![]() 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 ![]() 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 ![]() On Monday I installed a rear view mirror on the left handlebar of my bicycle. I have been wanting to do it for awhile, as I have had more than a few instances of vehicles coming up behind me and either scaring me to death or creating an unsafe riding situation on the road. And, since it rained us out of the garden for a spell, doing the installation on a bonus day off just made sense. The instructions and the installation itself were fairly straightforward. The adjustment? Well, that’s where things got a little hinky. The instructions said that to adjust the mirror and then lock it down in the proper position, I should take an easy neighborhood ride and adjust for optimal viewing as needed. So that’s exactly what I did. I took a bike ride in my neighborhood. As I rode, I did precisely as instructed. I checked the view in my new mirror, concentrating on getting the angle just right so that I could see what was coming up on my left at any given moment. I kept riding and kept fiddling–constantly looking behind me. Which was precisely the problem, I think. Because the more I looked back, the less I looked at what was coming up in front of me. And the less I looked at what was coming up in front of me, the more opportunities arose for a mishap or a complete disaster. While I managed to avoid disaster, the mishaps ensued. In all of my fiddling I narrowly missed the side mirror of a parked car on a nearby street, and I ended up riding over a series of potholes in the road that were simply too late to maneuver around. As I have thought about the mishaps, I am mindful of how often I do something similar in my own life. I focus on some mistake I made in the past, or how something terrible happened in the past, and before I know it, my eyes are so fixated on what happened before, that I miss what is happening now. Right in front of me. I am so worried about a mistake I made that I’m still kicking myself for that I miss the adjustments that could be made right here and now to avoid repeating the mistake again. Or I spend so much time looking back at how wonderful things used to be before a heartbreaking event happened that I miss all the wonderful happening here and now. Maybe you can relate? I heard once that God’s name is not “I WAS,” so we needn’t look back with longing or regret. And God’s name is not “I WILL BE,” so we needn’t look forward with fear or anxious energy. God’s name is “I AM,” so our task–every day–is always the same: To look where we are right now and be as present and open to it as we can be, trusting that God IS here with us. That’s sewn up a little too neatly for me, but it makes sense and has always stuck with me. At any given moment I AM is right in front of us, not in the rear view. Whether we notice that Presence is largely dependent on where we’re looking. It’s important to glance back from time to time, I think. To see how far we’ve come. To look at all of the days we thought we wouldn’t make it through and did. To remember someone who was there with us but isn’t here with us now. To orient ourselves to our surroundings. But remember, it’s the glances that are beneficial, not so much the gazes. There is a great big world unfolding right in front of us, friends, and we get SUCH a better view of that world and all of the creatures in it in each moment…not in some small rear view mirror looking back over our shoulder. Join me in taking it in this week, won’t you? On the journey with you, Pr. Melissa ![]() This morning I helped a young man who had accidentally locked himself out of his apartment. He was leaving the house in order to head to work and, as I’m sure many of us have done before (I know I have!), locked the door behind him without giving it a second thought. It’s not like he didn’t have a backup key–he did–but the friends who had it were out of town and, despite our best efforts, we were never able to locate it at their house. His landlord is located out of town, and the local maintenance person for the building had a key, but it didn’t open his apartment. So, on to calling locksmiths…who weren’t open yet. When we got a hold of the first locksmith, they wanted $140 to open this young man’s apartment for him. This was a little rich for his (and my!) blood. FINALLY, a local locksmith was able to help him out for a very reasonable rate. Suffice it to say, my morning was not at all like I had planned. But then again, life rarely is. The alarm you thought you set doesn’t go off. The “shortcut” you thought you were taking to work ends up taking longer than the usual way. You get sick. You get lost. You get double-booked. Whatever it is, in some way or in some form, the apple cart will eventually get upended. And when it does, a lot of times we shut down. Or lash out. Or start connecting random dots that are completely unrelated but since we’re looking for someone to blame for things getting twist-turned upside down it all makes sense (i.e. “if I hadn’t sent that text message this morning to my friend, I wouldn’t have been late to that one corner, and if I hadn’t been late to that one corner, I wouldn’t have tried the shortcut that ended up being a longer route”). At times like these, our identity as people of faith usually goes out the window. Sure, we might call upon the name of the Lord to make a traffic light turn green more quickly, or to somehow make our bosses later to work than we are, but we don’t often think our faith can be of any service to us in times like these. But what if we’re wrong? What if our faith is exactly what we need when life goes sideways? Fr. Richard Rohr says, “Faith is not for overcoming obstacles; it is for experiencing them—all the way through!” In other words, the purpose of faith has never been to make our problems or our obstacles disappear. It’s not magic and it was never meant to be. Our faith helps us experience the obstacles without explaining them away or connecting dots that aren’t connected, or finding someone or something that is to blame for our plans going sideways. The truth, Jacqui Lewis reminds us, is that there is something for us right where we are no matter where we are–IF we let it all play through. She writes, “Right where you are, in the hurt and sorrow, that’s right where the insight is, that’s where the answer is, that’s where the wisdom is. The transformation is there, the rebirth is there. And you’re not alone.” That’s wisdom I hadn’t planned on receiving today, but there it is. Wisdom is here–no matter where “here” is. Faith helps us stay “here” long enough to realize it. So, friends, if your day started out like mine–a little sideways, a little off script, or came at you a little out of left field, HAVE FAITH. Not abracadabra faith that will make it all go away, but the kind of faith that lets you experience your obstacle all the way through, trusting that wherever you are is right where God is. On the sideways journey with you, Pr. Melissa ![]() I would like to say that the untimely death of my nephew on May 1st found me standing firmly in my faith. I would like to say that, but I won’t because that would be a lie. If I’m being honest, my faith has been a little wobbly. Because my nephew’s visitation was anticipated to be so large (and it was–well over 350 people lined up to grieve with our family), the funeral home decided the larger, more open church would be the better place for both the visitation and the funeral. So, for 5 or 6 hours last Tuesday, and for 3-3.5 hours last Wednesday, I sat, paced, cried, laughed, and hugged others in a house of faith. This was the same house of faith, mind you, in which I had witnessed my nephew be baptized, have his first communion, and get confirmed. So many happy memories there and, now, this horribly sad one–all commingled in one space. As I sat and paced and cried and laughed and hugged others, I wondered about faith–my faith, your faith, my nephew’s faith. I wondered if my faith was any good for such a time as this–if it was any good for anything anymore at all. I marveled at how horribly inadequate the answers I thought my faith provided seemed to be at a time like this, and contemplated if those answers had really been answers at all or just things I told myself were solid and true because life was going smoothly. To say that I had questions was an understatement and–even though I preach that God is in the questions–I was beginning to wonder if I actually thought that was true now? In her book “Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith,” author Anne Lamott writes, “I have a lot of faith. But I am also afraid a lot, and have no real certainty about anything. I remembered something Father Tom had told me--that the opposite of faith is not doubt, but certainty. Certainty is missing the point entirely. Faith includes noticing the mess, the emptiness and discomfort, and letting it be there until some light returns.” It seems that my uncertainty and my questions have not been faithless, they have been faith-FULL. Filled with pain and questions and doubt and black holes and the physical and emotional messiness of tears. Filled with times when I was so tired that I didn’t even know what day it was. Filled with only the goings on of life in the “grief bubble” that made it seem like no outside world existed. Filled with almost nothing that I could control or bend to my will, and yet letting it all be there without trying to stuff it down or suck it up or soldier on or put some positive spin on it–hoping, believing, waiting for even the tiniest shred of light to find its way through the darkness once more. One thing I know for sure is that this, unfortunately, will not be the last time I feel shaken to my core. Nor will you, dear reader, somehow escape such moments while on this side of heaven. Faith is not some insurance policy for a “good vibes only” kind of existence. It is not a set of biblical absolutes that feel cold and empty in the face of tragedy, or that offer answers that somehow ring hollow when rung in the face of the inexplicable. It is not always smiling and always looking on the bright side of everything. Faith is the holy wafer of comfort that we are offered again and again in the midst of all the spirit-shaking situations of our lives. It is what feeds our will to keep moving forward when every step feels like it is being taken in cement shoes. It is the sustenance that offers us our daily bread–exactly what we need to keep breathing for the next minute, the next hour, the next day. Faith understands what we sometimes do not: That everything doesn’t happen for a reason, but everything does happen. AND even the longest streaks of rainy days eventually come to an end. Even the most uncomfortable moments do not last forever. Even the darkest of the darkness is eventually met with light. I don’t know about you, but for me, that’s a faith that matters. That is a faith that is relevant to the messiness of my everyday life–that is useful to what I really deal with–not what some cleaned up version of myself deals with. It is a faith that may not hold many answers, but one that makes space for all of my questions and doubts and musings all the same. So I guess I’ll let others “stand firm” and be certain. I choose to keep cultivating the kind of faith that’s big enough for my questions--that's wide enough for all that I cannot explain. I choose the kind of faith that leaves enough room for me to wobble a bit. Growing in a wobbly faith with you, Pr. Melissa |
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
July 2024
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