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One of the advantages of doing this practice is that I’m beginning to know more hymn tunes by name. I flipped to the page this morning, thought “I don’t know this one” and the looked to the bottom, saw the tune was Mach’s Mit Mir, Gott (which we last sang only last week in With Heart and Mind), and thought “well now, I’m going to think of this tune as a most unusually named humanist hymn.” (Because the title translates to “deal with me, God”…)

As I sang, I thought to myself “huh… this is a good one for a building dedication:

The blessing of the earth and sky upon our friendly house do lie.
The rightness of a master’s art has blessed with grace its every part.
The warmth of many hands is strewn in human blessing on this stone.

The wind upon the lakes and hills performs its native rituals.
The worship of our human toil brings sacrament from sun and soil.
With words and music, we, the earth, in nature’s wonder seek our worth.

Here we restore ancestral dreams enshrined in floor and wall and beam,
a monument wherein we build that their high purpose be fulfilled,
be tool to help our children prove an earth of promise and of love.

And thus it was with a bit of triumph that I turned to Between the Lines and learned that yes, indeed, Kenneth Patton wrote these words for the dedication of the new building of the First Unitarian Society of Madison, Wisconsin.

As that building was designed by Frank Lloyd Wright in the mid-20th century, it’s not surprising that Patton included a line like “the rightness of a master’s art has blessed with grace its every part” or calls the place “a monument” – while he was in some aspects, one of our Unitarian scoundrels, Wright was indeed a master of architecture, and it’s meaningful to have one of his designs in our fold, as it were.

And now, because of that clear association, I’m not sure I would use this hymn outside of a dedication of a building or worship space. I can’t see it beyond its bricks and mortar.

And wow, isn’t that a hell of a metaphor for some of our problems.

Hmm….

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Sometimes I sing a hymn and I think “it’s a fine hymn, but when would I ever use it?” (See the end for an important edit)

It’s a fine hymn. Another solid lyric by our friend, English Unitarian minister John Andrew Storey – a song of welcome, for sure, and a song of community and connection. And yet I’m not sure what kind of service would use a hymn like this; is it one when we talk about why we pass the peace? Is it one where we talk about John Donne’s “No Man Is an Island” and also include Simon and Garfunkel’s “I am a Rock”? Is it to boost the pastoral care team? I don’t know…. what do you think:

The human touch can light the flame
which gives a brightness to the day,
the spirit uses mortal flame,
life’s vehicle for work and play.

The lover’s kiss, the friend’s embrace,
the clasp of hands to show we care,
the light of welcome on the face
are treasured moments all can share.

May all who come within our reach
be kindled by our inner glow,
not just in spirit’s words we preach,
in human touch love’s faith we show.

The lyrics are set to a tune called Dickinson College written by Brooklyn native Lee Hastings Bristol in 1962; to me, it has all the markings of a “tune written in the style of Victorian hymns” – but with a syncopated twist. As I sang it, I found myself stumbling, as the half notes were not where I expected them to be, and I held some quarter notes longer than written. I can imagine congregations struggling to get the rhythm right, and how painful that would be.

So I don’t know. It’s a fine hymn, but I don’t know when I’d use it.

Edited to add this comment from friend and mentor Michael Tino, who makes a really good point that I’m sorry I didn’t think of:

I always pause when presented with lyrics that claim things like “all can share.” All? Hmm-maybe not.

Touch is touchy. For some, those instances of touch are intimate and lovely. For others, they are intrusive and reminders of past abuse.

This hymn had fine intent, with uncertain impact.

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This was rather unexpected.

I’ve never sung this one before – lyrics are by Thomas Mikelson, who wrote the magnificent lyrics to Wake Now My Senses and was my home congregation’s first interim minister. The tune is by another colleague, Fred Wooden, whose generosity means a few of his books (pictured) are now in my library.

So even though I know the writers of this hymn, I’ve never sung it before. And that’s a shame, because this is a terrific hymn.

First, let’s look at Mikelson’s lyrics:

Sing of living, sing of dying, let them both be joined in one,
parts of an eternal process like the ever-circling sun.
From the freshness of each infant giving hope in what is new,
to the wisdom of the aged deepened by a longer view.

Open to a deeper loving, open to the gift of care,
searching for a higher justice, helping others in despair.
Through the tender bonds of living in a more inclusive way
we are opened more to suffering from the losses of each day.

My only criticism is that it’s only about generational differences, in a time when we need to sing about other differences as well. But maybe this is the jumping off point for services about living inclusively and expansively, living as if we believe the first principle.

The tune is lovely – a bit unexpected in places, but that gives it depth. It’s interesting that it’s set in 3/2 with 2/2 measures to even it off; it could easily been done in a squarer 4/4, but then the song wouldn’t dance. And while some people flip away as soon as they see time signature changes, they come naturally here and allow the melody to pulse rather than plod.

That I’d never sung this before is a shame. But I’m grateful to sing it now, this lovely, unexpected hymn.

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I am really struggling today to know what to say about this song.

Partly, it’s because I didn’t look ahead enough to think about interviewing colleagues Julica Hermann DelaFuente or Marisol Caballero, both of whom might have more insight into the difficulties or joys of this Mexican folk tune appearing in our hymnal – perhaps there will be a Hymn by Hymn Extra in our near future…

What can say is that it likely got noticed because (again) of the folkies we all know and love, this time the incomparable Joan Baez. While David Arkin’s lyrics were written for the 1976 song collection “How Can I Keep from Singing?” and published by the First Unitarian Church of Los Angeles, they appear to be reasonable musical translations of what appear to be original Spanish lyrics (except for the rooster crowing verse – which seems sad, since I want to hear a congregation sing “quiri, quiri, quiri” and “cara, cara, cara” and “pio, pio, pio” – or at least “cock-a-doodle-doo” and “cluck, cluck, cluck” and “cheep, cheep, cheep.”).

All the colors, yes, the colors we see in the springtime with all of its flowers.
All the colors, when the sunlight shines out through a rift in the cloud and it showers.
All the colors, as a rainbow appears when a storm cloud is touched by the sun.
All the colors abound for the whole world around and for ev’ryone under the sun.

All the colors, yes, the colors of people parading on by with their banners.
All the colors, yes, the colors of pennants and streamers and plumes and bandannas.
All the colors, yes, the colors of people now taking their place in the sun.
All the colors abound for the whole world around and for ev’ryone under the sun.

All the colors, yes, the black and the white and the red and the brown and the yellow.
All the colors, all the colors of people who smile and shake hands and say “Hello!”
All the colors, yes, the colors of people who know that their freedom is won.
All the colors abound for the whole world around and for ev’ryone under the sun.

De colores, de colores se visten los campos en la primavera.
De colores, de colores son los pajaritos que vienen de a fuera.
De colores, de colores es al arco iris que vemos lucir.
Y por eso los grandes amores de muchos colores me gustan a mi.

My problem in response is this: is it misappropriation? Should we have all the Spanish verses? Should we sing those?

I also bristle at the first line of the third verse. And I fear that white congregations don’t know how to sing this, and thus turn it into something it is not (often a dirge, sometimes almost a polka, and never – more’s the pity – on guitar). And I’m not sure if I’m making assumptions or judgments that aren’t mine to make.

Meanwhile, I’m going to leave you with this recording of the song by Mexican musician José-Luis Orozco, whose music promotes bilingual education:

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I need the hope of possibility.

I need the promise of unanswered questions.

I need the assurance of unsealed revelation.

Especially today, as I conclude my ministry at First Universalist Church of Southold and begin a community ministry in the arts and worship – a ministry whose form is not entirely clear but whose call is – I need these things in large supply, in my professional life, my personal life, and most definitely in my spiritual life.

This hymn – one of a few serious poems by early 20th century humorist Don Marquis – holds none of these things for me. In fact, it strikes me as rather determined to close the door to possibility and question, even as it promotes questioning in its third verse.

And it’s the third verse I really have a problem with. The first two aren’t bad – they’re a rather decent retelling of the creation story that is evolution. But the third verse…

A fierce unrest seethes at the core of all existing things:
it was the eager wish to soar that gave the gods their wings.
There throbs through all the worlds that are this heartbeat hot and strong,
and shaken systems, star by star, awake and glow in song.

But for the urge of this unrest these joyous spheres are mute;
but for the rebel in our breast had we remained as brutes.
When baffled lips demanded speech, speech trembled into birth;
one day the lyric word shall reach from earth to laughing earth.

From deed to dream, from dream to deed, from daring hope to hope,
the restless wish, the instant need, still drove us up the slope.
Sing we no governed firmament, cold, ordered, regular;
we sing the stinging discontent that leaps from star to star.

The first two lines are great. yes! This is how many of us, whatever our particularities, think is true – humanity driven by some need, some hope, something possible. It’s at the core of our Unitarian Universalism.

But then, boom. Marquis shuts the door hard, never letting our drive find what some call God. Nope. We don’t sing about that. We’re discontented beings in a wide scary universe. Period. No possibility of a new revelation. No possibility of Mystery.

Is this what we want our humanists and atheists to think? That in fact, science has sealed possibility and hope and cut us off from mystery? Because that’s how I read this last verse, and it is most assuredly not what I want anyone to think. I want neither science nor religious belief to seal possibility. Instead, I want them to work together to show us how much more is possible, how much more mystery there is in the universe, how many more questions there are than we can ever imagine.

I appreciate that some would be comforted by this hymn. And I do like the first two verses as an alternative to hymns like Earth Was Given as a Garden. But I will never sing that third verse.

I need the hope of possibility.

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I can’t write – I’m still giggling about the fact that every time I start singing this, even with lyrics in front of me, I start singing the English lyrics of A Mighty Fortress Is our God. And then getting mad when ‘in us its rivers flowing’ doesn’t rhyme with “on earth is not an equal” until I realize I sang the wrong words.

Seriously, though, I can’t get the Lutheran hymn out of my head enough to focus on Kenneth Patton’s lyrics.

Which, as is typical of his writing, quite good, quite inspiring, and oh so Unitarian Universalist.

We are the earth upright and proud; in us the earth is knowing.
Its winds are music in our mouths, in us its rivers flowing.
The sun is our hearthfire; warm with the earth’s desire,
and with its purpose strong, we sing earth’s pilgrim song;
in us the earth is growing.

We lift our voices, fill the skies with our exultant singing.
We dedicate our minds and hearts, to order, beauty bringing.
Our labor is our strength; our love will win at length;
our minds will find the ways to live in peace and praise.
Our day is just beginning.

I like its groundedness – not we are on the earth, but we are the earth. It’s eco-theologian Sallie MacFeague’s “we are earthlings”… it’s the interdependent web of all existence reminding us we’re part of it too. It’s an amazing set of lyrics.

I just can’t get past wanting to sing the words of the old Lutheran hymn. And it’s such a unique meter (8.7.8.7.6.6.6.7) that no other hymn tune has – so to sing it differently means one of our composers has to get busy. And I kinda hope they do – because I don’t use this hymn precisely because it’s set to Ein’ Feste Burg, and I would dissolve into uncontrollable giggles if I did, and that probably wouldn’t have the effect I would be going for.

 

 

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Dear STLT Hymnal Commission:

I love you, you know I do. I have been impressed with all you did to come up with this collection, and I have been honored to hear some of the stories from your chair, Mark Belletini. I know it was hard. I know it required a lot of sometimes unpopular choices in order to serve the greater good. I know you found some amazing songs to include and commissioned some amazing music that is now among our favorites.

But this one… well, I’m sure it makes someone happy, but lordy, it isn’t me.

First of all – this tune. Again with this tune. I was kinda hoping the commission from Thomas Oboe Lee was a one and done, getting it out of the way early in Songs of Spirit. But no. It shows up again. (I won’t go on about the tune here – I did a pretty fair job of expressing my opinion when it showed up the first time.)

And you know I generally like John Andrew Storey’s lyrics, but yowza, this pair of verses sets my teeth on edge:

Children of the human race, offspring of our Mother Earth,
not alone in endless space has our planet given birth.
Far across the cosmic skies countless suns in glory blaze,
and from untold planets rise endless canticles of praise.

Should some sign of others reach this, our lonely planet Earth,
differences of form and speech must not hide our common worth.
When at length our minds are free, and the clouds of fear disperse,
then at last we’ll learn to be Children of the Universe.

Now understand, Hymnal Commission, I am both a theist and a humanist, and I’m a Star Trek fan, and I don’t think we’re alone in the universe. But I hate this philosophy of first contact that says we have to get our shit together before anyone will notice us. This hymn is scolding us (and making us cross for having to sing this terrible tune, too).

I love you, Hymnal Commission, but I’d personally recommend this one for the chopping block.

Sincerely,
Kimberley “thank all that is holy that there are great hymns coming up in the next few days” Debus

—

Image is a still from Star Trek: First Contact – the moment that humans on earth were first visited by a humanoid race from another planet.

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I’ve probably started this post eight or nine times so far. And nothing witty or insightful has shown up in any of those beginnings.

It’s not that this isn’t a lovely hymn – it is.

It’s not that this isn’t a good message for us to sing together – it is.

Maybe its that it goes on for five verses – perfect for a General Assembly crowd (written for the 1988 GA in Palm Springs, CA) because it takes five verses to get to the back of the hall, but a bit tiresome in a tiny room of 40.

Or maybe because I don’t know it well and as written seems sing-songy to me.

The fact of the matter is that Unitarian Universalist musician Grace McLaren has written a lovely hymn:

Touch the earth, reach the sky!
Walk on shores while spirits fly
over the ocean, over the land,
our faith a quest to understand.

Touch the earth, reach the sky!
Children ask the reasons why.
In our lives the answers show,
and by our love they learn and grow.

Touch the earth, reach the sky!
All are born and all shall die;
life’s the time left in between,
to follow a star, to build a dream.

Touch the earth, reach the sky!
Hug the laughter, feel the cry.
May we see where we can give,
for this is what it means to live.

Touch the earth, reach the sky!
Soar with courage ever high;
spirits joining as we fly,
to touch the earth, to reach the sky.

Don’t get me wrong – it’s a solid hymn. Good, earth-based and humanist-grounded lyrics. And in the event Wake Now My Senses, Make Channels for the Streams of Love, or With Heart and Mind suddenly disappear from the hymnal, the Life of Integrity section would still be well tended.

It just doesn’t sing for me. It doesn’t inspire me this morning. Again, maybe I need to sing it with a good accompaniment in a big congregation.

And I know I can’t expect every hymn to stir me, just as I can’t expect every spiritual practice to click either. I just wish this one did.

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West Wing fans: you nearly got a picture of William Fichtner as Judge Christopher Mulready. I guess I finally found a moment of wit. 🙂

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As I’m going through this section, entitled The Life of Integrity, I realize I use (or should use) these hymns a lot – and somehow am not at all getting bored, like I have with other sections of our hymnal. (I’m lookin’ at you, Christmas…)

It’s not surprising, as our Universalism calls us to love the hell out of this world. And as I scan back through a few years of services, it seems that one of these hymns from this category shows up easily 75% of the time. I admit I am feeling a little guilty for using them too much. But maybe they are filled with the messages most worth repeating – they say we only really preach one sermon, after all.

What I like about this hymn (and the others in this section) is that there’s both an openness and an urgency to the message – that liberal religion has not just benefit but also responsibility:

With heart and mind and voice and hand may we this time and place transcend
to make our purpose understood: a mortal search for mortal good,
a firm commitment to the goal of justice, freedom, peace for all.

A mind that’s free to seek the truth; a mind that’s free in age and youth
to choose a path no threat impedes, wherever light of conscience leads.
Our martyrs died so we could be a church where every mind is free.

A heart that’s kind, a heart whose search makes Love the spirit of our church,
where we can grow, and each one’s gift is sanctified, and spirits lift,
where every door is open wide for all who choose to step inside.

These lyrics are by Alicia Carpenter (commissioned for a Service of the Living Tradition), who also wrote Just As Long As I Have Breath; it is any wonder these two make such a good pair? More than once they have bracketed a service – this one to welcome and set the stage, the other to send out with a call to action.

Regarding the tune – we’ve sung it before, awkwardly I think, in The Winds of Change. But the German tune Mach’s Mit Mir, Gott works extremely well here. I’d love to hear a recast in a different time signature, or played with a swing, because it can get a bit stodgy; perhaps a 6/4 (my new favorite time signature) would help it out? Lord, please send me an accompanist who can come over with a keyboard every day and play hymns with me (and maybe bring coffee)… that’s not too much to ask, is it?

—

The image is from UU World’s Flickr page – of Rev. Cheryl Walker preaching at the 2017 Service of the Living Tradition, asking us to decide if we’re trying to make a name or make a difference. I was honored to be one of the many on stage, recognized for the transitions in our ministries.

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So…. bear with me on this: today’s hymn is the Jan to yesterday’s Marcia.

Everyone loves Wake Now My Senses. it’s a popular ordination hymn. It makes some of us cry. It is easy to sing and suits so many sermons.

And there, on the bottom of the right hand page, tucked away so as you hardly notice, is Make Channels for the Streams of Love. It’s not the favorite, it’s not well known, it’s overshadowed and often ignored. I can just hear this hymn whining to the Hymnal Commission about being stuck on that page and not having its own so it can shine. Just as second-born Jan Brady was always in her older sister Marcia’s shadow on The Brady Bunch, so too does this hymn sometimes sit in the shadows of a more popular hymn.

But folks, it deserves to shine. Set to the Land of Rest tune (which we have sung twice already in Heap High the Farmer’s Wintry Hoard and When We Wend Homeward), this text by Irish author Richard Trench contains a loving, lovely, and important message.

Make channels for the streams of love where they may broadly run;
and love has overflowing streams to fill them every one.

But if at any time we cease such channels to provide,
the very founts of love for us will soon be parched and dried.

For we must share, if we would keep this gift all else above;
we cease to give, we cease to have — such is the law of love.

Or, as Jimmy Durante (and many others) sang,

You’ve got to give a little, take a little,
And let your poor heart break a little.
That’s the story of, that’s the glory of love.

I hope you sing this more. I hope I sing this more. Because it’s so easy to stay angry and get angrier, to stay isolated and get more isolated, and then become parched and dried. We have to always love more, love more, love more.