 After a hot spell last week during which the four-legged’s in out household and my spouse required air conditioning, the windows are back open, the scent of rain is in the air, and the birds are singing. It’s almost magical the way that creation just sort of “happens” around us without any intervention from us (although I’m convinced that if I didn’t feed the birds–even the sparrows–there’s no way they could survive without me).
In fact, the sad truth is that when we humans do interact or intervene in nature’s happenings, it is rarely a good thing. We have seen this in recent decrees from government officials to expand logging operations in the US, and shared plans that will decrease public grounds for private profit. Lest we think the problem is only with the current presidential administration and only an “out there somewhere else” kind of problem, according to a March 2025 Investigative Midwest analysis of reports from the Iowa Department of Natural Resources, nearly eight out of 10 river segments have been in a continuously impaired status for at least a decade (source article). During the same period, 43% of lake segments have experienced a similar condition. In other words EIGHTY PERCENT of Iowa rivers have been “impaired” by pollutants. The culprit? Human intervention by way of big ag. And yet, to see this issue as a political one would be a mistake, I think. Particularly for people of faith. The desecration of earth’s natural habitats, creatures, and resources is a moral issue, and one that many of us–no matter where we fall on the political spectrum–have “off-loaded” into the political sphere. Exactly why we have done this is really anyone’s guess, but it has happened–little by little over time–by people from all walks of life and all political and socioeconomic statuses. By making this a political issue to be handled by politicians only, we have washed our hands of the moral responsibility we have to care for creation as people of faith. Rev. Cameron Trimble dives deeper: “The very first command in Scripture wasn’t about power or purity. It was about relationship. “The Lord God placed the human in the garden,” Genesis tells us, “to till it and to keep it.” That word keep in Hebrew--shamar—carries the meaning of guarding, tending, watching over with care. It’s the same word used to describe how God keeps watch over Israel. It’s covenantal. Sacred.” In other words, in failing to watch over creation with care, we have broken far more than our spaces for recreation, we have broken a sacred trust. Although it may not seem like it upon first read, there’s good news here. There is good news that if we–either consciously or subconsciously–have ceded our moral responsibility to politicians and their politics, we can choose to take it back. And the best part is that we don’t even need a fancy rally or even a “call your senator” campaign. Hear me when I say, those things are perfectly fine. But moral responsibility is regained when we start living more fully into our sacred covenant as creation keepers. And that means considering our personal impact on the environment when it comes time to make even the smallest of environmental decisions. For example, how would living more fully into our sacred covenant as creation keepers impact our decision to treat our lawns with herbicides or pesticides or both? How would it impact how much lawn we have in the first place? What would it mean to keep our vegetable gardens in such a way that centers our relationship with the whole garden and not just the end result? Would we use pesticides? Would we create a compost area? Would we plant companion plants in our yard to encourage pollinators? What if we lived as if reducing the carbon footprint of the world or the US began in our homes? Would we recycle more than we put in the trash? Would we think twice before hitting print on a document? Would we return cans and bottles to a redemption center instead of throwing them away? What if our church saw creation care as more than just recycling? How would we use our grounds differently? What decisions would we make about the building? What practices might we adopt or center in worship? I know that’s a lot of questions, but I think questions are a great place to start a much-needed conversation, AND a much-needed conversion of our hearts. Because that’s what will save us and this sacred planet–a conversion of our hearts and our minds–and NOT conversation amongst politicians. People of faith ground transformation in the practice of repentance–a change of heart and mind that brings us closer to the heart of God. Understanding that when our own hearts and minds are changed, the world around us is changed because we move through that world differently. So, my friends, this week I pray that we would begin to ask ourselves some questions–maybe even the ones above. And I pray that those questions would lead each of us into living more fully into our sacred covenant as creation keepers. I pray that we would repent–over and over again–as we find areas of our own lives that are keeping us from living in this way. And I pray that as we do, we are drawn ever closer and ever deeper into the heart of God. Learning to take back moral responsibility with you, Pr. Melissa  At Fellowship Time on Sunday, I sat at a table with others and enjoyed participating in a conversation about traffic in Oskaloosa. As is the case nearly anytime this subject is brought up, eventually the conversation turned to the change from four lanes to three lanes of traffic on A Avenue/Hwy 92 that runs through the heart of town.
The core of the conversation was about traffic flow–how traffic seems to get backed up into intersections and makes life difficult for anyone behind a turning semi. We spoke of accidents we’d been a part of, an unfortunate altercation that had happened between one driver and another, and the bypass that has been “coming soon” since the 1970s. But one person spoke of the struggle he has had simply reminding himself to stay in his lane. For this person–and maybe some of us–staying in the far right lane on A Avenue/Hwy 92 to drive, and only using the center lane to turn, has been quite the adjustment. But as I have thought about that conversation in Fellowship Hall, I have begun to recognize that this isn’t just a behind-the-wheel-struggle. This same struggle appears in my life when I am not behind the wheel as well. Perhaps this is true for you, too? Sometimes, I look at the enormity of needs in our congregation and our community–not to mention our world–and I desperately want to do something–maybe ALL of the somethings–to tend to those needs and bind all of those wounds and fight all of the injustice. Only, the way I go about it sometimes, is to function as a one woman U.S.O. of sorts–not supporting the needs of and the well-being of service members and families, but just supporting the needs and well-being of–well–everybody. And before I know it, I’m overwhelmed by not only the immensity of the world’s needs, but also my own inadequacies to address them. Our last Wednesday Evening Book Study found those gathered in conversation with Bishop Marianne Edgar Budde’s, “How We Learn to Be Brave: Decisive Moments in Life and Faith.” In the book, and in her recent interview on the We Can Do Hard Things podcast (listen here), Bishop Budde speaks about the importance of staying in one’s own lane. She emphasizes the significance of focusing on our unique role and calling–especially during challenging times–not only as a way for individuals to contribute effectively, but as a means of doing so without becoming overwhelmed by the broader complexities of the world. In short, we address the needs of the world around us not by being all things to all people, but by being all of who we are alongside the people around us. We stay in our own lane. For me, that looks like remembering that I am a called and ordained minister in the United Church of Christ. It looks like remembering that while our church is focused on social justice, it is a religious and spiritual organization, not simply a nonprofit. For me, it looks like showing up in spaces and with people with an understanding that I do so by way of a particular Christian tradition that I honor, and through which I walk–not because it is the only tradition on the planet, but because it is the tradition that points me in the direction of God. In other words, one of the lanes it is important for me to stay in is the lane that allows me to address the needs of the world around me pastorally. Venturing elsewhere is often a recipe in disaster for, as Bishop Budde suggests in her afore mentioned book, insight in one realm of my life does not necessarily carry over into others. In other words, I have unique gifts and unique experiences, coupled with my education, and because of this I have a particular way in which I can show up in the world with impact. That isn’t to say that I am ONLY a pastor or ONLY the sum of my gifts and experiences. It is to say that I am most effective when I have awareness of who I am and what I have to offer, as well as who I am not and what I do not have to offer. And so are you. Times like the ones in which we live are filled with all kinds of reasons to get discouraged and to become overwhelmed. And yet, that discouragement and those feelings of overwhelm can be tempered when we figure out how we can–even in ways that might feel small to us–show up right where we are, just as we are, and engage issues in a manner unique to us. This takes self-awareness and an assuredness that, in fact, we are enough. And that when we bring just what we have into a given space and work from our own lane, our impact is palpable. It is effective primarily because we aren’t busy trying to be an expert on everything and we aren’t trying to show up like our neighbor shows up or the way people on the news seem to be telling us we MUST show up. We are effective in our own lanes from our own lanes. So this week, Dear Reader, figure out what lane you’re in and start working from there. If you’re upset about ICE raids, figure out how your lane intersects with that work, and start driving. If you’re moved to act on behalf of LGBTQ+ people and our diminishing safety and rights, figure out how your lane intersects with that work, and start driving. There is freedom, not isolation, when we strive to stay in our own lanes. I pray you’ll join me in this work together. Figuring out traffic flow with you, Pr. Melissa  f you were in church on Easter Sunday you heard me say that I was going to put in a garden fence during my vacation time. That is precisely what my spouse and I did one day last week.
Our backyard already is fenced, however, rabbits are still able to get in and out rather freely. Then, of course, there is the matter of two dogs, both over 50 pounds, who like to chase squirrels and birds regardless of whether or not something is planted in their way. Doing the fence was a 1 and 1/2 day project, and it was definitely an all hands on deck situation. Alone, I put in the fence posts, but there was no way I could have gotten everything tight enough or held the hardware cloth just right in order to attach it to the fence posts. But, with my spouse's help on the one day of vacation they had to use for the project, we got it done. We even built a small, primitive gate that does the trick for letting us in and out, but also does the trick of keeping out everything we want to keep out of our garden. On Sunday morning I sat on our backyard patio and stared at the garden fence for a long time. As I sipped my coffee in the morning sunlight, I thought about all of the borders that exist in our world and in our lives today. Some serve us well, but others stopped serving us a long time ago–if they ever really did. This week marks one year (on Thursday) since my nephew died, and I will be honest in saying that there are some borders I have erected around my heart and in my spirit that have helped me get through this past year. For example, I haven’t let myself think about what might have been if he had survived his motorcycle accident. I don't let myself linger too much at the cemetery where his body now rests. I visit sometimes, sure, but for me, that is not a place where he is. For others in my family, the opposite is true. For a long time I would apologize for crying in the company of others when speaking of the loss, somehow believing that walling off my tears might better serve me in the moment. I also put a big border around joy– experiencing it, sharing it, softening into it. You name it, I fenced it off. I think, perhaps, I believed that letting myself experience joy, or sharing joy with others, or simply softening into the joy of a moment was somehow forgetting my nephew and all that we lost when we lost him. Not realizing, of course, that when I honor and appreciate what I have, I somehow also honor and appreciate what we lost. So this week, I'm letting the garden fence be a good border to keep our dogs and the rabbits and the squirrels from feasting on all of the plants my spouse has so lovingly tended in our indoor growing area from seed. I'm letting our backyard fences keep random neighborhood dogs and cats from our backyard as well. I'm letting our flower bed borders do the work of retaining our mulch and our rock. I'm letting some of the boundaries in my relationships with others, as well as some of the boundaries I have placed around my time remain as well. Because those borders still serve me. They offer definition where it is needed. But as for the rest of the borders and fences and walls that I've erected in my heart and in my mind–out of necessity or perceived need–I'm going to do my best to let them fall to the floor. I'm going to do the work of carefully dismantling that which keeps me from experiencing the full life that God in Christ desires for each and every one of us. And I hope you will join me. In John 10:10, the gospel writer reports Jesus teaching that, “The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy. I came that they may have life and have it abundantly.” Therein lies an invitation for deeper reflection: What fences and borders and walls in your life are like that thief? What have you put in place that perhaps once served you well for a moment or a season, but now is only stealing from you, or killing your relationships with yourself and others, or destroying parts of your life in some way, shape, or form? What boundary or border needs to be pulled down? Which ones need to remain? The answers to those questions and more will come through discernment and a willingness to lean into the abundant, but sometimes frightening and sorrowful, life that Jesus taught about. I'm hopeful that we can learn to lean in together. Discerning and leaning in with you, Pr. Melissa  There are many things in my life that I’m not proud of–speaking hurtful words in anger to someone I love, sharing a story that I never certified to be truthful before sharing it, living and acting from a place of anxiety, making a judgment about someone or a situation with only cursory knowledge.
Perhaps one of things about me that I’m least proud of is the way I sometimes look away from difficult or uncomfortable situations. When I am out at Walmart and I see someone with a sign asking for money or help of another kind, I sometimes turn away. When I see someone prepaying for $5 worth of gas with nickels and dimes, I sometimes turn away. Truthfully, I think I turn away because I’m afraid if I look too long at these human beings around me who are struggling, I would be compelled to do something about their plight. And yet, I don’t always know what I can do about their situation and I don’t always know what real help looks like to them. So instead of wading into a situation I feel inadequate to solve or inadequate to even fully understand, I turn away. Perhaps feeling some kind of internal shame that I cannot fully touch or name. Maybe you can relate? I think as human beings, turning away has become the path of least resistance that most of us have chosen to follow. When we hear news that is deeply concerning or frightening–we turn it off. When we hear a homily that pushes on one of our vulnerabilities–we take a break from church. When we see a Facebook post or an Instagram post that suggests that we might be part of a larger, unfolding problem–we scroll on by. Whatever the scenario, we have gotten very good at looking away from that which troubles us and the relatively comfortable waters in which we find ourselves. And yet, looking away has never actually done anything in the world but give us a false sense of comfort. A sense of comfort that keeps the stranger strange and keeps us insulated from our neighbors–those we know AND those we don’t. But it also keeps us insulated from our own humanity. It shields us from the love, connection, and empathy that is a part of our DNA, and that can only be truly realized when it is laid bare before others. To say it another way, when we look away from even the most difficult and frightening scenes we encounter everyday, it is impossible for us to fully be us. Today we are mid-way through Holy Week. And many of us are making plans for Easter Sunday and family get-togethers and deciding what we will wear to church that morning. But are any of us making plans to attend a Maundy Thursday service or a Good Friday service? Are any of us looking square into Jesus’ betrayal and denial by some of his own? Are any of us listening deeply to his make-believe trial before Pilate, or listening as Roman soldiers mock him and laugh at him as they beat him? Are we there, lingering at the foot of the cross, witnessing his cries, his final prayer, his last breath? Are we there in the grief? Are we there in the confusion? Are we looking at the long shadow of the cross? Or have we turned away–in our hearts, minds, and spirits? For many of us, it is the latter. For a whole host of reasons–many of which mirror all of the reasons we look away from all that disquiets us in our lives: We’re uncomfortable. We’ve got problems of our own. We feel inadequate to really do anything. We feel triggered. Still, I have to wonder what would happen if we trained our eyes and hearts to not look away from the hard and scary parts? Like, maybe if we could get our hearts online and look deeply inside the story of Holy Week–the times we have betrayed, denied, grieved, mocked, prayed a prayer like it was our last–that practice could help us do the same thing in our everyday lives. That somehow, this story that we walk through every year could be our gateway to walking into the difficult and uncomfortable parts of our own stories, and that we could become people with eyes less averse to the suffering of others–people with hearts more inclined to gaze into the heart of another. I’m not sure. All I’m sure of is that there is A LOT of road yet between here and Easter morning. And it is my prayer that each of us would stand and face the ENTIRETY of the story–not just the comfortable parts. For in our stare our own story unfolds, and therein lies a world of possibilities for connection and creativity, for empathy and for hope. The kind of hope that we cannot ever experience on our own–only with another–even another we don’t know. Even another we don’t know how to help. Even another we have previously looked away from. So don’t look away. Not from the painful parts of our Holy Week story, and not from the painful parts of our collective human story. There’s something for us there...if only we’re willing to look. Looking into Holy Week and the holiness all around with you, Pr. Melissa  he other afternoon I was driving back from a doctor’s appointment in Ankeny. While on Hwy 163 near Prairie City, I looked over and noticed that large swaths of the trademark prairie at the Neal Smith National Wildlife Refuge were charcoal black. Other parts of the prairie–a familiar light brown this time of year–were left untouched. The contrast between the two areas was stark.
When I got home, I looked up what had occurred, and–just as I’d suspected–learned that a prescribed burn of over 1,015 acres of the prairie at the wildlife refuge had taken place just the day before. In other words, the charcoal black swaths had been set on fire on purpose, and the spread of the fire had been controlled by trained firefighters. Long before humans got into the mix, prairies were managed by nature. Lightning strikes would set fires, wind would spread those fires and spread native seeds, and large animals like bison–who graze on the very prairie they simultaneously trample–were also in the mix. Now, however, our prairies and our bison are limited. And we humans have built homes and created communities very near some of the great native prairies that still exist. Management now occurs by humans by way of prescribed burns. In my reading, I learned that a healthy prairie is one of the most complex ecosystems on earth. And yet, even with all of its complexities, a healthy prairie is also one of the most balanced of all the systems on earth as well. Grasses work with soil and water and flowers to crowd out weeds and offer nutrients to one another that perpetuate the growth and flourishment of the healthy, balanced, complex system. Unfortunately, with human encroachment on natural areas, and the introduction of non-native, invasive species into the native prairie ecosystem, it’s no longer possible to simply let nature take its course. If we did, the non-native, invasive species–which grow at a much faster rate–would choke out all of the native prairie, resulting in an unbalanced, unhealthy ecosystem which cannot sustain life and flourishing. So we burn the whole prairie. AND…in the burning, the invasive weeds are eliminated, and a way is cleared for native seeds that have been dormant for a long time to germinate and grow. One source stated that after a prairie burn, only the native perennials that have been the basis for a healthy prairie survive the prairie burn, and the lushness and variety of new growth is often two to threefold from the previous year. We human beings are not unlike the native prairies that once covered this land. We–too–get to places in our lives when our natural balance is upended. We–too–find that the landscape of our minds and our hearts are invaded by that which is not native to our human ecosystems. We–too–find ourselves in need of something that will unblock the pathway to new life and new growth in our hearts, minds, and spirits. And so, we are invited to undergo a controlled burn of our own. This season of Lent has been meant to give us a pathway to such a burning away. As we have focused on fasting, giving, and prayer, we have been invited into deeper examination of ourselves and the world around us, to see what has been choking out our spiritual connections to God, to our truest selves, and to one another. And we have been invited to allow those invasive weeds to be burned away, creating a path for a spiritual growth that is lush and thriving in ways that it was not before this season began. But we don’t need a designated season in the Church to undergo such a renewal. We just need to recognize our need for a match. Therein lies the rub. Because far too often we don’t realize that invasive weeds like fear, apathy, stress, and disengagement are choking us out. We don’t realize that the ecosystem we’re trying to exist in is no longer supporting life and flourishing, because it is teeming with messages that we aren’t enough, or that we don’t own enough or possess enough. We don’t realize how the Divine spark in our hearts is no longer even smoldering, and how our own spiritual growth has grown dormant as that which is non-native within us has continued to overrun all that makes us human, and all that makes us whole. So, while the season of Lent is almost over, I pray that our quest for healing, wholeness, and renewal are not. I pray that we would continue the work of burning away all that is no longer serving us, and all that has been allowed to live rent free in our hearts, minds, and spirits for far too long, while choking us out at every turn. I pray that the fire of the Divine would be lit once again in our weary souls, so that we would again know balance. That we would again know variety and flourishing. That we would again know life and life to the full. For that is what is and always has been native in our spiritual ecosystems. And that is what is and always has been there–fighting its way through the weeds. Straining and fighting for survival against all that threatens to choke it out. It’s still there…just waiting for a path out of dormancy to be cleared. Just waiting for a spark to get a fire going. Burning away what no longer serves 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
May 2025
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