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This morning I am grateful for Google’s proximate search capabilities.

You see, I typed in the title of today’s hymn, a sweet traditional Jewish round, and it corrected me in that totally not shaming way Google has, by sending me results with ‘chaverim’ instead of the more phonetic ‘havayreem’.

It also presented me with a variety of YouTube videos of the song so that I could sing it in a round with other voices.

Shalom, havayreem!
Shalom, havayreem!
Shalom, shalom!
L’hitraot, l’hitraot,
shalom, shalom.

Finally, Google helped me with translations. At its basic, the lyrics translate as “Peace friend,
’till we meet again!” However, there is a version sung by children that extends the language into this English translation:

Goodbye, my friends!
Be safe, my friends!
Have peace, have peace!

‘Til we meet again,
‘Til we meet again,
Have peace, have peace.

What a delightful benediction or postlude this is. So warm and loving. What a blessing.

Thanks, Google.

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In my last year of seminary, I and five of my most creative friends co-created and produced a Broadway revue that told the story of the book of Exodus.

We began our work with Biblical preparation led by Old Testament scholar David M. Carr: not just reading and exegeting the text but also examining the history of interpretation of the text. We learned how passages from Exodus were used to forward an idea, connect a current struggle to an old one, and in the case of the US Civil War, used by both sides to suggest God was on their side. Reading about interpretation helped us in our own, as we found ourselves wanting to explore the text’s relationship with violence, oppression, and women. As a result, we created a show that humanized the Egyptians, leaned into the stories of Miriam and Pharaoh’s daughter, and reacted with compassion at the moments of violence.

This came to mind this morning as I explored this song online, and found almost nothing about the song itself but plenty about the verses from which it is formed.

And ev’ry one ‘neath a vine and fig tree
shall live in peace and unafraid. (Repeat)

And into plowshares turn their swords;
nations shall learn war no more. (Repeat)

The texts, from prophets Micah and Isaiah, put together like this are very anti-war. Yet what I have discovered  at the site Teaching American History is that the first verse especially (Micah 4:4) was such a favorite of George Washington that it not only became – in his use – a representation of what the colonies should experience after the Revolution, but also a call to arms, a ‘let’s get this thing over with so we can go back to our farms.’ It was quoted to give depth to the more defiant ‘don’t tread on me’ – a feeling of hope, of being free not just to go back to one’s land but to be free from an oppressive government. The passage was not so much an ant-war sentiment as a ‘let’s fight, let’s win, and then let’s go home’ sentiment. And it was such a popular image, it appeared in art and even embroidered samples (such as our image today).

Adding on the Isaiah text for this song from the Jewish tradition does distill the let’s fight sentiment, although it acknowledges war in the present even as we hope for no war in the future.

Interesting.

I don’t know that I thought much about this one before today, and while I find it full of anti-war sentiment, it also feels very full of sadness, as the peace being longed for is hard-won and may never come. It doesn’t rally me but rather feels like a song of lament. Maybe this is me in my present context – realizing how long we have been at war, realizing that in American history, we’ve been at war or in conflict nearly the entire time, realizing how much violence we have normalized within and beyond our borders. For us, to sit under the vine and fig tree unafraid is a pipe dream akin to Psalm 137 – living  in terrible circumstances, remembering not with hope but with tears.

Sorry to bring you all down today – this is where my thoughts are as we continue to fight the wars of oppression at home without much recognition of how worn and inured to the violence we have become. My heart is so heavy with the weight of sorrow I can’t remember any other way. And while I can sing this song, I can’t imagine it ever coming to pass.

This song is my lament today.

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The embroidered image, Chairback-Vine and Fig Tree, is from the Deerfield Society of Blue and White Needlework.

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Programming Note: I’ve added a lovely piece from Mary Grigolia about her song I Know This Rose Will Open, from an email exchange we had, about the origins and meaning of that song. After you read this, go to that entry and check it out!

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There are days in this practice when the little chalice next to a name at the bottom of the page sends me down a rabbit hole. Like today, where I saw a chalice next to the name Edvard Grieg, the Norwegian composer who arranged this folk melody for hymn singing.

Grieg was a Unitarian?

A few bio sites revealed few clues, although one references his leaving the Lutheran ministry after a series of tragedies and a sense of his musical creativity being strangled. But it took our own resource, the Dictionary of Unitarian and Universalist Biographies, to unearth the Unitarian connection:

Charles Harding, vice-president of the Birmingham [England] Festival, and his wife, Ada, members of the Unitarian Old Meeting Church in Birmingham, introduced Grieg to other Unitarians there, including members of the Kenrick family. Shortly before he died Grieg wrote, “During a visit to England in 1888 I was attracted to Unitarian views, and in the nineteen years that have passed since then I have held to them. All the sectarian forms of religion that I have been exposed to since have not succeeded in making any impression on me.”

Like most Unitarians of his time Grieg believed in God, the goodness of God, and the power of Jesus as an example—”Christ was filled by God as no one else known to me, living or dead, in the family of man.” He disbelieved in original sin. “Why should innocent people suffer for the sins of their forefathers?” he asked. “I think that the moral pain of the soul, which results from our bad deeds, as well as from the good we neglected to do, makes a Hell as effective as I can possibly imagine.”

In 1889 the Griegs were impressed by the ex-Anglican Stopford Brooke, who preached at Unitarian pulpits in London. “What a man! [his wife] Nina says, and it is true,” Edvard wrote. “A big, splendid, sparkling personality full of fire and power. We talked about this and that: about Unitarianism and socialism . . . and I daresay he felt just as I do.” Grieg thought some Unitarians were “some of the noblest people I know.” Like them he believed in separation of church and state and in a tolerant attitude towards others—”for what we don’t know, we don’t know.”

Grieg’s religious attitude is reflected in the independence of musical thought that led him, as Liszt advised, to “hold to your course.” Broad in musical appreciation as well as in religious scope, he admired the music of composers, such as Brahms, whose styles were quite different from his own, and valued the musical inheritance from peasant culture, considering it not primitive, but advanced. He stood against conservatism in both religion and musical culture. Sickly from his youth, brooding on the passing of his baby daughter and of his parents, Grieg worked out his peace with death through his Unitarian faith, by connecting himself with the Norwegian people and their mountainous landscape, by putting his faith in nature as a whole, and through the life-affirming exuberance of his music.

I had no idea. I’ve always loved his music – beyond the all-too-familiar “Morning Mood” from Peer Gynt – and into some of his other settings. Until today I had not heard this song, Den Store Hvide Flok, and it does not disappoint.

Nor do the lyrics, the first verse of the poem “Auguries of Innocence” by English poet William Blake:

To see the world in a grain of sand,
and a heaven in a wildflower,
hold infinity in the palm of your hand,
and eternity in an hour.

Gorgeous.

It’s a song I’d use as an introit, or as a sung response to the right sermon. In fact, I can think back to a dozen services where this would have been perfect…. and I may have to write another one just to use it.

Simply gorgeous.

 

Image found at Deviant Art, by user Devil-Grades.

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I must begin with a shout out to my friends.

Y’all are something … yesterday I confess that the lyrics don’t click for me, and you all make an effort to help me get it. You explain on Facebook, and you even email the composer herself to get her take on it (and to introduce me to her). It’s so sweet, y’all. Once I secure permission, I’ll update yesterday’s blog with Mary’s words, but know right now that while the metaphor still doesn’t move me, I understand where it comes from and what it means to others a bit more.

And it’s got me thinking a lot about music and metaphor. I mean, music is the ultimate metaphor for our spirits; it’s why we turn to music to set a mood or express ourselves. And a gorgeous lyric can add to that mood or expression. For some reason, Cris Williamson’s lyric “filling up and spilling over / it’s an endless waterfall” as a metaphor for the ups and downs of life, or emma’s revolution’s lyric “we’re all swimming to the other side” as a metaphor for our collective journeys are coming to mind as song metaphors that I find meaningful and delightful (and surely has nothing to do with the deluge of rain we experienced overnight, right?).

And that metaphor doesn’t work for everyone, as beautiful as those lyrics are, as beautiful as those songs are. If we all got everything, if we all drew meaning from everything, then nothing would be special. And if this spiritual practice has taught me anything, it’s that we need many different songs with many different melodies, metaphors, and moods – especially in our congregations. We don’t know who will be ministered to by the song we despise, or who will need the comfort offered in a song we find insipid, or will feel their spirits lift by lyrics we don’t quite get.

So when I said yesterday I’m okay with not understanding yesterday’s lyrics, I meant that not just as resignation or defeat but as being really okay, knowing a gorgeous melody carries with it, for some, a deeply moving metaphor.

Unlike today, where there is really no metaphor to distill.

Morning has come. Night is away.
Rise with the sun and welcome the day.

It’s a great little morning round, one I’ve known for a long time but don’t know how. Sung well, it rings out like bells. Sung annoyingly, it’s the song that makes you want to pull the covers over your head.

But I like this anonymously offered round and would consider using it (and others) as a call to worship as well as a prelude. And then you should sing Jason Shelton’s hymn Morning Has Come. And then maybe Morning Has Broken and Morning Hangs a Signal…

Okay, maybe enough with the morning.

But y’all are really sweet. Thanks.

 

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Lovely Update Below!

Things I don’t know:

I don’t know composer and colleague Mary Grigolia, although I feel like I should.

I don’t know when I learned this, but it was sometime between the Louisville General Assembly (summer 2013) and the Florida Chapter UUMA retreat (spring 2015).

I don’t know why I never heard it or sang it before then, because everyone else seems to have this in their bones.

I don’t really know what it means.

I know this rose will open.
I know my fear will burn away.
I know my soul will unfurl its wings.
I know this rose will open.

Honestly. Maybe it’s the gloom of a stormy autumn morning, or the restless sleep, or the metaphorical neurons taking a holiday, but I’m really not sure what this is about. There’s an unspoken ‘when x happens’ at the end of each lines and I am unclear what the next part of that sentence is.

It’s a gorgeous piece, made more gorgeous by gentle improvisation that comes from sitting around a circle with Jason Shelton and Amy Carol Webb on a quiet evening.

But I’m finding it lyrically baffling.

And I think that’s okay.

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October 31: Jed Levine introduced me to Mary Grigolia shortly after reading this post and in our exchanges she lovingly shared the origin of this song with me:

I wrote this song when I was in seminary, taking a class on death and dying. Our assignment was to write our eulogy, which of course means the good words we’d like to remain of our lives. I thought and thought of what to say, what not to say. And decided that as a songwriter, I needed to say it in music.

After I decided “I” would write a song for my project/paper, I set the perfect ambiance: prepared a tray with journal and pen, tea and healthy snacks, went outside into the perfect afternoon, to sit under they Meyer lemon tree in my back yard, ready for and courting inspiration. I spent several hours journaling and grateful for the beauty of the afternoon. And no music came. None. Not a note. And I realized the hubris of the ego saying it would write the song. Scooping up everything, accepting the folly of my presumption, as I was balancing the tray, coming through the door (yes, a literally liminal experience), I realized I was singing something under my breath. And it was the whole round. Complete.

What I take from the experience is the great responsiveness of the Universe/Spirit/Deep and Creative Self, when we allow ourselves to be present, to listen, to sing along, but not to assume we can control its scope or view.

I Know This Rose is the answer to my invitation (to the deep Self). The way I hear/feel it, I am the rose; opening is in my nature. Even when it comes time to let go of this body practice, I know this rose will open.

And although I may feel afraid of the changes, afraid of the unknown I can’t control, afraid of allowing the ego to follow the calling of something deeper, I know those fears will burn away (in the fire of transformation, this very physical practice of loving and living and letting go).

And as my fear burns away, I know, I trust that the wings of my heart, my soul, will unfurl their (my) wings.
Yes, I know this rose will open. I am the rose. We are all the rose. Opening.

May we all trust in the opening!

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Friends, I am running out of things to say about these little rounds.

This one – another song of unknown origin – is sweet and very pretty when fully sung. Which is a sentence I have typed before and I fear will type again.

You see, the thing is – the rounds themselves are good and different and by and large fun to sing with a group. But when there is no source information, no complex lyric, no deep memories, well…. I don’t have much to write about.

Sing and rejoice.
Sing and rejoice.
Let all things living now
sing and rejoice.

I will say this one reminds me a bit of graces we sang at Girl Scout camp, and maybe it is, because I wouldn’t be surprised at all to discover Unitarian Universalists at camp.

It’s a good one – don’t get me wrong.

There’s just not much to say.

 

EDIT: I originally posted a DST ending pic but was reminded that it’s NEXT weekend. Whoops.

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This song calls to us: “Come! Let’s be singing!”

And what shall we sing?

“Sing alleluia!”

That’s it. That’s the song. In English and in Hebrew.

Hava nashirah. Shirah alleluia!
Hava nashirah. Shirah alleluia!
Hava nashirah. Shirah alleluia!

Come, let’s be singing. Sing alleluia!
Come, let’s be singing. Sing alleluia!
Come, let’s be singing. Sing alleluia!

It is written in three parts that can be sung as a round  – or ideally a canon, which is great because one part is quite low and one part is quite high. It all seems simple, except the beauty of rounds is the complexity that comes when the parts blend. This one is quite gorgeous and joyful.

I don’t have much more to say…it’s origins are unknown but its presence is cheering.

 

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First – apologies for the delay this morning. A great ministers’ retreat also meant late nights and early mornings and I decided turning off my alarm was a smart move.

Second – I don’t have much for you today. I could blame it on the grogginess of a long sleep, but really, there’s not much to say. ‘Jubilate deo’ means ‘make a joyful noise to God’  (or rejoice, or praise) and our round based on the first verse of Psalm 100, “Make a joyful noise unto the Lord, all ye lands.”

I suppose I could talk at length about Michael Praetorius, a 16th century German composer, but there’s nothing much saying “ooo” to me right now, other than the reason why a German man born Schultz is called Praetorius: apparently ‘schultze’ means mayor, which in Latin is ‘praetor’ and for some reason, it was common to Latinize names.

Anyway, this is a fine round, although it’s not a favorite and never a go-to. In case you don’t know it. I’ve posted a YouTube of a Lutheran children’s choir singing it – it’s quite good.

Jubilate Deo.
Jubilate Deo.
Alleluia!

And here are the Lutheran kids:

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The pic has nothing to do with the song. It’s just a pretty fall scene, similar to some I have been seeing the last few weeks.

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As frequent readers know. there are many days … sometimes weeks… in this practice when the hymn is so opposed to the events/mood/weather of the day that it seems almost ridiculous. Christmas in May… morning songs after the election… happy spring in a snowstorm…

Today is most assuredly NOT one of those days.

Our round, a traditional Hebrew folk round based on Psalm 133:1, names my mood and the experience here, as we enter the final few hours of our UUMA chapter retreat. The NRSV translates the verse as “How very good and pleasant it is when kindred live together in unity!”

And so, when someone asked what today’s hymn was, and I started singing, everyone in the room at that moment sang along with me. And it felt warm and loving and good, but most of all, it felt true. I’m so impressed with the joy, grace, and connection I’ve been experiencing with this new (to me) group of colleagues, and I’m feeling so at home among them. I know some of it’s a bit about being back in upstate New York, but a lot of it’s about being with these people. It is so good to have spent the last couple of days dwelling together with them.

Hineh mah tov umah nayim.
Shevel aheem gam yahad.
Hineh mah tov umah nayim.
Shevel aheem gam yahad.
Hineh mahtov shevet aheem gam yahad.
Hineh mahtov shevet aheem gam yahad.

How good it is and how pleasant
for people to dwell together.
How good it is and how pleasant
for people to dwell together.
Good and pleasant, people in peace together.
Good and pleasant, people in peace together.

The English verse doesn’t scan well for me, but the truth is, I never use it. There’s something just wonderful about singing this ancient psalm in its original language together.

Anyway – I need to spend more time with my colleagues. Enjoy your day, because I know I am!

 

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I’m sitting with colleagues at White Eagle Conference Center near Hamilton, NY, with 22 colleagues retreating together. What strikes me about moments like this is how apart from time yet completely in the stream of time we are at these things – in the midst of programming last night, I learned a young neighbor died. I don’t have a ministerial responsibility there, but I do have responsibility as a neighbor.

And then comes along this song – which I sang with the amazing Lynn Gardner and Wendy Bartel last night – a prayer of deepening that, along with these friends, holds me in loving arms.

Voice still and small, deep inside all,
I hear you call, singing.
In storm and rain, sorrow and pain,
still we’ll remain singing.
Calming my  fears, quenching my tears,
through all the years, singing.

Our hymn was written by John Corrado, who was our lyricist way back in the first week. I should note that the original lyric used the phrase “in dark and rain”; our hymnal commission wisely changed it to “in storm and rain” – which I think works better anyway.

This hymn speaks deeply to me right now, as I process the news from a distance. I don’t have a ministerial responsibility, but I do have responsibility as a neighbor. It’s hard, but a song like this, which holds complexity so beautifully, offers solace and comfort.

Grateful for this place, grateful for this space, grateful for these friends and colleagues, grateful for this song.