 On Saturday this past weekend, I spent some time peeling, de-seeding, and cubing butternut squash that we had grown this past summer in our garden. So that the quash was ready to use and did not get too soft simply sitting in storage in our basement, I vacuum sealed it in food bags and placed those bags in the freezer.
As I worked, a cinema-like scene ran through my mind. Of the simple seeds that began in a simple mound of dirt in our backyard. With tending from my spouse and I–along with Mother Nature–the mighty vines of the butternut squash plant climbed the trellis we had put up for them. Then, having run out of room, they twisted and climbed their way along our green beans, in and out of our pepper plants and onion, even making it as far as our rhubarb and our horseradish plants. Finally, it flowered–big, beautiful, yellow flowers that gave way to tiny butternut squash that would–in time–grow to the very items I was cubing on Saturday. The movie playing in my head eventually gave way to thoughts about how the seeds we plant today have the ability to do such astonishing things–and I don’t just mean in our gardens. The seeds of independent decision-making that we sow in our kids today have the ability to grow independent thinkers. The seeds of hope we sow with our neighbors today have the ability to grow hopeful communities. The seeds of justice that we sow in our actions today have the ability to grow a more just world. Of course, the same thing can be said for the other side of the coin: Seeds of cruelty sown today have the ability to grow cruelty to be harvested at a later date. Seeds of radicalization sown today have the ability to radicalize an entire generation. Seeds of hate sown today have the ability to grow a more hate-filled world. You’ll notice that I used the words, “have the ability” for seeds on both sides of the coin. This was intentional. Any gardener will tell you that a person can do everything right and still not harvest what they intended. This is because there are so many factors that must come together in order that good fruit is plentiful at harvest time. The same is also true on the other side of the coin. A gardener can do nothing right–no weeding or watering or pruning or tending–and have a harvest beyond their wildest dreams (side note: There are entire YouTube channels dedicated to this way of gardening–they’ve dubbed it “lazy gardening”). In short, there are no guarantees. Yet, even in the face of so much uncertainty, gardeners do what they can. They start seeds indoors. They plan out crop rotations and garden layouts. Even “lazy gardeners” prepare the soil, put seeds or seedlings in the ground, lay down mulch, and string up trellises. They stay true to their gardening approaches–sure–but they do what they can, when they can, where they can, as they can. They create the conditions in which growing, fruiting, and harvesting are most likely to occur, and then…they wait. In this very tumultuous time in our nation and in our world, we would do well to follow the way of the gardeners. We would do well to remember that while seeds sown in cruelty have the ability to grow even more cruelty to be harvested later, that is not necessarily a foregone conclusion. Neither is it a foregone conclusion that the seeds of justice that we sow in our actions today will necessarily grow a more just world. We often don’t have sole control of either outcome. What we do have control of is what conditions we choose to help create. We can choose to create conditions that make it very difficult for seeds of cruelty to put down roots. We can choose to tend the seeds of justice like our life depends on it growing and fruiting for a bountiful harvest (because it does!). We can do our part–in our own corners of the community, nation, and world–to make it easier for hope, justice, and a sense of belonging to each other to bear good fruit at the harvest. And–at the same time–we can refuse to give our minds, hearts, and spirits over to the idea that anything is a foregone conclusion. When things look bleak at the start–just as they have for a lot of us in this first month of 2025–it can feel like more of the same is all that there is to come. But friends, that is not a foregone conclusion. We have a hand in what is harvested here. We can influence the growing conditions around us, and do our very best to impede all that is harmful and death-dealing from growing exponentially. We will not always succeed, but we won’t always fail either. We only fail if we stop trying and assume that there is nothing we can do. So, while my household is enjoying the good fruits harvested from our 2024 garden, I encourage all of us to turn our attentions to the garden of 2025, and see what might be needing done already. There’s tending to do here. There’s planning to do here. Some seeds are already in the ground, and we have at least some say in creating the conditions they need to grow–or not. To fruit–or not. To make it to harvest–or not. In our fear, our upset, and our exhaustion, may we remember that we, too, are gardeners–and we are not powerless so long as we stay in the garden…even in the midst of such cruel and divisive seeds being sown around us. Doing what I can, as I can with you, Pr. Melissa  This past weekend my parents gifted my spouse and I an old Quill paper box filled with Farm Journal magazines. These weren’t just any Farm Journal magazines–they were old issues–some dating as far back as 1945 and 1946. My spouse and I spent a good deal of time flipping through their brittle pages–marveling at the advertisements for “new” electric ranges, “faster” tractors, and “long-lasting” rubber tires.
Tucked in between the advertisements, political cartoons (there were MANY of those!), and pleas for people to buy war bonds, were reports out of Washington D.C. These were fascinating. In one article from the March 1945 issue, there were short updates about “Young Henry” Wallace being backed by a Political Action Committee (PAC), “left-wingers,” and “most New Dealers,” and because of this backing, he would have a “major voice in dictating a post-war economy–a so-called ‘economy of abundance,’ paying jobs for all, ever-expanding world trade, and continued government deficits and debts.” In another issue’s article, talk of “Communist outfits” at work alongside workers’ alliances and unions, as well as a whole discussion on confirmation hearings in Congress that were hitting some challenges and roadblocks. In another section, there were discussions about shortages on eggs driving higher prices, lower prices on pork due to overproduction, and tariffs causing certain goods to be far more expensive to the American consumer. ALL of this from 1945 and 1946 alone! On Monday, at noon, my spouse and I watched the inauguration of the 47th President of the United States. We listened to various media outlets and reporters break down what was happening through their lens. We listened to the president’s various speeches, and tuned in for the signing of several executive orders. And we noticed how our anxieties and fears began to rise within us. And then we got to talking about those old magazines. They all could have been written today. We’re still talking about “left” and “right.” We’re still talking about unions, collective bargaining, tariffs, and building an “economy of abundance.” We’re still talking about the price of eggs and Senate confirmation hearings. We’re still being fed political cartoons and advertisements telling us about the latest and greatest tractor, or the latest and greatest appliance. There really is “nothing new under the sun,” my spouse and I concluded. And–even if just in the smallest of ways–our fears and anxieties subsided some. It’s worth noting that the rest of those magazines were filled with farmers sharing tips and tricks to increase yields, or advice on when to sell hogs and corn in order to increase profits. It was filled with farm wives (the patriarchy and its narrowly-defined gender roles were alive and well) sharing canning tips and tricks in order to better preserve food grown in gardens and not rely so heavily on government rations. It was filled with articles about people helping people as a means of getting through the horrors of war–both overseas and at home. I don’t know what this next period of time has in store for us. But what I do know is that there is nothing new under the sun. We as a people, and we as a people of faith, have been here before. Stories from our sacred texts remind us of times of famine and unrest and disease in which communities made it through by relying on each other. In fact, that’s how salvation was understood in the Ancient world–as wholeness. And wholeness only happened through group efforts. In other words, not only are our neighbors counting on us, but we are counting on us. Which means, friends, that we cannot afford to get distracted by divisive rhetoric that has been around forever. We cannot afford to go chasing the “shiny objects” dangled in front of us on social media or on the news by politicians, reporters, and pundits who dangle shiny objects for a living. We cannot afford to chase every waterfall or every rabbit down a deep, dark hole. We must do whatever work is laid before us. In light of the current iteration of harmful and divisive rhetoric and legislation we find ourselves in, our LGBTQ+ siblings–particularly our trans siblings need us doing the work of allyship and advocacy. We need you checking on us and offering the kind of social support that often eludes so many in our community. Our undocumented siblings need us. They need us organizing and pondering how or if we–as a church–might become a sanctuary for them in some way, shape, or form. Our unhoused or under-housed siblings need us to be willing to share our time and our space–particularly in these extreme weather conditions like we’ve experienced recently, while at the same time, organize and work toward more affordable housing and emergency shelters. Our siblings who are economically insecure in some way, shape, or form, need us to continue End of Month Meals and supporting food pantries, but also need us to work toward systemic change right here in our communities–organizing to challenge local businesses and our local government officials to do more than just the bare minimum. The list goes on and on. The work laid before us is extensive. Most of us are exhausted just thinking about it…now, imagine living it. No wonder so many people simply take to complaining on social media or shutting down completely. Here again, though, Jewish wisdom is helpful, “It is not your duty to finish the work, but neither are you at liberty to neglect it." Balance is key, which is why we pursue wholeness together. Not so that we can slay every dragon, but so that we do not neglect to do what we can in order to protect our neighbors and ourselves from the fiery breath directed at those in the dragon’s path. There really is nothing new under the sun…except God’s mercies which are new every morning. What we do in light of that newness is up to us. On the journey with you, Pr. Melissa  Coming into the church sanctuary on Monday morning was quite the sight to behold. Monday was the first sunny day we have had since the new windows in the sanctuary have been installed, and the light streaming into our worship space was breathtaking (the picture doesn’t quite do it justice). I have commented to many folks in jest that I will likely need to start leading Sunday morning worship with sunglasses on…maybe sunscreen too in the summertime. 😉😎
As I have thought about these new windows, and the stained glass windows that have had the old, yellowed, covers removed from them, I have found my heart and mind drawn to more than simply the amount of light that they let in. I have found myself lingering on what they help us as a community let out. I have watched countless St. Paul folks come into the sanctuary, see the new windows, and let out a deep breath. As if all of the light coming in, and the removal of all of the yellowed coverings and heavy stained glass has given them as individuals, and us as a congregation, permission to finally exhale. To somehow collectively push out of our lungs all of the uncertain air that has plagued this congregation for so long–questions about whether or not this church still had a place in this community. Questions about whether or not we could–or even should–look beyond the present moment. Questions about whether or not this building was too much of a burden for our community to bear. To be clear, they aren’t magical windows. I know that. I know that we are still figuring out how to pay for phase 2 of the project. I know that we are still a small-ish community of faithful folks who, despite our best efforts to slow down Father Time, keep aging. I know that we continue to wrestle with who we are, who we welcome, and how we show up in an increasingly precarious political and cultural landscape. I know that for some of our neighbors and fellow churches, just the fact that this church exists is like a sliver under the fingernail. I know that we still have questions. I know that we still aren’t good at letting ourselves look at our future together beyond the next 5 years. Thankfully, we aren’t a people in need of magic–we never have been. We are a people who just need to remember to breathe–to remember that we CAN breathe. We needn’t hold our breath while hiding away in our own “top secret” Sunday morning yellow cave, we are a community breathing in the life of the Spirit and seeing clearly the community around us. And all of that stress and anxiety that we have held collectively and individually in this community of faith as we have pondered our future and second-guessed our past can be pushed out of the center of who we are, and we can inhale the goodness, the challenges, and fullness of the moment. If we let it, some of that light streaming in can even find its way into those dark, pessimistic, cynical corners of our hearts that have kept us from seeing the possibilities born of faith and a little elbow grease. So, yeah, there’s nothing magical about the windows, nor is there anything magical in the invitation I’m extending here, but I’m extending it all the same. I want to invite you to come–sometime soon–and just stand in the sanctuary and breathe. Let yourself exhale. Let yourself soften into the awe revealed when new light drenches a familiar place. Let your diaphragm and your lungs know the sweet release of letting anxiety, despair, and isolation leave your body. Let yourself hope again. I know hope has disappointed us all before, but try to let it happen all the same. We can look at the window project as simple building and maintenance, but I happen to think that it’s FAR MORE than that. It’s a spiritual project–an invitation–architectural evidence that life–real, breathing, life–is present here. And that life, as our text from this past Sunday reminds us, is the light of ALL people (John 1:5). That means our neighbors. That means you. That means me. Let’s breathe deep of that life together, friends. And then let’s breathe that life out into the world. Breathing with you, Pr. Melissa  On Sunday night, my spouse and I were driving home from my parents’ house in Grundy Center following our family Christmas get together. The gathering was originally slated for Saturday, however, Mother Nature had other plans, as an ice storm blanketed most of the region. So, following worship on Sunday, we made our way up to gather together, leaving us to drive home in the dark.
This, in and of itself, is always an adventure. What, with the constant game of “Is that a deer or a mailbox?” that we are forced to play–particularly this time of year. But Sunday night brought with it an even greater degree of difficulty caused by your friend and mine: Fog. So, through the dark of night and the blur of fog, we set our course through Grundy County and part of Marshall County. Through part of Tama County and Poweshiek County, and finally Mahaska County. The trip seemed to take FOREVER–much longer than the usual two hours. The dark always seems to have a way of doing that though–making distances seem stretched. And the fog only serves to add a particular slog to the whole journey. At times, I would get disoriented–thinking that we were much further in our travels than we actually were. Only to see the faint lights of a town’s welcome sign emerge from the dark and the blur of fog to find that we had so much more distance to go. At other times, the fog closed in so tightly, that it felt like we were the only ones on earth moving. But then, just as it seemed as if the fog might swallow us and our little car whole, headlights would emerge from what just moments before had seemed like an unending blanket of grey. We weren’t the only ones moving that night–no matter how much the dark skies and the bleary fog made it seem like it. One thing I know for sure is that life has a way of bringing us to moments when the night closes in, and the fog settles in. During those times it can feel as if we are the only ones suffering, or the only ones going through a rough patch. We can feel isolated and alone. The holidays, I think, have a way of creating similar conditions for some of us. Even as we gather with family members, we’ll find our thoughts drifting to Christmas pasts, when loved ones who have since departed were still celebrating with us. When our hearts felt more full. When we felt more alive. In our remembering, we often find that we are met with an ache and a deep sense of longing. And all of it can close in on us–cloaking us in a kind of dark and drab night of the soul that can–at times–feel as if it might swallow us whole too. My friends, if you find that you are in this kind of fog this Advent and Christmas, please keep inching your way forward. Please keep your eyes on the Advent path. Please keep the vehicle of your heart between the lines on the road. I promise you–I. PROMISE. YOU.– the Light is coming. The fog is not actually swallowing you whole. The dark will not go on forever. Light will eventually emerge from what just moments before seemed like an unending blanket of grey. The way will be made clear again. Knowing this will not burn off the fog any sooner, and may not tear the veil of the night in two, but maybe, just maybe, it might give you just enough of the stuff you need to keep going despite the darkness and despite the fog. And maybe that is the best gift I can offer you this time of year–a gift much like the gift you all have offered me. The gift of knowing that there’s headlights out in that fog–just waiting to meet us. There is, in fact, a Light traveling toward us that the darkness cannot overcome. Be encouraged. For the last time in 2024–I’m on the journey with you, Pr. Melissa  On Sunday evening I was watching football while writing Christmas cards. Out of nowhere, the corner of my left eye saw something blink. I turned my head, but saw nothing. I continued to work. I fiddled with an envelope, then caught it again. Blink. Head turn. Nothing. Then I placed the address labels on the envelope, peeled back another snowflake stamp, and began to place it somewhat nicely in the upper right hand corner of the envelope. Blink. Blink. Head turn. Nothing. Finally, just as I was sealing the envelope, a moment of rapid blinking occurred. I turned my head to the left just in time to see part of the bottom row of our pre-lit Christmas tree go out.
Sighing deeply, I pushed away my tray table and bent over part of the tree. I wiggled a few light bulbs…nothing. I pulled out a couple of light bulbs and then pushed back in…still nothing. Then I did what we all do in this day and age when something stops working the way we want it to work…I rebooted. Or, at least I rebooted in the manner that one reboots a Christmas tree…I turned it off, gave it a minute, then turned it back on…nothing. Having reached the end of my electrical skill set, I knew that there were really only two options remaining: 1) Leave it alone and try not to let the area void of light bother me for the rest of the season; or 2) Sit down and go through each bulb to try to find the one that shorted the rest of them out without pulling down the whole tree and all of its ornaments in the process. As I let my back settle into the softness of the couch, I knew which option I was going to choose. I would leave the lights alone. I would stay off of YouTube trying to find “life hacks” that would help easily find the problematic bulb. I would address the issue more thoroughly when the season was over. Fr. Richard Rohr once wrote that, “All great spirituality is about letting go. Instead, we have made it to be about taking in, attaining, performing, winning, and succeeding. True spirituality echoes the paradox of life itself. It trains us in both detachment and attachment: detachment from the passing so we can attach to the substantial. But if we do not acquire good training in detachment, we may attach to the wrong things, especially our own self-image and its desire for security.” Now, I will be the first to admit that choosing not to tackle the tree lights was not about acquiring some great spiritual discipline. It was not about practicing detachment. It was about fatigue and a general disinterest in using my very limited free time to do something I loathe. But that doesn’t mean that that’s ALL letting go of a fully lit tree had to be. What if for all of these years I have gotten spiritual practices and transformation all wrong? Maybe learning to let go is no big, epiphanous moment in which I make a decision to let go and then–through sheer grit and determination–force myself to comply. Maybe spiritual practice is less like setting an intention or creating a resolution, and more like learning to listen to ourselves in moments when it would be so easy to listen to the “have to’s” and the “supposed to’s” and the “gotta be’s.” Could it be that in listening to my mind and my body tell me that there was no bandwidth for finding the burned out bulb right now that I was actually practicing letting go? In a sermon on 1 John 4:9, Meister Eckhart said, “God asks only that you get out of God’s way and let God be God in you.” I wonder if that’s what spiritual practices really are? Not one more thing that we have to take on, try to do, or try to be, but rather, the ordinary, everyday moments when we get to choose whether or not we will get out of God’s way so that God can be God in us? Like, maybe God is just waiting on us to stop doing all of the things, conquering every issue that comes along all by ourselves, or gutting everything out. Maybe God is waiting for us to drop the facades we all walk around with that give the impression that we can do all of the things and be all of the things for everybody. Maybe God is just waiting for us to stop worshiping the gods of our own making–success, financial freedom, winning, performing–and finally let God be God for us–in us. And maybe noticing and allowing that to happen–allowing God to happen–IS, in the end, the spiritual practice? I’m not sure. Maybe that’s a stretch. Maybe it’s only a stretch for someone still learning to detach? You’ll have to decide for yourself. As for me and my house, we will have a tree with one section unlit. On the journey through Advent with you, Pr. Melissa |
Pastor Melissa enjoying time on her hammock.
Rev. Melissa Sternhagen
Rev. Melissa Sternhagen was called as the pastor of St. Paul Congregational UCC in June of 2020. Prior to her call to St. Paul, Pr. Melissa worked as a hospice chaplain in the Ames, IA area, following pastorates at rural churches in Central Iowa and Southern Illinois. Pr. Melissa is a second-career pastor with a background in agribusiness and production & supply operations. She received her M.Div. from Eden Theological Seminary in St. Louis, MO, and holds a MA Ed. in Adult Education and Training, and a BA in Organizational Communications. Archives
February 2025
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