watch on TV. We talk to them more than we talk to our own spouses.

“Sorry, sweetheart, not right now. I’m having a really deep conversation with my anxieties.”

We are often most vulnerable when anxieties wake us up in the middle of the night and toss us with their waves.

But sometimes our anxieties over-do it: a really big wave of anxiety washes over us, nearly tossing us overboard, but that gets our attention.

We finally remember that, oh, yeah, Jesus is in our boat.  And we need to keep that thought centermost in our mind. Sometimes I will literally tell myself “Jesus is in my boat” and then focus on how real that feels inside me.

When I do, I feel a gradual, deepening peace.

I feel the wind dropping and the waves growing smaller and smaller.

Soon enough there is a gentle calm all around.

Even if the waves remain, however, I just don’t feel them as strongly.

Or fear them.

At least not until the next storm.

The skies lighten. Birds begin to sing. I feel a rainbow inside me.

The rainbow of Jesus in my boat.

Together we reach the shore that I’d been searching for and sailing towards before the storm rushed over the mountains like an army of dragons.

We reach the other side of the sea even though, physically, we haven’t moved an inch and aren’t even really in a boat.

That is because the most important journeys are deep down inside us and the storms can’t reach that far.

Only God’s love can find those deepest places.

Maybe that was what Jesus was hoping the disciples would learn for themselves that day. 

Perhaps at some point all the ruckus actually, and quite naturally, woke him up and he was only pretending to remain asleep, waiting for one of them to say: 

“Wait a minute, Jesus is in our boat and God’s love is the life-preserver of our souls.

“So let’s not be afraid. Storms will come and storms will go. But  we’re going to keep on sailing our boat, knowing that we’re never alone as we cross these sometimes troubled waters

“A great windstorm arose, and the waves beat into the boat, so that the boat was already being swamped. But he was in the stern, asleep on the cushion; and they woke him up and said to him, ‘Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?’ He woke up and rebuked the wind, and said to the sea, ‘Peace! Be still!’ Then the wind ceased, and there was dead calm.”

—The Gospel of Mark


By Ken Woodley

I really can’t blame the disciples.

The Sea of Galilee is the lowest freshwater lake in the world and the second lowest lake of any kind on Earth.

Because it is so far below sea level and surrounded by mountains, it is notorious for the ferocity and sudden onslaught of its storms. The surrounding mountains, in fact, can focus the force of the wind in a particularly frightening way.

Peace one moment, then the lake feels like it has gone to war against you, torpedos and depth-charges exploding all around you.

Had I been in that boat with Jesus, I would have been freaking out. No question.

My voice would have joined the panicky chorus of the other disciples.

“Hey!” I would have shouted, shaking Jesus by the shoulders with both hands, “don’t you care that this storm threatens my very existence?!?!”

We’ve all been there, experiencing a sudden difficulty that rises up over the top of our lives and threatens to swamp and sink us.

What I wouldn’t give to be able to sleep through the sudden storms in my life and simply wake up when the passing trouble—whatever it might be—had gone.

How comforting were we able to rebuke the wind and say to the sea—and have the wind and waves listen and obey—“Peace! Be still!”

If only we could be like Jesus, I think to myself, before realizing that we do have the ability to shush the wind and end the storm.

Sort of. In a way.

We simply need to recall one vital fact.

We just need to remember that in every circumstance Jesus is in our boat. Wherever our boat is and even if our own Sea of Galilee is acting like the scariest special effect Hollywood can muster.

And if Jesus is in our boat then we cannot sink. But even if we do sink then Jesus will raise us up.

Remembering that, of course, is not always so very easy for us. Worries about so many different things come calling and we often invite them in and make them really comfortable.

When we do that it has the very same effect as the mountains and the very low sea level of the Sea of Galilee: we focus the force of our worries until they become storming anxieties in a particularly frightening way.

We make them so strong that we can’t make them leave. They stay right where they are and take up residency in our lives. We start getting their mail and answering their phone calls.

We ask them what they want for dinner, what game they want to watch on TV. We talk to them more than we talk to our own spouses.

“Sorry, sweetheart, not right now. I’m having a really deep conversation with my anxieties.”

We are often most vulnerable when anxieties wake us up in the middle of the night and toss us with their waves.

But sometimes our anxieties over-do it: a really big wave of anxiety washes over us, nearly tossing us overboard, but that gets our attention.

We finally remember that, oh, yeah, Jesus is in our boat. And we need to keep that thought centermost in our mind. Sometimes I will literally tell myself “Jesus is in my boat” and then focus on how real that feels inside me.

When I do, I feel a gradual, deepening peace.

I feel the wind dropping and the waves growing smaller and smaller.

Soon enough there is a gentle calm all around.
Even if the waves remain, however, I just don’t feel them as strongly.
Or fear them.

At least not until the next storm.

The skies lighten. Birds begin to sing. I feel a rainbow inside me.
The rainbow of Jesus in my boat.

Together we reach the shore that I’d been searching for and sailing towards before the storm rushed over the mountains like an army of dragons.

We reach the other side of the sea even though, physically, we haven’t moved an inch and aren’t even really in a boat.

That is because the most important journeys are deep down inside us and the storms can’t reach that far.

Only God’s love can find those deepest places.

Maybe that was what Jesus was hoping the disciples would learn for themselves that day.
Perhaps at some point all the ruckus actually, and quite naturally, woke him up and he was only pretending to remain asleep, waiting for one of them to say:
“Wait a minute, Jesus is in our boat and God’s love is the life-preserver of our souls.

“So let’s not be afraid. Storms will come and storms will go. But we’re going to keep on sailing our boat, knowing that we’re never alone as we cross these sometimes troubled waters

By Ken Woodley

“Who, me?”

The young Jeremiah’s reaction is completely understandable. He’s not even old for his prophetic learner’s permit, much less a prophets license.

God, after all, had told him this:

“Before I formed you in the womb I knew you,

and before you were born I consecrated you;

I appointed you a prophet to the nations.”

Those words from God are enough to make anyone’s head spin fast enough to dizzy them. Jeremiah is incredulous, as we’d all be.

“Ah, Lord God! Truly I do not know how to speak, for I am only a boy,” Jeremiah replies, unaware that God doesn’t mind at all if a little child shall lead them.

God’s not-so-fast reply leaves nothing to the imagination. And it refuses, as God often does, to take “No” for an answer.

“Do not say, ‘I am only a boy’;

for you shall go to all to whom I send you,

and you shall speak whatever I command you,

Do not be afraid of them,

for I am with you to deliver you.”

Moreover, God also lets Jeremiah know what to say when he does speak truth to power. 

“Now I have put my words in your mouth,” God tells the youthful prophet.

The real truth is that God sees far more potential in each of us than we see in ourselves. He saw more in the young Jeremiah than the boy could ever imagine. 

And God sees more in you and me than we could ever dream of.

God gives us clues to how much potential waits within us as we pray. Our prayer time opens up the channel of communication. 

Or sometimes it’s just a sudden inspiration or an idea God drops into the mailbox of our mind. 

But just as often, God speaks to us through other people who seemingly come up to us out of the blue and give us opportunities to do things we never saw ourselves doing.

God wants all of us to feel loved and valued. God wants us to have a sense of our own self-worth and as having a meaningful place in God’s world and its redemption through love and grace. 

Not in a grandiose egotistical way. But in a way that is simultaneously incredibly uplifting and beautifully humbling.

We can also have faith—whenever God tells us “I want you to do this” and we move beyond “Who, me?” to “Okay, Lord, I’ll try to climb that mountain”—that God will give us exactly what we need precisely when we need it most.

Who, me?

“Yes,” God replies, “definitely. And I will be your sherpa.”

By Ken Woodley

“Who, me?”
The young Jeremiah’s reaction is completely understandable. He’s not even old for his prophetic learner’s permit, much less a prophets license.
God, after all, had told him this:

“Before I formed you in the womb I knew you,
and before you were born I consecrated you;
I appointed you a prophet to the nations.”

Those words from God are enough to make anyone’s head spin fast enough to dizzy them. Jeremiah is incredulous, as we’d all be.
“Ah, Lord God! Truly I do not know how to speak, for I am only a boy,” Jeremiah replies, unaware that God doesn’t mind at all if a little child shall lead them.
God’s not-so-fast reply leaves nothing to the imagination. And it refuses, as God often does, to take “No” for an answer.

“Do not say, ‘I am only a boy’;
for you shall go to all to whom I send you,
and you shall speak whatever I command you,
Do not be afraid of them,
for I am with you to deliver you.”

Moreover, God also lets Jeremiah know what to say when he does speak truth to power.

“Now I have put my words in your mouth,” God tells the youthful prophet.

The real truth is that God sees far more potential in each of us than we see in ourselves. He saw more in the young Jeremiah than the boy could ever imagine.
And God sees more in you and me than we could ever dream of.
God gives us clues to how much potential waits within us as we pray. Our prayer time opens up the channel of communication.
Or sometimes it’s just a sudden inspiration or an idea God drops into the mailbox of our mind.
But just as often, God speaks to us through other people who seemingly come up to us out of the blue and give us opportunities to do things we never saw ourselves doing.
God wants all of us to feel loved and valued. God wants us to have a sense of our own self-worth and as having a meaningful place in God’s world and its redemption through love and grace.
Not in a grandiose egotistical way. But in a way that is simultaneously incredibly uplifting and beautifully humbling.
We can also have faith—whenever God tells us “I want you to do this” and we move beyond “Who, me?” to “Okay, Lord, I’ll try to climb that mountain”—that God will give us exactly what we need precisely when we need it most.
Who, me?
“Yes,” God replies, “definitely. And I will be your sherpa.”

By Ken Woodley 

‘Hey, Lazarus, how’s your tomb?’ I can imagine some smart-alecky cynic asking that question. 

I can’t answer for Lazarus, but my tomb’s pretty much like it always is: waiting for me to climb back inside.

Back in February, I saw that Lazarus was one of two “contestants” that day in Forward Movement’s annual Lenten Madness tournament. 

The competition resembles the NCAA’s March Madness. But instead of teams there are holy individuals, some of them saints. Each night two are paired against each other. The winning vote-getter advances to the next round, the best reaching the Saintly 16, the Elate 8 and the Faithful 4.

Eventually one of them will win the ultimate prize—the Golden Halo.

“Lazarus?!?!” I scoffed, “what is Lazarus doing in this competition? He never did anything. Jesus did all the work raising him from the dead.”

My self-assured and derisive judgment of Lazarus lasted all of a few seconds when I had one of those flash insights from the Holy Spirit. Something I’d never heard preached before. Something I’d never read in any theological text.

“Oh, yes,” I knew, Lazarus definitely deserved to be in the competition. He deserved to win it. 

Never having risen from the dead, how could I negatively judge Lazarus? I had no idea what it took for him to partner with Jesus in this most miraculous miracle.

But in that flash of Holy Spirit-driven insight I knew that Lazarus was responsible for 50 percent of the miracle.

Jesus, remember, stood just outside the tomb and said, “Lazarus, come out.”

We can’t see into the tomb but clearly something began to happen.

Lazarus somehow heard Jesus. And, crucially, he listened. Even though he was dead. 

Most importantly, Lazarus had the faith to act. 

That was his share of the miracle.

Lazarus rose from the dead.

Jesus didn’t levitate Lazarus like some sideshow magician.

Lazarus came out of the tomb.

Jesus didn’t carry or drag him out.

Lazarus listened and believed.

And what an example he became, and remains, for all of us. 

We all have moments when Jesus is trying to get our attention and we think maybe we “hear” something in our soul but we’re entombed by something in the world around us, entombed by something that happened, or is happening, in our lives, and the words of Jesus go missing.

I know that has happened to me more times than I’d like to remember.

And because we don’t listen there is no way we can act on what the Holy Spirit is trying to tell us.

We remain blind to the miraculous possibilities of what might have been all around us.

As blind as Bartimaeus.

The healing of Bartimaeus is another of the very few times we actually know the name of the person Jesus heals.

Bartimaeus, the blind man begging outside the gates of Jericho. Bartimaeus, who hears a voice and knows it is Jesus even though he cannot see him.

A blind man who can see the truth about Jesus far more clearly than so many of the people who have perfectly fine vision. Voices are raised against Bartimaeus. He is rebuked for calling out, “Jesus, son of David, have mercy on me.”

Bartimaeus doesn’t listen to what they are shouting at him and continues pleading with Jesus, who stops and tells those around him to call Bartimaeus to come over to him.

Bartimaeus doesn’t slowly get to his feet. He jumps up, throwing his cloak aside, and runs to Jesus, who asks him a very simple, very direct question: “What do you want me to do for you?”

“Rabbi,” Bartimaeus replies, “I want to see.”

Then, as so often happens, the pleading sufferer is healed. But it’s not Jesus acting alone. It’s a partnership. It’s teamwork.

Jesus doesn’t tell Bartimaeus, “Go, I have healed you.”

No, not at all. Jesus says, “Go, your faith has healed you.”

Bartimaeus needed to do more than just hear what Jesus said.  He had to listen. And then, most important of all, Bartimaeus had to  have the faith to act upon what he had heard and listened to.

Just like Lazarus.

Hearing and listening are not the same thing. Anyone who isn’t deaf can hear. Hearing is an involuntary act. We hear things all the time. Sounds and noises all around us.

Birds singing. Sirens racing down the road.

Maybe even the voice of God.

But listening requires effort and concentration.

Bartimaeus didn’t just hear Jesus.

Like Lazarus, he listened.

And so he understood. He comprehended so deeply that his faith was fully engaged, allowing his vision to be restored.

These two stories speak directly to us because there is a bit of Lazarus and Bartimaeus in each of us.

Many of us have some kind of tomb in our lives: the tomb of anxiety, the tomb of addiction, the tomb of having been abused as a child, the tomb of loneliness, the tomb of not being able to fully believe that God really loves us just the way we are. 

There is an infinite variety of tombs and so we remain dead to the new life that is waiting just beyond the tomb’s darkness, out there with Jesus in the light.

Jesus waiting, wanting to get our attention, hoping we will hear, praying we will listen to him.

Waiting to be our partner. Wanting to be our teammate.

Waiting and wanting us to act.

Easter was four Sundays ago. Our own resurrection awaits each of us at the end of our lives. But there are other tombs for us to rise from during our lifetimes and Jesus is standing next to every one of them.

No matter how many times it takes us to finally leave that tomb forever. 

I hear him calling to me now. It’s time for me to listen.

Maybe today, I’ll keep walking into the light with Jesus and not look back into the darkness.

Maybe some day the world will, too.

                                           AMEN

By Ken Woodley

‘Hey, Lazarus, how’s your tomb?’ I can imagine some smart-alecky cynic asking that question.

I can’t answer for Lazarus, but my tomb’s pretty much like it always is: waiting for me to climb back inside.

Back in February, I saw that Lazarus was one of two “contestants” that day in Forward Movement’s annual Lenten Madness tournament.

The competition resembles the NCAA’s March Madness. But instead of teams there are holy individuals, some of them saints. Each night two are paired against each other. The winning vote-getter advances to the next round, the best reaching the Saintly 16, the Elate 8 and the Faithful 4.

Eventually one of them will win the ultimate prize—the Golden Halo.

“Lazarus?!?!” I scoffed, “what is Lazarus doing in this competition? He never did anything. Jesus did all the work raising him from the dead.”

My self-assured and derisive judgment of Lazarus lasted all of a few seconds when I had one of those flash insights from the Holy Spirit. Something I’d never heard preached before. Something I’d never read in any theological text.

“Oh, yes,” I knew, Lazarus definitely deserved to be in the competition. He deserved to win it.

Never having risen from the dead, how could I negatively judge Lazarus? I had no idea what it took for him to partner with Jesus in this most miraculous miracle.

But in that flash of Holy Spirit-driven insight I knew that Lazarus was responsible for 50 percent of the miracle.

Jesus, remember, stood just outside the tomb and said, “Lazarus, come out.”

We can’t see into the tomb but clearly something began to happen.

Lazarus somehow heard Jesus. And, crucially, he listened. Even though he was dead.

Most importantly, Lazarus had the faith to act.
That was his share of the miracle.

Lazarus rose from the dead.
Jesus didn’t levitate Lazarus like some sideshow magician.

Lazarus came out of the tomb.
Jesus didn’t carry or drag him out.

Lazarus listened and believed.
And what an example he became, and remains, for all of us.

We all have moments when Jesus is trying to get our attention and we think maybe we “hear” something in our soul but we’re entombed by something in the world around us, entombed by something that happened, or is happening, in our lives, and the words of Jesus go missing.

I know that has happened to me more times than I’d like to remember.

And because we don’t listen there is no way we can act on what the Holy Spirit is trying to tell us.

We remain blind to the miraculous possibilities of what might have been all around us.

As blind as Bartimaeus.

The healing of Bartimaeus is another of the very few times we actually know the name of the person Jesus heals.

Bartimaeus, the blind man begging outside the gates of Jericho. Bartimaeus, who hears a voice and knows it is Jesus even though he cannot see him.

A blind man who can see the truth about Jesus far more clearly than so many of the people who have perfectly fine vision. Voices are raised against Bartimaeus. He is rebuked for calling out, “Jesus, son of David, have mercy on me.”

Bartimaeus doesn’t listen to what they are shouting at him and continues pleading with Jesus, who stops and tells those around him to call Bartimaeus to come over to him.

Bartimaeus doesn’t slowly get to his feet. He jumps up, throwing his cloak aside, and runs to Jesus, who asks him a very simple, very direct question: “What do you want me to do for you?”

“Rabbi,” Bartimaeus replies, “I want to see.”

Then, as so often happens, the pleading sufferer is healed. But it’s not Jesus acting alone. It’s a partnership. It’s teamwork.

Jesus doesn’t tell Bartimaeus, “Go, I have healed you.”
No, not at all. Jesus says, “Go, your faith has healed you.”

Bartimaeus needed to do more than just hear what Jesus said. He had to listen. And then, most important of all, Bartimaeus had to have the faith to act upon what he had heard and listened to.

Just like Lazarus.

Hearing and listening are not the same thing. Anyone who isn’t deaf can hear. Hearing is an involuntary act. We hear things all the time. Sounds and noises all around us.

Birds singing. Sirens racing down the road.
Maybe even the voice of God.
But listening requires effort and concentration.
Bartimaeus didn’t just hear Jesus.
Like Lazarus, he listened.
And so he understood. He comprehended so deeply that his faith was fully engaged, allowing his vision to be restored.

These two stories speak directly to us because there is a bit of Lazarus and Bartimaeus in each of us.

Many of us have some kind of tomb in our lives: the tomb of anxiety, the tomb of addiction, the tomb of having been abused as a child, the tomb of loneliness, the tomb of not being able to fully believe that God really loves us just the way we are.

There is an infinite variety of tombs and so we remain dead to the new life that is waiting just beyond the tomb’s darkness, out there with Jesus in the light.

Jesus waiting, wanting to get our attention, hoping we will hear, praying we will listen to him.


Waiting to be our partner. Wanting to be our teammate.

Waiting and wanting us to act.

Easter was four Sundays ago. Our own resurrection awaits each of us at the end of our lives. But there are other tombs for us to rise from during our lifetimes and Jesus is standing next to every one of them.

No matter how many times it takes us to finally leave that tomb forever.

I hear him calling to me now. It’s time for me to listen.

Maybe today, I’ll keep walking into the light with Jesus and not look back into the darkness.

Maybe some day the world will, too.

By Ken Woodley

Happy Easter?

How happy can Easter really be for someone who has lost a loved one?

How happy was the first Easter for Thomas? He had just lost a loved one and Easter was one of the saddest days of his life.

While his best friends were giddy with astonished joy as they related the story of Jesus appearing to them in the upper room, Thomas was wrapped in sorrow.

“Peace be with you,” Jesus had told the disciples before showing them his wounds. 

Imagine their joy at spending time with the resurrected Jesus. 

But Thomas had not been with them. He’d missed out and Thomas was so unhappy that he went down in history as Doubting Thomas.

“We have seen the Lord,” his fellow disciples had told him, their faces undoubtedly split wide open by huge smiles, their eyes alight and sparkling with happiness—just as ours might be at the end of an Easter morning service, wishing happy Easter to all we see.

But how happy could Easter have possibly been for Thomas, who had lost Jesus to the hammer and nails of the crucifixion?

“Happy Easter” was just two words that meant nothing to him.

Or, worse, they rubbed salt in his wounds of sorrow.

“Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe,” Thomas had replied. 

I might have spoken those same words if I had been standing in the shoes of Thomas. 

But Jesus appeared again, and this time Thomas was there. A week later, Jesus gave Thomas a chance to touch his wounds and “Happy Easter” suddenly became two words that meant everything to him.

Thomas joined his friends as resurrection witnesses, trying to convince others that Jesus had risen, that “Happy Easter” could pour its meaning into the deepest of our earthly sorrows—even into the place deep inside our heart where we mourn the loss of someone we love most dearly.

Easter matters because resurrection is promised to us all. Easter would indeed be a hollow mockery to our human hearts if it were just something experienced by Jesus alone.

If Easter was just a “Jesus event” it would be pointless. God rose from the dead? Big deal. But Easter is not just a Jesus event. Easter is a you and me event. Easter is an event our departed loved ones have already experienced for themselves. Jesus said so. Some day, we shall join them. Jesus said so.

“Do not let your hearts be troubled. Trust in God, trust also in me. In my Father’s house are many rooms; if it were not so I would have told you. I am going there to prepare a place for you. And if I go to prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me, that you may also be where I am,” Jesus tells us in the 14th chapter of the Gospel of John.

There are days and nights and weeks and months when our tears of sorrow will make it hard for us to read those words but there are no tears on Earth that can wash the promise of those words away.

Can I prove it? Probably not. But doesn’t the world—don’t you and I—desperately need something far more wondrous than anything I can prove? That is precisely what God’s love has given us. But it is okay to doubt it. 

If we doubt then we are in good company. We are locked in that upper room in all of our sorrow with the disciples. And Jesus is coming to touch the mark of our deep wounds. Jesus doesn’t doubt our wounds. He knows we all have them. That is why he is on the way. 

By Ken Woodley

Happy Easter?
How happy can Easter really be for someone who has lost a loved one?
How happy was the first Easter for Thomas? He had just lost a loved one and Easter was one of the saddest days of his life.
While his best friends were giddy with astonished joy as they related the story of Jesus appearing to them in the upper room, Thomas was wrapped in sorrow.
“Peace be with you,” Jesus had told the disciples before showing them his wounds.
Imagine their joy at spending time with the resurrected Jesus.
But Thomas had not been with them. He’d missed out and Thomas was so unhappy that he went down in history as Doubting Thomas.
“We have seen the Lord,” his fellow disciples had told him, their faces undoubtedly split wide open by huge smiles, their eyes alight and sparkling with happiness—just as ours might be at the end of an Easter morning service, wishing happy Easter to all we see.
But how happy could Easter have possibly been for Thomas, who had lost Jesus to the hammer and nails of the crucifixion?
“Happy Easter” was just two words that meant nothing to him.
Or, worse, they rubbed salt in his wounds of sorrow.
“Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe,” Thomas had replied.
I might have spoken those same words if I had been standing in the shoes of Thomas.
But Jesus appeared again, and this time Thomas was there. A week later, Jesus gave Thomas a chance to touch his wounds and “Happy Easter” suddenly became two words that meant everything to him.
Thomas joined his friends as resurrection witnesses, trying to convince others that Jesus had risen, that “Happy Easter” could pour its meaning into the deepest of our earthly sorrows—even into the place deep inside our heart where we mourn the loss of someone we love most dearly.
Easter matters because resurrection is promised to us all. Easter would indeed be a hollow mockery to our human hearts if it were just something experienced by Jesus alone.
If Easter was just a “Jesus event” it would be pointless. God rose from the dead? Big deal. But Easter is not just a Jesus event. Easter is a you and me event. Easter is an event our departed loved ones have already experienced for themselves. Jesus said so. Some day, we shall join them. Jesus said so.
“Do not let your hearts be troubled. Trust in God, trust also in me. In my Father’s house are many rooms; if it were not so I would have told you. I am going there to prepare a place for you. And if I go to prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me, that you may also be where I am,” Jesus tells us in the 14th chapter of the Gospel of John.
There are days and nights and weeks and months when our tears of sorrow will make it hard for us to read those words but there are no tears on Earth that can wash the promise of those words away.
Can I prove it? Probably not. But doesn’t the world—don’t you and I—desperately need something far more wondrous than anything I can prove? That is precisely what God’s love has given us. But it is okay to doubt it.
If we doubt then we are in good company. We are locked in that upper room in all of our sorrow with the disciples. And Jesus is coming to touch the mark of our deep wounds. Jesus doesn’t doubt our wounds. He knows we all have them. That is why he is on the way.