Dear Beloveds of USG,

Last year when I sat down to write my first letter to the congregation, I remember having some butterflies in my stomach. I had yet to memorize the lockbox code outside the office, I got turned around trying to find Sullivan, my office furniture hadn’t all been delivered. The butterflies were not pure anxiety but rather the flutter that comes with anticipation tinged with hope. The kind of nervousness that comes with big expectations–dare I dream that this place and these people would love me and I them in the ways I thought possible?

As I write this now, twelve months later, the answer feels like a resounding yes. I am still thrilled and honored to have been chosen as your minister; I feel so lucky to have the opportunity to do this work at USG, in Northwest Philadelphia, among the green trees of Mt. Airy and the devoted community of Germantown. Last year we lit some sparks that caught flame and this year we get to add to that fire.

But I am also feeling some trepidation. The words of my colleague ring in my ears: “Sometimes those first steps are easier than the second and third.” It does seem that last year we were on the threshold and merely needed to step over that cusp to have done something meaningful. Now we find ourselves in this new place and have to decide, together, what we do from here.

Part of my work this year, along with your Board of Trustees, will be to help us craft a new mission statement, one that guides our work together as we build for years to come. That mission statement and what we commit ourselves to building together will be informed by the world we live in now and what we are called to do in this moment. For many of us, this time feels unprecedented as our trust in institutions falters and our elected leaders consolidate power in dehumanizing and undemocratic ways. But I’d be remiss not to mention the many communities for whom this time feels all too familiar, whose families have always lived at the whims of the authorities, for whom unevenly applied laws are the norm and cruelty is the American way. We will never be the diverse congregation we hope to be, across gender and race and class and ability, without knowing this truth and looking to learn from those who have been surviving and thriving in spite of it for generations.

One of the things I have internalized from my Black church friends is the insistence on joy. Joy is not a privilege nor an extravagance. Joy is essential for survival. “This joy I have, the world didn’t give it to me and the world can’t take it away,” goes one of my favorite traditional gospel songs, made popular by Pastor Shirley Caesar. This rendition by the Resistance Revival Chorus went viral a few years back and I hope we can find a way to sing it together this year. Because in spite of all that there is to do, all that there is to weep over, pray about, and fight for, we will have joy this year. Joy in knowing and being known, in feeding each other, making art together, offering rides and sharing our skills. Joy in the small acts of mutuality which knit us closer to each other and help us feel safe and cared for. Joy in our faith. Joy in our living. Joy that cannot be taken away.

To a year of building. A year of adding to the fire. A year of joy and a year of resistance.

With love and faith,

Rev. Hannah