 On Monday morning I woke up–as many of you did–to snow. I knew there was a chance of snow when I went to bed on Sunday night, but I didn’t really think there would be snow of any significance…I was wrong. It wasn’t a lot of snow–just enough to blanket the earth with something beautiful, soft, and light. And it was just enough to be inconvenient.
I’m just never ready for the first snow. I’m never ready to admit that winter is truly here. I’m never ready to begin doing the “penguin shuffle” on driveways, stairways, and sidewalks so as to steady myself in case there are icy patches hiding beneath the white fluff. I’m never ready to admit that time has run out on all of the things I had promised myself that I would get to “before the snow flies.” For example, that morning as I was pushing the snow on our driveway with a shovel, I kept running into patches of grass in the driveway cracks. Now, I had looked at those patches of crabgrass and weeds every day. And every day I had promised myself that I would make time to pull it all out. I would get it done “before the snow flies” so that the shovel would run smoothly over the top and the snowblower wouldn’t go shooting grass clumps out of its auger. On Monday, that promise was unfulfilled. Sure, this snow would likely melt. And, yeah, there’s a chance I could still get that grass pulled when it does. But honestly, it was looking a lot less likely. As I ran into those grass clumps, I cursed my former self. I grumbled at the version of me who had decided to do all kinds of other things–have supper with my spouse, play with my dogs, work late, go visit someone in the hospital, watch football, do nothing and rest–anything other than dig out grass clumps from driveway cracks. After running my shovel into yet another clump, I looked up in frustration…and saw my spouse. They were sweeping snow off the driveway with my shop broom. There they were, out in their shorts and tennis shoes, enjoying the cool morning helping me move snow. They can’t shovel snow because of a health condition, and they can’t help if the snow is wet and heavy, but on Monday morning, the snow was just right, and they could help. As I looked down our long driveway in the early morning light, as snow continued to fall, I felt my heart warm. I smiled at my spouse, and suddenly the grass patches didn’t matter quite as much. They were still there, mind you, but they were no longer beacons of my poor time management. They were not monuments to my own personal failures. They were a gift I didn’t know I needed–those grass clumps had gotten me to look up. On Sunday in my homily, I shared that the focus of Advent is the path, and how we are called to make the paths straight–to prepare the way for God’s tenderness to make its way to us. I shared that we each are tasked with seeing what obstacles on our paths might be getting in the way of us experiencing the God’s unwavering adoration for each of us. I still believe all of that to be true. But on Monday morning, one other thing proved itself to be true as well: Sometimes the obstacles in our path get us to stop long enough to look around and see the ways God’s tenderness has already arrived to greet us. That morning, the grass clumps stopped me long enough to see the person I love, in the snow, doing what they could–not what they couldn’t–to help out with something they usually cannot help with. Those grass clumps stopped me long enough to take in the moment, to savor what is good and right in my life and in the world. Those grass clumps were a gift that allowed me to see God’s tenderness already setting up shop in our driveway–in my life. So this week, I want to invite you to keep your focus on the path just as we spoke about on Sunday. But I also want to invite you to not curse the obstacles that you find along the way. I want to invite you to give those obstacles a chance to be a gift. To get you to look up long enough to see how God’s adoration and tenderness have already found you. Letting the obstacles of the path surprise me, and hoping they surprise you too, Pr. Melissa  It was just football. It wasn’t even a live game…it was just a football documentary…on Netflix of all places. And yet there I was–sitting in the soft glow of the TV set and the lighted Christmas tree that we had put up in an effort to grab joy wherever we can–crying. Like, full on, tears down the cheeks, lump in the throat, crying. Alone. On the couch. Over football.
I’m not sure where it came from. I had been having a pretty good day. I had gone to the gym to work out. I had met my step goal for the day. I had spent quality time with my spouse and my dogs after a good morning of worship at church. And all of a sudden, the tears came. The documentary series follows three NFL quarterbacks through the 2022-2023 NFL season–Patrick Mahomes, Kirk Cousins, and Marcus Mariota. We see their highs, their lows, their victories, their defeats, their questions about work-life balance, their families, and the ways their contracts and injuries impact it all. But the part that got me all up in my feelings happened very near the end of the last episode. The Kansas City Chiefs had just beaten the Philadelphia Eagles 38 to 35 in yet another Super Bowl in which my beloved Chicago Bears did not appear (I’m not bitter though 😉). As the Chiefs are celebrating their big win, we see Patrick Mahomes find his father–a one time professional baseball player in his own right–in the crowd. They embrace, the young Mahomes tells his dad he loves him, and as the two hold each other, his dad responds, “I ain’t never seen anything like you. You’re different. I love you to death, baby, you know I do.” The embrace continues for a moment longer, then breaks into high fives and celebratory shouts. I’m tearing up right now just thinking about it. There are many reasons, I’m sure, for my tears. I mean, I’m a sucker for a good sports story–not to mention one that is complete with music that swells in just the right spots, and has offered an entire season of in-depth character development that goes beyond just, “he’s good at football.” But as I reflect this morning, I can’t help but think about the power of words from someone we love–both the words we long to hear, and the words that end all of our longing. And I can’t help but think about how–too many times–we let things stand in the way of saying things that need to be said–of speaking the words of affirmation and love that someone around us may not even be aware that they need to hear, but do. Or speaking the words of affirmation and love for another that our hearts long to pass across our lips. There’s a whole lot of reasons for this, I think. When we speak our love or our affirmation for another–even another we’ve known, been married to, raised, or been with for awhile–there is a vulnerability we feel in that moment between when we speak those words and the other person responds. When we tell a teenager how proud of them we are and how much we love them and the person they’re becoming, we feel vulnerable, wondering if they’re going to roll their eyes or drop all pretenses and wrap their arms around us. When we tell a friend how blessed we feel to have them in our lives, we feel vulnerable, wondering if they’re going to change the subject right away, or if they’re going to let any cool facades they might otherwise employ in such a moment fall to the floor as they respond that they feel the same way. Each time we say, “I love you,” to a partner–whether it’s the first time ever or the first time that day after 40 years together–there’s still always that moment when the words leave our lips and we wonder–even if just for a split second, “Will they say it back?” “Is this the time when it all changes?” “What if they stopped feeling the same way?” Any way you slice it, most of us hold our breath until we hear some of the most magical words in the history of language: “I love you, too.” Exhale. Which makes me wonder, do we really have to wait until we win the Super Bowl, or reach some amazing feat to speak words of love and affirmation for someone in our lives? Do we have to wait for birthday cards and Christmas parties to tell someone what they mean to us? Do we really have to be sure that someone will parrot words of love and affirmation back to us before we’ll open up and tell them how we feel? Why? What are we afraid of? Being uncomfortable? Being told we’re “too much?” Being rejected? I’m not minimizing those things. Those feelings are valid, AND, as one of my seminary professors once asked after each scripture passage he read, “So what?” What if everything we fear does happen? What if we are uncomfortable? What if we are rejected and are told we are “too much?” So what? While I’m at it, there is a somewhat popular thought in some circles that suggests that if we overuse love words and affirmations, they get watered down and mean nothing. The idea being that it’s not special unless we parse it out over our lifetimes. Tell me though, what’s the right number of times a person can hear “I love you?” Twice a year? Once a month? Only if they do something great? What’s the benchmark? Who gets to decide? I’m reminded that in the book of Genesis, we are told a story about how God creates all of creation, including humans, and after each being is created, God says, “This is good. This is really, really good.” Before we do anything to earn it. Before we do anything to screw it up. Before our insecurities and uncertainties, God called us “Good.” And throughout scripture, God calls us “good” in many ways and in many circumstances. In my own life, I see how God continues to call me “good,” without me doing anything exceptional or what others might call worthwhile. God keeps wrapping arms around me and whispering in my ear, “I ain’t never seen anything like you. You’re different. I love you to death, baby, you know I do.” AND GOD DOES THE SAME THING FOR YOU TOO. So, who in your life needs to hear words of love and affirmation today? What are the words that you’ve been storing up in your heart–waiting for the “right time” to say? What’s holding you back from leaning into love? Love unspoken doesn’t do a thing. Love undemonstrated demonstrates nothing. The world just seems to be in need of more love being shared–even if it doesn’t always end up doing what we want it to do once we’ve shared it. Creating a world filled with more love and affirmation with you, Pr. Melissa  I was leaving the house to walk the dogs this morning and I noticed that every single inch of the ground where on Friday I had mulched up leaves and relocated them to our back garden was covered once more with more leaves. The wind and the rains of Saturday and early Sunday had coaxed the maple tree that straddles the property line between our house and our neighbor’s house to drop more leaves and blow them to our side of the property line.
Friday had been the second time I had mulched leaves, and I knew–like years gone by–it wouldn’t be the last. This is our autumnal routine–the dance of repurposing–we run over the leaves with our mower, mulching them into the mower’s bag. When full, we dump the mower bag’s mulched contents onto a tarp. When the tarp gets full enough, we take it to our backyard and dump it onto the garden where the leaves can help protect the garlic bulbs my spouse planted as they weather the storms of winter while dreaming of spring from just under the soil. Lather. Rinse. Repeat as needed. As I walked the dogs, I kept thinking of this routine. The regularity with which it happens. The way its timing is a little different every year, but also how the fact that it happens remains the same. It’s not a matter of IF the tree will drop its leaves, or IF they will blow our way, it’s a matter of WHEN. Nature does what nature has always done. She is something we can count on at times when it feels as if we will never be able to count on anything again. Nature does what it does. Over and over again in a beautiful, cyclical movement that is brand new and remarkably familiar all at once. The only choice we ever have in the matter is what we will do with the leaves when they do blow our way. Will we let them blanket the grass so heavily that they choke everything out? Will we simply hope that our neighbors do something with them before they cross property lines? Will we wait and see if they keep on blowing into someone else’s yard and become someone else’s problem? Or will we decide to join into Nature’s dance–mulching, collecting, and repurposing what has been laid before us so that beauty, growth, and change can emerge from what lies fallow now? I can’t answer those questions for you, but I can share with you that as I walked this morning, and I thought about those leaves and the routine we’ve chosen to be a part of for the past 4 ½ years that we’ve lived here, I wept. I wept as I thought about how nothing seems to make sense anymore. I wept as I thought about how no matter what proverbial rug I step on, it always seems to be ripped out from under me. I wept as I thought of all of the questions I do have, and all of the answers I don’t. I wept and I walked and I thought of those leaves. And I found that I was comforted. I am comforted. Comforted by the regularity of Nature and her offerings that know no bounds. Comforted by the accessibility of her lessons for all who would dare to notice them. Comforted by the unending invitation she extends to each of us to find our place in a larger story than the one right in front of us–the one we’re hyper fixated on at the moment–the one on our phones, on the news, in our families of origin, at the supper table, our places of work, and even in our own hearts. A story as old as time–whose plot line never changes–but whose characters always do. I’m finding comfort in this routine–this regularity–this thing that goes on without my intervention. It’s something I can count on–that you can count on too. And, I don’t know about you, but I really want to be able to count on something right now So I’m going to look to the trees, and the leaves, and the Table that God has spread before me in Nature, and I’m going to come to that Table again…and again. I’m going to let myself be fed there, and nourished there, and reminded of the old, old story there, and choose to let myself become a part of it. To remind myself that the stories in my immediate vicinity are not the only stories being written–there’s another being written not on computers or feeds or printed pages, but all around us–in golden leaves, in dampened grass, under the earth, in the soil. The gifts of God, for we, the people of God, inviting us to come to the Table for all has been made ready. I pray you’ll join me there, Pr. Melissa  Stop. That feeling in the pit of your stomach is real. The reality of the past 24 hours plus the last 90 days are making themselves known now in undeniable ways. The disbelief, the fear, the heartache–they’re all present and accounted for. But I'm asking you to stop right now, for just a moment. Stop. Breathe. Listen.
If you're anything like me, the breathing is hard this morning–shallow, panicked. Nothing makes sense, and everything makes sense. Psalm 30 tells us that joy comes in the morning–we were banking on that. But now, I think, sometimes the only thing that comes in the morning is, well, morning. It is a new day. A new day with new challenges. I'm not going to fake hope for you–I care about you all far too much to do that. But I am also not going to wrap despair around me like a blanket. The election is over. I'm going to stop for a minute. I'm going to breathe. I'm going to listen. I'm going to pray. And then, I am going to get to work accepting the things I cannot change, changing the things I can, and continuously do the hard work of discerning the difference between those two. Now, more than ever, we are called to Be the Church. Not for some fantasy time or in some make-believe circumstances, but in such a time as this. What we do now is the same things we would have done had the results been different–we do justice, we love mercy, and we walk humbly with our God. We look at the world around us and see who needs us to show up for them, and we do that. We love–just like we would have if things had gone the other way–only maybe we learn to love with hearts broken. Not broken down or broken apart, but broken open to the wounds of the world. This morning is hard for many of us. The next four years may very well be hard for many of us too. Please don't turn away. Please don't shut down. Please don't isolate. We can do hard things…but not alone. The church sanctuary will be open from 8am to 6pm today if you wish to come and sit. Come and listen. Come and pray. Come and light a candle. I'm here most of the day too, and will come pray or sit with you if that's what you desire. Joy or not, morning has broken. What comes with the dawn is up to us. On the journey with you, Pr. Melissa  Last week while in Washington D.C. for vacation, my spouse and I went to the Holocaust Museum. I wasn’t sure what to expect, really, I mean, how does one begin to tell the story of such horrors? I soon found out that the answer to that question was: Gradually…just as it happened.
I remember learning about the Holocaust in school. It was always presented as a horrific occurrence. It was always presented as genocide and a failure of epic proportions. It was always presented, though, as something done by one man and his loyal generals. I wouldn’t understand until years later that nothing could be further from the truth. The truth is that such a massive atrocity could not have been carried out by just one person or even just a handful of them. And indeed it wasn’t. The Holocaust took time–even before the official start of WWII. It took time and many hands on deck–hands that would do the rounding up. Hands that would see that the mass deportations and the marches were carried out. Hands that would do the beating, the maiming, the killing. Hands that so effortlessly were raised in Sieg Heil salutes. Hands that would do nothing but stand idly by while it all unfolded. The horrors of the Holocaust may have been from the mind of one man–or a handful of them–but make no mistake, it couldn’t have happened without millions of hands along the way. Outside of the Museum and at various places within the museum itself, there is a sign like the one in the picture above: “The next time you see injustice. The next time you hear about genocide. The next time you witness hatred. THINK ABOUT WHAT YOU SAW.” In addition to this sign, another generally accompanied it: “What you do matters.” It’s easy to think that what we do or don’t do has few or no consequences worth mentioning. That the stop sign we blew through while we were scrolling for a new podcast episode on our phones didn’t really matter. That the election we decided to sit out on principle or out of protest had no consequences. That the meme we re-posted certainly couldn’t do anything lasting, that the time we minded our own business when someone was treated poorly by another at the grocery store didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things, or the laughter we shared at another’s expense was simply harmless. And perhaps, if we lived in a vacuum, none of it would amount to a hill of beans. And yet, over time, from enough people in enough places, such actions and inactions sow deep seeds of division and hate, and can do irreparable damage not just to one or two people, but millions. We Christians often talk about Pilate and how he could have stopped Jesus’ execution along the way, and yet, we often fail to mention or acknowledge all of the people in all of the places that could have stopped Jesus’ execution before it even got to Pilate in the first place. Sure, there was the crowd who advocated for Barabbas’ release and Jesus’ imprisonment and execution, but there were also handfuls of Pharisees who tried to trip Jesus up along the way, and some Sadducees who sowed deep seeds of division along the way as well. There were countless communities in which Jesus could perform no miracles, where he could offer no teaching, and where he and his disciples could find no hospitality–what of them? What of the people who had ostracized those whom Jesus healed? Did they ever truly understand the power they had to create a different world right in their own backyard? Do we? I’m not sharing this to bum anyone out, I’m actually sharing it to offer a morsel of hope in sometimes frightening and uncertain times. Because the truth that was reiterated for me in Washington D.C. last week is that we humans have a GREAT capacity for hate and injustice and horror. AND the only capacity we have that is greater than ALL of that, is our capacity to love. And I don’t mean love like a Hallmark movie, I mean love that makes simple, little choices every day for the common good. Love that takes a stand in the grocery store when someone is being treated badly. Love that not only sees a meme that laughs at another’s expense and just keeps scrolling, but a love that calls up the friend who posted the meme to talk about why it’s hurtful. In short, a love that DOES SOMETHING. I think this is the hard, messy, world-changing love that we are called to as followers of the Way. A love that is constantly scanning the landscape right in front of us, just looking for something to do–someone to love–not love them into our way of thinking or believing, but rather, loving them into wholeness and, in so doing, loving ourselves into wholeness too. I’ll definitely keep thinking about what I saw in the Holocaust Museum, and I’ll keep working to make sure we never see such things in our world again. Join me, won’t you? Our capacity for hate is great, our capacity for love is GREATER, 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
December 2024
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