Good People,
Below is the poem that began and ended my reflection last Sunday on “Fear & Prophetic Possibility.” Then what follows are words I was privileged to speak as a welcome to a Japanese delegation of Hibakusha, those who survived the atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki at the end of World War II, as they visited Worcester. Together, I think these are expressions of hope that speak to each other, especially during these very trying times. I hope they give you a moment of pause and reflection.
Blessings,
Aaron
Jonah’s Song by A. Payson
You heard the call
before you understood it—
a summons rising like a tide
against the edges of a quiet existence.
Go where you least want to be,
a place of noise and shadow,
and speak to those you detest.
So you ran away.
Of course you ran.
Who among us has not fled
the work that asks too much,
the truth that cuts too close,
and the mercy that risks
our happy loathing?
But, is there really any place to run?
How does one hide from destiny
without risking a half-lived life?
Comfortable, perhaps, but not
soul satisfying.
No doubt full. . . and yet devoid of meaning
below the surface of skin and things.
The sea received you
with the honesty of storms.
Waves naming every fear
you tried to outrun.
And when the depths swallowed you,
no monster was found—
only the echo of your own heart
beating in the dark.
So you prayed.
Three days you sat
in the quiet of unmaking,
learning the shape of surrender,
learning the weight of becoming.
When the world released you,
you rose salt‑soaked and trembling,
then only half-willing.
In City’s streets
you spoke the truth
that had been carried like a stone.
And astonishingly the world—
softened.
Turned.
Changed.
You waited for fire.
But grace arrived instead,
gentle as a vine
that grew above your anger
and withered with the dawn.
And the Holy whispered:
You grieve what you did not grow.
Shall we not care
for all that lives and breathes
beneath this wide sky?
You bowed your head,
the horizon widening toward the vast
sunlit ocean.
For the call was never only
about Nineveh.
It was about you
who ran,
who resisted,
who learned at last
that mercy is larger
than fear—
and possibility
larger still.
A Welcome to the Hibakusha in Worcester
Rev. Aaron Payson
Tuesday, May 5, 2026
Mechanics Hall
Welcome, honored friends,
who carry the morning of August shadows
in the chambers of your memory.
You cross an ocean not to reopen wounds,
but to remind a trembling world
that every life is a universe,
and every universe can be undone in a single flash.
Here in this City—
that has lifted its voice for peace
from factory floors to council chambers,
from union halls to sanctuaries—
we receive you not as guests,
but as friends and teachers whose presence
turns history into a living vow.
You come bearing truth
that no archive can contain:
the weight of silence after the blast,
the courage of rebuilding from ash,
the insistence that memory
must become a lantern for the future
and not a relic of despair.
In this era of uneasy skies,
when nations rattle sabers
and treaties fray like old cloth,
your footsteps on our streets
remind us that the story of non‑proliferation
is not written in the language of power,
but in the language of living beings—
their breath, their relatives, their futures.
Worcester welcomes you
With humility, as students of history
and the resolve of faithful allies.
May your voices find resonance here,
may your stories take root in our hearts,
and may this city—
long committed to the work of peace—
stand with you in saying
that the world must choose life
again and again and again.
May your visit be a blessing,
a bridge,
and a reminder
that we need not annihilate
to recreate the world.
We need only dare to conceive
of more just pathways to peace.
Together, we choose a different dawn.