Maren, here is the living psalm 111:

I will praise—not quietly, not in whispers—
but loud, unashamed, in the gathering of God’s people:
the beautifully diverse, courageously authentic, gloriously unfinished body of Christ.

Our stories—etched in wrinkles and stretch marks, in tattoos and prosthetics, in wheelchairs and hearing aids, in accents and laughter too wild for pews to contain—are sacred text.

The works of the Divine?
They are us—
bodies kissed by grace,
minds fierce with wonder,
souls resilient,
even after the world tried to silence our names or erase our worth.

Everything the Holy One touches is laced with justice,
rooted in love that does not flinch at who we are
or who we are still becoming.

Our liberation is not a favor—
it is a promise carved in the stars,
sung in the cries of every soul told they were too much or not enough.

God fed us when the world withheld.
God gave us breath when systems stole safety.
God called us beloved before we even dared to believe it ourselves.

Our histories—Black, Brown, immigrant, queer, trans, disabled, poor,
elders and children, seekers and skeptics—
are holy history.
A record of defiance and joy woven brilliantly,
in names reclaimed,
in families chosen,
in prayers whispered, shouted, wept, and sung between heartbreak and hope.

God’s covenant is not reserved for the palatable.
It is inked in the pulse of every outcast
who dared to rise, to sing, to dance anyway.

Truth? It does not fade.
Neither do we.

Praise is not just hallelujahs.
It is protest signs and casseroles shared,
it is marches in rain and vigils in silence,
it is midnight phone calls that save lives,
it is loving ourselves and each other against every odd.

Holy awe is the first breath after despair,
the moment of recognizing your reflection and not apologizing,
the trembling courage of calling this body—this community—home.

This praise is the beginning of wisdom.
And beloved, in God’s eyes,
we are wise beyond measure.