 During our Ash Wednesday service this year, I asked those present to write a word on a stone representing what they wanted to see less of in themselves by the end of their Lenten journeys. I then asked those present to place their stone somewhere in the spiral of smaller stones displayed on an altar in the back of the sanctuary.
The purpose for this is because seeing less of something in ourselves almost never happens in a single, miraculous moment...it always happens on the way. It happens on the way--on the journey--inward toward that light each of us carry. That light that makes us who we are at our core. That light--a spark of the Light--in which we all live and move and have our being. Our Lenten journey is nearly done, and I suspect most of us might have seen less of that certain something we wrote on our stones. Or--if you're like me--you may not have seen less just yet, but were aware of the presence of that something more. I wrote "anxiety" on my stone. Every week I walked by that altar and I saw the word scrolled on my stone. And every week seeing that stone reminded me to begin to notice when anxiety was present and to get curious about its presence in certain situations. What's making me anxious? What's the story I'm telling myself right now? Is it true? What is the evidence for this being true? What is the evidence against this being true? What else could be happening here? Who would I be without this story I'm telling myself? This week, I am asking those who wrote on their stones to take them home. After this Sunday, Palm Sunday, the altar will come down as Holy Week begins. I have no illusions that my anxiety is gone or ever will be. But it IS a part of my journey. Just as whatever you wrote on your stone is a part of yours. It isn't bad or good, it just IS. What I do with it along the way is up to me. How I let it shape my journey is up to me. Just as what you do with and how you let whatever you wrote on your stone shape your journey is up to you. Seeing "less" of something in ourselves may not actually be the goal...it may just be where we started on the long path of integration. I can tell you that I am not the same person who entered the spiral of Lent nearly 40 days ago--as I'm sure you aren't either. My awareness of anxious moments is greater. My heart is a little more soft. On the journey toward less, I think I've found more. So, this Sunday, before we wave the palms and shout Hosanna, take a moment to stop at our stone altar one more time. Retrieve what you placed there on Ash Wednesday, and then keep moving. The stones were never meant to weigh us down to the point of stagnation. The spiral draws us in, then pushes us out. Over and over and over again, until the day our lights in this life go out, and to dust we shall return. I'm placing my stone somewhere I can see it--daily--to continue my journey of integration. I pray you'll join me in continuing to move forward in faith. Pr. Melissa  As I walked with my dog Hank this morning, I found my mind drifting (as it is prone to do in the wee hours of the morning) to another time and another version of myself. I was reflecting on places I had lived, people with whom I have worked, mistakes I have made, injuries I have nursed, those I’ve tried desperately to earn the approval of, and a host of other factors that have paved the road of my journey thus far.
My mind lingered on a knee injury in 2022 that then led to a back injury requiring countless sessions of physical therapy, mornings spent in traction, and days of wondering if I’d ever really feel or walk normally again. It made its way to having to say goodbye to one of my favorite beings in the whole world–my dog Murphy–and how that loss brought me to the realization that every loss–both human and otherwise–holds both the power to diminish us and expand us all at the same time. My mind went to one of the deepest betrayals in my life, and I noted how the sting of it still rattles around in the pit of my stomach, although not to the same degree it once had. “The body keeps the score,” the story goes–and my body is evidence that it truly does. As I made the turn toward the last quarter mile of my walk, the faces of so many people in my life appeared in my mind. There were teammates from high school sports teams that I had so hoped would like me enough to befriend me. There were adult coworkers who LOVED my sense of humor but weren’t crazy about going too far beyond that in getting to know me. There were friends who I allowed to use me, friends who brought out the best in me, and mentors who still offer wisdom and gentle pushes when I call them up to explain my latest predicament. There were women I had dated who had broken my heart, and there was the human who finally gave my heart a home–all of it a broken road of circumstances and relationships that wound their way to this morning. This walk. This place. This version of me. I imagine you’ve made a trip or two down roads like this as well. As the warmth of my breath hit the cool air of the morning, I thought of all the opportunities I had been presented with along the way to NOT move forward. To stop. To steep in my hurt or my grief. To sit down along the side of the road somewhere and simply never get up again. And yet, that hadn’t been my story. I was never cured of whatever was causing me dis-ease (hyphen intentional), but I had–without really realizing it–managed to heal. Our scriptures are filled with healing stories, and far too often we Christian folk read them as stories about cure. But they aren’t. Healing and curing are inherently different. Curing means "eliminating all evidence of disease," while healing means "becoming whole." The former, I have come to realize, has much to do with the latest medical technologies and therapeutic interventions, while the latter is very much dependent on me. This is oversimplifying it of course, but at the end of the day it would seem that we have much more to do with whether or not we heal–or become whole–than perhaps we do with whether or not we are cured of that which causes dis-ease within us. The other day I read a post shared on the inter webs by someone named Tracie Watkins that claims we owe it to ourselves to heal–to become whole–even in the face of disease or dis-ease. The post seemed to suggest that healing can beget healing, and yet, our healing is not contingent on whether or not those around us have healed or worked to become closer to whole. Our healing is contingent only on the steps we are taking to become closer to whole–regardless of circumstance. Here’s the post: Heal. Your mom may never apologize to you, because she has conditioned herself to believe that she did right by you. She hasn’t healed. Heal. Your father may never apologize to you, because he can only see what he’s done right. He hasn’t healed. Heal. Your family members may never apologize to you, because toxicity is what they were raised on. They haven’t healed. Heal. That “friend” may never apologize to you, because he/she isn’t sorry. He/she hasn’t healed. If/when they reach their healing, they may seek your forgiveness. Be so healed that it won’t even matter. Heal. For you. You owe it to yourself. So this week, I’m not just looking back, I’m looking to heal. I’m looking for opportunities to move myself closer to wholeness. I’m not looking for a cure–I’m not looking for opportunities to eradicate painful experiences and life circumstances from my life. I’m not interested in making wishes for things to be different. I’m interested in taking steps to BE different. More human. More fully alive. More than all of the people and predicaments that have diminished me, and more than any disease or dis-ease I have faced. I’m looking to become more whole–day by day and little by little. And I pray you’ll join me because--by my estimation at least--the world could use a little more wholeness and a little more healing. Healing with you, Pr. Melissa  On Sunday St. Paul’s church council met for the first time in 2024. As is customary at the first meeting of the year, I led our opening prayer/centering practice to begin our time together. On this day, I chose to ask our church leaders to engage in a brief session of smile yoga.
Smile yoga is something I learned about in a book I’m reading by Tarah Brach, Ph.D. titled “Radical Acceptance: Embracing Your Life with the Heart of a Buddha.” In the book, the author introduces the concept–shared widely by Thích Nhất Hạnh–and speaks about its practice. “Smile yoga” is what Thích Nhất Hạnh most often refers to as “yoga for your mouth.” The zen master shares that holding a smile, then releasing it, and then repeating the practice several times a day is one way we can open our hearts and improve the quality of our breathing. So often, the zen master teaches, we experience pain of any variety–through stress, grief, hopelessness, and trauma, to name a few–and our bodies begin to close off from the outside world. Our breathing becomes shallow and our heart becomes dammed off. Smiling changes those realities. Thích Nhất Hạnh has been practicing smile yoga for much longer than I have, but I have noticed that the kind of smile I put into this practice matters. When I engage a smile that is more of a forced grin–the kind of smile that I use to respond to others to try to make it seem like everything’s just fine–the openness doesn’t seem to come–or at least not as fully. But when I close my eyes and smile the kind of smile that I share with someone I love, or the kind of smile that can’t help but erupt into laughter, I feel it in my whole body. The tension in my shoulders is released. My breathing moves from those shallow upper lobes of my lungs down into the depths, until it feels like I’m breathing from the center of my body. And my heart–my heart that is often so closed for fear of feeling the full sting of whatever pain that is present with me–begins to open–gently, slowly, chamber by chamber–like an iris blooming in the springtime. It all starts with a smile. It sounds easy enough, I know, but truthfully, sometimes a smile simply doesn’t come. Or it does come, just not easily. If you live long enough, you’ll know these times occur far more frequently than we would like. Which is why I like that smile yoga is a practice. Something that can be done anywhere at almost anytime with anyone–during one’s commute (eyes open, of course), while lying in bed in the morning, in the shower, balancing the checkbook, while typing your 100th email of the day at work, alone or with a friend, with someone your own age or someone far younger or older than you are now. Smile yoga can be done to help us open our lungs for deeper breath, our bodies for deeper connection, and our hearts for hearing deeper truths. And yes, I know we aren’t Buddhists, however, as John Shelby Spong once wrote, “God is not a Christian, God is not a Jew, or a Muslim, or a Hindu, or a Buddhist. All of those are human systems which human beings have created to try to help us walk into the mystery of God. I honor my tradition, I walk through my tradition, but I don't think my tradition defines God, I think it only points me to God.” If this spiritual practice helps point me or any one of us to God in deeper and fuller ways, certainly it is a practice worthy of our time and our attention, regardless of its origins. Because when it boils right down to it, life is full of pain in its many forms–the kind of pain that closes us, curls us in on ourselves, and separates us from anything other than that pain. And if there is anything that–in the presence of such pain–keeps us pliable, opens us outwardly, and draws us further from our isolation and into the mystery of God, then I don’t know about you but I’m leaning into it. I’m going to practice opening toward it. I’m going to smile. Smiling my way into openness 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
October 2024
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