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Merry Christmas to me – this is one of my very favorite hymns.

First of all, let’s not kid ourselves – 19th century English composer Samuel Wesley knew what he was doing when he wrote the anthem “Praise the Lord, O My Soul,” which includes the melody that we know as “Lead Me Lord.” Its composition itself – even without lyrics – is a prayer, beautifully formed in a conversational style (and an irregular meter) that calls us to speak what is on our hearts. Whether that is a prayer to God (“Lead me lord”) or as we encounter it, a prayer to Creation, this tune – with its complex harmonies yet ease of singing – calls us to look inward even as we look far outward.

And then we add the lyrics – for some Unitarian Universalists, this might be as close to prayer to anything or anyone as they might come. The words themselves draw us outward and inward – stillness, flight, and light become prayerful metaphors for that which our souls cry out for.

Winds be still.
Storm clouds pass and silence come.
Peace grace this time with harmony.
Fly, bird of hope, and shine, light of love,
and in calm let all find tranquility.

Bird fly high.
Lift our gaze toward distant view.
Help us to sense life’s mystery.
Fly high and far, and lead us each to see
how we move through the winds of eternity.

Light shine in.
Luminate our inward view.
Help us to see with clarity.
Shine bright and true so we may join our songs
in new sounds that become full symphony.

When I sing this hymn alone, I find a moment of stillness, a sense of release, and often – like this morning – a few tears that offer a moment of clarity. When I sing this hymn with others, I find a surprising connection, as though we have just breathed together in harmony for the first time and we have been, for even a moment, changed.

I love this hymn. I am grateful the universe conspired to give it to me on this Christmas morning.

To all of you – Happy Christmas and Happy Hanukkah. May this day bring you joy and comfort.

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It’s Christmas Eve – time for another litany of things that are cool about the earth, and oh, before we forget, a little of humanity too, because we’re not actually part of nature.

Sigh.

I know why we have this World of Nature section, and why we have these hymns that praise said nature. And yes, some of them have been incredibly inspiring and beautiful. But I can’t deny a little joy at the prospect of turning the page and getting into the meditation and mystical songs tomorrow. I will say that one of my colleagues was right: this is why we don’t just sing through the hymnal in order on a regular basis; when taking the 15,000 foot view, I can see how it’s good to have some options that we might dip into. This is the downside of this spiritual practice – all the hymns of one kind in one fell swoop.

Now let’s look at the lyrics: these are the words of famous Unitarian activist John Haynes Holmes, founding minister of Community Church of New York, and who, among other things, helped found the NCAAP and the ACLU. I’m glad I get to talk about Holmes briefly, but I wish it were in a different setting, because he’s not exactly known for writing hymn lyrics. They’re lovely, but I prefer Holmes when he’s being prophetic and railing against war. Hymn writing was not his strong suit.

This land of bursting sunrise, all lavender and blue,
its cloud-strewn, light-swept day skies flow, and every day renew.
To east the glow of dawning, to west the blaze of night,
‘round all the long horizon’s rim, the everlasting light!

This land of open vistas, life rooted deep and free,
thy canyoned plains, thy mountains vast, plumb earth’s immensity.
Here in life’s fragile balance, the sun and stars above,
find hand in hand, and heart to heart, the everlasting love.

The lyrics are set to a modern tune by David Johnson that is rolling and minor and has all of those unusual chord progressions that make you focus on the singing and then lead you to wonder why, other than meter, this pairing exists. There’s a disconnect here for me that I can’t quite parse. If you’re going to talk to me about the loveliness of nature and the loveliness of us being hand in hand and heart to heart, then I want a lovely melody. Yes, it’s set in 6/8 and rolls in the accompaniment, but even that, to my ear, isn’t enough to save it.

Curious as always, of course, I then turned to the internet to see what it could tell me, all the while wishing I could just sing an easy Christmas carol and be done with this juxtaposition of definitely-not-holiday-music and holiday-on-nauseating-repeat.

What the internet told me is that the original lyrics to this hymn are as Christmas Eve as they come:

A stable lamp is lighted
whose glow shall wake the sky;
the stars shall bend their voices,
and every stone shall cry.
And every stone shall cry,
and straw like gold shall shine;
a barn shall harbour heaven,
a stall become a shrine.

Subsequent verses tell of Jesus’s life story, because we need a reminder I guess, and wraps up back at the night of his birth.

So there it is. This slog through the World of Nature landed me right where we actually are. Whodathunkit?

(Yes, faithful readers: there will be a reflection tomorrow. It’s one of my favorite hymns coming up – feels like a Christmas present to me!)

 

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This is one of those mornings when the to-do list seems more important than this practice. In fact, I did several things before sitting down to sing, which is not typical. Usually, I feed the cat, put on the coffee, and open the hymnal to sing while the holy liquid of all existence brews in order to bring me life. Then I sit at the computer and reflect.

This morning, I also did some dishes, wrapped my office manager’s Christmas present, and prepared for a weekly spiritual offering I do at the local hospital. And I gazed at the next items on the list before thinking, oh, I should get to the hymn before I forget.

So here I am, having finally gotten to the hymn. And I admit, I was pretty distracted as I began – grateful to Small Church Music for a lovely organ rendition of this piece by Haydn, so I wasn’t working hard to learn it. I was about half with the hymn, half still thinking about what’s next on the list.

And then somewhere around the end of the second verse, I began to notice the lyrics – “our hearts soar high up on the breeze of songs the spirit longs to sing.”

Wow. I mean, just read these lyrics:

The wordless mountains bravely still,
the ground below us firm and free,
the gentle quilt of field and hill,
shall grant us solid dignity.

With breathless wind through leafless trees,
and gasp of currents on the wing,
our hearts soar high up on the breeze
of songs the spirit longs to sing.

The crimson flame of summer sun,
the glow of hearth on winter’s eve,
refining fire shines through the One
whose passions lead us to believe.

The slow and gracious ocean deep,
and raindrops gathering one by one,
feed well-springs in our souls to keep
for times when tears like rivers run.

The earth and water, fire and air,
the elements of wondrous grace,
the glory of creation rare
encircles us in its embrace.

I know I have previously complained about all the ‘yay nature, but it doesn’t go anywhere’ hymns. But this one – while in some respects a litany, really moves. It isn’t just a “look, nature’s cool, and we should be moved by it/in awe of it/shamed by it” (I still growl about that one). Rather, this one gives us something deeper. I am not sure what that something is – maybe it’s more of that theology that invites us in to be a part of creation, not just observers of it – “the glory of creation rare encircles us in its embrace.” We see ourselves not only reflected but also a part of nature.

The tune – it’s Haydn. Eighteenth century pomp and majesty is pretty compelling for symphonies, concertos, cantatas, and hymns – and this is no exception. When I first listened, I thought “this is too Episcopalian for us” (sorry, Episco–Pals) – but once the marriage of tune and lyric woke me up so I would take notice, I realize how perfect it is. These lyrics want both quiet contemplation and a bit of majesty and awe.

This one works for me today. I’m glad I finally paid attention.

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There are days in this practice when I get so caught up in the holy act of singing, I hardly pay attention to any analysis. Then there are days in this practice when I get so caught up in the analysis, I lose any sense of the holy. A perfect day is when there is an equal balance – a holy moment and an analytical eye. When that happens, I tend to delve into the theological more than the musical or, frankly, the trivial.

Sadly, today is not a perfect day, as much as I want it to be.

Setting aside mood or events, what takes me out of this spiritual practice’s original purpose most is running into hymns that are troubling right from the start – sometimes it’s misappropriation, sometimes it’s odd or concerning lyrics, and sometimes, such as in this case, it’s because of its tune.

Here’s the thing: if this is intended to be a hymnal – a book of songs for a congregation to sing – then fails to complete its mission, as there are definitely songs (like this one) that are not meant to be sung by a congregation. If this is intended to be a collection of music that informs our living tradition, then it fails to inform the user of that purpose.

All of this to say, this is not a congregational hymn. It is an art song that sets some amazing lyrics to a texture. From a musical standpoint, it’s beautifully crafted – the melody matches the lyric, speeding up at the crashing of the sea, slowing at the calm and still. And the lyrics are more than “hey, look at pretty nature” – the final two verses make a fantastic connection between humans and the rest of nature – we can see our hearts, minds, and souls in the wonder of the sea. It’s an inspiring lyric and a well designed song to match it.

Wild waves of storm,
the wonder of the wind and crashing sea,
nature in power and might and majesty,
yet wonder more in deep tranquility,
sea, calm and still.

Migrating birds,
in flock intent upon far distant shore
great wonder hold; yet there is wonder more
when lonely eagle, watchful on the tor,
sits, calm and still.

All people one
in urgent haste, on some great enterprise,
hearts beating fast, great dreams to realize,
yet in the soul a dream of richer prize,
serene and still.

Then striving cease:
from troubled turmoil seek an inward goal;
tranquility shall make the spirit whole.
Be still, and know a Presence in the soul,
serene, alive.

But let’s not fool ourselves: this would take a lot of work and an already extremely musical congregation to attempt this. The only example of this song I found was the Oakland UU Chancel Choir’s recording, and their performance reveals the complexity of the piece.

This is a piece that belongs in our Unitarian Universalist repertoire.

But it is not a hymn.

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Any other day, I might be up for a significant rewrite of a classic poem, but today is not that day. Snarky, cynical Kimberley is back, and she’s not having it.

I read the lyrics, sang (another fine Southern Harmony tune), then read again, feeling baffled. So I went to the internet to look up the original poem to see if anyone had any commentary, because I just wasn’t getting it.

It took me a long while to find it – finally, the phrase “whirl the glowing wheels” was enough for Google to point me to the original poem “Song of Nature.” For the record, I’m much more familiar with Emerson’s essays than his poetry – and even reading the full poem didn’t ring any bells of familiarity.

Now I am all for one art form inspiring the next – that’s what it’s all about, really. I like it when passages of longer pieces become lyric. I even get adjustments of words to fit musical meter. But this one has gotten under my skin in a bad way, and I think I know why: instead of picking a couple of verses that say something specific, the person who adapted the poem took bits and bobs from throughout the long poem and, to me, edited out the actual spirit of the poem.

The Song of Nature is a first-person song, sung by Nature! This adaptation is third-person – a human’s eye view. Oh gosh, yes, let’s notice once again nature and how long-lived it is. Because we haven’t already done that in previous hymns. But that’s not the point of the poem. The point of the poem is Nature, recounting with joy the long expanse of time through which she has stood and watched sometimes happily, sometimes sadly, as humans play their human games of birth, inspiration, anger, war, peace, and death. That’s the point – Nature sees the long arc of the universe, moral or otherwise, and sings an ode to it.

This hymn hints at what Emerson was going for, but to me takes all the teeth out of it.

No number tallies nature up, no tribe its house can fill;
it is the shining fount of life and pours the deluge still.
And gathers by its fragile powers along the centuries
from race on race the rarest flowers, its wreath shall nothing miss.

It writes the past in characters of rock and fire and scroll,
the building in the coral sea, the planting of the coal.
And thefts from satellites and rings and broken stars it drew,
and out of spent and aged things it formed the world anew.

Must time and tide forever run, nor winds sleep in the west?
Will never wheels which whirl the sun and satellites have rest?
Yet whirl the glowing wheels once more, and mix the bowl again;
seethe, Fate, the ancient elements, heat, cold, and peace, and pain.

Blend war and trade and creeds and song, let ripen race on race,
the sunburnt world that we shall breed of all the countless days.
No ray is dimmed, no atom worn, the oldest force is new,
and fresh the rose on yonder thorn gives back the heavens in dew.

And maybe I’m being too cynical. Maybe my mood – compromised by bad health news about one of my beloved pets – isn’t up to seeing some of Emerson’s poetry being sung at all. Maybe I stand alone in my frustration and disappointment, wishing for more than a hymn could provide. I mean, it might be weird to sing all the I-statements of this poem; it would easily be confusing to the singer.

So I don’t know… I’m not sure a hymn like this HAD to exist at all, given the plethora of other good nature hymns and the actual power of the original poem.

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Wherein I think about process, relationship, and resistance – set to a quaint tune.

I don’t know how many congregations sing this hymn. I know that my home congregation sang it exactly once a year – at flower communion, a ritual devised by Unitarian minister Norbert Čapek in Prague in the 1920s and later brought to the US by his wife Maja in the 1940s.

The tune is, for lack of a better word, quaint. Old fashioned, but not in a ‘stand the test of time’ sort of way. And that’s okay, because it does make it a song of its time, perfect for hauling out once a year so we can tell the story of Capek’s ceremony and his subsequent martyrdom at the hands of the Third Reich.

But this hymn is so much more. And there’s a prescience to the lyrics that make me admire Čapek the theologian even more. You see, this is a very process-theology hymn, yet Čapek had been executed in Dachau several years before Charles Hartshorne wrote The Divine Relativity, which established this new theology, based on a philosophy, based on mathematics and physics.

In this remarkable lyric, we discover a growing God – a creating creator, inviting us to not just notice creation, not just be part of creation, but to be part of creating. All of earth and its earthlings = God’s vision growing. Especially those last two verses that make it clear that WE are God’s vision growing. We are the creation and the creators of reality, though our actions, through our being, in relationship, moving in harmony.

Color and fragrance, magical rhythm,
sweet changing music will change us with them:
life within life, inner light gently glowing,
surely you seem to be God’s vision growing.

O starry heavens, worlds of all splendor,
suns without number, new life engender:
wheel in a wheel with the light brightly glowing,
moving in harmony, God’s vision growing.

Hand full of pebbles, high mountain passes,
depths of the ocean, dew on the grasses:
great things and small, with the light gently glowing,
word of the wordless song, God’s vision growing.

Delicate beings, lacewing and sparrow
in field and forest, clover and yarrow:
life greeting life with the light brightly glowing,
none are too small to be God’s vision growing.

In human eyes burns the soul of living,
illumines altars of loving giving:
greeting, we meet, seeing light brightly glowing,
share in a greater life, God’s vision growing.

Shaper of all things, to us you’ve given
our chance to keep here on earth, a heaven.
Moving in harmony, light gently glowing,
may we be, gratefully, God’s vision growing.

Now as kind of a postscript, but not really – I’m writing this the day after the electoral college, in my opinion, failed democracy. We’re heading for several rough years as we resist the soul-crushing, life-threatening changes that may come. I have been wondering how we will manage, and more, how we can make sense of our faith (and my own process-relational perspective) without it turning into an unrealistic Pollyanna-like fairy tale. Am I asking too much of this positive, creative approach to life, thought, and divinity?

Of course, an answer appeared. As I sat down to write and hunt for the links for this piece, I encountered this quotation from process theologian Bob Menke:

Relational power takes great strength. In stark contrast to unilateral power, the radical manifestations of relational power are found in people like Martin Luther King, Jr., Mahatma Gandhi, and Jesus. It requires the willingness to endure tremendous suffering while refusing to hate. It demands that we keep our hearts open to those who wish to slam them shut. It means offering to open up a relationship with people who hate us, despise us, and wish to destroy us.

It’s about relationships. Not just to what some call God, but to each other, to events, to power, to suffering, to our enemies and our friends, to the earth, to growth. It’s about relationships – because in the end, that’s all we have.

It won’t be easy. In a piece called “How will they change their minds?” blogger and friend Doug Muder explores what it will take (and how minds have changed in the recent past). It requires patience, resistance, and most of all, relationships.

It won’t be easy. But it is what we’re called to, if we are ever to see “God’s vision growing.”

 

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This hymn made me giggle with a little delight and a little theological tee-hee this morning.

First, the giggles of delight – I love the Coolinge hymn tune (I got too caught up in Robert Frost the last time this came up to mention it), and thus, anything set to it already has a leg up. It’s a lovely, flowing, interesting but not at all confusing melody. This is also a tune I associate with the minister who helped me discern my call, Linda Hoddy – she often used another hymn set to this tune, From All the Fret and Fever of the Day (number 90), and I have fond memories of her service to my home congregation – particularly the music and creativity.

And so jumping in to sing was easy – no awkward plunking out of notes on the keyboard app on my phone, no hunting through hymnody websites for a recording of the tune. I was able to dive right in without a second glance at the melody, so that I could read and sing the lyrics confidently.

Seek not afar for beauty; lo, it glows
in dew-wet grasses all about your feet,
in birds, in sunshine, childish faces sweet,
in stars and mountain summits topped with snows.

Go not abroad for happiness; behold
it is a flower blooming at your door.
Bring love and laughter home, and evermore
joy shall be yours as changing years unfold.

In wonder-workings or some bush aflame,
we look for Truth and fancy it concealed;
but in earth’s common things it stands revealed,
while grass and flowers and stars spell out the name.

I then giggled, because here’s another ABBA rhyme scheme, which I have a rule about. And I feel conflicted, because I love this hymn but the off-kilter rhyme caught me every time I ended a verse; after getting to “unfold” I actually stopped and looked at the lyrics and giggled when I saw the ABBA, knowing I once gave it a pass. But as much as it bugs me, I still am into this hymn.

Mostly because of the theological reason I started to giggle.

Go back and read the first and second verses. I’ll wait.

[Kimberley hums “Girl from Ipanema” to herself]

Okay, so you see how wonderfully sixth source/seventh principle it is? Lovely! Celebrate nature and the happiness it brings, look at how easy it is to find love and blessings. Very earthly, very humanist-in-nature. Awesome. Now look at the third verse.

Why look – it invokes Old Testament miracles. It invokes a Creator. Commence theological giggling. Yes, this is a theistic hymn. And what’s interesting is how many of these hymns in the “World of Nature” section ultimately are. It’s not surprising, given how theistic and rather Christian many of the transcendentalists were. We forget that, because the left turn Emerson and Thoreau took was so radical for its time. We remember how focused on humanity and nature they were, and we forget how theistic they were. So I delight in hymns like this that sneak in the reminders of our theological foundations.

Plus, this hymn really works for me and my theology – as I suspect it does for many Unitarian Universalists. But it’s a real lesson in ‘read all the lyrics’ – just as some titles mislead, sometimes the turn of the poem and the meaning of the piece doesn’t happen until the last verse.

Tee hee.

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I feel like I have been nothing but critical lately – which may be connected to my general mood or just because I hit some hymns that don’t work for me. But this morning – this weird morning that on Long Island is disturbingly warm (53 degrees) and blustery and elsewhere is bitterly cold and icy – I will dwell on the positive.

Well, for starters, the tune (Was Gott Thut – “what does God do?”) is a sweet German melody. It’s easy to sing and isn’t boring at all.

The lyrics suggest this would make a great sung grace at a big event like Thanksgiving – at least the third stanza. And, if for any reason For the Beauty of the Earth can’t fulfill its duties, we can call in this one as a substitute.

What’s interesting is that this was also in Songs for the Celebration of Life (the previous [blue] hymnal) – so Unitarian Universalists for a while have felt it necessary to have one and a spare when it comes to thanking the divine for nature with a hymn that features a repeating chorus.

So yay. It’s a spring hymn of thanks. Five days before Christmas during a terrible cold snap. Yay!

For flowers that bloom about our feet,
for tender grass so fresh and sweet,
for song of bird and hum of bee,
for all things fair we hear or see: Giver of all, we thank thee.

For blue of stream and blue of sky,
for pleasant shade of branches high,
for fragrant air and cooling breeze,
for beauty of the blooming trees: Giver of all, we thank thee.

For this new morning with its light,
for rest and shelter of the night,
for health and food, for love and friends,
for everything thy goodness sends: Giver of all, we thank thee.

Okay, so I really actually like that last verse. I’d sing that for grace on Christmas Day. In fact, I might.

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Let’s just tuck right in, shall we? This is a pretty and light tune (albeit with an odd harmonic choice in the second phrase), and it accompanies pretty and light lyrics, almost.

Because while everything is lovely and wonderful in nature, from star to sea, from earth to sky, apparently our lyricist, John Greenleaf Whittier, thinks people are terrible: “nature’s signs and voices shame the prayerless heart within.”

REALLY? You’re shaming me and my alleged prayerless heart? Seriously? Is this supposed to be a wakeup call to humanity? Is this “consider the lilies of the field” taken to its cynical conclusion? Or is this another of those gross misinterpretations of Thoreau? There is a negative attitude about humanity in that last verse that really gets under my skin.

I’m not saying we’re the best and screw the earth – not that at all. We have a sacred duty as earthlings to care for the planet and all that lives on it. But we are here, and we have developed to have these creative, emotional, innovative, self-reflective, self-saving and sometimes self-destructive minds. We are here, with hearts that are full of prayers whether we name them such or not. We have hopes and dreams and wishes and worries. To indict us as prayerless in a paradigm where nature is both separate from us and better than us? Not having it.

The harp at Nature’s advent strung has never ceased to play;
the song the stars of morning sung has never died away.

The prayer is made, and praise is given, by all things near and far;
the ocean looketh up to heaven and mirrors every star.

The green earth sends sweet incense up from many mountain shrines;
from folded leaf and dewy cup now pours the sacred wine.

The blue sky is the temple’s arch, its transept, earth and air;
the music of its starry march, the chorus of a prayer.

So nature keeps the reverent frame with which all years begin;
and nature’s signs and voices shame the prayerless heart within.

Seriously not having it.

(I am willing to concede there may be another interpretation, but I’m really struck by that final phrase and how turned off I am by it, so even a well-intentioned corrective won’t lead me to use it. I’m just not with this hymn.)

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It’s time for everybody’s favorite new game, “Who Will Love This Hymn I Hate” – this week, starring lyricist Joseph Cotter and composer Frederich Filitz!

I wish I could make sense of this one.  No, seriously. I mean, I get that the lyrics are a rain song, and thus appropriate for a section called The World of Nature. I also get that we want to include voices beyond white men, and thus the hymn led me to learn about Joseph Cotter, Jr, who was an African American playwright and poet who died of tuberculosis at age 24.

But seriously – this too, too simple German tune? I found only one recording of it here, tied to a long washed-in-the-blood hymn. It’s really a boring tune, though, and it’s bad enough we sing it in 4 verses – imagine singing the eight in the one I linked too!

MAYBE this tune sounds okay in a round, but certainly not in a song about dry earth and ancient (I assume native American) drums.

Everything just seems wrong about this. And it makes me realize how much we had yet to do as a movement around cultural appropriation.

On the dusty earth drum beats the falling rain;
now a whispered murmur, now a louder strain.

Slender, silvery drumsticks on an ancient drum
beat the mellow music bidding life to come.

Chords of life awakened, notes of greening spring,
rise and fall triumphant over everything.

Slender, silvery drumsticks beat the long tattoo —
God, the Great Musician, calling life anew.

Now to make the piece even vaguely palatable for singing (because I couldn’t get to the second verse – lord help me I just couldn’t make it with this tune), I went hunting for another 6.5.6.5 tune, and I found this one that seems to make this feel less frivolous.

But really, this just doesn’t work. I am not moved. I am not changed. If anything, I’m a little annoyed, and this is not how you want to do spiritual practice. Time to go back and sing something I love, like What Wondrous Love, if only to bring some balm to my soul on this cold morning.