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All You Need To Know – 6/17/2012

And so we come to the close of another church year together. Our liturgical cycle opens each September with the communion of the waters, the mingling of the different rivers and streams that feed our common spiritual sea. And now in June, we arrive at the communion of the flowers, as each of us will take with us from this place a blossom to symbolize the shared wisdom and commitment of this congregation. Water feeds the earth, and the earth gives forth its wonder and abundance. Each of us comes to this community with our own stories, our own gifts, our own dreams and insights, and mixed together they serve to nurture new hope and possibility.

Today is also the last Sunday before the official beginning of summer, and while we do not close for July and August, there is no arguing that we have a different mode than in the autumn, winter and spring. Lay leaders will be leading worship services for us at Dane Street Beach this summer, and I am looking forward to attending and being spiritually nourished by them. But this is the last time that I will be in the pulpit for a few months as I take my annual vacation and study leave, which this year also doubles as paternity leave. So this is my last chance for a little while to say something of value to you.

As you may already be aware, people of my vocation are known, generally, for being verbose. And I think often of Kurt Vonnegut’s rule that any scientist who cannot explain to an eight-year-old what his research is about is a charlatan.[i] Since my work requires neither lab equipment nor higher math, I can hardly claim that I deserve more leeway than this. So I thought that I should find some simple summary to offer you all – something to suffice if you take just one scrap of theology to heart from this year of church. And I very nearly found it, on the internet, that staggeringly powerful force in so many human lives that seems at times capable of solving any problem, other than fire and too much internet.

A colleague of mine pointed me to a quote from Marcus Aurelius, the second century Roman emperor who was also a noted philosopher. Here are the words:

     “Live a good life. If there are gods and they are just, then they will not care how devout you have been, but will welcome you based on the virtues you have lived by. If there are gods, but unjust, then you should not want to worship them. If there are no gods, then you will be gone, but will have lived a noble life that will live on in the memories of your loved ones.”

That quotation summarizes quite ably my own understanding of what living is for. For many different reasons and in many different ways Unitarians, Universalists and Unitarian Universalists have, for as long as we have been, hewed to some version of that statement. Most took the first route – that God is just, and loving – but however the many voices of our tradition got there, they sing together in grand consensus: we ought each of us, in every moment, to do what is right, because it is the right thing to do. Nothing satisfies the spirit like the struggle for justice. Nothing quenches the thirst of the soul like the project of peace. Nothing nourishes the heart like the work of love. Treating all people with fairness and mercy and confronting evil in the world around us and in ourselves may not lead to wealth or to fame. It can cost a great deal, in fact; friends and family, the esteem of our neighbors, our safety, our security, and even our lives. But still to live a good life remains the highest reward; it cannot be bought for any price.

But I said that this quote almost summarized my central message to you cleanly. It might have fit together in a fairly pretty package tied with a much better bow than I can produce in real life, except that Marcus Aurelius never said it. He never said anything particularly like it. As nearly as I could determine, it is a set of sentences conceived by some anonymous modern person that came to be attributed on the internet to the famous philosopher. This does not mean that the words themselves cannot contain truth – the fame or anonymity of their author should not affect whether or not we take them to heart. But it makes their story a little less elegant, and it points to how complex the work of living justly is. In order to do what is right, we need to understand what is. There is always more to learn about the situation that we find ourselves in, and each new fact can change our understanding of what we ought to do.

Every day that we do not spend together, my partner Sara and I will call each other and ask, “what would you like to have for dinner tonight, honey?” Because food is a fundamental need, and we are each concerned with the other’s wellbeing, and our own. So we are ready to work together, to meet that need.

The need to find the compassionate, loving choice, at every juncture in our lives, is no less essential. Doing that requires a clear understanding of the world we inhabit and insight that extends beyond our own limited perspective. And that, friends, is what we have spiritual community for. To assist each other in finding what the moment demands of us. To listen together for what we are being called to do by that still, small voice in the heart that some call God and which draws us in every instant towards a greater wholeness for ourselves and for all the world.

The poet Naomi Shihab Nye wrote this:

 

A man crosses the street in rain,

stepping gently, looking two times north and south,

because his son is asleep on his shoulder.

 

No car must splash him.

No car drive too near to his shadow.

 

This man carries the world’s most sensitive cargo

but he’s not marked.

Nowhere does his jacket say FRAGILE,

HANDLE WITH CARE.

 

His ear fills up with breathing.

He hears the hum of a boy’s dream

deep inside him.

 

We’re not going to be able

to live in this world

if we’re not willing to do what he’s doing

with one another.

 

The road will only be wide.

The rain will never stop falling.[ii]

 

Though we should never stop seeking to improve our condition, we also must not expect that our problems will simply go away. The road will only be wide. The rain will never stop falling. The work of compassion, of living with an attitude of justice, even in an unjust world, is constant, and challenging. But it should not be lonely. None of us is marked, FRAGILE, HANDLE WITH CARE, though all of us ought to be. The delicate, breakable quality of ourselves and the world we inhabit directs us to what is right in each situation. We must be ready to carry one another across the road, and we also must be ready to ask for help when we are the ones who need carrying. If that is all you take home with you from a year of church, I will choose not to be too offended. Because, if you truly hold it in your heart, it will be all you need to know.



[i] From his novel, Cat’s Cradle, 1963.

[ii] From her collection Red Suitcase, 1994.

By Their Fruits Ye Shall Know Them

As May turns into June and the transition from spring to summer approaches, you may be thinking of some of the joys that summer holds. Swimming, perhaps, or the smell of fresh-cut grass. Time off from school, for some of us, or a chance to laze in the sun with a good book. As the weather gets warmer, I find many things to look forward to. But the fruit of summer is a particular treat, with such an abundance of it here in New England.

Melon and grapes and peaches and plums and blueberries, strawberries and blackberries – a personal favorite. The natural world seems to celebrate life with a festival of flavor and color; a shared reward after the trials of winter. (Though this year’s winter was far less trying than normal, I find myself anticipating the reward of summer no less.) The months ahead offer so much to experience, and enjoy.

There is a passage in the Gospel According to Matthew that says, “by their fruits ye shall know them.” The author reminds the reader that the health and goodness of a tree or a bush can be judged by the fruit it gives; so too with people, the reasoning goes. Certainly it is our actions and the legacy of our living that attest most clearly to what lies in our hearts. As you live out the summer ahead, I know that many of you will be away – far from our meetinghouse, or simply on leave from it. You may not have as many reminders of your own best self, from your spiritual community, to rely on. So please do not forget that the tree of your soul bears its fruit in every season. There is an opportunity to seek justice and practice mercy for every one of us in every moment – even when we are on vacation.

But also remember that the goodness of the fruit reveals the goodness of the tree. Go out and taste life, experience the world. Search for whatever it is that you need in order to know the sweetness of existence. We are each the produce of our living planet home. Let us be reminded this summer, that we are fruit of a good and wondrous tree.

 

In Faith,

Rev. Kelly Weisman Asprooth-Jackson

 

P.S.: Three things to say by way of special announcement.

The first is to offer you my deep thanks for all of the care and support and encouragement and love that you all have shown to my family and I as we prepare for the arrival of our fourth member. If all goes well, we expect to have a new baby with us by the end of June – this coincides roughly with the vacation I normally take in July, but please be aware that I will be less available than usual during this time. (Though as always, in the event of a sudden illness, death or other serious crisis, please call me.)

The second item is to congratulate the congregation on your unanimous decision, at our annual meeting in May, to become a host congregation for Family Promise North Shore Boston’s Interfaith Hospitality Network. Expect to hear much more about this in the fall.

And finally, I want to remind you that while we have a reduced schedule of worship and other activities during the summer months, the congregation is far from closed. Services, led by members of our congregation, will be held every other Sunday, beginning on the 24th of June, at 10am at Dane Street Beach on Lothrop Street. We began this practice last year, and its a wonderful way to get fresh air, spiritual sustenance and the pleasure of each others’ company. I hope to see you there.

At the Water’s Edge – 6/3/2012

[This homily for our annual Music Sunday preceded our choir’s performance of John Rutter’s Deep River.]

There is a moment in every night, hours before the dawn, when the quiet of the dark is at its peak. A time when everyone who was ever going to sleep through this night has already gone to bed, and none of them are yet awake. A time when even the sleepless grow quiet, and the world itself seems to be alone with its thoughts and waiting. It is a moment most often experienced by folks who work the third shift, by the parents of crying children, and by people who are worried about what the morning holds for them.

In a few minutes, our choir will favor us with a cycle of songs drawing on biblical themes and images, some of which come from the Book of Joshua. For those of you who might appreciate a reminder, Joshua is the 6th book of the Hebrew Bible. Its story opens just after the death of Moses, who led the children of Israel out of slavery in Egypt, through forty years in the desert, to within sight of the promised land. Leadership has passed to Joshua, and at the start of the third chapter of the book named for him, he leads the people to the river Jordan. They have only to cross it, and they will be in Canaan, the land of milk and honey, the place of freedom they have been seeking for generations.

But before they cross over, the whole wandering lot of them spend the night camped out on the banks of the river. And so I have to imagine that there were a great many of that nation of former slaves who shared that night’s moment of utter quiet and uncertainty. Forty years and it comes to this: standing at the water’s edge, about to cross over. Who knows what tomorrow may bring?

Life holds many such moments, for each of us, when we find ourselves perched on the cusp of something hoped for, or feared, or both. Seeking a new job, or just giving up the current one. Beginning a new marriage, or ending an old one. Becoming a parent; enrolling in school; telling someone you love them; putting the bottle down – the more that the change matters, the more likely that it will wake you up in the night.

As much time and work as it took you just getting to that riverbank, it doesn’t make the crossing any easier. Because it’s not just milk and honey on the other side. When Joshua led the children of Israel across the Jordan they knew they were in for a fight, and the first stop on their itinerary was the city of Jericho, with its mighty walls. There is always a way forward, in every moment, but there are also a million ways to stand still: just keep quiet, or back down, numb yourself, and keep doing whatever you were doing, and being just as unhappy about it. You can only take that first step into the river when you are ready to reach out to the struggle ahead. When you can say, “Give me some new trouble; I’ve had enough of the old.”

Some of us here today are standing at the water’s edge, about to take some great risk, or not. And some of us are already in it up to the hip. And it might just be that one of us here today is exactly one footstep into the river, and it’s the step you took when you came through those doors this morning.

The songs we are about to hear come from the African American Spiritual cannon. The stories of the Hebrew Bible loom very large in that tradition because the experience of a people living in bondage seeking and ultimately winning freedom spoke profoundly to the everyday reality of human beings living in the inhuman institution of slavery in America. Crossing Jordan was a metaphor for the passage to the North, and often on to Canada, where the Fugitive Slave Act did not apply. Crossing any river, in fact, had benefit for a person escaping slavery because the water broke up your scent trail, and made it harder for the dogs to follow you on the other side. Things were a little different in the biblical story of Joshua, however. It is said that as the people entered the water, the river stopped flowing, and they walked across dry-footed.

So whenever you find yourself in such a predicament – when you wake in the quiet of the night and ask yourself, “Lord, is going forward any better than staying put?” – remember that you are not alone in that moment. Your problems may be personal, and no one else’s struggle identical to your own; but there are others, all over the world and stretching back long before Joshua, who looked out over their own rivers, and wondered about how they were ever going to make it on the other side. If your heart lies in another land; if there is only slavery in one place, and the possibility of freedom in another; if the only thing more frightening than pressing on is going back, then press on – with such courage and determination that the river had better get out of your way.

Download RE Enrollment Forms, 2012-13

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Follow the Evidence – 5/13/2012

The truth is an elusive thing. It is something we desire, but also often fear. We cannot live without some understanding of what we know to be true, and yet there are some truths in life that seem hard, or even impossible, for us to live with. As Unitarian Universalists we are dedicated to a free and responsible search for truth and meaning. But that search is rarely easy, and it almost never leads where we expect it to. Read More >>

Through the Dust – 5/6/2012

A century ago, a university professor visited the Zen master Nan-in, to ask him questions about his teaching. As the two sat down to talk, Nan-in served tea. He began by pouring his guest’s cup, and after it was filled he continued to pour until it overflowed. The hot tea crested the top of the cup and spilled out over the surface of the low table, spreading from there over the second edge. It began to soak into the floor-mat and still the master continued to pour. His guest was struck dumb at first, with surprise, and then he kept his tongue because he knew the teacher’s reputation: whatever he was doing must be for some purpose, and he tried to puzzle it out rather than speak up and admit that he did not understand. But after enough time and enough tea had passed, the learned scholar could no longer help himself. “It’s overfull,” he said. “No more will go in!”

“Like this cup,” Nan-in said, “you are full of your own opinions and speculations. How can I show you Zen unless you first empty your cup?”[i]

As we enter into this morning’s message together, I would ask you to take a moment now to check your level. Is your cup half full? At the brim? Overflowing? What space is there in you now to receive something new? Where, in the cluttered attic of your mind, might you be able to make room for fresh understanding?

Earlier in our service we heard from members of our Diaconate, a group which has a history stretching back to the early days of our congregation. Its root origins are actually far, far older than that. A Diaconate is a group of deacons, and the office of deacon has its beginnings in the early days of Christianity; by tradition, it can be traced back to the sixth chapter of the book of Acts. The disciples – the leading students of Jesus who had taken responsibility for his community of followers after his death – were receiving complaints from that same community. The early Christians held their property in common: each person was supposed to receive what they needed from the shared resources of the group. But some of the least fortunate members of the very early church were not getting enough to live on.

So they convened a meeting and declared that, and this is a quote, “It would not be right for us to neglect the ministry of the word of God in order to wait on tables.” That is, in order to feed the hungry. Their sentiment suggests to me a powerful misunderstanding of Jesus’ teaching that “Whatever you [do] for the least of these brothers and sisters, you [do] for me.” This gives the lie to the idea that there is a single, fundamental interpretation of the Christian tradition, or any other religion – from the earliest times, people have always chosen certain verses and teachings to weigh over others.

The leaders of the early church had determined that they needed to focus their efforts on “prayer and the ministry of the word” and so they appointed seven people considered to be full of the Spirit and of wisdom to whom they would entrust the responsibility of caring for the needy. Tradition considers these seven to be the first deacons, though they are never called by that name in the bible. So the first diaconate was established by the first disciples as a seven-person, non-member subcommittee for feeding the poor.

The word deacon is an English rendering of the Greek diakonos, a word that can be used for both for servants and for messengers. From the original charge to aid the poor, the office of deacon came to include any sort of work that supported the work of the church, and in particular, any effort to carry the message of the religion to new places and people. Today, in a variety of Christian denominations, people with the title deacon maintain some version of these dual mandates: acting as servants and messengers on behalf of their faith.

The original etymology of the word diakonos is uncertain, but one common explanation is that it derives from a Greek phrase meaning “through the dust”. This would encompass both uses of the words, whether it is the dust that settles over a house, for a servant, or the dust of the open road for a messenger.

When I was just starting out in my first apartment, there were a lot of things I had to learn. How to sign up with the electric company, for instance, how to file taxes, and how to clean. I don’t mean to give you the impression that I’d never done any cleaning up to that point. But that first apartment was the first place I’d ever been wholly responsible for that wasn’t my parents’ house or a temporary dorm room. And besides, I was sharing the space with my fiancé – a new level of cleanliness was called for.

I ended up reading a book on how to clean things more efficiently and effectively. It taught me some embarrassingly basic lessons, like how not to leave streaks on a mirror. But one of the other things that it emphasized was the importance of being able to see “though” dirt. When you’re scrubbing something – a dish or a floor or a countertop – there’s a layer of soap and water and grime that you’re working away at, and there’s the actual surface you’re trying to get to underneath. You become better at cleaning when you can see past that mess on top and intuitively know when it’s all ready to be rinsed away.

This points to a key quality for a deacon to possess: the ability to see through the dust. Specifically to look beyond the dust, the cruft, the spiritual detritus that covers over human beings and their imperfect institutions and see the fresh promise contained therein. A deacon is a servant of something bigger than themselves, a messenger of something that goes beyond their personal wisdom to a truth inherited from and shared with others.

We Unitarian Universalists have a certain constitutional aversion to ranks and titles and special clubs. Somehow, over the centuries, as we grew out of our roots in the Christian tradition to something overlapping but distinct from it, we managed to retain an ordained class of clergy. Retained it only just barely. We accepted the common Protestant affirmation of the universal priesthood, and extended it to the priesthood and prophethood of all people. My own ordination was a profound and humbling moment for me, but it marked no shift in the atoms of my body, no transfiguration of my soul. The power of my language and action to curse and to bless was the same before it as after it; this is our theology, that all people share the same potential holiness. By going directly to priest and prophethood, we seem to have skipped over the rank of deacon all together.

But why not, the diaconate of all people? The ideal set forth by the teacher Jesus is one of service: one leads, one worships, one practices religion by serving needs greater than one’s own. Compatible messages are found in many other faiths as well. A deacon is a person devoted to a purpose, a thing worth living for. Agent Smith, the dark-suited villain of the Matrix trilogy of films inadvertently says something very true in the middle of one of his menacing dialogues: “Without purpose we would not exist. It is purpose that created us. Purpose that connects us. Purpose that pulls us. That guides us. That drives us. It is purpose that defines us. Purpose that binds us.”[ii]The world needs deacons – people who have discovered what they believe in, and are ready to work for it. Not for glory or reward, but because it is gives meaning to their lives.

As I thought about the role of a deacon in the world this week, the first person that came to mind was Bayard Rustin. Rustin was a social activist in the 20th century. He is not remembered often enough, but he was tireless and devoted in his pursuit of justice. He was at the heart of the Civil Rights movement from the late 1940s on, and is given partial if not major credit for the commitment to intentional nonviolence, a tactic he had seen used by Gandhi when he travelled to India a worked with the movement there. He was the chief organizer of the March on Washington, and he was never afraid to be out in front of the banners and behind the microphones. Bayard advocated on behalf of all his identities: not just as an African American, but also as a gay man and a socialist. He lived at a time when carrying any one of those labels was a profoundly dangerous thing. Yet he did not stop working for justice and positive change throughout his entire life, saying, “To be afraid is to behave as if the truth were not true.” He exemplified the role of a deacon because his effort was always bent towards the social impact of his work, rather than any attention it might garner for him personally.

When the stories of great leaders are told to quickly or too carelessly, the people who supported them most closely, without whom they could never have succeeded at all, are often left out. So let me tell you briefly now a story with the critical supporter, the deacon of the tale, left in. Muhammad, the prophet of Islam, was a middle-aged merchant when he was called to transmit a divine message, as the tradition tells it. He had a practice, from time to time, of going up into the mountains to meditate. One day, the angel Gabriel appeared to him in a vision, placed before him a huge set of words written in fire, and demanded that he read them aloud. These were the first verses of the Qur’an – a name which might be translated as, ‘The Recitation’.

Muhammad was overcome by the experience and returned home from the mountain shaken and afraid. He did not know what was happening. He could not believe that he might be chosen for such a mission; he worried that he was losing his mind. The first person he told of his experience was his wife, Khadija. Khadija was a successful merchant – it was her business interests that Muhammad worked to support. She was student of religion, and she knew her husband well. He doubted himself, but she did not: do not worry, she told him. You are a good man; if someone had to carry this message, why not you? I believe in the truth of the message you bring. For this reason, Khadija is remembered as the first Muslim: because she believed before any other, including Muhammad.

To be a deacon, spiritually, requires a willingness to get down in the dirt of the way things are, and to work for the way things ought to be. Like the story of the man who owned a tree that came down in a heavy storm. He went out into his yard with an axe and set to chopping it up for fire wood. As he worked, some of his neighbors passed by and offered their advice on which branches he should tackle first, and how he should swing his axe. Only one of them lent their own arms to the work, helping to cut the wood and making the work lighter and faster. The Rev. Clinton Lee Scott told this story to explain his proverb, “If thou wouldst give good advice to the wood chopper, bring along thine axe.”[iii] The world does not suffer entirely from a lack of people of good will; there are enough of these, even if there could be more. What the world needs is folks who are ready to lend themselves to a cause they believe in, a purpose and a need that goes beyond the boundaries of their own mind or skin.

So I say to you, you elders who are members of our own particular Diaconate, you folks of any age gathered here, and most of all to myself: all of us have a charge as deacons – all of us are called to serve. But to get there we must empty ourselves enough to make space for that purpose in our hearts. Wendel Berry said that the music of our dance is “so subtle and vast that no ear hears it, except in fragments.” We gather in community in order to compare our notes on those fragments and together to discern precisely what we are supposed to be doing with our wondrous potential as human beings.



[i] From Zen Flesh, Zen Bones, compiled by Paul Reps and Nyogen Senzaki.

[ii] The Matrix Reloaded, by Andy and Lana Wachowski

[iii] Parish Parables, 1946.

Love and Chickens

In northern California there’s farm of sorts. It has barns and pens and pastures, and there are a whole lot of animals – cows, pigs, goats, chickens, turkeys and others. They all live there, but the farm doesn’t generate anything for humans to eat. Those animals aren’t for sale or for consumption; they have been rescued from factory farms and other abusive living situations and brought to this particular place of safety called Animal Place, a farm sanctuary.

In his book, The Pig Who Sang to the Moon, Jeffrey Masson includes a story about two of the chickens who live at Animal Place: Mary and Notorious Boy. The two were very close. They would walk in the yard together, peck for food together, and even slept right next to each other at night, outside the coup, away from the other chickens. One day, there was a sudden, heavy rain. Most of the chickens were in their coup, but Mary and Notorious Boy were not, so their caregiver, Kim Sturla, went to help get them out of the rain. She found the two standing on top of a picnic table, huddled together. Notorious Boy had his wing out over Mary’s head, and he was shielding her from the worst of the rain.

Remember that these are two chickens that we are talking about here, and then take a second. Think about the people in your life that you would be willing to stand in the rain to protect. Think about the people who would be willing to stand in the rain to watch over you. That’s love. It might not be everything that love is, or all that it can be, but it is love. This world is not always easy, it is not always fun, it is not always good, and love is the thing that holds people together to care for one another and to face the world despite its difficulties and failings.

Love unites people. It breaks down the barriers between “I” and “you”, and helps to form a “we”. Particularly in our ever-more individualistic and isolating culture, love is the most dynamic force there is; the one most likely to change the way in which people live and relate to one another. When we affirm together each Sunday that “Love is the spirit of this church,” this is what we are getting at: to look out for one another, to offer aid and comfort to one another, to make the world a more merciful place for each other and as many other people as we possibly can.

There are lots of different ways in which we live out our commitment to care for and about each other. We do so simply by showing up to share in a worship service or other event, to participate and enjoy each others’ company. We express our care in our support of the congregation as a whole, through volunteer efforts and financial donations. We let each other know that we aren’t in this alone by reaching out, at coffee hour or any other time; starting a conversation, or offering a warm smile. And we also strive to live out our loving spirit towards one another by offering support in times of challenge and crisis. I and your Pastoral Care committee want to know whenever you might need us: when you’re sick, or in need of help, or just could use a listening ear. If you find yourself caught in the rain, we want you to feel like our community has its metaphorical wing over your head.

 

 

In Faith,

Rev. Kelly Weisman Asprooth-Jackson

minister@firstparishbeverly.org

978-922-3968

A Crack in the Wall – 4/29/2012

Last year, James Mitchell, a dedicated member and supporter of this congregation, stood where I am now and told us a story about how he had sat out where you are in the congregation one day and looked up to see a crack in the wall. That crack, right up there, where the wall begins to become the ceiling. Curiosity about that crack and the cause that lay behind it led folks in this congregation to address a structural issue in the roof at the rear of the building. And figuring that out helped people focus on some larger problems with our beloved church building, eventually leading to the restoration of all of our outer walls. We have that little crack to thank for the renewed beauty of our church home, and for the vibrant yellow of our building. Read More >>

My Day In Sunday School

On most Sundays, we gather for worship as one common family, but somewhere around the 15 minute mark something changes. Our children and their teachers leave the sanctuary to begin their religious education classes, as the rest of the congregation sings, ‘Go now in peace…’ As your minister, I have a call to serve that whole group that’s worshipping together in those first 15 minutes. But I rarely get to see the wonderful and important things going on in our RE classes, because I haven’t yet figured out how to be in two places at once. Read More >>

Being Included Is Not the Same as Belonging – 4/22/2012

As some of you know, I love to cook. The original reason behind my interest in making food was just that I loved to eat it. I grew up eating the meals my mother prepared, and she is a wonderful cook, but there came a time when I was no longer living at home and she wasn’t there to cook me my favorite dishes anymore. So I had to figure out how to make them myself, with some trial and error and a lot of calls home to ask for recipes and tips. What I discovered, over time, was some of the same pleasure that I believe my mother takes in her cooking. It feels good to be able to make something delicious and nourishing, to enjoy it yourself and most of all to get to share it with others. Food is among our most basic and intimate needs, and offering food to someone else is powerful way of showing them that we care. Read More >>

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First Parish Church

225 Cabot St

Beverly, MA 01915

978-922-3968

Office Hours: T-F, 9-1

office@firstparishbeverly.org

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