UU Church of Haverhill

It’s been a horrific week for ordinary people in Israel and Palestine, where atrocities and suffering beyond words have happened on both sides. It’s been a heartbreaking week for anyone who cares about peace and justice, and we rightfully fear for where this violence will lead. I don’t have anything particularly wise to say about this; nor do I have the heart to say more than a few words about it. 

Today, the day before Easter, is the last day of what’s called Holy Week, which starts with Palm Sunday. There are several holy days that are often observed this week that mark the events that lead to Jesus’ death, as told in the gospel stories.

There was a spirit of peace in our gathering for worship this morning, and it started with a lovely prelude that Melody played on the piano. In those moments, I felt a peace start to fall over our gathering, and I felt it in my heart. I could have listened to Melody play a lot longer, because that music, and the sense of goodness it brought among us, felt like such a balm and a blessing.

I’m often reminded of the saying, “Preachers preach the sermons they themselves need to hear.” It’s true, at least in my case. Ahead of Sunday, I often ask myself, “What do they need to hear? And what do I need to say?” I don’t usually ask, “What do I need to hear?” But the sermon often ends up reflecting that in some way or another.

Two years ago today the pandemic stopped us from gathering for Sunday worship in our sanctuary. What a journey we have been on since then! I woke this morning feeling tired and sad, for all that we’ve been through, for all that has been lost. It’s been harder for some than for others, but it’s been a lot for everyone, hasn’t it?

Around this time of the year I often remember a poem that begins with these lines:

In February
all of a sudden there’s a lot more light,
and it’s a warm light.
Snow melts off the roof…

Three weeks ago, we took our Sunday worship out of the sanctuary and back to Zoom, because of the high Covid infection rate these days, due to the Omicron variant. I’m been heartened by, and so grateful for, the responses I’ve heard from some of you; your appreciation that we are taking precautions to keep folks safe. But I shouldn’t be surprised—all through this pandemic you have been good-hearted and courageous about facing what is, and trying to make the best of it.

I’m fortunate to have a little boat, which I use to fly fish in saltwater during the summer months. I love getting out on the water at first light, when there aren’t many boats out yet, and when the striped bass are often feeding! When the fall comes, I have mixed feelings about the season coming to an end. It goes by quickly here in New England, so it’s kind of sad to pull the boat out of the water and put it away for the winter. But it also feels like something of a relief. Do you know what I mean?

It’s been a while since I’ve written here! I was away on sabbatical for four months, and have been meaning to write a new blog post since I came back in early May, but there have been others things to pay attention to. And here we are, in mid-summer!

Looking at this picture makes me strangely happy. I took it in late March, as I was heading out on a pilgrimage to Utah, a trip which included three days driving out and three days driving back, and two weeks of walking, fly fishing, some camping and lots of solitude. And I pretty much loved it all.

My four-month sabbatical begins tomorrow. I still have some emails to send, and some notes to write, and a few other things to attend to, but tomorrow I will turn off my email and suspend my Facebook account and will enter into a time of greater quiet for a while. And even though it will be an adjustment, and I will at times be restless and bored, even, I know that I need this intentional sabbath time.

I have a lot of favorite hymns, one that’s on my mind this week, when the President of the United States and several senators encouraged a mob to desecrate our Capitol, causing death and injury, is “God of Grace and God of Glory,” by the minister Harry Emerson Fosdick:

God of grace and God of glory,
on thy people pour thy power;
crown thine ancient church’s story;
bring its bud to glorious flower.
Grant us wisdom, grant us courage,
for the facing of this hour, for the facing of this hour.

When our daughter was in elementary school, I helped coach her travel soccer team. In the colder months, they would play indoors on Saturday morning, and my custom was to make a big travel mug of coffee before we headed off. One Saturday, after the coffee kicked in, the teenage referee made a couple of questionable calls, and I let him know my unhappiness. The opposing coach looked over at me and told me that the ref was doing the best he could, that this young man had challenges of his own. Of course I felt ashamed—how could I have been so insensitive? And I had the thought, “Maybe I should switch to decaf.”

Wow—it’s been a while since I’ve written here! My only excuse is that the church year started up and things have been kind of busy. Mostly in a good way—we brought our online worship back into the sanctuary and I’ve been pleased with that. It was another thing to figure out, but thanks to a great team of folks, we did it!

It’s been a hot and dry summer around here. Spending more time than usual around home, I’ve watched the grass dry up and die, and done just enough watering to keep other plants alive. Bees have been lining up on the edge of the birdbath, thirsty for a drink. I love a rainy summer day every now and then, and until yesterday, it had been a long time since we’ve had one of those. And we’re fortunate—out west, where things are often dry, wildfires have raged in recent weeks, causing loss of life and property and destroying beautiful places, spreading smoke and making it hard to breathe for those downwind.

I wrote my last post just before heading off for a few days of fishing and camping in northern New Hampshire. That was several weeks ago now, but the memory is staying with me. It was good for my soul to be out in that beautiful country; walking through the woods and standing in moving water, watching the water flow by, “hoping that a trout will rise,” as Norman MacLean put it.

At this time of year, I dream of the open road, of getting out of town, and getting away from the demands of parish ministry for a while. In recent years I’ve been fortunate to make almost annual trips to Yellowstone National Park, where I hike and fish and find plenty of solitude, once you get away from the road.

When the Coronavirus hit, we stopped gathering in our sanctuary, and started offering worship online from our homes. This was an adjustment for everyone. As a former photographer, I was reminded that I am more comfortable behind the camera than in front of it. That first week, Sophia and I decided that, even in our less formal settings, we would wear our ministerial robes. It felt right to us to keep some things the same.

On this rainy Sunday afternoon I was happily working on a project in the basement when I got a text from my wire Tracey. It was this meme, based on Neil Diamond’s song “Sweet Caroline”:

I’ve been a casual runner for a long time, and I love how accessible this form of exercise is—you just lace up your shoes and go. There’s a whole world out there you can run in! But over the last couple of years, I started to find that my body, particularly my knees, didn’t love my pounding the pavement. And over the past few months, I’d stopped running at all.

But a couple of days ago I felt the urge to run. To get outdoors, in the fresh air, and stretch my legs and expand my lungs. It went pretty well, and considering the state of things these days, some aches and pains the following day felt like a small price to pay.

On this Sunday morning, like almost every morning for several years now, I start my day with sitting in silence. Some days this time includes silent prayers; most days it begins with my mind jumping around from one thing to enough, what Buddhists call “monkey mind.” But if I stay with it, eventually things settle down, and something deeper happens. A Quaker elder was once asked, “How long should I pray?” And he responded, “Long enough that God starts praying you.”

Back in early February, I had a Sunday off, on the day before my birthday. That morning I thought about going to church with my wife, or visiting a nearby congregation where I’d love to hear the preacher. But I had the thought, “I don’t want to have to talk to anyone.” So I listened to that voice, and to my heart, and ended up spending the morning in our basement.

One of the things I know about myself is that getting outdoors, out in the air and under the wide sky, and feeling the ground under my feet, that this is good for my soul. It keeps me grounded and restores me. My wife Tracey and I went out for a walk yesterday morning. It was a bright and chilly day, and my hands and face were cold at the start. But you know what happens as you move—your body warms up from the inside. It’s good for you. I am so grateful to be able to walk, because it is so good for my soul.

I was going to see my spiritual director Mary today, my Sabbath day, and I was looking forward to it, because we haven’t seen each other in a while. But like lots of things these days, we had to cancel because our meeting place was closing due to the coronavirus. We talked briefly on the phone about how awful this current situation is, and she quoted a bishop she knows, who said, “The church is made for times like this.”