A Word with Pastor: St Paul Congregational United Church of Christ

The 3-3-3 Rule

6/26/2024

When you adopt a dog, many shelters will mention what is often referred to as the “3-3-3 Rule.” The 3-3-3 Rule is sort of a guide for adoptive paw-rents (see what I did there?) to understand what their new family member is going through as they get acclimated to their new surroundings, humans, routines, and any other fur-babies. The 3-3-3 Rule says the following: The first 3 days your new family member will likely be feeling overwhelmed and nervous. For 3 weeks adoptees just get to settling in. And for 3 months they are building trust and bonding with you.

Shelters share this with adopters because they want to try to prepare us for the actual nature of the acclimation period, rather than the fairytale. The fairytale says that “happily ever after” happens the moment a pet is adopted, but doses of reality like the 3-3-3 rule remind us that it is a process that happens gradually and over time. Love might be what makes a family–sure–but love doesn’t just happen once and then forever. It is a choice–a series of choices, really–a setting of the will to remain in relationship…COME. WHAT. MAY.

It has been three months since our Junie Beans has come to be a part of our family, and we have chosen love. Not just at the shelter the day that we adopted her, but that day and every day since. Even on that first day when I learned that my loud and booming voice–a voice that she wasn’t yet used to–could make her so nervous that she had an accident in the house. Even during that first night when she just couldn’t settle in her new surroundings. Even during that first week when she growled at Hank whenever he came within a stone’s throw of her when she ate or had a bone. Even on those days when we missed Dexter–and Murphy. On our first family walk. During our first time taking shelter in the basement as a foursome. When we made the decision to finish fencing our backyard so that she and Hank could run and wrestle off leash. Over and over again, each of us has chosen love in our way and in our own time. Over and over again, we have inched closer to one another and slowly figured out what makes “us” an “us.”

Sometimes in the Church, I think we forget that building community is like this. It doesn’t happen immediately when someone walks through the door, or when we show up at some event. Community happens little by little–3 days at a time, 3 weeks at a time, 3 months at a time–through a series of choices that everyone involved–those who are new to our community and those who have been here for a while–makes to take just one more step toward each other. Community happens whenever we open ourselves to the vulnerability of being known by others, and getting to know others as well. And community happens as we serve alongside each other, and weather life’s storms together, and build bonds of fellowship and trust that are strong enough to bend without breaking.

Though the term “Beloved Community” was popularized by Martin Luther King Jr., I think Jesus talked a lot about it too–he just called it the Kingdom of Heaven. And the Kingdom of Heaven–the Beloved Community–happens wherever everyone is cared for, free from poverty, hunger, hate, and prejudice. It happens wherever and whenever a group of people create a space of social equity, belonging, peace, and reconciliation. The Beloved Community–the Kingdom of Heaven–happens–IS HAPPENING–every time we set our wills to care for one another, and extend compassion to one another, when it feels like it would be so much easier to just ignore one another.

It’s not a “rule” so much as a way of life. In fact, Jesus called it “The Way.” And it’s not a way that’s made through unrealistic demands or fairytale visions of instant and immediate “happily ever after’s.” It’s not a way that’s made by some involved taking a step toward select others. Rather, it is a way that’s only ever made when everyone involved moves toward each other and sets their will toward relationship and grace and the kind of love that only happens little by little over time.

3-3-3. Maybe it’s not just for when we adopt our furbabies…maybe it’s for when we do the hard work of adopting one another too.

Building Beloved Community with you,
Pr. Melissa

Of Mulch and Monasticism

6/19/2024

On Thursday evening, my spouse and I went out to dinner. When we returned home, 6 cubic yards of mulch was sitting in our driveway. Don’t get me wrong, we knew it would be coming, we just thought it wouldn’t be coming so soon. Our car was still in the garage–now trapped by the mountain of mulch–and the gate to our backyard was hemmed in to the point that we couldn’t get it open.

That night I scooped enough mulch to fill three of the beds on the west side of the house which, in turn, made enough space for us and the dogs to get into the backyard through the gate. The mulch pile sat dormant on Friday as my spouse worked at home and I worked with my dad to remove the old deck at my parents’ house so a new deck could be built. But on Saturday morning–bright and early and after a few cups of coffee for me and a Coke Zero for my spouse–the mulching began.

And it continued–for hours. I scooped the mulch from the pile, loaded it into the wheelbarrow, and then dumped it wherever my spouse pointed. Then they spread it out. By 9AM, according to our fitness trackers, each of us had met our step goal of 10,000 steps. By noon, we were at over 20,000 a piece. And we STILL. WEREN’T. DONE. 😳

There were times I wanted to quit–times when we both needed a break. There were times when I swore the mulch pile was playing tricks on my mind and was actually growing. Yet load after load, I returned to the pile to repeat the day’s refrain: Pull down the mulch with a pitch fork, bend my knees, scoop a pile of mulch into the shovel, push up with my knees, dump the shovel of mulch into the wheelbarrow. Walk full wheelbarrow to designated spot. Dump where directed. Repeat as needed.

As I scooped, I was aware of my breath–quicker at times, slower at others. I let my mind wander where it needed. I wept when it landed on my late nephew. I smirked when I saw the way the robins were impatiently waiting for me to get out of the mulch pile so that they could go through it looking for tasty treats. I marveled as I looked at my spouse working alongside me–nearly 50 years old (their birthday is Monday next week)–knowing that they weren’t supposed to live this long with their heart condition–feeling in my bones a deep, singing, gratitude that they have. I had thoughts of church, thoughts of home, and sometimes I had absolutely no thoughts at all. Somehow, as I worked, dripped sweat, felt muscles ache, cried, smiled, laughed, and moved, the mulch pile became like an altar in the sanctuary of my life. I just had to keep coming back. Though the experience felt new to me, it is nothing new for Christians.

St. Benedict is an ancestor in the Church who drew on the Wisdom of our Desert Mothers and Fathers–people who really wanted to practice what it means to put on the mind of Christ. From this Wisdom, Benedict laid the foundation of Christian monasticism and monastic transformational practice through the stable legacy of “Ora et Labora”–the Latin phrase meaning “Prayer and Work.” It was and is what some call the “fundamental rhythm for the balancing and ordering of human life, and for the growing of that beautiful rose of Wisdom.” Sister Joan Chittister writes of this rhythm saying, “No one thing absorbed the human spirit to the exclusion of every other. Life was made up of many facets and only together did they form a whole. Physical labor and mental prayer and social life and study and community concerns were all pieces of the puzzle of life.”

In other words, work flows into prayer, flows into social life, flows into study, flows into community concerns, and back again–and the Holy permeates throughout. When we step into these sacred rhythms, we join an unbroken chorus line of ordinary saints–regular people who have found deep connection and meaning as they seek to follow the Way of Jesus. Whether it’s scooping mulch, watching birds, or softening into a deep moment of gratitude, our lives are teeming with brushes with the Divine.

Summertime is filled with LOTS of projects and outdoor work–tending the garden, painting the house, putting in a fence, feeding the birds, walking the dogs, mowing the lawn–whew! I’m tired just typing this! But in all of that activity, I wonder how our hearts might be changed–softened, opened–if we viewed this onerous labor as prayer? What if we didn’t just work to get it done, but worked as part of this ancient, sacred rhythm in which God draws near to us as we draw near to our breath, to the land and living creatures around us, to our families, to our neighbors? Might we live more whole lives?

I don’t know, but that’s the hunch I’m taking away from my time at the mulch pile–my altar in the middle of our driveway, in the sanctuary of my life. I have to believe that you will find something similar at the altars of your summer projects too.Ora et Labora. Prayer and work. It’s all about sacred balance.

Learning this sacred balancing act with you,
Pr. Melissa

Here I Go Again on My Own

6/12/2024

In the late 80’s a band by the name of Whitesnake (total hair band) had a hit titled, “Here I Go Again.” The premise of the song is that someone has only ever known what it is to walk by themselves through life. They believe, and in the song sing about, how they are the only person they have ever found they could count on. In fact the hook in the refrain of this rock anthem is,

“Here I go again on my own
Going down the only road I've ever known
Like a drifter, I was born to walk alone.”

I am a person who has the propensity to sometimes live and operate as if I am living the lyrics to this song. As if I, too, am a drifter who was born to walk alone. I wonder if any of you can relate?

For me, this looks like overfunctioning, or taking on way too many things and convincing myself that I alone can fix it, do it, or complete it. As a sidebar, I think we all understand that “I alone can fix it” hasn’t really served us well in these United States in recent history. Rugged independence is what we’re supposed to strive for in our culture, and many times I find this way of living and working far too enticing to pass up. Like a drifter, I was born to walk alone…

The truth is, when I over-function, someone is under-functioning–often through no fault of their own. Truly, if someone like me is already doing all of the things, where is there space and opportunity for anyone else to jump in? The short answer is there isn’t. There is no space or opportunity for anyone else to function.

The long answer is a harder pill to swallow. When I over-function and, in turn, someone else under-functions, neither of us is living fully, loving wastefully, or being all that we were created to be. We are not whole. We are operating outside of what it means to be human. And what it means to be human is not operating in ways that are death-dealing, but instead is about operating in ways that are life-giving. As St. Irenaeus once said, “The glory of God is a human fully alive.”

Recently I had a candid conversation with the Pastor-Parish Relations Committee and then, at their encouragement, with the Church Council. Our conversation involved me sharing the ways that I and the church staff have been over-functioning as our congregation has spent the past 6 months trying out our experimental structure to operate without standing boards and board meetings and only with short-term ministry teams. In our desire to free people from more meetings, the staff has taken on much more than our bandwidths allow. The result of this experiment has been that some things have fallen through the cracks, and none of us have been humans fully alive. Which means that as a community, we have not been whole.

In the face of this information, the Council decided that as a leadership group they would begin meeting monthly to get a better handle on what support is needed, while at the same time beginning to work toward a more inclusive ministry model wherein more people–not less–are regularly involved in shaping and engaging life here at St. Paul.

This will not happen overnight, but, with your help, it will happen. So that the needs of those already here and the needs of those yet to come are balanced. So that outreach and in-reach both have effort behind them. So that tradition and trying new things to offer new opportunities for connection are held in tandem. So that social justice and just compensation hold our attention in balance. So that worship and faith formation have a place at the same table as building improvements and caring for the church grounds. So that the liturgy–the fancy church word meaning “the work of the people”–is truly the work of the people…not just a couple of them.

This past Sunday during our Hot Topic conversation on sexuality, one participant brought up Genesis 2:18, “It’s not good that the human is alone,” (CEB translation), so God made for this first human a “helper” (again, CEB translation). At that moment, relationship was created. A relationship meant not to foster independence or co-dependence, but one of interdependence and balance. As if to say that it’s not good for we humans to be alone or to function as if we are.

Our sacred stories remind us that we are intended to function together. In relationship. As one beloved community. And when we forget to function in that way, as I and others have here recently, we have each other to remind us that God’s desire is balance. Wholeness. Humans fully alive. Functioning together. We are for each other beloved helpers who remind one another that being “born to walk alone” might work for Whitesnake, but in Christ it just doesn’t. We were born to walk together.

Here we go again…together...again...always,
Pr. Melissa