By |

I’m of several minds with this hymn today.

My first thought: I wish I knew the tune, commissioned for STLT and written by Libby Larsen. It might make a more meaningful connection to the lyrics possible. As it was, I was plunking out notes on my phone’s keyboard for all three verses.

My second thought: This is reminiscent of the line in the Sermon n the Mount (Matthew 6:24): “So do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will bring worries of its own. Today’s trouble is enough for today.” And more, it’s reminiscent of the Timothy Wright song “Trouble Don’t Last Always.”

Nay, do not grieve though life be full of sadness,
dawn will not veil its splendor for your grief,
nor spring deny their bright appointed beauty
to lotus blossom and ashoka leaf.

Nay, do not pine though life be marred with trouble,
time will not pause or tarry on its way;
today that seems so long, so strange, so bitter,
will soon be some forgotten yesterday.

Nay, do not weep; new hopes, new dreams, new faces,
joy yet unspent of all the unborn years,
will prove your heart a traitor to its sorrow
and make your eyes unfaithful to their tears.

My third thought is more complex: it’s really hard, in these trouble times, to not grieve, to not be full of sadness and tears, along with the anger and determination. And I don’t think we should dishonor the need for some to continue their mourning, if it’s going to help them through. And. It’s not just that there’s beauty in life that we must look to – not just ‘new hopes, new dreams, new faces, joy yet unspent’ – but it’s getting up off the mat, turning the grief into determination, turning the sadness into action, that will bring a new dawn.

And it’s hard. Lord it’s hard. I don’t want to stop being angry and sad – and I don’t think I have to. As Nairu says, “life is full of sadness”… but here’s another hymn asking us to notice the joys despite the sorrows.

May we see through the tears and notice the richness of the life that it is we’re fighting for.

—

Photo (with credit on the image) is of ashoka leaves.

By |

Lyrics don’t have to rhyme. Lyrics don’t have to rhyme. Lyrics don’t have to rhyme.

This is the mantra I’ve been repeating to myself between singing this song and getting settled at the computer. I know…I KNOW lyrics don’t have to rhyme. But WOW a song sits weirdly on my ear when they don’t. There isn’t even approximate rhyming, like you hear in a lot of pop songs (where words sound vaguely like rhymes, or where the last words of the verse rhyme). I think what makes it notable in a lot of hymns is that they are, relatively speaking, square and short – meaning you’re not lost in an intense verse for a while that offers a rhyming chorus to release the tension. Rather, you’re in and out quickly on a hymn like this, and so you notice.

Or at least I do.

I know, I go on and on about lyric structure a lot. And I am sure if you’re a regular reader, you’re rolling your eyes at me about now and saying “c’mon, Debus, get on with it!” Okay, okay, just don’t blame me when you sing it and long for a rhyme.

So yeah. The tune, Sursum Corda, has been used before, in Now Light Is Less and The Peace Not Passing Understanding… two hymns which I grouse about rhyme. What is it about this tune that attracts awkward rhymes? Sorry, y’all, but it’s a thing.

Now these lyrics – poetic free verse from Rabindranath Tagore – are beautiful, but I’m not sure when I would ever use it. My hesitation may be contextual – I serve a congregation whose average age is over 70, and who has been told by others that they’re old and dying, both as a congregation and as individuals. So having them sing of coming death makes me – and them – squirmy. Yet I’m sure there are good uses for this hymn, in those services about simple joys, connecting with nature, perhaps even mother’s day.

Now I recall my childhood when the sun
burst to my bedside with the day’s surprise;
faith in the marvelous bloomed anew each dawn,
flowers bursting fresh within my heart each day.

Then looking on the world with simple joy,
on insects, birds, and beasts, and common weeds,
the grass and clouds had fullest wealth of awe;
my mother’s voice gave meaning to the stars.

Now when I turn to think of coming death,
I find life’s song in starsongs of the night,
in rise of curtains and new morning light,
in life reborn in fresh surprise of love.

But I don’t know. I think there are beautiful phrases and imagery, and “my mother’s voice gave meaning to the stars” makes me cry as I miss my own mother. And yet, when it comes to songs that out and out inspire me, this isn’t it. And I may be alone in this feeling.

(I am chuckling, because a few days ago, on Facebook, I invited friends to ‘sound like me’ and one totally captured my “it doesn’t work for me but it may work for you” thing that I do perhaps a little too often. And yeah, I don’t always have a positive connection to a hymn, but I am always willing for it to work for someone else, in a setting and perspective that is different from mine.)

This one just doesn’t compel me, and not just because it doesn’t rhyme.

Que sera, sera.

(Which rhymes.)

 

 

By |

I’ve kind of been dreading this one, knowing the complexities inherent in both the lyrics and the tunes (and by the way, this is the first of only two times when you’ll see me cover two numbers at once – they are the same lyrics to different tunes, so it seems appropriate).

But, if this practice has taught me anything, it’s that a closer examination leads to both joy and sorrow, and here I definitely find both.

So let’s tuck right in. First, the lyrics.

Our friend Sam Longfellow is back, with what – according to Jacqui James in Between the Lines – is the first Christian hymn to recognize non-Christian religions. There is a lot to love about this text, not the least of which is that somewhere along the line we changed “God of ages” to “Light of ages” – a shift I think further opens up the message. But I digress. I love the rather plainspoken nature of the lyrics, making clear that revelation is not sealed, that reason matters, that we should look to the prophets.

What I am not crazy about is the phrase “Greek, Barbarian, Roman, Jew” in the last verse. Take a look at it in context:

Light of ages and of nations, every race and every time
has received thine inspirations, glimpses of thy truth sublime.
Always spirits in rapt vision passed the heavenly veil within,
always hearts bowed in contrition found salvation from their sin.

Reason’s noble aspiration truth in growing clearness saw;
conscience spoke its condemnation, or proclaimed eternal law.
While thine inward revelations told thy saints their prayers were heard,
prophets to the guilty nations spoke thine everlasting word.

Lo, that word abideth ever; revelation is not sealed;
answering now to our endeavor, truth and right are still revealed.
That which came to ancient sages, Greek, Barbarian, Roman, Jew,
written in the soul’s deep pages, shines today, forever new.

When I look at the history of the word, it’s always been a pejorative, always about the outsider, the stranger, the ‘uncivilized’. I kind of get what our man Sam was saying here, but instead of being inclusive, it still seems like a bit of a slam. What we would change it to, I’m not sure (I’m coming with half a thing) – I’m sure others have thought of good replacements for that phrase that still rhyme with “new”. I just know that for all that I really like the rest of the lyrics, I wince at that line and then miss the full sentiment, “that which [was] …written in the soul’s deep pages, shines today, forever new.”

So now let’s look at the tune issue.

The first appearance, 189, is set to In Babilone, a tune we already sang in the aspirational Wonders Still the World Shall Witness. It’s a touch cheery for my tastes in this case, but it’s a good solid hymn tune and am already considering its use for a service that wraps up this congregation’s year-long conversation with world religions. (If I can figure out what to do about the barbarian, that is.)

The second appearance, 190, to which this lyric was originally set, is much more complicated. Take a deep breath – we’re going in.

The tune, Austria, was written by Austrian Josef Haydn in 1797, as a birthday song for Francis II, the last Holy Roman Emperor. It later found life in 1841 as a revolutionary call to unite Germans against the ruling classes. It was called “Das Lied der Deutschen” but became known by its first line “Deutschland, Deutschland über alles” (“Germany, Germany above all else”).

And now you see the problem.

If you know anything about German history, you know that in the last few hundred years, long periods of stability are hard to come by, and every so often there’s a call for a new Germany to rise up, well, make Germany great again. And if you know anything about political movements, you know that the music and iconography of a culture can be used and abused by those movements.

Such is the case here. “Das Lied der Deutschen” got overused by the Third Reich and became a theme song of the Nazi regime. On the plus side, the song was banned in 1945. However, by 1952, it was clear that West Germany needed a national anthem for diplomatic occasions, and after much consternation, it was decided that the final verse ONLY of “Das Lied der Deutschen” would be used. (East Germany used a different song, “Auferstanden aus Ruinen” (“Risen from Ruins”), until about 1972).

And the memory of this tune as a tool of the Nazis remains to this day.

Now you may wonder why we keep this in. I wondered too, and often thought this was an error of sentimentality. But then, of course, Jacqui James comes to the rescue to explain it: “We have retained Austria to signal that Nazism has not had the final victory by ruining this fine melody of Haydn.”

I can definitely applaud that.

I just wish this note was in the hymnal itself. The way the pages lay out, there would have been plenty of room. How helpful it would be to know this, and to be able to set up the hymn or use it with this fact in mind. It’s a shame Between the Lines is out of print, and that it doesn’t get shipped with every order of hymnals, because as I’m learning with these hymns but as we are learning with, well, everything, context matters.

I doubt I would ever use this hymn with this tune, but you can bet I will now talk about why we have this in here and what it means to reclaim art that gets ruined by abuse.

—

The featured image is of Francis II. Now we know what a last Holy Roman Emperor looks like.

By |

Ear Worm Alert!

This round is so common in Unitarian Universalist circles it’s hard to remember that in the scheme of things, it’s only about as old as the grey hymnal itself. Yet here it is, a standard welcoming song, even if it’s incomplete.

As my beloved colleague Lynn Ungar originally wrote it, this setting also includes a descant that captures perhaps the most important line of this Rumi verse: “Though you’ve broken your vows a thousand times.” To me, it’s the key to the verse – the chance to start anew. That no matter who we are and what we’ve been though, we can come back to this place, where we can find healing and comfort and inspiration.

Come, come, whoever you are,
wanderer, worshiper, lover of leaving.
Ours is no caravan of despair.
Come, yet again come.

I don’t think it’s a mistake that this one came up on Palm Sunday, either. I haven’t thought deeply about the connection yet, but it feels right that on the day we remember Jesus’s coming to Jerusalem to celebrate Passover and ‘poke the bear’ of the institutions, I am singing a song that could in fact be his message too.

Fascinating how the universe works sometimes, eh?

—

“K21 Street” – painting by Jackie Carpenter.

By |

What is it?

What is it that sounds along the ages, that breathes from Buddha’s tree, that speaks new truth, that resounds from the eternal chime?

Is it truth? Justice? Love? Spirit? Is it, as I first thought, Yes?

Is it, in fact whatever it is we seek from the wisdom of humanity?

What is it?

It sounds along the ages, soul answering to soul;
it kindles on the pages of every Bible scroll;
the psalmist heard and sang it, from martyr lips it broke,
and prophet tongues outrang it till sleeping nations woke.

From Sinai’s cliffs it echoed, it breathed from Buddha’s tree,
it charmed in Athens’ market, it hallowed Galilee;
the hammer stroke of Luther, the Pilgrims’ seaside prayer,
the oracles of Concord one holy word declare.

It calls — and lo, new justice! It speaks — and lo, new truth!
In ever nobler stature and unexhausted youth.
Forever on resounding, and knowing nought of time,
our laws but catch the music of its eternal chime.

We actually do have an answer… sort of. According to Jacqui James in Between the Lines, William Gannett’s original four verses were called “The Word of God.” (Lots of reframing/additions/shifts since its original publication in 1911.)

The word of God.

Okay. But what IS the word of God? Is it truth? Justice? Love? Spirit? Yes?

Ultimately, this is a lively and pretty cool hymn, one I can see using a number of ways, including in the wrap up service on our Conversations with World Religions that the church I serve has been engaged in since September. And what I like is that whatever you think the word of God might be, it’s in there.

So for me, I will say that It is Yes – because from all the things I’ve read in holy books and have experienced as a person of faith and a practical theologian, it seems to me everything comes down to saying Yes.

Yes to risk.

Yes to justice.

Yes to the vision of beloved community.

Yes to the all of our stories.

Yes to the opportunities to grow and learn.

Yes to love.

Yes to possibility.

Yes.

 

 

By |

I don’t know what to say about this one.

It’s not that I don’t get it – I do. It’s an encapsulation of Confucianism, ending in the golden rule. It captures the nuggets of carefully measured wisdom and advice a Confucian parent doles out to their child, reminding them that the way out of chaos is order, and the achievement of order is relationship and right action.

And other than that, really, I don’t know what to say. Here it is.

Grieve not your heart for want of place, nor yearn for easy praise;
but fit yourself some task to do, and well employ your days.

From wise and foolish both alike we should all try to learn,
for one can show us how to live, the other what to spurn.

Be fair to people when they err, when good, your pleasure show;
their faults be quick to understand, in judging them be slow.

But this above all else obey, it is the best of goals,
what you would wish not done to you, do not to other souls.

There’s nothing to argue with because there’s no real depth. It’s the aphorism song. It’s the be nice song.

As I said in my recent UU World article, “blech.”

(Tens – maybe hundreds – of thousands of words written between blogs, articles, essays, and sermons, and the thing I quote is “blech.” Go me.)

Anyway. It’s a lovely Southern Harmony tune and easy to sing, and for the right service on the golden rule or on compassion, this might be just fine.

By |

This is a devotional prayer if ever I heard one.

And I suspect this text, by Bengali poet Rabindranath Tagore, would make some Unitarian Universalists squeamish, this whole-hearted surrender to the Divine. Yet it is a vital theological perspective found in our congregations – even if those who adhere to it might not say it aloud very much.

For me and my theology, I could use a little whole-hearted surrender now and then. We talk a lot about the expansiveness of God’s love in our Universalist theology, but then we try to place limits on how much love we’ll give back, in the name of reason, as though a devotion to the Eternal One means we have less devotion to give to each other and the planet.

Here’s the thing about love: it really, truly, honestly is limitless. The first line of There Is More Love Somewhere isn’t about a gathering of resources, it’s an opening to what already exists. So what happens when we do give the whole and not the part of ourselves to that which is bigger than ourselves, which some call Spirit of Life, or Holy One, or Collective Unconscious, or God? What happens when we surrender?

Your mercy, Oh Eternal one by no heart measured yet;
in joy, or grief, or shade, or sun I never will forget.

I give the whole and not the part of all you gave to me;
my goods, my life, my soul, my heart I yield them all as free.

And when in silent awe we wait, and word and sign forebear,
the hinges of the golden gate move soundless at our prayer.

I can tell you what happened when I surrendered: I heard the call to ministry.

And here’s the truth: by giving myself whole-heartedly to that something greater, I regularly challenge my perspective, my ego, my deeply held beliefs, my way of doing things. Whole-hearted devotion doesn’t mean losing yourself, it means losing the things that no longer serve or help. In fact, I am more in touch with my mind, my reason, the needs of others, the call to justice, the healing and transforming power of love.

Maybe we need a little less skepticism and a little more devotion.

We need a little more whole-heartedness.

—

I can’t let this go by without a mention of the tune, Dundee. While most of the tune is rather typical of psalter tunes from the British Isles, the first line is magical. There’s something about the closing of the interval in the second phrase of the line that is delicious and warm and other words I can’t access at the moment. It’s a powerful musical moment for me.

—

Today’s pic is another beautiful image by photographer Jeremy Garretson.  Go look, then buy  his stuff.

By |

Gentle readers, I’m in an odd place with this one.

I am certain (and am glad) there are people who draw strength and inspiration from this text, a beloved  (anonymously translated) passage from “Buddha’s Farewell Address” – a passage from the Mahaparinibbana Suttana.

I don’t. I mean, I get what it’s about – it’s all over the place, this idea that it starts within and goes outward. It’s a lot of how we understand our rather individualistic faith.

But this idea doesn’t give me strength or comfort. As an extrovert and a theist, I process externally, with others and the Divine, in order to understand myself. My comfort comes from without, not within. And knowing myself, knowing truth, knowing the divine spark – for me, anyway – is informed and revealed only through my experience with others. I know myself in relation. And when my spark goes out, when I am not confident, when I am unsure what the truth is, well, I can’t be my own lamp if my pilot light is out.

Perhaps its my mood, or the season, or the events of the past few weeks, or the weltschmerz and general malaise of the world, but I feel sadder having sung this one.

Be ye lamps unto yourselves;
be your own confidence;
hold to the truth within yourselves
as to the only lamp.

If it brings you comfort, I am glad. Not every song has to work for every person, just as not every theology has to work for every person. I am certain for those who are internal processors, or non-theists, or just of a different temperament, this one inspires deeply – hurrah for you!

It’s just not my jam.

By |

It may be lack of coffee.

It may be lack of ease with Buddhism.

It may be lack of sleep.

But whatever it is I am lacking seems to be keeping me from understanding what the heck this lyric, written by Sarojini Naidu, the first female president of the Indian National Congress, is saying.

It feels mostly like it’s saying ‘life sucks and there’s nothing we can do so just give up already.’ Which I am certain isn’t true and maybe it’s in there but that’s not the point… but dammit, meaning is eluding me today.

So instead I’ll nitpick about bad rhymes, like ‘won’ and ‘throne’ and ‘flight’ and ‘infinite’ (grr) and wonder at the combination of a very Buddhist poem and a very German hymn tune.

The wind of change forever blown across the tumult of our way,
tomorrow’s unborn griefs depose the sorrows of our yesterday.
Dream yields to dream, strife follows strife, and death unweaves the webs of life.

For us the labor and the heat, the broken secrets of our pride,
the strenuous lessons of defeat, the flower deferred, the fruit denied;
but not the peace, supremely won, great Buddha, of the lotus throne.

With futile hands we seek to gain our inaccessible desire,
diviner summits to attain, with faith that sinks and feet that tire;
but nought shall conquer or control the heav’nward hunger of our soul.

The end, elusive and afar, still lures us with its beck’ning flight,
and our immortal moments are a session of the infinite.
How shall we reach the great, unknown nirvana of your lotus throne?

I’m missing something big here today…for which I apologize. Although I guess it’s okay if not every piece speaks clearly to every person – that whole pesky 4th principle thing, eh?

Now go have a day – stay dry if it’s raining, stay warm if it’s cold, cheer up if you’re a Gonzaga fan.

By |

I was expecting this to be a difficult song to learn – enough times, that “Irregular” at the bottom of the page signals complex rhythms and intervals.

Yet once I got into it, and I felt the 9/8 rhythm (which is really a glorious 3/4), the song suddenly felt familiar, in a way that makes me wonder if I’ve heard it or sung it before. I can’t identify the time or place, yet it feels familiar in my bones.

Perhaps this is the beauty of folk tunes – this one from the Philippines. Our hymnal says it is a Visayan, or indigenous Filipino folk tune. I believe that’s true, but I don’t want to discount that this tune might have some Western European influence, given the Spanish conquest in 1521, which didn’t end until the Spanish-American  War in 1898 (when the US took over until the end of World War II).

At any rate, what I know is that the tune has a familiar feel, and given that it was easy to sing (easier than expected), I reveled in the lyrics while I was singing – as we know, that rarely happens on the first go of a song.

I mean, look at these words, based on a text from Bishop Toribio Quimada, who founded the Universalist (now Unitarian Universalist) Church of the Philippines:

O, the beauty in a life that illumines honor anew,
that models wise and gracious ways to every seeker;
that every day shall serve in joy and do the right.
O, praise the life whose beauty shows a justice true.

Let not service of the good be confined to great saints alone,
but every hour be part of all our daily living.
Set not the hope of wisdom’s grace beyond our ken;
how wide the path, how close the goal, which love has shown.

O, the beauty of a life that illumines care of the soul,
that knows a love that is for self as well as others,
that every day embodies praise for every good,
this is the faith to which we turn, our God and goal.

How glorious, this call to justice. How elegant, this call to beloved community. How joyful, this call to love and faith and good.

We need this today – to turn to our Faith and allow it to illumine our souls so that we might do the work we are called to.

—

The photo is of the UU Church of the Philippines in Doldol, in the Negros Islands region.