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Far rolling voices of the sea chant loud upon the shore.
They tell the ancient mystery of God forever more.

Newborn, the sun in glory rides across the heav’nly fields.
The starry host in silence bides and to the morning yields.

White seabirds wheel against the sky, companioned with the dawn.
God, lift our winging souls on high, share in creation’s morn.

Your universal waters sweep upon the endless strands.
Your love and mercy ever keep asurge in all thy lands.

Far rolling voices of the sea chant loud upon the shore.
They tell the ancient mystery, O God, forevermore.

This was another hymn I have never heard – I suspect many stay away from it not only because of unfamiliar intervals more prevalent in Eastern music, but also because it is constructed differently, with two variations on verses and a third, middle verse (more like a bridge) suddenly in 3/4 time to the regular 4/4 of the piece. And while I suspect many a music director has said ‘we’ll have the choir sing it’ – even that doesn’t happen, as the minister chooses other more familiar (read: Western) hymns.

It’s a shame, because while I haven’t gotten the full effect from plunking out notes on my keyboard app, it is not difficult to sing – it is an intriguing, haunting tune that echoes beautifully the themes of the lyrics. So many times we long for mystery in our hymns, things sung in minor keys that leave the questions open and draw us to wonder – and here is one, just begging for us to wrap our arms around it as we enter the ancient mystery, the starry host, the universal waters.

 

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Bring many names, beautiful and good;
celebrate in parable and story,
holiness in glory, living, loving God:
hail and hosanna, bring many names.

Strong mother God, working night and day,
planning all the wonders of creation,
setting each equation, genius at play:
hail and hosanna, strong mother God!

Warm father God, hugging ev’ry child,
feeling all the strains of human living,
caring and forgiving till we’re reconciled:
hail and hosanna, warm father God!

Old, aching God, grey with endless care,
calmly piercing evil’s new disguises,
glad of new surprises, wiser than despair:
hail and hosanna, old, aching God!

Young, growing God, eager still to know,
willing to be changed by what you’ve started,
quick to be delighted, singing as you go:
hail and hosanna, young, growing God!

Great, living God, never fully known,
joyful darkness far beyond our seeing,
closer yet than breathing, everlasting home:
hail and hosanna, great, living God!

In my opinion, this hymn needs to be retired.

To be honest, I groaned when I turned to the page and saw which hymn it was.

First, it is a fairly annoying tune to repeat seven times – and it’s hard to omit a verse because then you’re omitting an aspect of god. But ugh – it’s such an annoying tune I stopped after three and then just sang the last line to end on a resolved chord.

Second, it’s got some troubling stereotypes: “Strong mother God, working night and day.” Really? The father God is warm, “hugging ev’ry child” – Dad’s being loving and kissing the hurts away while Mom is toiling away at creation? Are you kidding me? No. Just no.

I’m not that thrilled with how the lyrics paint young and old, either, as though only the old ache and only the young learn?

There are admittedly a few lovely moments – the last verse is terrific – “joyful darkness far beyond our seeing” is a nice turn of phrase. But I am not going to praise an entire hymn because it stumbles into poetic once or twice.

And yes… I get why this might be important for some people coming in to this faith from others who painted a vengeful, controlling image of a strong male God. But there are so many other hymns that explore the ways Unitarian Universalists understand the Divine, without using stereotypes and an annoying, kill-me-now tune.

I don’t want to talk about aching Gods and overworked housewife Gods, I want to talk about a God that can’t be described in trite stereotypes but needs expansive and gorgeous language to give a hint of what God might be.

I want to talk about all that might be God even if we can’t or won’t name it as God because of all the damage that word has done.

I want to talk about what God means to how we live with and among one another.

I want to talk about how we live on this amazing planet in this amazing time of the creative humans and see what we can do together to be together, work together, love together because that is God.

I want to take hikes in the woods and sit on beaches and picnic by streams and gaze out at changing leaves and talk about the emanating from the rocks and lakes and trees and birds God.

I want to talk about inspiring, creative, love beyond all measure, bigger than us but seen constantly in us and among us, present whether we notice or not God.

I want to talk about God without needing to believe in God.

I want to see God in you, and I want to see God in me.

I don’t want to categorize God. I want to experience God.

 

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Dear weaver of our lives’ design
whose patterns all obey,
with skillful fingers gently guide
the sturdy threads that will survive
the tangle of our days.

Take up the fabric of our lives
with hands that gently hold;
bind in the ragged edge that care
would sunder and that pain would tear,
and mend our rav’ling souls.

Let eyes that in the plainest cloth
a hidden beauty see;
discern in us our richest hues,
show us the patterns we may use
to set our spirits free.

Back in my holy roller days, a member of my prayer circle self-proclaimed herself as having the gift of prophesy. In that space and time, we understood that to be a huge gift, but the way it played out was her telling us things about life in poetic language. And yes, she was doing an MA in creative writing. She’d wax poetic about trees and rebirth, crystals and growth, wind and change. Nothing too wild, but our 18-year-old minds were blown away by her 25-year-old wisdom. At one of our gatherings, she went into ‘prophesy’ mode and talked to me about being a tapestry, a life woven through time with many threads coming together; I wouldn’t be able to see it because I was still young and too close, but it would become significant.

As time wore on and I fell away from that path, I forgot most of what happened in those circles and firmly rejected the harmful doctrines; however, her image of a tapestry has stayed with me, more than 30 years now. I return to it time and time again, thinking about how not just our individual lives but our communities and indeed our world are woven into beautiful tapestries we can only see part of. When something especially good or especially bad happens, I think about what color threads are being used, what the image on the tapestry looks like, how it connects to other parts of the design.

So it’s not surprising that I love the lyrics of this hymn. Me, in my theistic, “god is creator and creating and so are we” understanding of theology, resonates deeply with this weaver of our lives’ design. We are plain cloth and tangled threads; we are the sculpture under the stone; we are the unprocessed film; we are the unplayed notes on the piano – all ready to be and already woven into our life’s tapestry. This is creation and creating, this is possibility and anticipation, this is what is and what’s next.

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For the beauty of the earth, for the splendor of the skies,
for the love which from our birth over and around us lies:
Source of all, to thee we raise this, our hymn of grateful praise.

For the joy of ear and eye, for the heart and mind’s delight,
for the mystic harmony linking sense to sound and sight:
Source of all, to thee we raise this, our hymn of grateful praise.

For the wonder of each hour of the day and of the night,
hill and vale and tree and flower, sun and moon and stars of light:
Source of all, to thee we raise this, our hymn of grateful praise.

For the joy of human care, sister, brother, parent, child,
for the kinship we all share, for all gentle thoughts and mild:
Source of all, to thee we raise this, our hymn of grateful praise.

This is probably in my top five favorite hymns ever.

I loved it as a child, I loved it especially when I learned a solo version during my holy roller days, I loved it even more when I saw that the Unitarian Universalists changed “Lord” to “Source.” (I’m not sure why “glory” was changed to “splendor” – word allergies, I suppose.) I love it every time I hear it, just about every way it’s played (I once heard someone play it like a dirge. It was offensive.), I find myself singing it to myself. I have to be careful to not choose it as an opening hymn too often.

For me, this is a celebration of life – because for me, life isn’t just about the earth and its inhabitants. Life is about our spirits, our souls, our connection to something bigger and greater than us. Even if you don’t believe in God, it’s hard to believe we are completely isolated from each other – we are connected, and we constantly find ways to connect, whether through families and tribes, nations and states, highways and railways, telegraphs and telephones, the internet. We are connected to something greater, even if it is just our collective selves.

This hymn remembers that we’re connected to something greater than ourselves – Source of All. And it’s good, and appropriate that we sing a hymn of praise to that something greater. It’s what helps us find meaning, helps us find purpose, helps us be fully human and fully earthlings.

And in the praising, I find peace. I find comfort, I find assurance.

—

On a musical note (see what I did there?), I really wish everyone would take the breath, as marked, in the chorus. It’s “Source of all, to thee we raise this, [BREATH] our hymn of grateful praise.” Please, if you read this, breathe where you’re supposed to. It’s actually more meaningful and beautiful.

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Be thou my vision, O God of my heart;
naught be all else to me, save that thou art.
Thou my best thought, by day or by night,
waking or sleeping, thy presence my light.

Be thou my wisdom, and thou my true word;
I ever with thee and thou with me God;
thou my soul’s shelter, thou my high tower,
raise thou me heavenward, O Power of my power.

Riches I heed not, nor world’s empty praise,
thou my inheritance, now and always;
thou and thou only, first in my heart,
Sov’reign of heaven, my treasure thou art.

Commence theological whiplash in 3…2…1….

Yesterday, we sang a paean to the interconnected web of all existence. Today, we shall now sing one of the most theistic hymns we have.  We’ve gone from a recitation of things found in nature and among us (sun, wind, the lark, the seasons, rain and snow, play, sleep), saying “I’m as rich as rich can be, for all these things belong to me … to a singular focus on a transcendent God: “thou my inheritance, first and always.”

Like I said. Whiplash.

Not that it’s bad… in fact, it’s quite reflective of the vastness of our theologies and perspectives, and speaks deeply of who we are that these two hymns can be on facing pages, one touching the other almost all the time, getting our sense of the planet all mashed up with a focus on the Divine.

Oddly, it’s not entirely unreflective of my own theology – individually, they are what they are. But mashed up together (which musically would be difficult due to different time signatures and phrasing), they feel very much like the theistic process theology I find both comforting and challenging. Here’s creation and all the amazingness that it is, and we can celebrate our part in it, and… we can look to that which some call God as the source of vision, wisdom, comfort, protection to be key to that creation which we celebrate. It isn’t a perfect fit, of course; I’m not sure I’m completely down with this early 20th century picture of God, but some within our faith are, and I am glad we celebrate this transcendent God in our hymnal.

Musically, of course, this tune (Slane) is light, easy, familiar – I am sure most UUs regularly sing this to Thomas Mikelson’s words, “Wake now my senses and hear the earth call” (298 for those keeping score). It’s catchy – a tune I will probably find myself humming all day.

But beyond today, I will carry with me this juxtaposition, this theological whiplash, and continue to think about how we hold these differences in juxtaposition, put them in conversation, make space for the both outside a book where they don’t even know they’re connected. This is part of our work: making sense of the space where both these things are true.

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The sun that shines across the sea, the wind that whispers in the tree,
the lark that carols in the sky, the fleecy clouds a-sailing by,
O, I’m as rich as rich can be, for all these things belong to me!

The raindrops which refresh the earth, the springtime mantle of rebirth,
the summer days when all things grow, the autumn mist and winter snow,
O, I’m as rich as rich can be, for all these things belong to me!

The task well done, the fun of play, the wise who guide me on my way,
the balm of sleep when each day ends, the joy of family and friends,
O, I’m as rich as rich can be, for all these things belong to me!

Part one, wherein I reflect on familiarity

And now we’re back to the unfamiliar hymns.

I am thinking about how we learn hymns, what makes one more familiar than another, why we gravitate toward some even when we are the hymn choosers ourselves. Sure, some of it is that we lean into our favorites – whether because of the lyric or the tune or the combination. Some become favorites because of a particular memory that we associate with it. But let’s not discount the fact that some of the hymns we know well are previous ministers’ favorites. And those a previous minister doesn’t like doesn’t get chosen for services, week after week.

And in the case of this hymn, that’s too bad. It’s a sweet little song, one I would happily introduce into a service on gratitude or transcendentalism or even a celebration of the seventh principle. It is sweet, and draws the circle of blessings wide. I’m not 100% sold on the melody yet, but it’s pretty; this is another case of wanting to hear the whole accompaniment to make a real judgment about the tune.

It may not have been on the list of my minister’s favorites, but it may wind up on mine.

 

Part two, where I reflect on this section of the hymnal

This section is called “The Celebration of Life” – it’s been full of opening songs, celebrating who we are, extoling our various and varied theologies, exploring our sense of humanity’s self in concert with the rest of the planet, being thankful for life itself and all it has to offer.

Outside of these morning singing reflections, life has been much less celebratory. Politicians are fighting about who we are, battling over various and varied ideologies, exploiting our humanity (and forgetting to talk about the rest of the planet), insulting and harming each other. It’s a cantankerous, rancorous, angry time – and the atmosphere both within and outside of politics is at times vile.

Is it any wonder these hymns sometimes seem too sweet, too saccharine, too fluffy?

And yet – certainly as I discovered yesterday with What Wondrous Love – even these kinds of songs reach deep, almost imperceptibly, into our hearts and minds and keeps us going. It’s terrible out there, but we are still alive, and maybe that alone is worth celebrating. Maybe, during each of these horrible and hard and traumatizing days, the few minutes spent with these hymns is not just helpful but necessary medicine to ease our collective existential pain.

In other words, perhaps it is not entirely by chance that I began singing, at the beginning, on my early October birthday. Perhaps this is exactly the long-term treatment I need. That we need.

August 7, 2017 Edit:  I added the Content Warning tag on this because it strikes me as maybe a bit privileged to sing about riches of family and friends in the third verse; that could be a problematic sentiment to some. Use with care.

 

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What wondrous love is this, O my soul, O my soul,
what wondrous love is this, O my soul?
What wondrous love is this that brings my heart such bliss,
and takes away the pain of my soul, of my soul,
and takes away the pain of my soul.

When I was sinking down, sinking down, sinking down,
when I was sinking down, sinking down,
when I was sinking down beneath my sorrows ground,
friends to me gather’d round, O my soul, O my soul,
friends to me gather’d round, O my soul.

To love and to all friends I will sing, I will sing,
to love and to all friends I will sing.
To love and to all friends who pain and sorrow mend,
with thanks unto the end I will sing, I will sing,
with thanks unto the end I will sing.

Sometimes the written music is just a suggestion.

In our hymnal, this hymn, based of course on a folk tune collected in The Southern Harmony, is set in 2/2 time – fairly square but not march-like. And I have liked it fine, admiring of the elegant rewritten lyrics to take the focus off “the thorny crown” and place it on “friends to me gathered ’round.” It is more personal, hold me – and many in our faith – more deeply.

But in the spring of 2015, in searching for a recording of this hymn (for reasons long forgotten now), I stumbled across Christian singer Chelsea Moon’s rendition – accompanied by two guitars (the Franz Brothers) – and performed in 6/8 time. Now technically, 6/8 is just a tripled breakdown of 2/2, but it’s remarkably different, both in tone, and ultimately in meaning.

Let’s give it a listen (and know that the lyrics are the original in both). First, here’s the song in 2/2 time (in a gorgeous choral arrangement performed by the St. Olaf Choir):

And now, Chelsea Moon’s version:

Both beautiful, but for me, the rolling 6/8 connects to a natural internal pulse that feels as though it comes from and through my body, connected directly to my heart and soul.

I have since sung this a capella, in a 6/8 time signature, in a handful of settings, and each time it has felt more personal to me. And I realize this, as I sing it over and over, even as I write this reflection: while there are many songs that move me deeply, this one – this one beautiful song, with our words of friendship and connection –  is my spirit’s song, my heart’s cry, my soul’s comfort…

To all my friends… with thanks unto the end, I will sing.

I will sing.

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Every night and every morn
some to misery are born;
every morn and every night
some are born to sweet delight.

Joy and woe are woven fine,
clothing for the soul divine:
under every grief and pine
runs a joy with silken twine.

It is right it should be so:
we were made for joy and woe;
and when this we rightly know,
safely through the world we go.

William Blake. Swoon.

Seriously – an amazing poet, writing alongside Wordsworth, Shelley, Coleridge, Burns, Keats. Some of the most elegant poets of the English language, all exploring all manner of life, divinity, nature, and the essence of humanity… while Channing, Emerson, and Thoreau were exploring the same through theology and philosophy. A heady time of new thought.

But I digress. I was swooning over Blake’s poetry – wondering how it is I have spent all this time skimming past this hymn, not seeing its depth and beauty. It is something I deeply believe – that we cannot have joy without woe, nor woe without knowing there is joy somewhere, feeding and clothing our souls.

And how did I skim over this, knowing now that it is set to one of my favorite hymn tunes, the lush and delicious Ralph Vaughan Williams piece “The Call”? The two together are deep, and meaningful, and rich.

Part of this practice is about my own spiritual care – it isn’t just a daily homework assignment, although sometimes it strikes me as such. No, singing aloud to these hymns, in my kitchen while the coffee is brewing, is meant to be a spiritual practice to feed me and open my eyes to something.

And this one has brought me Right. Back. To. Center.

All of the insanity of the presidential election, all the tumult in the congregation, all the pain in the world, for a moment anyway, has been taken off my shoulders so that I may sit with my soul, full of joy and woe, and luxuriate in this beautiful hymn for this beautiful moment.

Mmmmm.

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‘Tis a gift to be simple, ‘tis a gift to be free,
‘tis a gift to come down where we ought to be,
and when we find ourselves in the place just right,
‘twill be in the valley of love and delight.

When true simplicity is gained,
to bow and to bend we shan’t be ashamed.
To turn, turn will be our delight,
‘till by turning, turning we come ‘round right.

I am currently taking a unit of clinical pastoral education (CPE), and in my classroom and supervisory sessions, I’m finding myself reconsidering the stories I have told about my childhood from the perspective of who these stories mean I bring into each pastoral session. It’s been good work…holy work… but it also means I have cleared the path to those childhood memories, so they’re easier to get to right now. And so this simple hymn tune, rather than delighting me and drawing me toward reflecting on the Shakers is instead reminding me of a long-forgotten embarrassment.

I was eleven, going on twelve, the year of America’s Bicentennial. My family and I loved it all – the history, the passion and pomp and parade, the community spirit. We participated in everything we could. Dad was one of the men asked to play one of the signers of the Declaration in a July 4th pageant, and so Mom made his costume, along with one for me.

I loved my 18th century costume, but like many things I loved, it made me even more of an outcast amongst my schoolmates. On that day, though, I didn’t care too much. My dad was a Signer, and we loved the celebration.

Later that summer, the Hudson Valley Girl Scout Council put together a girls’ chorus to sing a program of patriotic tunes at the Schaighticoke Fair. I either didn’t listen or didn’t want to listen or simply misunderstood – but of the fifty or so girls who sang, 49 wore their Girl Scout uniforms, and one wore her Bicentennial costume. And what’s worse – I had a solo, on “Simple Gifts.’

I was mortified. I was embarrassed that I stuck out. I was teased by members of my troop. And I can’t imagine what the choir director thought, but there I was, sticking out like a sore thumb in that sea of Girl Scout Green. I don’t remember if anyone in the audience thought anything of it – maybe they thought it was intentional because of my solo. Maybe they thought I was also doing something else. Or maybe they didn’t even notice, and my mortification was a product of my own desire to just for once fit in.

And it’s entirely possible I am the only person in the world who remembers this. Heck, I didn’t know I held the memory until I started singing this morning – and yet here it is, on full display. I couldn’t sing through the piece, short as it is, without bursting into tears, remembering viscerally the embarrassment.

Such a simple, beautiful, song.

Telling me, by the way, to not be ashamed – because ‘by turning, turning, we come ’round right.’

My eleven-year-old self never heard the message of the song until now. The simple truth is, I am who I am, I have done what I have done, but I keep turning, turning. I keep moving on, keep finding out and being simply who I am.

Tis a gift, indeed, to be simple.

 

 

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The lone, wild bird in lofty flight
is still with thee, nor leaves thy sight.
And I am thine! I rest in thee.
Great spirit come and rest in me.

The ends of earth are in thy hand,
the sea’s dark deep and far-off land.
And I am thine! I rest in thee.
Great spirit come and rest in me.

I’m not sure I have much to say – I love the tune (Prospect) and have sung it in numerous settings, most beautifully in a choral setting of Michael Dennis Browne’s “The Road Home” arranged by Stephen Paulus.

The lyrics are much more theistic than its title would suggest. This stealth theism delights me a bit today…especially as I begin planning November’s services and programs, which are all about humanism.

That’s it really. A short, delightful little hymn with more than meets the eye and a lush memory.

 

(PS: The image above is of a tundra swan. Cool, eh?)