In my first year here, I attended a retirement party for the priest at the Episcopal church, where a community leader came up to me and said, “Haverhill needs the UU church to be strong.” I took that to mean that people in this city need a progressive faith community with the values we uphold; also an acknowledgment that churches go though ups and downs, but it’s important for folks outside these walls that this congregation to be healthy and vital. When I got here, there was some work to be done. But if you saw our presence at Haverhill’s first Pride Parade yesterday (we were the largest contingent there), or if you heard what city and state leaders said to me at the Pride Flag raising before the parade, you’d know that this church is in strong shape indeed. People rightfully see us as a positive force in this city, which needs what we have to offer. And you’re just getting started!

A couple of months ago I was at a meeting of UU ministers, and the lead of our New England Region staff was talking about the state of churches these days, and said that in the work they are doing to help congregations thrive they are seeing a sharp divide between the churches that are doing okay and those that aren’t. And the difference between them is this: the churches that have been doing their own work, particularly around diversity and difference, whether that is anti-racism/anti-oppression work, or increasing intercultural competency, or welcoming people across the spectrum of gender identity; that these congregations are doing okay. And the ones who have been unwilling to engage in this work are not. 

I have always been grateful for the opportunity to be here, in this place, with you. Especially on Sunday morning, which feels like the weekly cherry on top of this ministry we’ve shared together. I’ve been so fortunate to serve you good people here, in this place. I know it’s time for me to retire, but I am really going to miss you, and what we have been co-creating together these 17 years.

One thing I’ve always loved, and have been even more aware of lately, is the view from this place called the chancel. In the theater it’s called the stage, and that’s what it is—a raised up place where the actors are visible to the audience. Or in a church, the congregation. 

I love that hymn we just sang, and how it ends:

Let every instrument be tuned for praise!
Let all rejoice who have a voice to raise!
And may God give us faith to sing always, Alleluia!

I love gathering here on Sunday morning, with you all. I need what this hour of worship has to offer, and expect you do too. A time to be fed by and restored, this place where there’s room for everyone, just as you are; where we behold one another and remember that we belong to one another, where we give thanks for this moment and these gifts. 

You know that Easter is not just a day, but a season, right? In the church calendar, Easter season lasts for fifty days, all the way to the Pentecost. After the flowers have faded and the eggs and candy are gone (right?), this season of Easter remains. 

In the same way that at this time of year we need the season of spring—we need it, don’t we?—I’m here to tell you that we need more than one day of Easter. Who among us isn’t ready for spring? After the winter, after the decreasing daylight of fall; after the pains and losses and heartache that come with being human; we need the sound of peepers, and birdsong, the feel of warmer air coming through the open window and the sun on our faces.

On Easter Sunday 20 years ago I woke up on a couch at the First Parish in Lincoln, Mass.; it was the church where I did my internship. They do an Easter sunrise service there, which I’d offered to lead—because when was I ever going to get that chance again? That chilly morning maybe 20 of us, and a number of dogs, gathered at the top of a gentle hill just around the corner from the church. 

It had been a cold winter and a reluctant spring, so there were still traces of snow in the shadowy places. There we were, standing on the frosty ground, hearing the old story of the empty tomb. As as the sun rose over the tree line, it illuminated and warmed our faces. 

It’s always lovely to sing “Blue Boat Home”—the tune, the words, all of us joining our voices together. A line I particularly love describes “…our ship’s companions, all we kindred, pilgrim souls, making our way by the lights of the heavens, in our beautiful blue boat home.” 

Ever since astronauts went up into space, we’ve had this image of our earth, and its place in the cosmos; this awareness that we are a tiny blue dot in the darkness of space. And this changes things, does’t it? Or it should.