 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  This morning at the gym, I started with my usual warm-up on the treadmill. My favorite one by the front windows was occupied, but the rest were empty. I sighed, then took my place on a treadmill–being sure to leave one in between me and the treadmill in use.
On my way home from the gym, I thought about what an odd practice this was. Why did I feel the need for distance between me and a complete stranger? At the time, I reasoned it would be “weird” to see a row of unoccupied treadmills and to start using the one right next to the only machine that was occupied…but WHY? WHY is proximity considered “weird” and distance considered to be the “okay” or “safer” option? The question has bugged me ever since. I suppose we could blame COVID-19 for making us all a little more concerned with maintaining a “safe distance” from one another. However, I think if we’re being completely honest, we’d admit that our desire to distance ourselves from others was already a practice for many of us long before it was ever a policy. For whatever reason, proximity makes us uncomfortable, and because we human beings don’t like to be uncomfortable, we avoid it like the plague. And yet, in our desire for distance that makes us feel safe and secure (a false sense of security, I think, most of the time), something is lost. And what is lost is relationality. We don’t actually have to relate to anyone we don’t want to. We can exist in our own “lifetime bubbles” and keep the stranger in our immediate vicinity, well, strange. Which only serves to perpetuate the stories we so readily tell ourselves about those around us–that “they” are judging us. That “they” are mooching off the government. That “they” are looking down their noses at us. That “they” think they’re better than we are. That “they” have ill intentions or that “they” don’t want to work for a living. And in the process, our neighbors–those we know and those we don’t know yet–become a nameless, faceless “they”–the people we suspect, not the people we understand. In his book, “I Take My Coffee Black: Reflections on Tupac, Musical Theater, Faith, and Being Black in America,” author Tyler Merritt writes, “Distance breeds suspicion. But proximity breeds empathy.” This is certainly supported in our sacred text. The religious elite never got close enough to those marginalized by their very narrow interpretations of the law to be anything but suspicious of them. They never got close enough to Jesus to really be anything but suspicious of him either. And yet, Jesus always chose proximity–even to the religious elite. He would call out their poor behavior–sure–but he never distanced himself from them. I can’t help but wonder if this was because he believed that real change would only ever happen up close and personal–not through suspicion, but through empathy? On Sunday afternoon I was watching the women’s NCAA basketball match-up between LSU and UCLA. My spouse watched with me for a little bit, and of course, Hank and June (our dogs) were there as well. In our house, we are firmly “pets on the furniture” kinds of people. I mean, we even bought furniture with pet guard fabric when we decided to make a living room furniture purchase a few years ago. So there we were–one odd little family group–all on the same couch–watching a basketball game. My spouse was doing their latest cross stitch project. My dogs–well–the picture says it all. Hank was on my lap (yes, that is nearly as uncomfortable as it sounds–he’s like 75 pounds), and June was right there next to him…leaning in…making it a little weird. As if “next to” wasn’t nearly close enough for our June when it came to her big brother. More and more I think this is how we people of faith are called to move through the world. Not by seeking more distance between ourselves and the world around us, but by leaning in–being as close as possible to the communities we serve AND to the communities whose minds we are hoping to change. Because the best shot we have for building a stronger, more equitable community, I think, is through empathy–by empathizing with the other’s plight, and by experiencing what it is for others to empathize with ours. And we can’t empathize with treadmill-sized spaces existing between us. We must be proximal to each other’s suffering AND to each other’s triumphs if we have a shot at building a community that is not-so-easily divided. So this week, dear reader, take a chance. Lean in. Right where you are, just as you are. Get to know your neighbors–both in the houses next to you, and in line at the supermarket, or slide next to someone new in the pew on Sunday morning. Go ahead. Make it a little weird. Distance won’t serve us now–it will only keep the stranger strange. But proximity breeds empathy, and empathy has never known a stranger–only a friend. Making it "weird" through proximity with you, Pr. Melissa  or the past several years, my spouse and I have planted garlic cloves in the fall, and harvested some pretty amazing garlic bulbs (if I do say so myself) in the summer. Though my family of origin grew many things, we never grew garlic, so the process has been full of wonder and intrigue since we started growing it here.
In the fall, before it freezes, we till up some space in our garden, then place garlic cloves, root side down, into the soil. While we bought the first year’s garlic from an heirloom seed company, we have saved some of our best cloves every year since so that we can plant them again the next fall. Then we take a bunch of the leaves that fall in our yard that I have mulched up and bagged in the lawn mower, and dump them over top of the planted garlic to protect them from harsh winter weather. Then, we wait. What we don’t see–that is pretty awesome to think about–is that right away the garlic gets to work growing. Not above ground, but below it. The garlic roots must get established in the soil before the ground freezes entirely, otherwise, despite our best, above-ground efforts, come spring the garlic will be D.O.A.–Dead On Arrival. Just the other day, we were working in the backyard, and I looked over and saw beautiful, green shoots of garlic poking up from the thick layer of mulched leaves spread on top of it. The green was stark against the still very brown and dark landscape, so it caught my attention immediately. It was a beautiful sight and, as it is so often with nature and me, a beautiful reminder. Perhaps most poignantly, it was a reminder of the importance of establishing roots so that, when the harsh winds, rains, snows, and freezes of life happen–and they will–we are grounded enough to sustain them. For this grounding–this rootedness–to be effective in sustaining us, it must happen BEFORE the freeze. BEFORE the grief settles in. BEFORE the winds of change blow so hard that it feels like it’s blowing straight through us. BEFORE the next bad news story, and BEFORE the heartbreak, the diagnosis, the legislation. BEFORE whatever threatens to freeze us in our tracks happens, our roots must be well-established. Which means that whatever we’re doing today to get rooted in our hearts, minds, and spirits, is what will determine how we withstand tomorrow’s weather. So, my dear readers, I wonder, what is it that you are doing to get rooted today? Personally, I’m concentrating on getting enough sleep to feel rested. I’m studying scripture and I’m reading and I’m showing up to groups to discuss with others what I’m studying and reading. I’m getting regular exercise, and am trying to be more conscious about what I’m putting into my body to fuel it. I’m learning to hand off what I can, to put down what no longer serves me, and to carry the rest, although, admittedly, this remains an ultimate challenge to me. I’m working on balance at home and balance at work, and balancing my need to know what’s happening in the world with what my heart can handle listening to on any given day. I’m checking in with my spouse and my dogs, my family and my friends. And I’m spending time in nature–whether in my backyard, or in Mother Nature’s backyard. And I’m letting it all be prayer. I’m letting it all ground me in the truth of who I am and who I am not. I’m letting it all still my soul and stir me toward action all together and all at once. Our faith offers us such beautiful practices to help us get and stay rooted: Prayer, song, community, connection, rituals, sacraments, and silence. In our community of faith, we have opportunities to serve and learn and discuss and grow. It’s all just built in here for us–if we so choose. But we have to choose it, and choose it over and over and over again. Rooting is not a one and done exercise. For garlic, it happens every day, under the surface of the earth, little by little, pushing down deep before the deep freezes and growth is paused. For us, it happens much the same way. Day by day, doing the inner work that often no one sees, but, little by little, pushes our roots ever deeper into a more constant communion with one another, our truest selves, and the One in whom we live, and move, and have our being. Being able to withstand the harshness of life’s storms begins with being firmly rooted. What is it that you are doing to get rooted today? 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
June 2025
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