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By Ken Woodley

“In the morning, while it was still very dark, he got up and went to a deserted place, and there he prayed.”

—the Gospel of Mark


I remember being a child in Nazareth,
sitting on the flat roof of our house under a night sky
so filled with stars
that I thought the darkness would turn itself inside out.

But there is more darkness in the world than is found in the night sky
and I prayed that one day, no matter what,
the light would turn all of that other darkness inside out.

That is still my prayer, God.

But I also prayed that the light would somehow turn me inside out, too.
And then one day you did.
The light of your love turned me upside down and inside out.
It still does.
Astonishing me.
Especially when I need it most.

And so here I am in this deserted place,
under the star-pricked sky,
feeling almost like a child in school
who has precisely followed his teacher’s instructions:
Make an imaginary night sky
by poking small holes in dark construction paper
to let the flashlight shine through from behind
like midnight constellations.

Almost.
Because I am the child
who chose to tear away the dark paper
and let in all of the light, instead,
forever shining your love into the souls
of those who’ve gone away now
with their healing and their scars,
leaving me weary but warily exhilarated
at the luminous possibilities of it all,
brushing the hammers and the nails aside
—even though they always return—
and living the life you dreamed I would,
feeling the corner of your smile widening inside me,

and a joy deeper than rumbling laughter
reflected in the moonlight sailing on the waves below.

By Ken Woodley

Imagine how it must have felt to have been healed by Jesus.

In person and face-to-face.

To feel his words.

His hands.

His love.

It may, at least at first, felt somewhat disconcerting. After years of infirmity, you are suddenly cast away from that which hounded you for so long. Perhaps it felt a little like this:

Suddenly all of the dissonance is gone.

But I cannot hear a thing.

Nothing at all.

Without the dissonance there isn’t a single solitary sound. 

Nothing … but … this … other … thing.

This other thing that is not dissonance.

How can that be?

The dissonance said that it was here forever and then, just like that, it was gone.

I stumbled and fell, unbalanced without the dissonance, deafened by this new sensation of a world no longer shouting at me.

No dissonance to guide me.

No hope of escape from this new …

This new what?!?!?

The sky seems to fall.

Seems to kneel and touch my face.

Reaching out as far as it can to caress my cheek.

As if heaven, itself, is brushing my face with its lips.

Redeeming me, healing me, with a kiss.

Why would heaven ever want to kiss me, of all people?

The dissonance said that heaven never would.

Why would heaven ever care?

The dissonance swore that heaven never would.

And what did heaven do with all of the dissonance that used to fill my ears with its chaos?

The dissonance swore that it was the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

So help me God.

So … help me what?

Why would God ever care?

The dissonance screamed that God never would.

Why would God ever want to brush my face with a kiss of even the smallest caring show of affection?

The dissonance promised that God never would.

But maybe—just perhaps—the dissonance wasn’t telling the truth. Not the whole truth. Nor any of the truth.

Because there it is.

Again and again and again.

A sudden harmony.

A harmony that wraps me up so entirely and so wonderfully that it makes me feel as if I were the only thing that it ever wanted.

A harmony that sings for me with such wondrous melodies that I am deafened.

So deafened that this time I hear everything that the dissonance was trying to cover up with its noise.

All of my senses listen.

I hear everything that I see within the light inside your eyes.

I hear everything that I feel in your healing touch upon my skin.

And all that is in the ember warmth of your voice speaking words that I never thought I’d hear.

Now, imagine hearing him speak those words to you today.

Deep inside you, he is.

By Ken Woodley

Imagine how it must have felt to have been healed by Jesus.
In person and face-to-face.
To feel his words.
His hands.
His love.
It may, at least at first, felt somewhat disconcerting. After years of infirmity, you are suddenly cast away from that which hounded you for so long. Perhaps it felt a little like this:
Suddenly all of the dissonance is gone.
But I cannot hear a thing.
Nothing at all.
Without the dissonance there isn’t a single solitary sound.
Nothing … but … this … other … thing.
This other thing that is not dissonance.
How can that be?
The dissonance said that it was here forever and then, just like that, it was gone.
I stumbled and fell, unbalanced without the dissonance, deafened by this new sensation of a world no longer shouting at me.
No dissonance to guide me.
No hope of escape from this new …
This new what?!?!?
The sky seems to fall.
Seems to kneel and touch my face.
Reaching out as far as it can to caress my cheek.
As if heaven, itself, is brushing my face with its lips.
Redeeming me, healing me, with a kiss.
Why would heaven ever want to kiss me, of all people?
The dissonance said that heaven never would.
Why would heaven ever care?
The dissonance swore that heaven never would.
And what did heaven do with all of the dissonance that used to fill my ears with its chaos?
The dissonance swore that it was the whole truth and nothing but the truth.
So help me God.
So … help me what?
Why would God ever care?
The dissonance screamed that God never would.
Why would God ever want to brush my face with a kiss of even the smallest caring show of affection?
The dissonance promised that God never would.
But maybe—just perhaps—the dissonance wasn’t telling the truth. Not the whole truth. Nor any of the truth.
Because there it is.
Again and again and again.
A sudden harmony.
A harmony that wraps me up so entirely and so wonderfully that it makes me feel as if I were the only thing that it ever wanted.
A harmony that sings for me with such wondrous melodies that I am deafened.
So deafened that this time I hear everything that the dissonance was trying to cover up with its noise.
All of my senses listen.
I hear everything that I see within the light inside your eyes.
I hear everything that I feel in your healing touch upon my skin.
And all that is in the ember warmth of your voice speaking words that I never thought I’d hear.

Now, imagine hearing him speak those words to you today.
Deep inside you, he is.

By Ken Woodley

Jesus Christ of Nazareth had a dream.

He had been to the mountaintop.

Jesus had a dream that we would love our neighbors as ourselves.

That we would turn the other cheek.

That those who hunger and thirst for righteousness would be filled.

He had a dream about the blessedness of peacemakers and he called them children of God.

Jesus had a dream that you and I are the light of the world and that we would let that light shine so bright that it would give light to everyone in the house.

Yes, Jesus very definitely had a dream.

And he was not alone.

The Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. also had a dream.

He had been to the mountaintop.

Dr. King had a dream that the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave-owners would one day sit down at the table of brotherhood.

That the heat of injustice would be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice.

He had a dream that one day his children would live in a nation where they would not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.

That one day little black boys and black girls would be able to join hands with little white boys and girls as sisters and brothers.

Yes, Jesus Christ of Nazareth and the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. very definitely had a dream.

And they were not alone.

The United States of America also had a dream.

It had been to the mountaintop.

The United States had a dream about truths that were so obvious that they were self-evident.

A dream that all men are created equal.

That they are endowed by their creator with certain unalienable rights.

A dream about life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.

A dream about forming a more perfect union.

A trinity of dreamers and dreams that share so much in common:

Peace. Love. Brotherhood.

None of them was, or is, a danger to anybody.

They are fiercely innocent.

But they are so utterly vulnerable.

The first was crucified with hammers and nails.

The second was assassinated by a single finger on one trigger.

And the third is pursued by hammers and nails—hunted by fingers on triggers—every day and night.

They are all stalked daily by a darkness that does not understand them because they are so filled with light.

The dark divisions of hate surround them.

Back them into a corner.

Certain that one day they will smother the light.

That’s where we come in.

You and I have a question to answer:

What happens to those dreams?

Where do they go from here?

Each of those dreamers articulated a vision that has—so far—been beyond humanity’s ability to make come true for every one.

The United States of America, in fact, failed to grasp the full meaning of its own dream, believing for far too long that its life, liberty and pursuit of happiness were meant only for white males of a certain social stature.

We are about to celebrate the birthday of the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. but there are some who would like to wipe that birthday—and what it means for our nation—off the face of the earth.

Just as the hammers and the nails sought to erase the meaning and message of Jesus Christ.

But the assassin’s bullet failed and the instruments of crucifixion were unable to complete their mission.

Dreams filled with the light and love of God cannot be eradicated.

The love of God for all people—and the light of that truth—cannot be hammered and nailed out of existence. It cannot be assassinated.

But the struggle to reach the light of that love to all people is very real. The darkness of this world is no joke. It is alive and well and living in the human heart. 

Even, sometimes, our own.

But the light, too, is alive and well and reaches for our wrinkles and veins, yearns for our heart, longing to go where only our footsteps can take it. 

We are the light of the world. Jesus said so. I believe him. 

God didn’t light up our souls so that we could hide behind locked doors and shuttered windows.

God lit up our souls so that we would shine, shine, shine.

And that is what we must do because we are in a desperate race, you and I, a relay of light against the darkness. We run the light of healing love and reconciliation as far as we can.

We run it to those living in darkness and despair, and then they run their own light as far as their lives can take it.

Because the darkness has its own footsteps, the footsteps of those who try to divide us over race, separate us because of the color of our skin, segregate us over the language that we speak, partition us over how we choose to pray to God, disjoin us because of who we choose to love.

The relay of light is no spectator sport. There is no sitting on the sidelines. If we don’t run our light into the world the vacuum of our absence will be filled with the darkness of division. 

There are hundreds of thousands of ways, large and small and none insignificant, to shine our light into the world toward one another, to heal and reconcile. 

If Jesus Christ believes in us then we can confidently believe in ourselves.

There is a vital flicker—a pilot light—deep within each of us. Don’t blow it out.

Three dreams await our light.

By Ken Woodley


Jesus Christ of Nazareth had a dream.
He had been to the mountaintop.
Jesus had a dream that we would love our neighbors as ourselves.
That we would turn the other cheek.
That those who hunger and thirst for righteousness would be filled.
He had a dream about the blessedness of peacemakers and he called them children of God.
Jesus had a dream that you and I are the light of the world and that we would let that light shine so bright that it would give light to everyone in the house.
Yes, Jesus very definitely had a dream.
And he was not alone.

The Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. also had a dream.
He had been to the mountaintop.
Dr. King had a dream that the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave-owners would one day sit down at the table of brotherhood.
That the heat of injustice would be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice.
He had a dream that one day his children would live in a nation where they would not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.
That one day little black boys and black girls would be able to join hands with little white boys and girls as sisters and brothers.
Yes, Jesus Christ of Nazareth and the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. very definitely had a dream.
And they were not alone.

The United States of America also had a dream.
It had been to the mountaintop.
The United States had a dream about truths that were so obvious that they were self-evident.
A dream that all men are created equal.
That they are endowed by their creator with certain unalienable rights.
A dream about life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.
A dream about forming a more perfect union.

A trinity of dreamers and dreams that share so much in common:
Peace. Love. Brotherhood.
None of them was, or is, a danger to anybody.
They are fiercely innocent.
But they are so utterly vulnerable.

The first was crucified with hammers and nails.
The second was assassinated by a single finger on one trigger.
And the third is pursued by hammers and nails—hunted by fingers on triggers—every day and night.

They are all stalked daily by a darkness that does not understand them because they are so filled with light.
The dark divisions of hate surround them.
Back them into a corner.
Certain that one day they will smother the light.

That’s where we come in.
You and I have a question to answer:

What happens to those dreams?
Where do they go from here?

Each of those dreamers articulated a vision that has—so far—been beyond humanity’s ability to make come true for every one.

The United States of America, in fact, failed to grasp the full meaning of its own dream, believing for far too long that its life, liberty and pursuit of happiness were meant only for white males of a certain social stature.

We are about to celebrate the birthday of the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. but there are some who would like to wipe that birthday—and what it means for our nation—off the face of the earth.

Just as the hammers and the nails sought to erase the meaning and message of Jesus Christ.

But the assassin’s bullet failed and the instruments of crucifixion were unable to complete their mission.

Dreams filled with the light and love of God cannot be eradicated.

The love of God for all people—and the light of that truth—cannot be hammered and nailed out of existence. It cannot be assassinated.

But the struggle to reach the light of that love to all people is very real. The darkness of this world is no joke. It is alive and well and living in the human heart.

Even, sometimes, our own.

But the light, too, is alive and well and reaches for our wrinkles and veins, yearns for our heart, longing to go where only our footsteps can take it.

We are the light of the world. Jesus said so. I believe him.

God didn’t light up our souls so that we could hide behind locked doors and shuttered windows.

God lit up our souls so that we would shine, shine, shine.

And that is what we must do because we are in a desperate race, you and I, a relay of light against the darkness. We run the light of healing love and reconciliation as far as we can.

We run it to those living in darkness and despair, and then they run their own light as far as their lives can take it.

Because the darkness has its own footsteps, the footsteps of those who try to divide us over race, separate us because of the color of our skin, segregate us over the language that we speak, partition us over how we choose to pray to God, disjoin us because of who we choose to love.

The relay of light is no spectator sport. There is no sitting on the sidelines. If we don’t run our light into the world the vacuum of our absence will be filled with the darkness of division.

There are hundreds of thousands of ways, large and small and none insignificant, to shine our light into the world toward one another, to heal and reconcile.

If Jesus Christ believes in us then we can confidently believe in ourselves.

There is a vital flicker—a pilot light—deep within each of us. Don’t blow it out.

Three dreams await our light.

By Ken Woodley

The alarm sounds early.

Sunrise is nearly two hours away and it’s so cold outside in the darkness beyond this windowpane that even shivers are frozen solid.

The electric candle on the window sill shows how busy the cold had been while I slept. The storm window is filled with jagged, deliriously crooked strokes of ice that point in every direction.

Were the windowpane a compass, and were I to follow its directions, I’d be lost.

Hopelessly and forever lost.

Out beyond this pane, where I cannot see, I know that the maples and oaks are bare in the darkness, their limbs and branches holding tightly to the secret of spring as if their lives—as if the existence of everyone—depended on it.

I remember last night, standing out in the cold, filling my lungs with its freezing and the darkness with my breath. 

I remember the night before and the night before that.

I remember all of the nights put together as if they were all one long, never-ending night.

I remember the stars making the night sky look like it was breaking out in a rash of ice. 

And I wondered if one day I would fall through the ice into the sky.

Or somewhere else.

I sit here by the window now, looking at the stained glass cross that is hanging from the window latch; its green and orange, its yellow, blue and purple declare all that the darkness tries to hide in its cold silence.

And I know one thing for certain: when the sun rises, the light will shine toward me, into the frost and through the cross, in the straightest possible line.

With that truth deep in my heart, I am able to decipher the message in the frost that has been painted across my windowpane like the blooms of winter and pointing the clear way forward, despite its zig-zagging pattern:

Any and every direction I might choose is filled with God’s love, in all of my sorrow and all of my joy.

And in all of yours.

By Ken Woodley

The alarm sounds early.
Sunrise is nearly two hours away and it’s so cold outside in the darkness beyond this windowpane that even shivers are frozen solid.
The electric candle on the window sill shows how busy the cold had been while I slept. The storm window is filled with jagged, deliriously crooked strokes of ice that point in every direction.
Were the windowpane a compass, and were I to follow its directions, I’d be lost.
Hopelessly and forever lost.
Out beyond this pane, where I cannot see, I know that the maples and oaks are bare in the darkness, their limbs and branches holding tightly to the secret of spring as if their lives—as if the existence of everyone—depended on it.
I remember last night, standing out in the cold, filling my lungs with its freezing and the darkness with my breath.
I remember the night before and the night before that.
I remember all of the nights put together as if they were all one long, never-ending night.
I remember the stars making the night sky look like it was breaking out in a rash of ice.
And I wondered if one day I would fall through the ice into the sky.
Or somewhere else.
I sit here by the window now, looking at the stained glass cross that is hanging from the window latch; its green and orange, its yellow, blue and purple declare all that the darkness tries to hide in its cold silence.
And I know one thing for certain: when the sun rises, the light will shine toward me, into the frost and through the cross, in the straightest possible line.
With that truth deep in my heart, I am able to decipher the message in the frost that has been painted across my windowpane like the blooms of winter and pointing the clear way forward, despite its zig-zagging pattern:
Any and every direction I might choose is filled with God’s love, in all of my sorrow and all of my joy.
And in all of yours.

By Ken Woodley

There is a flickering in the wilderness.

Certainly we saw something, you and I, in the depth of all this darkness.

Over there, just to the left.

A light.

Somehow.

Pushing back against the darkness that tells us every day in screaming headlines that there is no God and that we are not—and could never, ever be—loved.

Something that seems to have fallen from the stars.

Come from the sky.

Tumbled down from a heaven which the darkness denies.

The darkness trying with all of its might to persuade us to believe that the voice we have followed, the voice we heard crying in the wilderness, is a figment of our imagination.

But the voice won’t be stilled or silenced.

And the voice is not mine.

The voice is not yours.

We both hear the voice testifying at this moment to the light.

And now, look. Certainly, the flickering grows brighter, as if our persistent steps have somehow fueled the light’s desperate reach of transcendent incandescence.

A desperate reach toward … 

Can it be true?

A desperate reach of transcendent incandescence toward us?

Toward us all?

My, God! It is true!

But there’s more. 

There is something inside the light.

As if the light has wrapped the greatest gift of all inside its bright shining:

A love brighter than the sun we cannot see.

A love that the darkness cannot hide forever.

Or even for another second.

An advent.

A coming that the darkness is powerless to stop.

A coming that has found us.

Finally.

Found us holding candles in a darkness that has become, for us, nothing more than a place for the light of this love to shine with greatest effect.

And now—just like that—the wilderness of sand has given way to the straw of a manger.

To a mother and her newborn.

To a father carefully tending the small fire that keeps us all warm as we gather with those who were there in the darkness with us, called by the light to unwrap this love.

A love that breathes.

A love that cries out into our own wilderness until our wilderness is healed.

A love that has a name:

Jesus.

A love that tells us that this love has other names, too.

Our own.

If.

If we let the light of this love reach out its incandescence through us toward those whom the darkness still binds with its lies.

If we go out into the wilderness of others and scatter their darkness with this truth:

There is a God.

We are loved.

And that love is forever.

By Ken Woodley

There is a flickering in the wilderness.
Certainly we saw something, you and I, in the depth of all this darkness.
Over there, just to the left.
A light.
Somehow.
Pushing back against the darkness that tells us every day in screaming headlines that there is no God and that we are not—and could never, ever be—loved.
Something that seems to have fallen from the stars.
Come from the sky.
Tumbled down from a heaven which the darkness denies.
The darkness trying with all of its might to persuade us to believe that the voice we have followed, the voice we heard crying in the wilderness, is a figment of our imagination.
But the voice won’t be stilled or silenced.
And the voice is not mine.
The voice is not yours.
We both hear the voice testifying at this moment to the light.
And now, look. Certainly, the flickering grows brighter, as if our persistent steps have somehow fueled the light’s desperate reach of transcendent incandescence.
A desperate reach toward …
Can it be true?
A desperate reach of transcendent incandescence toward us?
Toward us all?
My, God! It is true!
But there’s more.
There is something inside the light.
As if the light has wrapped the greatest gift of all inside its bright shining:
A love brighter than the sun we cannot see.
A love that the darkness cannot hide forever.
Or even for another second.
An advent.
A coming that the darkness is powerless to stop.
A coming that has found us.
Finally.
Found us holding candles in a darkness that has become, for us, nothing more than a place for the light of this love to shine with greatest effect.
And now—just like that—the wilderness of sand has given way to the straw of a manger.
To a mother and her newborn.
To a father carefully tending the small fire that keeps us all warm as we gather with those who were there in the darkness with us, called by the light to unwrap this love.
A love that breathes.
A love that cries out into our own wilderness until our wilderness is healed.
A love that has a name:
Jesus.
A love that tells us that this love has other names, too.
Our own.
If.
If we let the light of this love reach out its incandescence through us toward those whom the darkness still binds with its lies.
If we go out into the wilderness of others and scatter their darkness with this truth:
There is a God.
We are loved.
And that love is forever.

By Ken Woodley

This morning,

amid the frost

of sunrise shadows

upon a child’s momentary vision of lingering star dust,

I feel the love shining in God’s eyes

for us all.

Not in the frozen silence of the uninvited ice

among autumn’s emptied gardens.

Nor in the way its cold crystals wordlessly rime our world.

But in the way, instead,

—when our eyes kneel next to our soul—

the end of dawn

scatters prisms of resurrection colors

like manna from heaven

before the frost melts

and becomes fallen tears

of deepest joy.

By Ken Woodley

This morning,
amid the frost
of sunrise shadows
upon a child’s momentary vision of lingering star dust,
I feel the love shining in God’s eyes
for us all.
Not in the frozen silence of the uninvited ice
among autumn’s emptied gardens.
Nor in the way its cold crystals wordlessly rime our world.
But in the way, instead,
—when our eyes kneel next to our soul—
the end of dawn
scatters prisms of resurrection colors
like manna from heaven
before the frost melts
and becomes fallen tears
of deepest joy.

By Ken Woodley

My ark is sinking,

the world around me 

coming apart at the seams,

colors receding everywhere,

directionless

and without meaning.

The sky is a riptide

of green-becoming-violet

and then nothing

but an empty box waiting

for my ashes and dust.

The non-colors begin breaking through

and soak up anything that retains 

the slightest slivered hue 

of the storm-ending rainbow

for which I prayed.

A dove falls at my feet,

wings spread

but motionless,

exhausted.

The Anti-Color sounds its trumpet

as Jericho’s walls begin to re-assemble and rise

on stones of darkness.

I gently lift the dove

and hold it in my hands.

Something falls from its beak.

A torn petal from the final flower.

I pick it up,

my ark about to go under,

and decide,

as the water rises around me, 

to some how, some day

become its stem.

In the quiet stillness of that faith

a voice speaks to my soul.

The gardener of Golgotha.

“Walk on the water of this moment,” he tells me 

as my ark disappears beneath the sea. 

I take a tentative step.

Then another.

Not sinking.

Now I’m striding

toward the distant mountains

of a sudden shoreline.

Just like he said I could,

holding the dove against my chest,

feeling all the colors of his love.

Some day the torn petal will bloom.

One day we all will.

Walking on the water of our moment.

By Ken Woodley

My ark is sinking,
the world around me
coming apart at the seams,
colors receding everywhere,
directionless
and without meaning.
The sky is a riptide
of green-becoming-violet
and then nothing
but an empty box waiting
for my ashes and dust.
The non-colors begin breaking through
and soak up anything that retains
the slightest slivered hue
of the storm-ending rainbow
for which I prayed.
A dove falls at my feet,
wings spread
but motionless,
exhausted.
The Anti-Color sounds its trumpet
as Jericho’s walls begin to re-assemble and rise
on stones of darkness.
I gently lift the dove
and hold it in my hands.
Something falls from its beak.
A torn petal from the final flower.
I pick it up,
my ark about to go under,
and decide,
as the water rises around me,
to some how, some day
become its stem.
In the quiet stillness of that faith
a voice speaks to my soul.
The gardener of Golgotha.
“Walk on the water of this moment,” he tells me
as my ark disappears beneath the sea.
I take a tentative step.
Then another.
Not sinking.
Now I’m striding
toward the distant mountains
of a sudden shoreline.
Just like he said I could,
holding the dove against my chest,
feeling all the colors of his love.
Some day the torn petal will bloom.
One day we all will.
Walking on the water of our moment.

By Ken Woodley

A flutter of stained-glass

shares my path

through the last stand of this flowered field

in the final days of summer

and the gossamer of eternity

touches my sight 

like the whisper of angels.

A Monarch butterfly rises 

from the sweet swan song of nectar

among dying petals

and doesn’t stop ascending,

leaving the world, 

and this meadow we briefly shared,

behind.

We both grow smaller in the distance

of each other’s sight.

So fragile,

like a passing thought,

its migration bends toward the sky,

wings beating like a rapid heart,

higher and higher.

Grounded to earth,

I watch this splash of orange into blue

rippling through the sky

until I am left with the dust of its wings

upon my soul

as it disappears

into the brightness

of a sun-filled cloud.

I lose it now

as my eyes close in reflex

to the intensity of illumination,

listening still

to something spoken,

not left unsaid,

my feet barely touching the ground.

By Ken Woodley

A flutter of stained-glass
shares my path
through the last stand of this flowered field
in the final days of summer
and the gossamer of eternity
touches my sight
like the whisper of angels.
A Monarch butterfly rises
from the sweet swan song of nectar
among dying petals
and doesn’t stop ascending,
leaving the world,
and this meadow we briefly shared,
behind.
We both grow smaller in the distance
of each other’s sight.
So fragile,
like a passing thought,
its migration bends toward the sky,
wings beating like a rapid heart,
higher and higher.
Grounded to earth,
I watch this splash of orange into blue
rippling through the sky
until I am left with the dust of its wings
upon my soul
as it disappears
into the brightness
of a sun-filled cloud.
I lose it now
as my eyes close in reflex
to the intensity of illumination,
listening still
to something spoken,
not left unsaid,
my feet barely touching the ground.

By Ken Woodley

A trapeze

swings down

from heaven,

out from the clouds,

through my astonished

disbelief.

You hang from it

by your legs,

both arms outstretched,

reaching for me,

swinging  back and forth

like the pendulum

on a grandfather clock,

time ticking away 

from me

with each pass you make,

hanging somehow by your feet now,

closer and closer.

I raise one arm.

Then both.

Our fingers brush—

an agony of brief possibility—

like a river flowing

past reeds. 

Impossible to grasp.

Now you hang on by your toes

and I take a leap of faith.

You fall into my arms.

We catch each other,

holding tightly

to the sound of flowers

we see in our barefoot eyes,

defying the gravity of hammered nails.

Just as you hoped we could.

Just as you knew we would

after climbing through

the open window

of Calvary’s closed door

and into the acrobat sky

where crosses spread their wings and sing.

By Ken Woodley

A trapeze
swings down
from heaven,
out from the clouds,
through my astonished
disbelief.
You hang from it
by your legs,
both arms outstretched,
reaching for me,
swinging back and forth
like the pendulum
on a grandfather clock,
time ticking away
from me
with each pass you make,
hanging somehow by your feet now,
closer and closer.
I raise one arm.
Then both.
Our fingers brush—
an agony of brief possibility—
like a river flowing
past reeds.
Impossible to grasp.
Now you hang on by your toes
and I take a leap of faith.
You fall into my arms.
We catch each other,
holding tightly
to the sound of flowers
we see in our barefoot eyes,
defying the gravity of hammered nails.
Just as you hoped we could.
Just as you knew we would
after climbing through
the open window
of Calvary’s closed door
and into the acrobat sky
where crosses spread their wings and sing.

“About that time there arose a great disturbance about the Way”

                                                                                —Acts 19:23

By Ken Woodley

I believe.

I believe in God.

I believe in Jesus.

I believe Jesus lived for me and was crucified because he refused to betray the life he lived for me.

And so he died for me.

I believe in the Holy Spirit.

I believe in love.

In loving.

In being loved.

I believe in forgiveness.

In forgiving.

In being forgiven.

I believe the people living in darkness have seen a great light.

I believe the lion shall lay down with the lamb.

I believe those who mourn will be comforted.

The meek will inherit the earth.

Those who hunger and thirst for righteousness will be filled.

The merciful will be shown mercy.

The pure in heart will see God.

The peacemakers will be called children of God.

I believe we can be the light of the world.

I believe the Lord is our shepherd.

I believe in the resurrection of Jesus.

I believe in our own resurrection.

I believe God’s kingdom will come and God’s will shall be done on earth, as it is in heaven, in our hearts, through our hands and along the pathway of our soles.

I believe that if we love one another, God lives in us and God’s love is made complete in us.

I believe that God is love.

I believe.

“About that time there arose a great disturbance about the Way”

—Acts 19:23
By Ken Woodley

I believe.
I believe in God.
I believe in Jesus.
I believe Jesus lived for me and was crucified because he refused to betray the life he lived for me.
And so he died for me.
I believe in the Holy Spirit.
I believe in love.
In loving.
In being loved.
I believe in forgiveness.
In forgiving.
In being forgiven.
I believe the people living in darkness have seen a great light.
I believe the lion shall lay down with the lamb.
I believe those who mourn will be comforted.
The meek will inherit the earth.
Those who hunger and thirst for righteousness will be filled.
The merciful will be shown mercy.
The pure in heart will see God.
The peacemakers will be called children of God.
I believe we can be the light of the world.
I believe the Lord is our shepherd.
I believe in the resurrection of Jesus.
I believe in our own resurrection.
I believe God’s kingdom will come and God’s will shall be done on earth, as it is in heaven, in our hearts, through our hands and along the pathway of our soles.
I believe that if we love one another, God lives in us and God’s love is made complete in us.
I believe that God is love.
I believe.