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Dear readers, I’m afraid I will, for the first time in this practice, completely fail you. I am on the verge of illness and I don’t know this one at all – and my feeble attempts to plunk it out on my phone’s keyboard was futile.

I may come back to this one when I feel more focused – maybe you have some opinions you can share in comments here or Facebook that I can incorporate into a fuller exploration.

All I can say right now is that nothing about this captured or inspired me or enraged me. It was just too much today. I apologize.

One world this, for all its sorrow;
one world shaping one tomorrow;
one humanity, though riven, we,
to whom a world is given.
From one world there is no turning;
for one world the prophet’s yearning.
One, the world of poets, sages;
one world, goal of all the ages.

World so eagerly expected,
world so recklessly rejected,
one, as common folk have willed it,
one, as covenants can build it:
world of friendly ways and faces,
cherished arts and honored races,
one world, free in word and science;
people free, its firm reliance.

“Honored races” tho….? Yeah, that caught my eye as I scrolled down. Hmm….

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Here’s another hymn I might have noticed if the title wasn’t just the first few words – and one I now plan to use.

One of my regular readers, Kaye, has remarked more than once that using the first line rather than the actual (or at least more meaningful) title often leads us to ignore good hymns because the first few words don’t capture what the hymn is really about. I agree.

What I also didn’t know is that if you’re theologically minded, this is kind of a shit-stirrer of a hymn. Remember when we sang all those nature songs and talked about nature is the gateway for the Transcendentalists to find truth and meaning? Well, Hosea Ballou II, grandnephew of the Universalist theologian he was named for, shoots an arrow into that perspective, saying ‘yeah, as cool as nature is, it’s nothing compared to compassion and service to others. Take that, tree huggers.’ Okay, maybe he didn’t exactly say that – but close. He definitely brings us back to humanity in a gorgeous counterpoint to the ‘nature’s everything and we are nothing’ sentiment that sometimes shows up (I’m lookin’ at you, Whittier).

Bright those jewels of the skies which in sable darkness glow.
Brighter in compassion’s eyes are the silent tears which flow.

Sweet the fragrance from the fields where abundant spices grow.
Sweeter far is that which yields comfort to the sick and low.

Grateful are those gentle dews on the greening grass which fall.
Far more grateful what renews comforts to the poor who call.

What I like about this is it isn’t ‘screw the earth, people are all that matter’ – it’s ‘wow, this planet is so amazing, and how more amazing still is compassion? yeah!’ … all set to a medieval French melody that’s lovely and sweet to sing.

I’m a fan. And I had no idea.

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Depending on how it’s played, I either love this hymn or hate it. There’s no inbetween.

Because if it’s played square, and especially if it’s played square and slow, it’s like a zombie – dead but still going. And when the music is zombielike, the lyrics become saccharine and bitter in the mouth.

But when it’s played with energy and syncopation and soul, when it evokes good old gospel music, when there’s room for harmony and improvisation and attention, it soars. The lyrics are good, and real, and positive. It’s Universalism’s call – change the world with your love. And the truth is, as I listen to an imaginary gospel choir singing an as yet unwritten choral arrangement in my head, I am moved to refocus on love, despite the hard nights we’ve experienced.

There’s not much more to say. It’s a familiar hymn to most UUs, and I suspect – depending on their experience – it’s either beloved or reviled.

Love will guide us, peace has tried us,
hope inside us will lead the way
on the road from greed to giving.
Love will guide us through the hard night.

If you cannot sing like angels,
if you cannot speak before thousands,
you can give from deep within you.
You can change the world with your love.

Love will guide us, peace has tried us,
hope inside us will lead the way
on the road from greed to giving.
Love will guide us through the hard night.

One final note: the tune was named Olympia, after Olympia Brown, the first woman to be fully ordained in America, in the Universalist church. Like many before her and many since:, she was warned; an explanation was given; nevertheless, she persisted.

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Sometimes I know what I think about a hymn before I start singing, and let the experience of singing affirm or shift those thoughts. Sometimes I don’t know, and I let the experience of singing take me somewhere, and as a result some of my posts have been more theological, or musical, or silly, or timely, or emotional.

Sometimes I leave the singing with really, no concrete thoughts at all, and on those occasions need to learn a bit more about the hymn.

Welcome to my experience today.

Yes, of course I smiled at noting the lyrics were written by Mark Belletini, a poet and minister I greatly admire and am glad to be getting to know a little. And I knew if I read the lyrics again, I’d see its powerful message, with a second verse that could have been written for today.  Let’s look at the lyrics, and then I’ll continue.

O liberating Rose, that glows on ragged stem,
your beauty helps all hearts lose power to condemn.
Your buds are tight with prophecy;
your thorns, a tougher poetry:
you sign the whole and Gift of life.

O liberating Fire that calls for cleansing rage
whenever hurtful lies distort our present age.
Your dancing dreams our liberty
to challenge each indignity:
you sign the whole and Faith of life.

O liberating Song whose echo now we sing,
your lyric, swelling line rekindles strengthening.
Your harmonies portray the time
when seeds we sow shall bloom sublime:
you sign the whole and Hope of life.

O liberating Love, we hear you in a sigh;
we glimpse you when we see a wet or weary eye;
we touch you when our hands extend
to soothe, or to embrace a friend:
you sign the whole and Source of life.

So good lyrics, right? But they honestly, to me, need to be read, not sung, to get their full effect. But that’s me. Still, I had no real clue about how I felt, because I couldn’t see its arc and direction.

I felt similarly clueless about the tune – it doesn’t make a whole lot of sense to me: it’s one part late 19th century hymnody, one part mid-20th century modern, wholly confusing.

And so, feeling a bit adrift on this one, I turned to Jacqui James’ Between the Lines, and learn the following:

Belletini’s text was written for the dedication service of a home for people with AIDS, supported by Seattle’s University Unitarian Church. The words are based on conversations Belletini had with Canadian Unitarian minister Mark DeWolfe, for whom the home was named, before DeWolfe’s death.

Suddenly. the pieces of the lyric fit – the conversations the two Marks had about new kinds of theistic language became poetry, became new ways of expressing the Divine, and became liberative. Wow.

So now, the tune, which oddly (to me) is named Initials. According to James, the tune is a present from composer Larry Phillips to his father, with the pitches chosen by a formula using the initials of the family members and connecting them to the pentatonic scale.

No wonder it’s got odd jumps and feels both old and modern – it’s as much an art song as anything. And I’m sure the meter was meant to match Belletini’s poem – no one just decides to write a 6.6.6.6.8.8 for fun.

So…now what do I think? I think that sometimes we write in memory of someone or to honor someone, and this hymn accomplishes that on two fronts. It isn’t maudlin or sentimental – but rather a bit of something old and something new. Old ideas in new language, old forms in new patterns.

I’m not sure I would use it without a good deal of preparation and learning, but I really appreciate this one now.

And herein lies the lesson: sometimes it’s okay to not know immediately what you think of a thing, but rather let it sit, learn more, explore. It’s really okay to take time for slow thinking.

—

The picture is of a quilt made on a Liberated Log Cabin pattern, specifically a Liberated Log Cabin Rose. Quilter Gwen Marston created the style, showing you can liberate traditional patterns and create original quilts result that engage the quilter’s intuition and emotion as well as technical skills. The resulting quilts are modern, funky takes on traditional forms. This particular quilt was created by Maree at the blog Block Lotto.

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Thank all that is holy for this hymn practice. Because of it, I was finally able to supplant the earworm my colleague Erika Hewitt gave me yesterday. (It was “One Tin Soldier.” No, I am not going to link to it, or sing it in any way. If it becomes your earworm, it wasn’t me.)

But also, thank all that is holy for this hymn practice because I entered it today anxious. I have little problem engaging political debate with others – I majored in it in undergrad for goodness’ sake. But I have no constitution for this kind of argument with family. It crushes my heart, and I get an anxiety attack, which causes me to stumble and be set on the defensive – a position I am already too familiar with as the youngest by 13 years. When my conservative brother and cousin engaged late last night, I shut down, and this morning asked them to not engage me on this for exactly these reasons. I value our relationships more than who will win a political fight, and knowing I enter at a disadvantage, it makes these fights potentially damaging to those familiar bonds.

And then I turn to this hymn by Berkley Moore, which holds a special meaning this morning – almost as if the Divine felt I needed a particularly moving punctuation mark at the end of my comment to them. I know that’s not what this hymn is actually about – but today, in this moment, it is speaking to me on a very personal level.

I’m not sure I can say much that will help anyone else – except to say that no matter our intent in worship, no matter what the intent of a writer or composer, the elements (songs, readings, sermons, rituals, visuals, etc.) will meet people where they are, not where we necessarily expect them to be. Today, this one is meeting me in my anxiety.

Let love continue long,
and show to us the way,
and if that love be strong,
no hurt can have a say;
and if that love remain but strong,
no hurt can ever have a say.

If love cannot be found,
though common faith prevails,
when love does not abound,
a common faith will fail.
When human love does not abound,
a common faith will always fail.

If we in love unite,
debate can cause no strife:
for with this love in sight,
disputes enrich our life.
For with this bond of human love,
disputes can mean a richer life.

May love continue long,
and lead us on our way:
for if that love be strong,
no hurt can have a say.
For if that love remain but strong,
no hurt can ever have a say.

So may it be.

Today’s pic is not exactly the scene outside my window at the moment – we just shifted from heavy snow to sleet – but it’s reminiscent….

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I have learned that when I particularly like or dislike a contemporary hymn, I stir up some level of controversy, usually on Facebook (although some of it shows up in the comments here too). I don’t like Bring Many Names, but you would have thought I’d killed a basket of puppies when I said so. But I weathered that, and I’m still friends with the folks who disagreed with me, so here we go, once more into the breach.

I really like this hymn. The caveat, of course, is that it must be played well and at a decent tempo. Played badly and no one knows where or when to sing. Played too slow, and it makes absolutely no sense. But played well and at a good tempo (76 bpm is recommended – it could go to about 84), and it’s wonderful.

First of all, I do love the tune – I don’t know exactly what it is that works for me, but it does. It has a hint of ‘the composer listened to Godspell and Pippin a lot’, and as someone who also listened to Godspell and Pippin a lot, it makes sense. But I know it also works to sing – not too high or too low, interesting phrases that remain easy to sing, and a distinct lack of stodginess.

But it is the words that really captured me today; it is a song of thanksgiving – but not a rosy thanks to that unseen Divine. Rather, it’s a gritty, real thanks – as much to each other and ourselves as anything. And it’s the third verse that really caught me today – ‘for each new thing we learn, for fearful hours that pass’ – in the horrifying Gish Gallop that is this new administration, we must still give praise and thanks – because (a) we do learn from sorrows, pains, and failures and (b) it is these that often motivate our work and service (especially when we can see another’s woe), which we also give praise and thanks for.

For all that is our life we sing our thanks and praise;
for all life is a gift which we are called to use
to build the common good and make our own days glad.

For needs which others serve, for services we give,
for work and its rewards, for hours of rest and love;
we come with praise and thanks for all that is our life.

For sorrow we must bear, for failures, pain, and loss,
for each new thing we learn, for fearful hours that pass:
we come with praise and thanks for all that is our life.

For all that is our life we sing our thanks and praise;
for all life is a gift which we are called to use
to build the common good and make our own days glad.

A beautiful, grounding song of praise and thanksgiving. It makes my own day glad.

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This one nearly speaks for itself – it asks the question many of us ask of those who seem to take a perverse joy at the suffering of others. Over and over, in the face of laws and judgments that seek to punish the victims, the oppressed, the suffering, we ask of those people: what if it were your daughter? what if it were your child? what if you were in need of sanctuary? what if you had nothing to eat, no roof, no comfort?

And, discomfortingly, these are questions we have been asking for centuries, if not millennia. William Blake’s poem, “On Another’s Sorrow”, from which our hymn is deftly crafted, asked this in the 18th century. How hard-hearted have humans been! How cold, calculating, and disdainful humans have been!

And this makes me weep. In my heart of hearts, I believe that humans are essentially good, that we are born good. And yet, over and over, there is evidence not only that evil exists in the world but also that some may have a propensity for it – or at least a lack of empathy that allows evil to flourish. This, more than anything, is what causes my weltschmerz – my world weariness.

This hymn – and the longer Blake poem – are intended to swell the mystic chords of memory by the better angels of our nature. To me, the hymn is a sad, haunting reminder of how few actually hear those mystic chords.

Can I see another’s woe,
and not be in sorrow too?
Can I see another’s grief,
and not seek for kind relief?

Can I see a falling tear,
and not feel my sorrow’s share?
Can a father see his child weep,
nor be with sorrow filled?

Can a mother sit and hear
infant groan, an infant fear?
No, no, never can it be!
Never, never can it be!

The tune is another favorite – another delicious melody from the 16th century. Its minor key and flowing lines are solemn and bittersweet. A perfect match for these words.

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The image is also by William Blake, illustrations created for an illuminated edition of Dante’s Divine Comedy. Learn more here.

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It feels a little like cheating that this was our closing hymn yesterday, and I’ve had it as an earworm for 24 hours – and it’s been on my mind since I first chose it for this service weeks ago.

And in this case, I don’t even care that only verse one is original, and that Eugene Navias, a Minister of Religious Education and 1977 winner of the Angus McLean Award for excellence in religious education, wrote the second and third verses for us. I don’t mind at all, because (a) the original invokes ‘Ebenezer’ (Hebrew for ‘stone of God’), which is referenced in Samuel 7:12 and is used to say it’s only because of God that we are able to do anything, which is very NOT Unitarian or Universalist in theology; and (b) Navias captures some of my own theistic humanism – namely, saying that which we look to (which some call God) reminds us to look to each other and work together and love together.

I used this as the closing hymn for a sermon talking about how religious community can be and should be a place of sanctuary for our souls and spirits. As I say in the sermon,

At its best, religious community is a shelter from the storm. It is a space set apart where we can release our weltschmerz (world weariness) and breathe into the present moment. And yet it isn’t a place that simply holds the holy for us; rather, it helps us integrate our faith into the rhythm of our daily lives. It makes space for restoring loving and intimate connections with each other. It is the small rituals and gestures we undertake with each other in this sacred space that give everyday life its value and meaning, that comfort us, make us feel at home, rooted and generous. It is the safe space for learning and discussion that prepares us lovingly for the hard work of justice and compassion ahead. It is the ever-present invitation to stop, be still, and give thanks.

We sing this hymn in gratitude for the communities we intentionally create to support us, for the reminder that we are more than the sum of our parts, for the vision that we must remember to keep before us.

Come, thou fount of ev’ry blessing, tune our ears to sing thy grace.
Streams of mercy never ceasing, call for songs of loudest praise.
While the hope of life’s perfection fills our hearts with joy and love,
teach us ever to be faithful, may we still thy goodness prove.

Come, thou fount of ev’ry vision, lift our eyes to what may come.
See the lion and the young lamb dwell together in thy home.
Hear the cries of war fall silent, feel our love glow like the sun.
When we all serve one another, then our heaven is begun.

Come, thou fount of inspiration, turn our lives to higher ways.
Lift our gloom and desperation, show the promise of this day.
Help us bind ourselves in union, help our hands tell of our love.
With thine aid, O fount of justice, earth be fair as heav’n above.

I love this hymn. I love our words, plus I love the tune (Nettleton). It recharges me and sends me forth. It is, for me, a moment to be present with and among others, to stop, be still, and give thanks.

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The photo is of Paint Branch UU (photo from the UUA site page for Welcoming Congregations), chosen because of the love and sanctuary this religious community is showing in this beautiful rainbow picture.

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This is another hymn I suspect many of us bypass because of the not-really-the-title title; it’s been honestly off-putting to me and I suspect others.  But it is an intriguingly appropriate pairing with Nancy McDonald Ladd’s sermon from General Assembly last year. As Kenny Wiley reported in UU World,

McDonald Ladd’s sermon lamented the “fake fights we waste our time on,” like “what color to paint the church bathroom,” as others struggle against injustice. McDonald Ladd’s words repeatedly brought cheers and ovations from the crowd as she weaved together personal narrative, humor, and her vision for a Unitarian Universalism focused on “real struggles and real battles” and not “confined by the smallness of our loving.”

We struggle with this. We create our little fiefdoms, our ways of doing things, and woe betide the person who doesn’t follow our rules! I loved this sermon and refer to it often, as it (like the hymn) calls us back to our hearts, our call, and our faith. Here, McDonald Ladd knocks it out of the park (transcribed from the video):

“I am not one to speak against an honest fight; but we need to lean into the real fights of our age. We need to do the work before us, not let another 50 years pass before we ask again what in the world we have been doing all that time while the dream goes unrealized. We need to keep it real – and keeping it real means admitting what we are here for in the first place. In spite of what every congregational satisfaction survey says, we did not come here for the coffee, and we did not even come for the great music. We don’t even come from our excellent ministers. We don’t. We come because we have a deep, aching need for an encounter with the holy that crosses our borders and expands our hearts. We come to be a part of something so much larger than ourselves. And we cannot do that holy work together unless we are really willing to set aside our own need to win and reach out our hands and seek the deeper understanding that comes with difference.”

That’s so important now. We are seeing so much infighting – not just in congregations about fights that don’t matter, but also among active participants in the resistance in fights about the quality and commitment of each other. The second verse in the hymn really got to me here, because I am watching friends struggle to support each other because our individual fears and hurts seem harder to bear than the collective pain we experience. Can we see each other in the midst of this and have the time and patience and compassion to be present?

From the crush of wealth and power something broken in us
all waits the spirit’s silent hour pleading with a poignant call,
bind all my wounds again.

Even now our hearts are wary of the friend we need so much.
When I see the pain you carry, shall I, with a gentle touch,
bind all your wounds again?

When our love for one another makes our burdens light to bear,
find the sister and the brother, hungry for the feast we share;
bind all their wounds again.

Ev’ry time our spirits languish terrified to draw too near,
may we know each other’s anguish and, with love that casts out fear,
bind all our wounds again.

This song, with a really lovely tune I didn’t know, reminds us that we must lead with love.

(I got to the binary language in the third verse and remembered this was written and published at a certain time before we understood gender as a spectrum. Since the lyricist, Kendyl Gibbons, is still an active minister, I bet she’d be amenable to a lyric shift.)

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This is a beautiful benediction. A sustaining send-off. An alliterative affirmation.

What I love about the lyrics is the acknowledgement that this work is hard, and it’s always been good. Something I’m not entirely certain I noticed until now, as many times as I have sung this. (Another favorite of my former minister’s, plus another great tune by Tom Benjamin).

There’s that old joke – why are Unitarians so bad at hymn singing? because they are always reading ahead to see if they agree with the lyrics. Yet I think that even when we know the tune well, we tend to miss the nuance. And this is nuanced – this isn’t all ‘rah rah rah’ – it’s ‘this is hard. There will be pain, doubts, bitterness, fear – but take courage.

That this hymn is in the Exemplars and Pioneers section, of course, isn’t surprising. The hymn calls us to look to the past and see that it’s possible. And even though I am a middle-aged white woman, the first names that came to mind were Harriet Tubman and the newly resuscitated Frederick Douglass – heroes whom many in our nation seem to think only deserve notice one month a year, but whose contributions to love and justice are insurmountable and inspirational.

When I sing this hymn, I am reminded that our heroes aren’t heroes because it was easy, but because it was hard, and because they were right. This is indeed a hymn for our age – we need gentle, loving songs that hold us in our fears and still call us to putting our faith into action.

Be that guide whom love sustains.
Rise above the daily strife:
lift on high the good you find.
Help to heal the hurts of life.

Be that helper nothing daunts —
doubt of friend or taunt of foe.
Ever strive for liberty.
Show the path that life should go.

Be that builder trusting good,
bitter though the test may be:
through all ages they are right,
though they build in agony.

Be that teacher faith directs.
Move beyond the old frontier:
though the frightened fear that faith,
be tomorrow’s pioneer!

Amen.