Nan Merrill’s translation of Psalm 30, trimmed and one edit:

Sing praises to the Beloved,
               O you saints,
        and give thanks to Love's holy Name.
Love withdraws when we close our hearts,
        yet ever awaits an open door.
Through the night we may weep,
        yet joy comes with the morning.


In my prosperity, I had lost sight
        of Love,
        I found power in my wealth.
In your mercy, O Beloved, my foundations
         You shook,
And, in recognizing my separation
  from You,
I was dismayed.


And You turned my mourning into dancing;
        You set me free and
               clothed me with gladness.
Now my soul may praise You and not be silent.
O my Beloved, I will be grateful to You
               forever and ever.
                       Amen.


We’ll get to the joy, but first, think about the last time you wept all night.
To weep all night, that’s a deep loss. Death of immediate family. End of a marriage. Terrible lab results.
Maybe you don’t cry much – maybe you remember staying up all night talking to your spouse: a job loss or your child getting arrested, or one of you getting a terminal diagnosis, and all night you sat up talking, wondering, “what do we do now?”
Maybe you’re on your own or you’re a private person – have you spent a night reeling from a terrible loss, writing in a journal, or walking dark streets, wondering alone, “what do I do now?”
Weeping may linger for the night, but joy comes with the morning, says the Psalmist. Do you think, if you can cry hard enough, you can work out all your grief in one night?
 
Joy comes with the morning, says the psalmist, but the sun doesn’t come up all at once, it shines first as a hint around the curve of the earth and appears to us in a pink glow and orange haze. We see the sunrise before the sun itself appears. The morning comes not with a clock’s tik or tok, but gradually.
The day is light before we can see. First gray, then yellow, then trees and houses appear. Similarly, we know hope before we can live into it. We know hope because we read it in our Psalms: You have turned my mourning into dancing, you have taken off my sackcloth and clothed me with joy.
We know hope because we have suffered through all kinds of heartaches and loss, and we have healed from most of them. Knowing that hope is real helps, but until we can live in hope, it’s only as useful as the sun before it rises. A promise of joy, but we’re not feeling joy yet.

We can’t speed up the sunrise, but we can help hope become real for ourselves and one another. Just like night and day overlap in that haze of dawn, our grief and our joy overlap, when we tell the stories that break our hearts and break our hearts open. My friends whose 9-year-old daughter died of cancer many years ago tell stories about her with joy. But in the first few years after she died, talking about her was both necessary for their survival, and painful each time. Each story broke their hearts, but broke their hearts open, so they could keep the love alive, even keep her alive in their storytelling.

“Weeping may linger for the night, but joy comes with the morning!” Proclaims the Psalmist. “You have turned my mourning into dancing!” Look at the words in your Bible if you’re reading along, or picture them in your mind. Joy comes with the morning. You have turned my mourning into dancing. That little letter u!

Hannah even came with us for a few miles!

Next tiny house?

There's no one I'd rather have a lousy vacation with than you.

P.S. Saturday morning: Phillip is sick again, same deal. Hannah (who ran with us for a couple miles and hiked, too) fell in the mud this morning at home and now she's limping. Our bad luck followed us home. That thought leads to reviewing these pictures and remembering how much worse it could be!

Thursday afternoon: We head up to Wellsboro. Rain is in the forecast, so we might as well go to the part of the PA Grand Canyon with a funky little town, in case we need rainy day activities. We get great advice from a park ranger and head into a state park, then into the state forest beyond the park, where we get to camp for free. We set up our life: toilet has a privacy tent (it's a püp tent now), put the sink together, stove's ready in a flash, bike station, and then decide to put quail in the püp for their protection from rain and predators, so in they go with all their poop.

Evening: We're loving this spot in the middle of the woods along a stream. We're parked up a crazy steep bank but can walk 1/2 mile down the trail to an easy stream access where we fill up our sink bucket and quail water and do some laundry.

Wednesday night: We got mint chocolate chip ice cream while Phillip was sick (always good to have something taste good on the way back out) but he never felt up to eating it. Campsite set up, we crawl in bed at dusk and decide we better rescue that melting ice cream from the cooler (which has kept the meat frozen quite well). We fall asleep to rain and listen to its sweet patter all through the night. When the wind picks up and it slams on the van roof fear comes without reason, just that embodied memory of things crashing into the roof...We are safe and sound.

Tuesday morning: Phillip removes hardware and broken things from van. Quail and poop tarp air out in empty lot by motel. Search internet and make phone calls in search of van replacement parts (highest priority read window). Motel maintenance worker recommends Harry's U-Pull and Phillip finds a couple vans on their lot in West Hazleton that might have some pieces we need.

rest of Tuesday: Drive to Harry's U-Pull in West Hazleton and Phillip searches for a couple hours through one of the largest junkyards ever. He has a semi- successful haul - no window though. It's nearing dark and we're contemplating camping but gratefully stay at a friend's house in Tamaqua instead. We cook supper on the grill and the quail and Hannah love the backyard.

Wednesday morning: Enjoy Tamaqua's downtown, go to laundromat, where Phillip works on the van in the parking lot. Then he gets sick. So he goes to bed. Anna Lisa finds a barely-used bike at an excellent local bike store. 

Tuesday afternoon: Phillip gets some crackers and Sprite down and we go for a walk. Tamaqua is lovely and kind.

We head for the Allentown location of Harry's U-Pull and strike out. We try to get to the Pennsburg branch, too, but realize it's impossible. So we go to Jim Thorpe to stroll. Then back to Tamaqua for Luigi's pizza and salad, which are as good as they say! Tomorrow, perhaps, we'll camp on this camping vacation?

Luke 24:13-35

They walk that dusty road for hours, seven miles to Emmaus. They speak of those turbulent political times. They don’t know which side he might be on, so they remark vaguely – “did you hear about that trouble in Jerusalem?”

What small talk would you make with a stranger on a long walk? Or on an airplane?

“See the color on that lily!” “Oh, watch the swallow dive!” “What a strange tree!”

Even their small talk reminds them of Jesus.

They arrive at the house, stomachs growling. “Come in” they tell the stranger, “the day is almost over.”

They gather at the table.

She brings the bread right from the fire, the smell of flame and hot stones clings to this bread.

Their eyes follow that steaming bread, “rush this blessing” their empty stomachs grumble, and they watch him lift the bread – not their host, the head of this house – the stranger takes the bread.

He says the blessing, bread above his head, with those familiar words.

He breaks it and shares, one piece to the left, one piece to the right.

And sometime between the stomach growl and the first taste on their tongues they know he is Jesus. Their friend, their teacher, their leader, their lost one.
 
Why would Jesus, who loves them, who knows they are grieving and afraid, walk with them to Emmaus in secret, and then vanish as soon as they realize who he is?

I have no idea. This mysterious story highlights Jesus’ provocative nature. We read of Jesus’ tenderness in stories like the healing of the man born blind. We read of Jesus’ fierceness in stories like the overturning of tables at the Temple. We read of Jesus’ provocative nature in stories like his interruption of the killing of the woman caught in adultery, or his mysterious statement about paying taxes.

I don’t understand why Jesus’ friends don’t recognize him or why he disappears as soon as they do – but because the story unfolds this way we are directed to what Jesus does with bread.

They know who Jesus is because they know what Jesus does with bread. And even though we’ve never watched Jesus handle bread, we have some idea how to recognize him, too.

Sunday afternoon: all packed for the Penna Grand Canyon! In this van are 17 quail, our bed/couch, all the appliances: composting toilet, sink (bucket with foot pump and faucet), grill/campstove, fridge (a big cooler packed with food), even laundry (bucket with plunger). Plus Phillip, Anna Lisa & Hannah. Why are we taking these quail? Well, seems like a good way to test out living in the van for a week.

​Sunday afternoon: we get rear-ended in State College and spend a couple hours dealing with the report and then Phillip spends a couple hours repairing the hitch mount bike rack we borrowed from our neighbors. Anna Lisa’s bike is damaged. The van has new dings, we’re fine. But now it’s really late for driving another 90 minutes and setting up camp. So we have a great night with Ken Kline-Smeltzer and Hannah meets a dog she isn’t afraid of!
Monday morning: leisurely morning visiting with Ken, get Anna Lisa’s bike fixed, she goes to a meeting (in person rather than phoning in, since we’re stuck in State College) and we’re off for the Penna Grand Canyon!

​We peruse the options and choose Little State Park. We find the section of sites for pets, and check in with the host. He’s sitting in a camp chair by his huge travel trailer, 3 other older guys sitting with him.
He says, “Get in before the rain.”
We say, “That’s the plan. We heard there’s a tornado watch.”
He says, “Oh, really…?” all skeptical. Well, we heard about a tornado watch for Huntingdon, and even State College. But that’s not here. We don’t quite know where we are, and we have no cell service, and only one radio station.
We choose a spot nestled under some of the tallest pines we’ve ever seen, a little wind and rain break.
We hem and haw as we pick this spot, maybe 71? Maybe 74? Well, how about 72? And then pick our view. Phillip backs the van into the long space so when we crawl back in that couch/bed we’ll gaze out on the tallest pine trees we’ve ever seen. We carry the picnic table in front of the van so we can put the quail there, sheltered from the wind by the van. Suddenly it’s pouring, so we jump back in the van to make a plan.
Gust galore. Branches pummel our roof. 

​“Should we go?” We watch those huge pines sway, but not a gentle sway, they are yanked from side to side.
“I’ve never seen trees do that!”
“We have to go!”
We duck under our arms like that will protect us from the trees falling. Oh!
“The picnic table!
*$&*!”
We dash out into pouring rain and carry the picnic table to the side as a tree falls on the back of the van and destroys Anna Lisa’s bike, a window, and some brake lights.
Those huge, tall pines are falling on either side of us. This is a horror movie, but real. Phillip drives us out of the space but where is safe? We head for a parking lot by a bathroom.
We pull off our soaked clothes and cuddle Hannah who is afraid of thunderstorms. And trees falling on her. Now what? It keeps pouring. Phillip uses a tarp to block the opening the window left behind. Oh, here are pieces of that window and parts of the van in the bed/couch. Let’s not camp tonight.
We head back toward the campsites and there are trees down everywhere. The host comes by in a golf cart and says no one is injured so far. We pull branches and trees away as much as we can and Phillip drives through campsites to get us out cause the little road is blocked by trees too big to move. We see destruction all around, and nowhere as much as the campsite to our left and the campsite to our right.

​It takes a few detours, but finally, in the pouring rain, we get over a mountain and fine a town and supper. Should we go a couple hours tonight and get home? Nope. Our neighbor says the road is closed with trees down, and there’s another tree down on our driveway on our power line. No power, and we can’t even get close. We’re in Lock Haven. Sleep tight.

Shout and be glad, O Daughter of Zion
For I am coming, and I will live among you
Many nations will join with me on that day and will become my people!

(The prophet Zachariah’s words are on
the minds and hearts and lips of the people
as Jesus marches into Jerusalem!)
 
The prince of peace enters Jerusalem, from the east,
on a donkey colt,
just as Zechariah said he would.
The Roman governor enters Jerusalem, from the west, 
with an imperial cav-alry,
 to remind the people who has the power.
 
This dramatic contrast is intentional; the stage is set by Passover.
Passover: the weeklong celebration of the Israelites’ liberation from slavery in Egypt.
Passover marks overthrow of oppression,
when they marked their doors with blood
so Yahweh’s angel would pass over their houses
on a murderous rampage,
the last of the ten plagues of Egypt.
It won’t be long now, it won’t be long.
 
As the Jews enter Jerusalem, preparing for this beloved week
recalling their freedom from hundreds of years of slavery,
they are living under Roman occupation,
they have friends and relatives again in slavery in other parts of the Roman empire,
and the poor peasant class of Jews blames both Rome,
as well as Jewish aristocracy, for their plight.
Pilate, Jesus, and the people in their parades know all of this.
Pilate’s triumphant, militar-ily mighty entrance to the city
            Is a reminder not to try any overthrow this Passover.
 
Jesus’ palm-strewn, colt-ridden entrance is just as intentional:
The prophet Zechariah says, “your king is coming to you, humble, and mounted on the colt of a donkey.”
He will banish war from the land. He will be a prince of peace.”
It won’t be long now, it won’t be long.
Jerusalem must be the stage for this passionate Passover play. It is the center of power in the Jewish world – political, economic and religious power.
And they all live in one house – the Temple.

Jerusalem was the Jewish home during the good old days of King David, 1000 years before.
David: the universal hero of the Israelites – a shepherd boy who takes down a giant.
A king who dances naked in the street.
A ruler who brings unity and prosperity to the people.
David’s son Solomon succeeds him, and concentrates wealth and power in Jerusalem.
            It is Solomon who builds the first and most beautiful, most elaborate Temple for the Israelites.

Solomon’s legacy is mixed – he is the king of wealth and wisdom,
but he turns emperor-like and sows conflict among the people.
When he dies the Twelve Tribes of Israel split in civil war,
and 1000 years later, when Jesus and Pilate are marching into Jerusalem
the Jews are still waiting for a messiah to reunite the two kingdoms.
It won’t be long now, it won’t be long.
Solomon’s temple is destroyed a few centuries after his death,
but another takes its place, and it is expanded soon before Jesus’ birth by Herod the Great.

But what began as a place for the God of the Israelites to call home
is now the center of Roman rule over the Jews.
 
The Temple may be filled with a corrupt troop of elite priests
who bleed their people dry to appease Rome and their own pockets
            but this is the home of God, and it is the center of Jewish life.
Jerusalem is the home of Roman imperialism and Jewish colluders
            But it is God’s home, too.
We’ve been journeying with Jesus this Lent, toward Jerusalem.
It won’t be long now, it won’t be long.
Last Sunday we sang and prayed “I want Jesus to walk with me.”

Today we walk with Jesus.

John 9:1-41 & Psalm 23

We are surrounded and filled by God’s loving spirit – just how is God’s presence healing?
 may you receive the Holy Spirit as a gentle touch on your tense shoulders,
 or a warm blanket around your weary back,
 or a fizzy drink for your upset stomach.
Just how are we healed? When we pray together here for God to be at work in each other’s healing, what are we asking for? What do we expect?

There are so many places to go with today’s scripture readings – they are provocative and profound. And as I sat with them through the week I also sat with the texts of our own lives, and I’m aware of how many deaths we’ve seen recently, how many of us are grieving.  And how many people are waiting for news – good? bad? – news of their health or the health of someone they love. Let alone all the anxiety and disease in our country and world right now.
So it’s an important time not to be trite or idealistic about God’s healing.

There’s the outright cure healing that the blind man experiences with Jesus in the Gospel according to John. Some of you tell stories of this healing, too (maybe without the mud) stories of praying to God for a cure, and then the cure comes. Good news! Praise be to God!

And there’s the slightly subtler healing of reconciliation –
when we find we are able to forgive one another,
open our minds and hearts to one another –
even transformation and forgiveness for our own selves –
like Evan’s witness to reconciling with his own self in a deeper way leading to greater trust, faith and confidence. Praise be to God!

And sometimes we pray over and over, faithfully, sincerely, and the cure doesn’t come. Wasn’t God listening? Did we pray wrong?

When I was a hospice chaplain, most of the patients and families I worked with accepted that death was coming. Officially, to be eligible for hospice care a doctor needs to say that death within six months would be a natural progression of someone’s illness or aging process. Some people live much longer than six months with hospice care, but to receive hospice care, the inevitability of death has to be on the table.

Now that doesn’t mean that people living on hospice and their families don’t pray for miracles. And sometimes miracles
come! People occasionally have to quit hospice because they become too healthy. But most of the time, hospice is an invitation to pray for other kinds of healing, for other kinds of miracles.

And that’s where I came into play. The nurses were the ones to call about pain management, the health care aides were the ones to call for activities of daily living – getting to the shower, learning how to get dressed safely.
Call social work to get financial support or help with transportation or companionship.

And look to the chaplain to figure out what to pray for. I make it sound simpler than it is! The stress and sadness that so often accompany death and dying muddy our brains, and patients and families rarely think systematically about any of this. But we read between the lines and listen underneath the words and look for deep needs that haven’t yet been named.

A family admits that their long-lost son doesn’t know dad is dying and they haven’t talked to him in years and the miracle we pray for is reconciliation – that relationships be healed rather than that the father’s body be healed.

A lonely widow just wants to die, sees no reason to stay on Earth – she’s said goodbye to her friends as they’ve passed on, one by one. Her daughter and husband are already dead – what does she have to live for? We can pray for the healing of death, pray that her miracle be to reunite with loved ones in the hereafter. And we do, because she wants that comfort. And I ask her about her life, too, and we tease apart her stories to find what wisdom she’s gained, and she finds another miracle – that she does have a legacy to leave in this world.

But most of my patients didn’t have the words to share their struggles. I romanticized hospice, thinking I would hear people’s stories all day and work with them to say meaningful goodbyes. Most of the patients I visited in hospice have advanced dementia, live in nursing homes, rarely see their family members, and no longer use words.

What healing do we pray for? What miracle should I ask on Beth’s behalf? Beth had been on hospice for over a year when I started visiting her, and she was still alive when I left the company. I would visit her at mealtime because that was the only time she might stay awake.

It takes a full hour to feed Beth lunch. She chews slowly (just like doctors say we should – but who other than a 96-year-old has time?) and her eyes follow the lunchtime bustle in the memory care unit.

Some visits, Beth can feed herself. Sure, sometimes she eats toast with a fork or scrambled eggs with her hands.
One visit, I could barely wake her, and even once she began murmuring responses to me, minutes passed before she could muster the energy to open her eyes. Beth usually talks incessantly, and I have no idea what she says. “Word salad” is the technical term for speech that uses real words but tossed together in incomprehensible ways. Beth tosses in more babble than actual words. Yet her emotion is clear; I can always tell when I’m supposed to laugh (her eyebrows shoot up and she looks at me with an expectant smile) or answer a question (she cocks her head and waits). When I give the appropriate response she resumes a stream of words.

​Beth’s chart says she’s Catholic so I reach for the power of prayer, not prayer’s mysterious power to heal, but prayer’s mystical rite of return. For 96 years, Beth’s had the habit of the Hail Mary, the rhythm of the Rosary, the memory of murmuring so many Glory Be’s and Glorious Mysteries, countless Apostles’ Creeds and Amens.
 
Myself a creedless Brethren, I have a rosary app on my phone; if I recite the first couple words, Beth and her memory-impaired peers usually take it from there.
 
Hail Mary full of grace, the Lord is with thee; blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.
With Mary’s prayers, with Mary’s companionship, we can speak our death.
 
And then we serve communion – in this memory care unit communion is full-service, sit-down. We have bread and juice on trays and walk and wait among the wheelchairs, listening for the Amens.
 
Beth reaches – not for the cup, not for the wafer – and takes the whole tray in both of her hands. “I need this,” she says, each word clear, her hands clutching that tray with more strength than I could imagine resides in her frail body.
 
Is it a miracle? Is it a coincidence? Does it really matter to Beth, or just to me, because I want to believe I’m making a difference, channeling a bit of God’s healing.
 
It certainly is a mystery. How we are healed is a mystery. We are wise to be creative – to see that the miracle may not be a cure but might be a reconciled relationship. We are wise to trust the mystery of healing, and to soak up the gentle presence of God and let it work within and all around us.
 
Beth couldn’t find her own words most days, but she could recall the Hail Mary, the Our Father. She could say the 23rd Psalm with me.
 
All of my hospice patients could – doesn’t mean they could all recite it from memory if I didn’t say it along with them, but the words and phrases are deep inside their minds, deeper even than dementia. I wonder what my generation will be like on hospice, with dementia – we haven’t memorized scripture as well as our elders. And we who are Brethren don’t memorize creeds or Hail Marys – what rituals will our hospice chaplains find to stir our deepest memories of church and worship?
 
Memory-impaired people teach me that words do and do not matter. Meaning matters – words are one tool for sharing meaning. We don’t have to know just how we are healed to be healed. We don’t need to understand a miracle to be blessed by it. Psalm 23 has it all! The mysterious healing of God’s presence. We still walk through the valley of the shadow of death – it’s not a Psalm saying “the miracle is that God gives you immortality and you never suffer again!” Nope. We’re living with death, and we do so with God.
 
“You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies.” The healing isn’t that God gets rid of our enemies, or even that God miraculously turns our enemies into our friends. Rather God’s healing presence amidst the worries of our lives means that even in the presence of our enemies, even when we are afraid and off-kilter, we are invited to God’s table to enjoy the feast of holy presence and the abundant life Jesus calls us to celebrate.
 
May Psalm 23, or the Hail Mary, or the Our Father, or your favorite poem or song, be a feast for you today. May Holy Words of comfort and healing be like rain on arid parts of your life – restoring them to luscious green pastures. May Holy Words of mystery and peace be sunshine into your shadows until joy overflows your soul and your cup of gratitude runneth over.

Matthew 4:1-11
This story from Matthew guides us into Lent, because Jesus fasts forty days in the wilderness, and Lent is the fasting season before Easter. But those 40 days get only a sentence in the book of Matthew.
It makes sense, from a literary perspective, to focus on Jesus’ dialog with the Devil, to hone in on the conflict, rather than give readers a glimpse of Jesus’ 40 days. But since we turn to this story to enter into our own 40 days of Lent, I want to know more about Jesus’ 40 hungry days!
I imagine him dirty, dark circles under his eyes, face gaunt, shoulders slumped, weary—and also serene….I probably romanticize his wild time as holier than it would have felt to be hungry for 40 days.
​
Are you giving something up this Lent?
Phillip and I decided to give up sugar this year. We talked about it a couple weeks ago, and wondered if we would give up all sweeteners, or just processed sugar. We never got around to deciding, we’ve been thinking about other things and then on Thursday night as we split a fabulous dark chocolate bar we realized that we were definitely breaking our Lenten fast, on day two! We promised we’d figure out the details…and figured we might as well finish the chocolate.

Fasting has a rich history in Christianity, but most Protestants don’t practice it these days. It’s hard enough to fast in a world as overflowing with food as ours, but without a community of support and accountability, fasting takes extreme discipline.
We can read about Jewish families preparing for Passover’s weeklong diet by getting all the yeast and leaven out of the house. Then for a week they eat unleavened bread, like matzah.
Mardi Gras, French for Fat Tuesday is similar. The day before Lent begins, many Christians have a big feast to use up all the fatty, rich foods in the house before the lean fast of Lent.
If Phillip and I properly celebrated Mardi Gras this year we would have thrown a big party and eaten all the sugar in the house so that we could start Lent without any temptations around. That would’ve helped. But within days we’d swing by Weis for groceries and be surrounded by sugar – not just in desserts, but in nearly every processed food in the store – soup, bread, most things in boxes or cans or bags have some sneaky form of sweetener.
Let alone all the social and church occasions with sweet food provided – how often do you pick up some cookies for a church event? They’re so easy – no fridge or fork necessary.

For all these reasons, I believe fasting – for Lent or any other occasion – is harder in our time and society. Fasting certainly isn’t easy in other times or places – people get hungry! People want treats! But if we lived in a religiously uniform community where we all feasted and fasted on the same schedule, Weis and Giant would stock their shelves accordingly, we’d follow the same rules for the potlucks, and we could commiserate together about what we’re hungry for.
But we live with religious diversity, and we live in a culture of constant feasting. Religious traditions pair fasts with feasts – Lent is the fasting season to prepare for the feast of Easter. But in our culture we feast all the time – Sunday dinner is a traditional feast for some families, most of us have dessert every evening of the week and sometimes at lunch, too, and some people eat donuts for breakfast. Then there are office parties and church parties and birthday parties and Super Bowl parties and holidays. Then the reception at the speech or musical or gallery opening has cookies and punch.
The only shared cultural concept we have today for fasting is dieting, which is fundamentally different. Dieting is individualistic, it’s about making oneself acceptable.

​1 Cor 3:16-23 and Matthew 5:38-48
This is my second time living in Pennsylvania. A few months before I turned three, my family moved from Philadelphia to a 7-acre farm in Indiana to live communally with some other simple Brethren. We all shared the farmhouse for a while, then spread out. Now there are two houses, a trailer, until recently a yurt,  a big old barn, lots of chickens and cats, so many worms and bees and veggies and herbs and berries... There’s also an old windmill on the farm; tall and sturdy amidst hundred-year old buildings, without any blades or function left.

Except one. When I was three years old, I used to climb to the top of that windmill, look around while my stomach flipped, then climb back down. I don’t remember the first time I climbed up. I don’t remember the first few years of climbing up actually – like probably most of you, I really don’t have any clear memories before age 5. I definitely don’t remember that my dad followed me up to protect me. I wouldn’t have believed he did this if there wasn’t photographic evidence. I thought that windmill was my private playground.

Physically, I was a bold kid – climbing not just windmills, but trees too, wrestling, doing flips off the bed or through the banister.

Socially, I was timid. One of my earliest memories is eating at a restaurant with my extended family and playing with the ice and straw in my water glass – novelty items that I never enjoyed at home. My aunt scolded me (reasonably, I’m sure). I hid under the table for the rest of dinner.

I hated – still hate – being yelled at, criticized, talked down to. Obviously, no one likes being criticized. But I never got over wanting to hide under the table; I never got used to being called out. It didn’t happen much in my childhood, since my parents weren’t the scolding type.

I’ve always known myself to be accommodating, insecure, and inclined to give in or hide to escape trouble as quickly as possible.

But that probably doesn’t sound like the person you’ve known me to be, does it?
Before moving to the Indiana countryside where I could climb windmills to celebrate my newly acquired walking skills, in Philadelphia I expressed my physical freedom by running into the busy street outside our Germantown apartment – not once, over and over. My parents panicked and tried spanking me to teach my barely verbal brain the danger of toddling into traffic. But I just did it more. Same with turning on the stove; once I learned that it bothered my mom, I did it even more. They gave up on spanking pretty fast.

I don’t remember any of this, but my parents tell me the stories. Apparently my grandma, my dad’s mom, thought that my parents should discipline this wild child differently, and she still believed in spanking. Once, again around age 5, I crossed the country road that ran between her house and her barn without her accompanying me. This was against the rules, so when she found me she said, “If you do that again, I’ll spank you.” I told her, “If you spank me, I’ll do it again.” My grandma was a smart woman, and quickly ate her words of parenting advice.

I don’t know how to jive my 5-year-old self hiding under the dinner table with the one defying my grandma. I know a big part of it is that I felt very comfortable with my grandma, and was shy with my aunt. But when I think back on these stories I feel like they must be about two different girls.

Working as a hospital chaplain for the first time brought the shy girl out of me again – I was intimidated by the lingo, the lab coats, the hierarchy, the haughtiness. It took me a long time to find my voice, and I was rather miserable while I was at work, and often still miserable at home in the evenings, because I let myself be so small.

I came to recognize the disconnect between my hospital self and my familiar self as the same gap between the girl hiding under the table and the girl telling grandma what’s what. I decided to be more strategic about how I tell the story of who I am. That starts with getting smart about how I tell the story of who I’ve been. And all of this shapes the story of who I’m becoming.

We have a wealth of stories in scripture, and the ways we share these stories shape who we understand ourselves to be as people of faith. When we read today’s passage from 1 Corinthians we hear that our own bodies, our very beings, are God’s temple, filled with God’s Holy Spirit. Scripture is full of stories and statements that teach us we are blessed, beloved!

But plenty of people read the same bible and instead of telling stories of being blessed and beloved, tell stories of being wretched and terrible! And you can find it all in scripture, there are seeds for all sorts of stories in our scriptures – so we should be serious about the stories we choose to tell.

Does your family have favorite stories that you hear year after year at the Thanksgiving table, or sitting around the living room on Christmas morning? My family’s favorite stories are either funny or poignant. We either laugh, or get a little teary. There are infinite true stories we could tell, but we tell those stories, they are our favorite stories, because they serve our coming together. By laughing together at Uncle Gary losing those two toes, or getting a lump in our throats about what Grandma used to say, we get closer as a family.

So as a church family, we have infinite stories we could tell, stories that are true! But true isn’t enough – which are the stories that serve us? That serve our coming closer to each other, and closer to God?

Hearing Paul’s words that we are God’s temple – our very beings and bodies are filled with the Holy Spirit – draws us close to God by reminding us who we are, and whose we are. And it’s not just feel-good, warm fuzzy, easy theology – this is challenging! To be so utterly beloved and blessed challenges us to live as God’s temples and treat ourselves with such deep respect that we honor God, and honor that of God within us.
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Jesus says the greatest command is to love God, and to love our neighbors as we love ourselves. This letter from Paul reminds me that if we aren’t loving ourselves well, we won’t be loving our neighbors well, either.

Our stories shape us, shape everything about us and how we see the world.
We can only tell stories about the past, but we tell them with the perspective we hold in the present. We change our stories as we change, when we see different shades of them and ourselves.