 Every year, around the beginning of November, the Church pauses for something ancient and tender: All Saints’ Sunday. It’s one of the oldest Christian observances—rooted in the early centuries when followers of Jesus gathered to remember the martyrs, those who had died for their faith. Over time, the Church widened the lens, realizing that holiness doesn’t only show up in dramatic acts of courage or sacrifice. It also shows up in quiet lives of faithfulness, in ordinary love made extraordinary by grace.
Today, All Saints’ Sunday is not about a select few. It’s about the whole communion of saints—the great cloud of witnesses—all those who have lived and died in God’s love. It’s the Church’s way of saying that death doesn’t have the final word, that our lives are bound together across time, and that the love of God stretches wider and deeper than we can see. All Saints’, however, is not a funeral. A funeral is personal. It tells the story of a particular life—its beauty, its struggle, its meaning. We give thanks for the individual. We name the grief of their absence. All Saints’, though, is communal. It gathers all our griefs into one act of worship and hope. It reminds us that we belong to a story larger than any single life—a story where death is not the end, where love still holds, and where God is still gathering us into wholeness. At a funeral, we commend one person into God’s care. At All Saints’, we remember that we are all held together in that same care. When we light candles and speak the names of those who have gone before, we’re not pretending death doesn’t hurt. We’re proclaiming that even in our sorrow, we are not alone. We’re claiming that every name still matters, that every life still belongs, that every act of love echoes on. All Saints’ Sunday is not about trying to forget. It’s about remembering differently—not through absence, but through connection. Not through fear, but through faith. Not through despair, but through the quiet conviction that love endures. We keep All Saints’ because we need the reminder that our stories are intertwined, that heaven and earth are not as far apart as we think, and that in God’s time, all will be made whole. So this Sunday, as the names of those we have lost in the past year are read here at St. Paul, as candles are lit, and as we share in holy communion, may we remember that we stand in the company of saints—past and present, known and unknown—held together by a love that does not end. Come with your grief, your gratitude, your memories, and your hope. Come to be reminded that you belong to something larger than loss, something holy and enduring. Come and remember—with tears, with light, with faith. There’s room for you here. Pr. Melissa  Last week on more than one occasion I found myself sitting with my book, enjoying life in the slower lane. My coffee was on the table next to me, and vacation mode was fully engaged. The morning was still and quiet and, for the first time in a long time, I feel like I had permission to finally exhale.
The moment didn't last nearly as long as I needed it to. My attention had either been lost or captured--I can't really tell anymore--and before I knew it, I was scrolling. No plan. No reason. Just that familiar flick of the thumb. Somewhere between one paragraph and the next in my book, I had picked up my phone and disappeared into the endless hum of other people’s lives. It’s wild how fast it happens. One minute I’m here — breathing, tasting, noticing — and the next I’m gone. My body still in the chair, my mind and my soul somewhere else entirely. As I have thought about that day, I have given more than a few minutes over to wondering about the reasons so many of us effortlessly start scrolling even when we're doing something else. Contrary to popular opinion, I think sometimes we scroll not because we’re bored, but because we don’t know what to do with stillness. Real rest can feel foreign, even threatening. We’re so used to being stimulated, entertained, or productive that when quiet comes, we panic. We fill the silence before it can reveal anything--about us, about our lives, about the world or about others. When faced with the potential for such revelations, scrolling feels easy. Stillness, on the other hand, does not. So, what, should we all throw out our phones or swear off social media forever? I mean, do what you'd like, but I don't know that I'm necessarily advocating for that. What I am advocating for is noticing. Noticing when I'm mindlessly scrolling. Noticing the moments that led to me randomly grabbing my phone. Noticing the moment that's just been lost, and then choosing to come back. Back to the coffee. Back to the breath. Back to what’s real. Back to the present moment. I think that might be the more fruitful practice. Not chasing some sort of hyper-vigilant presence that is perfect all of the time, and not unplugging entirely either—just noticing when we’ve drifted--and then, choosing to return. Not just once, not just on vacation, but in our most everyday moments, again and again, choosing to come back to the life that’s right in front of us. The life that is actually ours and NOT some voyeuristic adventure into someone else's Instagram highlights, or the endless stream of "breaking news." It's not flashy or even fun. There's no shortcut or self-help easy 10-step process back to the present. It's just practice. Consistency built over time. Not so that we can be "better" or "leaner" or "faster" or "stronger," but simply so that--little by little--we can be where the sacred is--which is always here and always now. Not buried in a feed. Not waiting for us to earn something. But right here, where the daylight hours are getting shorter, where the coffee’s still warm, where are questions and doubts about life's big questions intermingle with our To-Do lists and our grocery lists, and our appointment calendars. Right here is the address of the Divine, and right here is where the quiet is always trying--again and again--to love us back into being. So this week, if you catch yourself scrolling for no reason, don’t overthink it. Try not to judge yourself or the moment. Just notice. Set the phone down, take a deep breath, and then...come back to yourself. Come back to what is holy and sacred in the moment that’s still right here, just waiting for you to return. On the journey with you, Pr. Melissa  The other night, I was sitting in the hot tub beneath a full moon. Steam curled up into the October air, and for a few quiet minutes, the world was held at bay. I could feel my heart rate slow. My thoughts began to uncoil. It was just me, the warm water, and the soft light breaking across the darkness.
It felt sacred — that small, secluded world of warmth and quiet. A world where nothing was required of me. No questions to answer. No emails to send. No grief to hold. Just breath, body, and presence. There’s a holiness in that kind of stillness. A peace that doesn’t demand anything from us. The Psalmist said it this way: “Be still, and know that I am God.” Ruth Haley Barton reminds us that the Hebrew phrase translated “Be still” literally means “Let go of your grip.” She writes, “There is a kind of knowing that comes in silence and not in words — but first we must be still.” Or to say it another way, first we must let go of our grip. That’s the gift of seclusion — the way it can loosen our clenched hands and restore a bit of our sanity. The way it reminds us that God’s presence doesn’t always show up in the noise and motion of life, but sometimes in the hush between breaths. But there’s another side to it too — the seduction of seclusion. I know it well. Maybe you do too? There are seasons when my retreat isn’t so holy; it’s protective. When I withdraw not for rest, but for refuge. When I hide my anxiety, my grief, my uncertainty — convincing myself I’m doing the world a favor by keeping my “mess” tucked out of sight. Seclusion can start as a safe place but turn quickly into a locked room. It can be a womb or a tomb — and sometimes it’s hard to tell which. Dietrich Bonhoeffer once wrote, “Let him [sic] who cannot be alone beware of community. Let him [sic] who is not in community beware of being alone.” The tension he names is real. We need both solitude and community, silence and speech. One without the other distorts the soul. The truth is, most of us swing between extremes. We rush into noise when we’re afraid of silence. We hide in silence when we’re afraid of being seen. But both are forms of fear. Jesus modeled another way. He often withdrew to quiet places to pray — but he also returned. Again and again, he came back to the people, the crowds, the meals, the mess. His solitude prepared him for compassion, not escape. So maybe the question isn’t whether we should seek seclusion, but whether our seclusion is renewing us or isolating us. Is it creating space for God’s voice, or just muting everyone else’s? Is it a pause before re-entering relationship — or an avoidance of it altogether? We all need quiet corners, but the point of retreat isn’t to disappear. It’s to return — rested, softened, and ready to love again. So go ahead and soak in your small warm world for a while. Breathe. Let go of your grip. Let the stillness hold you. But when the time comes, step back into the larger world — your voice, your presence, your story — and remember: Even your “mess” might be the grace someone else needs to see that they’re not alone. On the journey with you, Pr. Melissa  Every morning recently, I have been praying the Serenity Prayer. Not just the short version most people know or associate with sobriety groups, but the whole thing, just as Reinhold Niebuhr originally wrote it. Niebuhr, a pastor and theologian in the United Church of Christ tradition, understood that faith was not about escaping the brokenness of the world but living honestly within it.
Here’s the version I keep in my office and on my phone: God grant me the serenity To accept the things I cannot change; Courage to change the things I can; And wisdom to know the difference. Living one day at a time; Enjoying one moment at a time; Accepting hardship as the pathway to peace; Taking, as he did, this sinful world as it is, Not as I would have it. Trusting that he will make all things right If I surrender to his will; That I may be reasonably happy in this life, And supremely happy with him forever in the next. Amen. I pray this prayer because I need the reminder. Every single day. The first stanza grounds me. There are limits to what I can change, and denying that truth only wears me down. And yet there are also places where courage is required—where God is nudging me to stand up, speak out, or step forward. The wisdom to discern between the two is a lifelong practice. The middle stanza goes deeper in ways both challenging and life-giving. “Accepting hardship as the pathway to peace” is not a line I would have chosen. I don’t want hardship. I don’t want to take the world “as it is, not as I would have it.” But that line reminds me that nothing can be changed or accepted without first seeing it for what it truly is. My desires and preferences are often at the center of my world, but they aren’t at the center of the world. God is. And it is God’s heart, not mine, that ultimately holds the measure of what matters. The final stanza places everything back in God’s hands. This is my surrender, but not one of passivity. Mine is a surrender rooted in trust. It’s about remembering that even “reasonable happiness” is grace enough for this life, and that my deepest joy is forever bound up with God’s promise that love, not despair, has the final word. I keep coming back to this prayer because it steadies me. It keeps me from the arrogance of thinking everything depends on me, and it keeps me from the despair of thinking nothing matters. It names life for what it is: Both hard and holy, both limited and full of promise. And maybe that’s the heart of walking faithfully and courageously through the times we find ourselves in: Not overlooking the simple or seemingly small things that hold us steady. For me, it’s this prayer. For you, it might be something else—whatever it is, though, don’t dismiss it. Let it ground you. Let it be enough to remind you that even in a chaotic world, God is here, and God is holding you–holding us. And we are promised that is enough. Nothing more and nothing less than what we need for the moment we are in—our daily bread. So this week, look at your world—look at the prayers scattered about in it—an evening fire, a long walk with a good podcast, a sunset drive with the one you love—and let them steady you. Let them be enough. Enough to offer the serenity required to accept the things you cannot change. Enough for the courage to meet the mome Every morning recently, I have been praying the Serenity Prayer. Not just the short version most people know or associate with sobriety groups, but the whole thing, just as Reinhold Niebuhr originally wrote it. Niebuhr, a pastor and theologian in the United Church of Christ tradition, understood that faith was not about escaping the brokenness of the world but living honestly within it. Here’s the version I keep in my office and on my phone: God grant me the serenity To accept the things I cannot change; Courage to change the things I can; And wisdom to know the difference. Living one day at a time; Enjoying one moment at a time; Accepting hardship as the pathway to peace; Taking, as he did, this sinful world as it is, Not as I would have it. Trusting that he will make all things right If I surrender to his will; That I may be reasonably happy in this life, And supremely happy with him forever in the next. Amen. I pray this prayer because I need the reminder. Every single day. The first stanza grounds me. There are limits to what I can change, and denying that truth only wears me down. And yet there are also places where courage is required—where God is nudging me to stand up, speak out, or step forward. The wisdom to discern between the two is a lifelong practice. The middle stanza goes deeper in ways both challenging and life-giving. “Accepting hardship as the pathway to peace” is not a line I would have chosen. I don’t want hardship. I don’t want to take the world “as it is, not as I would have it.” But that line reminds me that nothing can be changed or accepted without first seeing it for what it truly is. My desires and preferences are often at the center of my world, but they aren’t at the center of the world. God is. And it is God’s heart, not mine, that ultimately holds the measure of what matters. The final stanza places everything back in God’s hands. This is my surrender, but not one of passivity. Mine is a surrender rooted in trust. It’s about remembering that even “reasonable happiness” is grace enough for this life, and that my deepest joy is forever bound up with God’s promise that love, not despair, has the final word. I keep coming back to this prayer because it steadies me. It keeps me from the arrogance of thinking everything depends on me, and it keeps me from the despair of thinking nothing matters. It names life for what it is: Both hard and holy, both limited and full of promise. And maybe that’s the heart of walking faithfully and courageously through the times we find ourselves in: Not overlooking the simple or seemingly small things that hold us steady. For me, it’s this prayer. For you, it might be something else—whatever it is, though, don’t dismiss it. Let it ground you. Let it be enough to remind you that even in a chaotic world, God is here, and God is holding you–holding us. And we are promised that is enough. Nothing more and nothing less than what we need for the moment we are in—our daily bread. So this week, look at your world—look at the prayers scattered about in it—an evening fire, a long walk with a good podcast, a sunset drive with the one you love—and let them steady you. Let them be enough. Enough to offer the serenity required to accept the things you cannot change. Enough for the courage to meet the moment and change the things you can. And enough for the wisdom to know the difference. On the journey 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
November 2025
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