Several
years ago I had the honor of celebrating the life of a woman who had
spent her life as a nurse.  She was fiercely independent, had never
married, was wonderfully fashionable, and LOVED being a nurse.  At
the end of her life, she had dementia, and it took almost everything
from her – knowledge of her loved ones, words, mobility, and the
rest.  All that was left of HER at the end of her life was one simple
motion.  It was the careful, life-saving motion of surgical
preparation – washing her hands.  After she’d lost even her own name,
she kept on washing her hands.

I
often wonder what that piece of me would be – the one last
lingering aspect of myself that would go last.  Truthfully, I’ve
never figured it out, but it feels like an important question.
Similarly, when I am spending time with a person earlier stages of
dementia, I pay attention to what stories come up time and time
again.  My theory is that those stories are core identity stories,
they are key to how the person understands themselves.  As such, I
try to notice what stories I’m telling repeatedly (hopefully to
different people), and figure out why those are the stories I’m
telling.

Not
to give away all my secrets all at once, but I also pay attention to
the phenomenon of repeated stories in groups – because I think
stories that more than one person tells are likely stories that
matter.  Also, I find the nuances and differences extra interesting.

The
stories that we repeat are the stories that are important to us.  I
suspect there are at least two aspects to why we repeat them:  first
because they are part of how we make sense of the world and secondly
because we’re still trying to make sense of the stories.  Telling our
stories, and having others respond to to them, helps us figure them
out.  

A
few years ago I came across a distinction between two types of
stories we tell.  Most of us, most of the time, tell what this theory
calls “ego stories.”  Ego stories make us look good, focus on
life’s high spots, portray us as having control in our own lives, are
well practiced and linear, well told, and sometimes well spun.  These
are the stories of interviews, of parties with people we don’t know,
of invulnerability and image crafting.

The
other option, according to this theory, is “soul stories.”  Soul
stories are the stories underneath ego stories, ones that tell about
both shadow and light, suffering as well as gladness.  They have a
lot of twists and turns, including telling about when our plans were
undone by life.  Telling soul stories allows us to integrate the
fragments with the whole, in part because they are unafraid of
change, fear, loss, failure, shame, mystery, passion, or ecstasy.
They are often told in poetry, music, or art.  They are the stories
we hold onto in the hardest of times, and the ones most important for
our loved ones to know.  Soul stories are likely to be the ones we
are revisiting at 3 AM, or when we have dementia, or when we die.¹

The
truth is that in most settings, soul stories are hard to tell.  They
make us vulnerable, and they tell about things we are afraid of or
ashamed of.  Yet, when we don’t tell them, they get told through
us without our awareness.

All
of this thinking about stories started for me with the language of
Job and the desire in that passage to immortalize Job’s story.  For a
little context, we are hearing Job himself speak in this passage and,
“Since Job has parodied and rejected the language of prayer (vv
21-22) and realized that his outcry brings no response or justice (v.
7) there appears to be no way for him to bring his words before
God.”²
In part, Job worries about how his story will live past his death.
That’s what this is about – preserving his words as a testimony to
the injustice of his life.  “It appears that Job describes three
materials on which his words might be recorded – scroll, lead
tablet, engraved rock – each more enduring than the last.”³

The
phrase translated “For I know my Redeemer lives” refers to a
“kinsman redeemer”, that is “It designates the nearest male
relative, who was responsible for protecting a person’s interest when
that individual was unable to do so.  The [kinsman redeemer] would
buy back family property sold in distress, recover what has been
stolen, redeem a kinsman sold into slavery, or avenge a murdered
kinsman blood.  The [kinsman redeemer] is the embodiment of family
solidarity.”⁴
Now, just to be clear, this means that what Job was actually saying
was “I have a family member who will avenge me, and even after I
die, he will be working for justice on my behalf.”  And, further,
the assumption is that the kinsman redeemer will be working towards
justice for Job against Job’s opponent: God.  Which is to say that
this passage means exactly the opposite of what I thought it did when
I first read it.  It is NOT the same gist as the Psalm from a
different angle.  This is a passage really angry with God.  (The fact
that I missed this means I wasn’t really thinking about this being
the book of Job when I read the passage, definitely a poor choice.)

In
terms of understanding the passage, there is one more important
piece.  The very end is distinct from what comes before it.  The
commentator in the New Interpreter’s Bible suggests it makes the most
sense to read it this way, “’I know that my defender lives, and
that at the  last he will arise upon the earth – after my skin has
been stripped off!  But I would  see God form my flesh, whom I would
see for myself; my eyes would see, and not a stranger.”  That is,
Job returns to his constant refrain in the book:  that he wants to be
heard by God, that he wants justice from God, and that he wants a
REPLY from God.  Even having his kinsman-redeemer fix things after
his death, or having his story be immortalized isn’t enough.  He
wants to take up this issue with God directly.  

In
function, the book of Job is one long soul story, interspersed with
some ego story assurances from Job’s friends.  Even God’s answers
take the form of a soul story.  The yearning that Job has to have his
story heard fits with the description that they are the stories we
want the people we love most to know – and I think in this case
that includes God.

I’ve
always assumed that God knows my stories, in fact thats one of the
assurances of life – that even if I forget my own stories, they are
still alive within the Divine.  But that means I don’t tend to tell
God my stories as often, even though the telling of stories to God is
inherently good.  And, the book of Job is the great reminder in the
Bible that God is big enough to handle our anger, and it is OK to
RAIL against God.  God doesn’t punish us for expressing our anger,
and God knows the injustices we’ve experienced, and yet we are
welcome to keep on telling them to God as long as they need to be
told.  Because God, of course, can handle our vulnerable soul stories
with shadows and light, and doesn’t need or expect things cleaned up
into ego stories.  This is sometimes one of the weaknesses of formal
worship.  When we have hymns, anthems, and prayers in poetic and
formal language it can lead us to thinking that God requires us to be
able to express the inexpressible.  When in fact, God can handle any
communication, including “sighs too deep for words.”

Have
you tried telling God your stories, instead of just going over them
again and again in your head?  Sometimes it can really help.  For me,
it is most helpful when I WRITE to God (longhand!).  I keep a prayer
journal and I find that all the things swirling in my head and
smashing into each other can be extricated one by one, examined, and
a bit of order can sometimes be found among them.  Or, at the very
least, I can find out what things are in conflict within me.  What
seems massive within, when written to God, becomes less heavy and
more manageable.  I also notice, as I write, what themes I go back
to.  Which is helpful because it helps me to have a better idea what
my version of handwashing might be.  

I
thought, before I did my research, that I’d be ending this sermon
talking about the stories we have to tell of God’s goodness.  Our
versions of “I know my redeemer lives” before it became clear
that was NOT God after all.  (Oye).  I do actually think those are
important stories, imperative ones even.  None of us are here without
a good reason.  That’s just not how life works.  But do others in
your church family know the core stories of your personal faith
journey?  Do they know why you trust in God, or what you are
struggling with in trying to trust God, or why you keep showing up at
all?  Are these some of the stories you keep on telling?  (Why or why
not?)  Those might be interesting stories to start telling – even
if they are soul stories and more than a little vulnerable.  So here
is your homework this week.  (Homework!?!)  Tell one member of this
community one of your personal faith stories – why you are
committed to being a part of this Jesus-movement.  Together, these
are the stories we have to tell, and tell, and tell.  Amen

1  Parker
Palmer and Marcy Jackson, “Ego Stories & Soul Stories” ©
2012 found at
https://www.clearpathcounsel.com/files/4313/3029/8683/Ego_Stories__Soul_Stories.pdf

2  Carol
Newsom, “The Book of Job” in The New Interpreter’s Bible
Volume IV ed. Leander E. Keck et al (Nashville: Abingdon Perss,
1996)  477-8.

3
 Newsom,  478.

4  Newsom,
478.