Gloucester marked its 400th anniversary in 2023.

Very few places make it four hundred years and still know who they are. The city put real resources behind it — $100,000 in taxpayer money, events across town, banners, ceremonies. The committee highlighted people who shaped this place: Roger Babson, Captain Ben Pine, Howard Blackburn. Names that still mean something here.

But I kept noticing something else.

For years, the city had made its priorities clear at City Hall. Pride month meant a full thirty days of flags. Rainbow crosswalks painted into the streets. A month-long public celebration that the city embraced without hesitation. That was the standard they had set for what the city was willing to say publicly.

So during the 400th anniversary — a year meant to honor four centuries of this city’s history — I made a request.

Raise the Christian flag during Holy Week. One week. It wasn’t a political statement. It was a recognition. The Christian community built this city — its neighborhoods, its institutions, its character. That contribution spans four hundred years and it is enormous. If there was ever a moment to honor it publicly, the 400th anniversary was that moment.

This shouldn’t have been a difficult request. The Massachusetts Constitution — the oldest functioning written constitution in the world, drafted by John Adams in 1780 — opens by acknowledging “the goodness of the great Legislator of the universe.” It states that it is “the right as well as the duty of all men in society, publicly, and at stated seasons, to worship the Supreme Being.” Christian language. Biblical language. Written into the founding document of this commonwealth before the United States Constitution existed.

And the city of Gloucester could not find one hour on Good Friday.

The city said no.

I reduced the request. One day — Good Friday, the most solemn day in the Christian calendar. The answer was still no. I reduced it again. One hour, on Good Friday, at City Hall. No again. Three denials for one hour on the most sacred day of the Christian year.

In a city that marks pride month publicly and without hesitation, they could not find one hour on Good Friday.

So I took legal action.

The legal ground was solid. In Shurtleff v. City of Boston, the Supreme Court ruled unanimously — 9–0 — that Boston had violated free speech rights by denying a request to raise a Christian flag over City Hall.

Boston had approved over 280 flag ceremonies and never rejected a single request — until a Christian flag came along. The Court was clear: a city cannot open its flagpole to some viewpoints and close it to others. That is a First Amendment violation. Free speech doesn’t stop working when the subject is faith.

Gloucester knew this. And still they said no.

A city cannot open its flagpole to some viewpoints and close it to others. That is a First Amendment issue. Free speech does not stop at matters of faith.

What happened next was telling. After my second request, the city created a formal flag policy where none had existed before, and then used that new policy to deny the request a third time. A policy appeared only when it was needed.

When the story became public, the response came quickly. Texts, emails, calls, messages — from people I’ve known my whole life and people I had never met. The reaction was consistent. They agreed. They thought the request was reasonable. They were surprised it had been denied.

A couple of city councilors reached out to me. To thank me for making the request. They agreed with me — they thought the denial was wrong and the request was right. So did city employees — people who work for the city of Gloucester itself.

And then not one of them said a word publicly.

They were afraid. Afraid of backlash. Afraid of being on the wrong side of something. Elected officials, city employees — people who knew what was right — went silent.

It wasn’t just elected officials. I reached out to members of the local clergy — churches that have been here for generations, churches that call themselves Christian. I assumed they would want to stand together if the flag were raised on Good Friday. I heard nothing back. That told me something.

That is when it stopped being about a flag. It became a question about where we are and where we are going. Not just as a city, but as a community.

The people who built Gloucester did not operate that way. They believed in something beyond themselves. They built this city, and they built its churches — stone by stone, across generations, with their own hands. Those buildings are still here. You can see them across the city, in every direction.

What defined this place was not that everyone agreed. It was that people were willing to stand behind what they believed. They did not keep it private. They did not wait to see how it would be received. They stood where they stood.

The faith is still here. You hear it when you talk to people. It’s in the neighborhoods, in the families, in everything that was handed down. But somewhere along the way — including among people with the standing to actually say something — it became safer to keep it private.

That is not how this place was built. And it is not who we are.

Remember —

“You are the light of the world. A city on a hill cannot be hidden.” — (Matthew 5:14)