By |

I went on a bit yesterday about early Anglican poetry and music, not realizing that one of the most famous pieces – and my favorite – to come out of that era (1550-1650) was next on our hit parade.

This poem, “The Call,” was written by George Herbert, an Anglican priest and poet from Wales. Herbert was considered a masterful orator and writer, and did a brief stint in Parliament and as Trinity College’s public orator (because apparently that was a thing) before returning to the priesthood.

But what we remember from Herbert is not his service to the Crown or the Church but his writing. His posthumously published book A Priest in the Temple, more commonly known as The Country Parson is both a snapshot into early 17th century England and in parts could definitely be written today. It’s a slim volume that serves largely as a handbook for clergy in rural parishes; it addresses such practical questions as keeping house, and local charity, as well as providing advice for issues around marriage and caring for women in the parish. Herbert’s observations and advice are just as appropriate for today; proof that while technology and culture may change, people don’t.

But I digress (I told you I was a geek). This poem is part of Herbert’s vast body of work that places him squarely in the cannon of the Metaphysical Poets – John Donne perhaps the most famous of them all. These poets – loosely held together under this moniker, did not write all together in one particular style, but what connects them is a particular use of nature as metaphor, mystical sensibilities, and a particular intelligence and cleverness that some contemporaries (and subsequent critics such as Samuel Johnson – the guy who wrote a dictionary) found untenable.

And yet, the poetry lives – beautifully, I might add. Enough trivia – let’s get to it:

Come, my way, my truth, my life:
such a way as gives us breath,
such a truth as ends all strife,
such a life as killeth death.

Come, my light, my feast, my strength:
such a light as shows a feast,
such a feast as mends in length,
such a strength as makes a guest.

Come, my joy, my love, my heart:
such a joy as none can move,
such a love as none can part,
such a heart as joys in love.

This is, at its heart, a meditation on John 14:6 – “Jesus said to him, ‘I am the way, and the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.” Yet it speaks beyond any one belief and to a greater call from the Spirit of Life that we can all find truth, strength, joy, love. Come, Herbert asks of us. If we come to that which we call a higher power, we will know.

Beautiful.

And…beautifully set to a tune by Ralph Vaughan Williams as part of a piece called Five Mystical Songs, all based on Herbert poems. Each one is simply gorgeous and perfectly matched to Herbert’s lush poetry. I recommend taking the 20 minutes to listen.

Clearly, I love this one. And on a day when we say goodbye to one year and hello to a new, very uncertain one, it’s good to remember to come home to love.

Come.

By |

Here is another beautiful prayer – and when I first read the lyrics, I thought “why do I not use this more often?” And then I sang it.

Now don’t get me wrong: I love the Tallis Canon. It’s particularly beautiful when done in three parts in a big echo-y chapel so that the bell tones resonate and last a few moments after the voices cease their singing. Plus, I’m a fan of 16th century English sacred music, especially since writing a paper on 16th century English sacred music for a class entitled Anglican Devotional Poetry and Literature 1550-1650, and having listened to and fallen in love with a fair bit of the music in the process. Yes, in case it wasn’t perfectly clear already, I am a geek.

My problem with the Tallis Canon for these 19th century lyrics by Matthew Arnold is that, once again, it doesn’t really fit. Here’s this soulful, contemplative lyric:

Calm soul of all things, make it mine
to feel, amid the city’s jar,
that there abides a peace of thine
I did not make, and cannot mar.

The will to neither strive nor cry,
the power to feel with others, give.
Calm, calm me more; nor let me die
before I have begun to live.

And it’s set to a reasonably jolly tune. Now don’t get me wrong, there are jollier tunes in the hymnal for sure, but this is meant to be a calm, meditative plea of the heart. This tune just doesn’t cut it for me.

What would I suggest in its place? Truth From Above – used in 289, Creative Love, Our Thanks We Give. That tune has a soulfulness that I think is called for here. It’s not quite as familiar, but it feels like the kind of thing we’d gather around candles at dusk to sing, or maybe hear wafting from within the cloister walls, or perhaps hauntingly sung by Lorena McKennitt or Enya.

I do know that I need this prayer today, despite sitting in the quiet of my sister’s house in a small Victorian village on this snowy Friday between the holidays. So much is jarring right now – and so I pray for the peace and calm, even if for a moment.

By |

The story goes that this is the last song the orchestra played as the Titanic was going down, that final prayer that we put things right because we’re surely going to die, and soon we’ll be nearer to God so we better pray now out of panic.

But English Unitarian poet Sarah Flower Adams wasn’t writing a last-ditch-effort prayer; she was writing a hymn inspired by Jacob’s dream:

He came to a certain place and stayed there for the night, because the sun had set. Taking one of the stones of the place, he put it under his head and lay down in that place. And he dreamed that there was a ladder* set up on the earth, the top of it reaching to heaven; and the angels of God were ascending and descending on it. (Genesis 28:11-12, NRSV)

Now look at the lyrics:

Nearer, my God, to thee, nearer to thee!
E’en though it be a cross that raiseth me;
still all my song shall be, nearer, my God, to thee,
nearer, my God, to thee, nearer to thee!

Though like the wanderer, the sun gone down,
darkness be over me, my rest a stone;
yet in my dreams I’d be nearer, my God, to thee,
nearer, my God, to thee, nearer to thee.

There let the way appear steps unto heaven;
all that thou sendest me in mercy given;
angels to beckon me nearer, my God, to thee,
nearer, my God, to thee, nearer to thee.

Then, with my waking thoughts bright with thy praise,
out of my stony griefs Bethel I’ll raise;
so by my woes to be nearer, my God, to thee,
nearer, my God, to thee, nearer to thee.

Or if on joyful wing cleaving the sky,
sun, moon, and stars forgot, upwards I fly,
still all my song shall be, nearer, my God, to thee,
nearer, my God, to thee, nearer to thee.

Do you see it? Don’t let the cross get in the way – because otherwise, it’s all there: the stone for a pillow, steps unto heaven, angels, the founding of Bethel, etc.  This is the moment for Jacob: taking off for the hills, questions swirling and seeking answers – and God saying “let me show you this is not in vain – I shall call you ‘he who wrestles with God’: Israel.”

This telling of Jacob’s dream is a prayer for a connection, for fulfillment of a quest, for seeking and seeing. Despite all the hardships and wandering, I’ll go out and sing praises and pray for enlightenment. All of my wrestling and struggling is not for naught; rather, it keeps me engaged. As I release that which has caused me pain, I will be closer to that which I seek.

It’s still not a hymn for every congregation or for every day, and too many will think still of this scene from Titanic, but framed as part of our own call to question our answers and grow always closer into harmony with the Divine and each other, this is a perfect hymn.

By |

Now this one really is a prayer.

In fact, Jacqui James points out in Between the Lines that the incredible Shelley Denham wrote this as a prayer. And called the tune Prayer.

And wow, what a prayer. It is gentle to self even as it calls for strength. It is a quiet prayer of preparation, of focus and stillness. This is the song we should be singing every morning, not just an occasional Sunday or a random Wednesday. I don’t have a lot to say because it already says so much – it is beautifully crafted and beautiful to sing and carries our prayer on its gentle melody.

Blessed Spirit of my life, give me strength through stress and strife;
help me live with dignity; let me know serenity.
Fill me with a vision, clear my mind of fear and confusion.
When my thoughts flow restlessly, let peace find a home in me.

Spirit of great mystery, hear the still, small voice in me.
Help me live my wordless creed as I comfort those in need.
Fill me with compassion, be the source of my intuition.
Then, when life is done for me, let love be my legacy.

Amen.

By |

It’s a song for our time, this one.

Now it sits in the middle of the mystical and meditation section, but it’s really a fight song, a reminder that we have to keep getting up off the mat, to always be open, to revel in that which brings us joy but not forget that there is work to be done so that all may feel joy.

Although this life is but a wraith,
although we know not what we use,
although we grope with little faith,
give me the heart to fight and lose.

Open my ears to music,
let me thrill with spring’s first flutes and drums —
but never let me dare forget
the bitter ballads of the slums.

Ever insurgent let me be,
make me more daring than devout;
from sleek contentment keep me free,
and fill me with a buoyant doubt.

From compromise and things half-done,
keep me, with stern and stubborn pride;
and when, at last, the fight is won,
O, keep me still unsatisfied.

I just wish the tune kept me satisfied — I think this is another case where struggling with an unfamiliar tune obscures the power of the lyrics. The tune may be familiar to others, but I plunked through, having found no recordings of it (Small Church Music has this one with a licensee that isn’t valid in the US), but it wasn’t clicking for me. To get full effect, I confess I sang it to O Waly Waly, which seemed an appropriate substitution. Once I did that, I felt the strength and resolve of these lyrics by Louis Untermeyer, who also wrote the equally compelling May Nothing Evil Cross This Door. As a pair, these two hymns – while not written by a Unitarian Universalist – seem to embody much of who we are and what we want to be.

This is not a quiet prayer. This is a reminder to our souls to answer faith’s call to action. And more, it’s a reminder that the work may actually never really be done:  “when at last the fight is won, O keep me still unsatisfied.”

In other words, stay woke.

 

By |

I remember in the mid 2000s, Rev. Linda Hoddy, who was my home congregation’s minister, asked me to learn this as a solo. I remember at the time thinking how wonky the rhythms were and marveling that such an odd piece of music would be in the hymnal at all. Linda agreed that this was not something she could ask the congregation to sing, but it was the perfect piece for a service. And so I dived in. It took some practice before I could sing it gracefully, as its rhythm and word placement is unusual, and it was frustrating enough that my copy is covered with pencil marks where I worked on the phrasing and counting out the beats.

Relearning the piece a decade later, I felt that rush of frustration as I looked at the pencil-covered page (the advantage of owning your own hymnal). But in the relearning, I took it phrase by phrase as I had so carefully marked out, and I realized that this could be taught to a congregation if you tossed the book away and just handed them lyrics on a page.

And imagine if even the first verse alone became a regular response in the service? The lyrics are quite something, after all. What if we asked ourselves and our congregations to think about, for a moment, just what kindness and generosity can do?

How far can reach a smile,
how high a helping hand can lift?
How far is far enough to give?

Is there a way to learn
just how a kindness speaks or where it goes?
Should love be caught to hold?

For God pours out this love
in all that lives, through God we see that
Life can never cease to give.

If we then think our small
amount of help would not go far —
and so don’t give, would we still live?

Now the truth is, this is not a nice hymn. This isn’t calling for us to be nice. I reflected on nice v. kind in a service a few weeks ago – and I wish I could have used this hymn to emphasize my point:

It’s easier to be nice than to be kind. Niceness buys into the gospel of comfort, that says we don’t want to offend. Niceness is being quiet and complacent, niceness is not making waves and not making a stink and just letting people have their own version of truth even when they’re not factual. Niceness is demure and unobtrusive and doesn’t want to bother anybody. Niceness allows comfort to be more important than goodness, ease to be more valued than doing what’s right.

Niceness is not kindness. Kindness sees a need and offers to help. Kindness stands up for the person being bullied, and then makes sure they’re safe. Kindness disrupts lawlessness and incivility. Kindness goes out of its way. Kindness recycles, kindness holds the door, kindness builds a ramp, kindness explains, kindness knows its privilege and uses it to build justice. Kindness is not easy. Kindness is sometimes uncomfortable, because it requires us to not stay comfortable, to not stay nice and docile.

Kindness doesn’t sit still. And kindness acts in many big and small ways. Kindness calls elected representatives, and writes letters, and sometimes goes to protest marches, and makes sure everyone who wants to have a voice has one. Kindness donates much needed funds to groups in need and sometimes stands outside of Planned Parenthood and acts as a protective escort to women seeking medical treatment. Kindness puts on angels wings and shields a grieving family from a Westboro Baptist Church protest. Kindness sends water to Flint and camps with the Indian nations at Standing Rock. Kindness prays for the protection of sacred land and water, and asks forgiveness. Kindness mourns the loss of another black person killed by police and sometimes kindness works for racial justice because it knows that Black Lives Matter.

Kindness isn’t always easy. But kindness – the big acts and small – matters.

This hymn is a hymn of kindness. Do I wish it were easier to learn the tune? Sure. It would be great if this were easily accessible, like the Finlandia tune, for example. But maybe it’s good that it’s not.

This isn’t a nice hymn. But it is kind.

By |

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.

By |

This is such a gorgeous hymn, and a comforting one too.

First, let’s talk melody – Shelley Denham knew what she was doing, writing a sort of lullaby to winter in a gentle 3/2. It is both simple to sing and delicious to sing. I imagine my college choir director reminding us to sing through the long notes with some energy, because there is mystery there.

And then the lyrics –

Dark of winter, soft and still, your quiet calm surrounds me.
Let my thoughts go where they will; ease my mind profoundly.
And then my soul will sing a song, a blessed song of love eternal.
Gentle darkness, soft and still, bring your quiet to me.

Darkness, soothe my weary eyes, that I may see more clearly.
When my heart with sorrow cries, comfort and caress me.
And then my soul may hear a voice, a still, small voice of love eternal.
Darkness, when my fears arise, let your peace flow through me.

These are some beautiful, powerful lyrics for times when comfort and peace are needed…like now. It may not be winter quite yet, and it’s a sunny morning here, but there is a darkness in which ‘my heart with sorrow cries’. I love that Denham hears, out of that dark winter, ‘a still small voice of love eternal’ – yes, yes…not alone but present. Peaceful. Yes.

I’m finding my words are less elegantly composed this morning – but I think that in the face of this elegant hymn, nothing I say would match it.

Perhaps it’s time to just sing it again.

By |

Two new rules today, because the thing that makes UUs go “huh” should be the theology:

  1. Hymns should avoid using lyrics that have an ABBA rhyme scheme.
  2. Hymns should never end in words most people have to look up.

Just look at these lyrics as a poem, which is how they started. Not bad, really. Very nature-oriented, and I’m sure that in the early 1990s, it was appealing to have more nature-based hymns in the hymnal, especially with the adoption of the seventh principle and sixth source. I mean, it’s not a great poem, but it’s definitely an autumn poem.

Now light is less; noon skies are wide and deep;
the ravages of wind and rain are healed.
The haze of harvest drifts along the field
until clear eyes put on the look of sleep.

The garden spider weaves a silken pear
to keep inclement weather from its young.
Straight from the oak, the gossamer is hung.
At dusk our slow breath thickens on the air.

Lost hues of birds the trees take as their own.
Long since, bronze wheat was gathered into sheaves.
The walker trudges ankle deep in leaves;
the feather of the milkweed flutters down.

The shoots of spring have mellowed with the year.
Buds, long unsealed, obscure the narrow lane.
The blood slows trance-like in the altered vein;
our vernal wisdom moves through ripe to sere.

But now, let’s look at my new rules.

In poetry, internal rhyme and bracketed rhyming structures work well. Rhyme speaks volumes in terms of the way a piece is read and the reflective nature of the words in the rhyme – as well as a lot more stuff professors of poetry and Stephen Fry can tell you. But a poem read is not the same as a poem sung, and different rules apply. Sure, there is free verse in lyrics – “Thank U” by Alanis Morrisette for some reason just came to mind as a good example of free-verse lyric. But putting that aside, if you’re going to use bracketed rhyming schemes or free verse as lyrics, the tune should support it, not make you think ‘that didn’t end right.’  Maybe I’m biased – but I know I’m more comfortable in a congregational singing situation if the rhyming isn’t spread so far apart – an AABB or ABAB scheme just feels more…finished? Hymns aren’t intended to be masterpieces (just kidding, Jason) – they are supposed to move us and support the work of the worship event. The verses of this lyric don’t sing – they thud to a close.

I suspect you already know where I’m going with Rule Two, but let’s talk about it. Now, I am an educated woman. I am well read. I have a reasonably large vocabulary. And if the word ‘sere’ is a mystery to me, it is more than likely a mystery to many. This isn’t a ‘oh, whine, I had to look up a word’ comment where I am just being picky and you’ll come back at me with words I use that others don’t know. This is about singing hymns together, and getting a feeling of whatever it is the hymn is supposed to evoke. In this case, I assume it’s a connection to the deep autumn (although I was already thinking about how little actually happens in this hymn before I hit the last verse). But then you hit “sere” – and unless you’re one of the fourteen people who still use the word, you stop, think ‘I wonder what that word means’ and even if you try to suss it out from context, it’s difficult to know whether we’re talking a word that means overripe, spoiled, or turned to seed. As it happens, ‘sere’ means ‘without moisture’ – which I might have gotten to eventually, but then would have missed the next five or ten minutes of the service. Add in the couple of minutes everyone spent wondering if they’d sung the lyrics wrong because of the rhyming structure, and you might as well not have anything of any import coming up after it, because no one will pay attention, and soon you will be reconsidering your choice to use this hymn at all, and then remembering that you could have gone into publishing but no, you had to become a minister, and now look what’s happened.

It’s too bad, really, that this piece doesn’t work. I love this tune (Sursum Corda) – it’s very Gregorian chant to me, and it has a simple reverence I appreciate. It’s appropriate that it would be paired with a nature-focused lyric. Just not this one.

Thud.

By |

Finally – a hymn about the feminine divine.

I’m not surprised these lyrics are by the Rev. Dr. Kendyl Gibbons – I love her writing and have used her words often in services, including her wonderful piece on the “love is patient, love is kind” passage from I Corinthians 13, which I use in my Share the Love service.

But I digress. Gibbons offers us an image of the feminine divine that is (gasp!) not just motherhood! Halleluiah! The heavens opened and the angels sang, “it’s about freaking time!”

I say this, because over and over we have “mother God” or “mother spirit” or other paeans to women couched in motherhood. I am grateful for the framing of women and the feminine divine in many aspects – include the aspect of justice seeker.

Lady of the seasons’ laughter, in the summer’s warmth be near;
when the winter follows after, teach our spirits not to fear.
Hold us in your steady mercy, Lady of the turning year.

Sister of the evening starlight, in the falling shadows stay
here among us till the far light of tomorrow’s dawning ray.
Hold us in your steady mercy, Lady of the turning day.

Mother of the generations, in whose love all life is worth
everlasting celebrations, bring our labors safe to birth.
Hold us in your steady mercy, Lady of the turning earth.

Goddess of all times’ progression, stand with us when we engage
hands and hearts to end oppression, writing history’s fairer page.
Hold us in your steady mercy, Lady of the turning age.

This hymn works for me today, especially, when I find myself worn down by men, mansplaining, misogyny, and madness. I don’t want to be told how to feel, how things I know already should be, how I shouldn’t make noises or make waves, or just this constant, pervasive insistence that men are more important. I’m worn down. I’m tired. I’m angry. And thus, Gibbons’ call to the Goddess to “stand with us when we engage hands and hearts to end oppression” is a reminder of all the women throughout history who have made a difference in everyone’s lives – and who continue, daily, to answer the call for justice for all, not just women. (Note to self: this would make a great Women’s History Month sermon.)

Two more things, and then I’ll go, because I’m at my sister’s for the holiday and there’s cranberry sauce to be made:

First, the tune. It’s familiar to me, but not because of singing this particular hymn in our congregations. I am fairly certain we sang it a few times in chapel at Union, but I can’t seem to remember what lyrics we used – certainly they were more Christian ones. I was surprised when I picked it up, realizing that while the hymn was unfamiliar, the tune certainly was.

Second, the format: it’s been bugging me that when this publishes to Facebook and email, you get my opening line, and then the lyrics all in an unformatted box. I love having the lyrics at the top for reference, but I think having my words up top is more important, so I’ll try putting the lyrics in the middle of the page. Let me know what you think – it’s not like I don’t still have over a year to tweak this further…