Rivers and Resistance
A sermon by Polly Peterson during our Earth Day service
When the poet Robert Francis, wrote the poem “Like Ghosts of Eagles,” he was living here in Amherst. He spent nearly all of his life in a little house near Cushman Village that he built for himself in 1940—right here in the Connecticut River Valley. He didn’t include the Connecticut in his poem, but I wonder if he felt its spirit as he wrote—if he thought about what its name may have sounded like when spoken by indigenous peoples—the Abenaki and Nipmuc and other Algonquian-speaking peoples who defined themselves by its proximity.
Kwenitekw (KWEN- ee – took – uh) is what the Abenaki call it. The name’s meaning is generally translated as “long tidal river,” but it is much more than that. To these river-centric people, the river is a vital spirit power, a continuous, flowing, connecting force, never static, ever changing. It is sacred. To say the name is to evoke an entire worldview, not an object or a single physical entity.
The logo that Lea recently created for our congregation prominently features the Connecticut River, honoring the importance of that vital source of our valley’s identity.
Rivers are the lifeblood of our planet. We all live in watersheds. No place thrives without sources of fresh water, and if we pollute the waters, we hurt not only the rivers and streams and brooks and lakes, but also ourselves. One of the activities of our UUSA Environmental Action Circle, has been the annual Connecticut River Clean-up. It gives us a chance each year to connect with our watershed and to do our best to keep its waters and riverbanks clear of pollution and litter.
We’re fortunate that our task is not as daunting as the task that faceMarion Stoddart in Groton as she promoted the clean-up of the Nashua River*, but her success can serve as an inspiration when we think that our own small contributions will never amount to much. Environmental activism is a profound calling. It connects us with the people who came before and the people who are yet to come, and it connects us to the web of life. It is a reminder that we all depend on the Earth, and that in the face of human threats and degradation, the Earth also depends upon us.
Henry Thoreau, one of our Transcendentalist forebears, spent a good deal of time pondering the interface between humans and nature. In 1839, when he was in his early twenties, he and his brother John took a trip on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers in a boat they had built themselves. Henry, who had always been a keen observer of wild creatures, was struck by the effects of human activity along the river. He watched the migratory fishes that swim upriver from the sea to spawn, and he saw that the fish were being stymied by dams. “Poor shad!” he lamented. “Where is thy redress?” His concern led him to ask the haunting question: “Who hears the fishes when they cry?”
An encouraging feature of our time is that more and more people are hearing them. Dams affect not only migratory fishes, but whole ecosystems. Dam removal has become an environmental success story. The nonprofit organization American Rivers reported that in 2025, the efforts of environmental and safety advocates resulted in the removal of 100 outdated and unsafe dams in 30 states, reconnecting 4,893 miles of rivers, the most miles ever restored in a single year. Eleven of those dam removals were here in Massachusetts. Dam removals restore wildlife habitat, develop greenways in cities, and increase climate resilience.
Dams, of course, are built to serve humans, and they have much to offer. But their impact can be devastating. I remember going to a museum of Native American history in Tucson, Arizona some years ago, and being stunned to learn that the indigenous peoples living at the mouth of the Colorado River, whose lifeways had for centuries depended on the ecosystem of its lush and massive river delta, no longer get any water at all from the river. None. Less than a century ago, the mighty Colorado River flowed unhindered from northern Colorado to the Gulf of California in Mexico. Now eight western states divert nearly all of the water for agriculture, urban water supplies, and hydropower. One out of every 10 people living in the United States relies on the Colorado River for drinking water. We ourselves, when we eat fruits, nuts, and vegetables from California’s Central Valley, are consuming Colorado River water. Of the small fraction of the river’s flow that eventually reaches Mexico, most is used for agriculture. Satellite imagery shows us that the final trickle of that once mighty river simply disappears into desert sand before reaching the sea.
It’s easy for us to see this as a human tragedy, a violation of the rights of the downstream people who have lost the rich and complex wetlands of the Delta that had always been at the center of their lives. From our human-centric worldview, the injustice is clear. But can you as easily think of the river itself as having lost its right to flow unimpeded to the sea? Does a river have rights?
Remarkably, some now explicitly do. A few of the world’s rivers have been granted legal personhood. I was brought up with common assumptions that rivers are nonliving natural resources that provide water and power, transportation, recreation, and a place to dump waste.
But indigenous peoples throughout the world regard the life of a river as vital and sacred. People who have long regarded rivers as sacred ancestors have no difficulty accepting the concept of a river’s personhood. To them it is obvious that a river has rights.
In 2017, New Zealand’s Whanganui River became the first river to be granted legal personhood. New Zealand’s indigenous Maori people have long believed in a deep connection between humans and water. A traditional saying is, “I am the river, the river is me.” For more than 160 years, they fought for the rights of the Whanganui River in the courts of the colonial government. They finally succeeded in getting, not just legal protection for the river, but recognition of the river as a legal entity in its own right.
That recognition encouraged activists in other countries to work for the legal rights of their rivers. The success story that is closest to us is in northern Quebec. As wild rivers in Canada were being dammed and harnessed for hydropower, their loss was keenly felt by lovers of wild places and, in particular, by the indigenous Innu people. Massive dams built by Hydro-Quebec had resulted in the devastation of vast ecosystems. Activists were determined to save the Magpie River watershed from that fate, and in February 2021, the Magpie, or Muteshekau-shipu (Moo-teh-sheh-gow-shee-poo) became the first river in Canada to be granted legal personhood. It has nine specific rights, including the right to maintain its natural biodiversity, the right to maintain its integrity, and the right to be free from pollution.
Thinking of a river as a legal person is a new concept for many of us, and predictably there is lots of pushback. Unconscious cultural assumptions make it difficult for us to move outside the patterns of thought instilled in us by our language and culture—difficult for us to rethink assumptions about what entities are living and nonliving, sacred and profane, which are deserving of legal protection, and which can be bought and sold.
How different would our world be if we cared deeply about the rights of rivers and streams to flow freely, clear and unobstructed? There is so much money to be made from damming and harnessing them, there are so many ways that corporations might benefit from polluting them. And yet, as more and more people recognize our place in the interdependent web of life of which we are a part, the Rights of Nature movement is gaining ground. Altering our fundamental relationship to nature may be our best—or only—path to a sustainable future. Granting legal rights to rivers will no doubt be relentlessly opposed and ridiculed. That has been the fate of every movement that seeks to expand the definition of who has rights.
Today, in the face of governments that are causing so much hurt in the world, we often speak of ourselves as the resistance–and of course it is important to resist corrupt politicians and unjust policies. But what if we turn that paradigm on its head? Our nation was founded for the purpose of giving people in the American colonies the right to rule themselves, and throughout the history of our nation, we have seen effort after effort to expand that right to more people. Activists have dedicated their lives to ending slavery, ending child labor, advocating for women’s rights, LGBTQ+ rights, immigrant rights, and, yes, now even for the rights of rivers. Every advance has been met with resistance. It is the instinct of those who are privileged to resist any expansion of rights for others. But the courage and persistence of people who are dedicated to freedom and justice continues to push forward against that resistance.
As we celebrate the 250th anniversary of our nation’s Declaration of Independence, we can look with pride and gladness on the ever-widening definition of who deserves to have full and equal rights. But in today’s political climate, we can also see that many of those rights are threatened. Battles once won may need to be refought. We may feel overwhelmed by the outrages that seem to come at us like water from a fire hose.
But take heart. When we look at the world from the perspective of expanding rights, we can see that we are not the resistance. We are the flow. We are the Revolutionary River, declaring that rights are for everyone, not just for the privileged few. It is those who want to block or reverse the expansion of rights who are damming the flow.
Water is soft and yielding, yet very powerful. A river can carve a canyon through solid rock. It can find its way through an obstacle or carve a new channel that flows around it.
So too, the quest for justice and equitable rights is powerful. It can break through resistance and find a way around the obstacles that people erect to stop it.
As we celebrate the Declaration of Independence, listen to what it has to say: tyranny must not stand in freedom’s way. Let us flow on in the spirit of our forebears, expanding their vision to an ever-widening embrace of all humankind—and perhaps we are ready to expand to an even wider embrace that acknowledges the rights of rivers and mountains, plants and animals, and all sacred beings in our more than human world.
May it be so.
* The Time for All Ages story, “A River Ran Wild” by Lynne Cherry, tells the story of how Marion Stoddart led the way in the clean-up of the Nashua River, beginning in 1962. Because of her efforts, people rallied to transform the Nashua River from an industrial dumping ground (56 miles of stinking toxic sludge) to the beautiful clean recreational river it is today.









