 I recently heard the song “Monsters” by James Blunt. American Idol fans might be familiar with the song as the song sung by 2023 winner, Iam Tongi, two months following the death of his father. The song was originally written by Blunt in response to learning that his father has stage 4 kidney disease and will die without a kidney transplant.
The lyrics of the song speak of old roles and labels in their familiar relationship falling away, as the circle of life moves forward, and of Blunt’s gentle reassurance to his father that he can rest easy, knowing that the son will now pick up the torch long-carried by his father. The refrain is poignant: I'm not your son, you're not my father We're just two grown men saying goodbye No need to forgive, no need to forget I know your mistakes and you know mine And while you're sleeping I'll try to make you proud So, daddy, won't you just close your eyes? Don't be afraid, it's my turn To chase the monsters away There’s many reasons I have been drawn to the song, one of them being some recent reflection on life cycles and the gift that each generation gives another. In my own family, I’ve been acutely aware of the care that my parents took of the world, the land, their own parents, as well as the care that they have taken and continue to take of me and my siblings as their children, ever-evolving as all of us age. At the same time, I have proudly begun to step into the role of caretaker–mostly just stepping in to help on occasions when my parents could use a little extra–all the while understanding that those occasions will, as time goes on, become more frequent. I also have a unique view of this from my vantage point in our church community. I’ve seen one generation carry this congregation through times of great triumph, and times of great despair. I’ve seen the ways this generation has chased the monsters of division, injustice, hate, and indifference away so that this beacon of hope that we call St. Paul Congregational UCC would shine through to the next generation. I’ve seen one generation of leaders begin to step back, as members of the next begin to step forward. I’ve seen one generation of talented musicians step back, as the next generation begins to share its gifts and graces in our midst. All of it is a kind of understanding, and a blessed assurance between the generations: “Don’t be afraid, it’s my turn to chase the monsters away.” As someone on the younger end of the spectrum–someone acutely aware of the gifts and challenges of those who served this church as pastor before me–I’m very aware that each step I take with you, and each move we make together, is my blessed assurance to my predecessors that I, as the kids say, understood the assignment. It is my turn to chase the monsters away. It is my turn to help lead us into deeper relationships, into deeper engagement, into deeper love, justice, peacemaking, and service, and to chase away all that might frighten us or otherwise keep us from following the Way of Jesus. The truth is, no matter your age, you have a role to play in this dance of life–we all do. This is just as true in the church as it is in the rest of the world. One generation cares for and nurtures the next, and then, occasionally at first, the next generation begins to step in to help as additional help is needed. As those occasions become more frequent, a beautiful changing of hands–like the passing of the baton between Olympic athletes–occurs, and a knowing look is exchanged that whispers that familiar reassurance once more: “Don’t be afraid, it’s my turn to chase the monsters away.” So, my friends, I ask you to consider how you might currently be demonstrating nurture or care to the generations that follow you? How are you currently demonstrating nurture and care to the generations that precede you? What do you feel is your turn to start doing in this community? Is that feeling coming from a place of impatience, or is it coming from a deep desire to begin to demonstrate the care and nurture that was demonstrated to you? What do you feel is your turn to stop doing in this community? Is that feeling coming from a place of resentment that “nobody wants to do anything anymore” and “I’ve served my time,” or is it coming from a deep desire to begin to pass the baton, and loving the community and desiring its continuation above all else? Who can you turn to today–right where you are, just as you are–and offer some beautiful, blessed assurance all your own? Who needs to hear from you: “Don’t be afraid, it’s my turn to chase the monsters away?” Chasing monsters away with you, Pr. Melissa  In the past few weeks we have been transplanting plants around our property–splitting some, giving some away, and just generally taking care of what can, at times, look like some pretty holy chaos rising from the earth. As part of this tending and pruning and rearranging, we moved my spouse’s Don Juan climbing roses from the west side of our house to a bed on the north side.
The reason for the move was twofold: 1) The plant itself had outgrown its original trellis and a larger trellis would not fit in its original spot; and 2) The plant hadn’t flowered. After researching, my spouse discovered two potential issues: One with the soil, and one with the hours of sunlight needed for the plant to put on flowers. So, a trellis was built, the roses were dug up, and the soil in the new spot was amended. Then my spouse did one last thing: They cut off all the branches, leaves, and shoots, and just left the main stem–the main vine. I asked them why they did this and my spouse explained that transplanting is traumatic for any plant. By cutting off all of the leaves and branches and just leaving the main, thorny cane, the climbing Don Juans could put all of their energy into their roots in order to get established before winter comes. It is, it seems, in the cutting back that growth begins. Throughout nature we see something similar occur. If someone wants their grass to grow more, one of the best things that can be done is to cut it. If more fruit growth is desired on a tomato plant, cutting the suckers is a great place to start. If a prairie is to be lush, beautiful, and full of all kinds of helpful plants, burning that prairie back periodically is a great place to start. In Malachi 3:2, we read in Malachi’s classic and poetic, yet terse, literary style, that God is like “a refiner’s fire” or “the cleaner’s soap” (Common English Bible), ridding us of all that is damaging to our relationships with God and one another, and keeping us from fullness of life. Which means that God isn’t just in the big, beautiful roses that bloom, or in the hearty tomato, or the lush prairie. God is in the cutting back, the burning away, and the pruning. God meets us in the bare cane, the ashen earth, and the pulled sucker and then does something BEAUTIFUL from the place where all seems lost or destroyed or pulled apart. God pushes out new life–birthing in us and around us something far more wonderful than we could ever ask or imagine. So this week I’m wondering, what needs cutting back in your life so that growth can happen? What in your life needs to be burned away in order to make way for something far more lush and beautiful to spring up? What are the “suckers” growing on your vine–sucking energy and nutrients from you and keeping you from bearing good, hearty fruit? Maybe it’s the phone that you can’t seem to put down. Maybe it’s a relationship that is so all-consuming that the rest of your life is now falling apart. Maybe it’s “the hustle” that you are so afraid to step away from for fear that, if you do, the worth that you tie to that hustle will go right out the window with it. Maybe it’s gossip or drama. Maybe it’s spreading yourself too thin. Maybe it’s a need to be right or to win in an argument. Maybe it’s forcing your way to be your children’s way. Maybe it’s a combination of all of these…maybe it’s none of these things. Only you can answer for yourself. So this week, may we open our calendars, our to-do lists, our minds, our hearts, indeed, our very lives, to the possibility of pruning and burning away. It just might be the start of something beautiful and new. Pruning away with you, Pr. Melissa  It’s getting to be that time of year when we as a church community prepare for our annual “Pay What You Can, Take What You Need Rummage Sale.” Throughout the year I hear from a lot of people from St. Paul that they are “saving up things for the rummage sale,” and are always excited to learn when those items can be brought from their homes to the church for donation to the cause (that date, by the way, is Sunday, August 25th this year).
As I prepared the sign-up lists for this year’s sale, I found my mind wandering–pondering questions about rummage–why we have it, how we decide to rid our homes of it, and what we can learn from the process of letting go. I wondered as I typed and copied and pasted from last year’s sheet to this year’s, about the number of hands that will handle the rummage donated, how the rummage will impact the community here at St. Paul and the wider community around us. I thought about the hands that have helped with our collective rummage in previous years who are no longer with us–souls once content to rummage alongside of us who are no longer concerned with rummage at all. All of it leading me to believe that this rummage sale is about far more than just “stuff we want to get rid of,” and about far more than just how much money we make from our efforts, it’s about our collective work and the ways that collective work shapes and forms us and those around us. There’s a fancy church word for this: Liturgy. Liturgy–literally translated to mean the work of the people. You will often hear me use this word when I’m looking for volunteers for worship services, reminding all with ears to hear that our Sunday morning liturgy calls for more than just one or two of us to be involved–it calls for all of us to be a part of the work and the worship in some way. The rummage sale is no different. It doesn’t happen because one or two of us bring items to donate. It doesn’t happen because a household or two volunteers to work a shift or bake some goodies to be sold. It doesn’t happen at all without ALL of us in some way, shape, or form working together. And it’s not just because “many hands make light work” that this is important to remember. It’s also because the work we choose to do shapes us, and the work we choose to do together shapes us together. In her book "An Altar in the World," Barbara Brown Taylor emphasizes how even mundane household tasks can become elements of our daily liturgy. She writes, “Cleaning refrigerators and toilets helps you connect the food cycle at both ends. Making beds reminds you that life-giving activities do not require much space. Hanging laundry on the line offers you a chance to fly prayer flags disguised as bath towels and underwear. If all of life is holy, then anything that sustains life has holy dimensions too. The difference between washing windows and resting in God can be a simple decision: choose the work, and it becomes your spiritual practice.” In other words, the work we choose to do together becomes our spiritual practice together. Sorting clothes, grouping like items, making advertising posters–all of it, when done together–shapes us and forms us as a community. As we fold items into neat piles alongside one another, we share our joys and concerns through stories, and all of a sudden the folded clothes become, as Carrie Newcomer sings, “like folding hands, to pray as only laundry can.” As we work, our relationships grow deeper. Over mismatched jewelry and chipped Corelle dishware, that person who sits on the opposite side of the main aisle on Sunday morning becomes someone whose name we now know, and whose struggles we now share. Our shared work shapes us into more than just people who worship in the same building on Sunday morning, but rather, an “assembly of lovers”–as our blessing and sending song reminds us each week–loving one another in the simplest of ways–bonding in the holiness of our rummage. And that kind of holy work spills over into our work with our wider community too. So this year, I wonder if we can all make the decision to not only consider the items we will donate to the sale, but also how these items might help shape the lives of the hands that sort them? I wonder if we can consider our signatures on the sign-up sheet to be more than just “signing up for a job,” but instead, signing up to take part in something ordinary and holy–something larger than ourselves that will shape us and form us as a community here at St. Paul and beyond our walls. Something that will deepen our relationships and widen our commitment to be present with and for each other. Something like a liturgy–the work of the people–OUR people. God’s people. This assembly of lovers–fearlessly and consciously sorting and folding and organizing the stuff of our lives–on a quest to build something more beautiful together. Rummaging around 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
Categories |
RSS Feed
