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I have learned that when I particularly like or dislike a contemporary hymn, I stir up some level of controversy, usually on Facebook (although some of it shows up in the comments here too). I don’t like Bring Many Names, but you would have thought I’d killed a basket of puppies when I said so. But I weathered that, and I’m still friends with the folks who disagreed with me, so here we go, once more into the breach.

I really like this hymn. The caveat, of course, is that it must be played well and at a decent tempo. Played badly and no one knows where or when to sing. Played too slow, and it makes absolutely no sense. But played well and at a good tempo (76 bpm is recommended – it could go to about 84), and it’s wonderful.

First of all, I do love the tune – I don’t know exactly what it is that works for me, but it does. It has a hint of ‘the composer listened to Godspell and Pippin a lot’, and as someone who also listened to Godspell and Pippin a lot, it makes sense. But I know it also works to sing – not too high or too low, interesting phrases that remain easy to sing, and a distinct lack of stodginess.

But it is the words that really captured me today; it is a song of thanksgiving – but not a rosy thanks to that unseen Divine. Rather, it’s a gritty, real thanks – as much to each other and ourselves as anything. And it’s the third verse that really caught me today – ‘for each new thing we learn, for fearful hours that pass’ – in the horrifying Gish Gallop that is this new administration, we must still give praise and thanks – because (a) we do learn from sorrows, pains, and failures and (b) it is these that often motivate our work and service (especially when we can see another’s woe), which we also give praise and thanks for.

For all that is our life we sing our thanks and praise;
for all life is a gift which we are called to use
to build the common good and make our own days glad.

For needs which others serve, for services we give,
for work and its rewards, for hours of rest and love;
we come with praise and thanks for all that is our life.

For sorrow we must bear, for failures, pain, and loss,
for each new thing we learn, for fearful hours that pass:
we come with praise and thanks for all that is our life.

For all that is our life we sing our thanks and praise;
for all life is a gift which we are called to use
to build the common good and make our own days glad.

A beautiful, grounding song of praise and thanksgiving. It makes my own day glad.

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This is another hymn I suspect many of us bypass because of the not-really-the-title title; it’s been honestly off-putting to me and I suspect others.  But it is an intriguingly appropriate pairing with Nancy McDonald Ladd’s sermon from General Assembly last year. As Kenny Wiley reported in UU World,

McDonald Ladd’s sermon lamented the “fake fights we waste our time on,” like “what color to paint the church bathroom,” as others struggle against injustice. McDonald Ladd’s words repeatedly brought cheers and ovations from the crowd as she weaved together personal narrative, humor, and her vision for a Unitarian Universalism focused on “real struggles and real battles” and not “confined by the smallness of our loving.”

We struggle with this. We create our little fiefdoms, our ways of doing things, and woe betide the person who doesn’t follow our rules! I loved this sermon and refer to it often, as it (like the hymn) calls us back to our hearts, our call, and our faith. Here, McDonald Ladd knocks it out of the park (transcribed from the video):

“I am not one to speak against an honest fight; but we need to lean into the real fights of our age. We need to do the work before us, not let another 50 years pass before we ask again what in the world we have been doing all that time while the dream goes unrealized. We need to keep it real – and keeping it real means admitting what we are here for in the first place. In spite of what every congregational satisfaction survey says, we did not come here for the coffee, and we did not even come for the great music. We don’t even come from our excellent ministers. We don’t. We come because we have a deep, aching need for an encounter with the holy that crosses our borders and expands our hearts. We come to be a part of something so much larger than ourselves. And we cannot do that holy work together unless we are really willing to set aside our own need to win and reach out our hands and seek the deeper understanding that comes with difference.”

That’s so important now. We are seeing so much infighting – not just in congregations about fights that don’t matter, but also among active participants in the resistance in fights about the quality and commitment of each other. The second verse in the hymn really got to me here, because I am watching friends struggle to support each other because our individual fears and hurts seem harder to bear than the collective pain we experience. Can we see each other in the midst of this and have the time and patience and compassion to be present?

From the crush of wealth and power something broken in us
all waits the spirit’s silent hour pleading with a poignant call,
bind all my wounds again.

Even now our hearts are wary of the friend we need so much.
When I see the pain you carry, shall I, with a gentle touch,
bind all your wounds again?

When our love for one another makes our burdens light to bear,
find the sister and the brother, hungry for the feast we share;
bind all their wounds again.

Ev’ry time our spirits languish terrified to draw too near,
may we know each other’s anguish and, with love that casts out fear,
bind all our wounds again.

This song, with a really lovely tune I didn’t know, reminds us that we must lead with love.

(I got to the binary language in the third verse and remembered this was written and published at a certain time before we understood gender as a spectrum. Since the lyricist, Kendyl Gibbons, is still an active minister, I bet she’d be amenable to a lyric shift.)

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This is a beautiful benediction. A sustaining send-off. An alliterative affirmation.

What I love about the lyrics is the acknowledgement that this work is hard, and it’s always been good. Something I’m not entirely certain I noticed until now, as many times as I have sung this. (Another favorite of my former minister’s, plus another great tune by Tom Benjamin).

There’s that old joke – why are Unitarians so bad at hymn singing? because they are always reading ahead to see if they agree with the lyrics. Yet I think that even when we know the tune well, we tend to miss the nuance. And this is nuanced – this isn’t all ‘rah rah rah’ – it’s ‘this is hard. There will be pain, doubts, bitterness, fear – but take courage.

That this hymn is in the Exemplars and Pioneers section, of course, isn’t surprising. The hymn calls us to look to the past and see that it’s possible. And even though I am a middle-aged white woman, the first names that came to mind were Harriet Tubman and the newly resuscitated Frederick Douglass – heroes whom many in our nation seem to think only deserve notice one month a year, but whose contributions to love and justice are insurmountable and inspirational.

When I sing this hymn, I am reminded that our heroes aren’t heroes because it was easy, but because it was hard, and because they were right. This is indeed a hymn for our age – we need gentle, loving songs that hold us in our fears and still call us to putting our faith into action.

Be that guide whom love sustains.
Rise above the daily strife:
lift on high the good you find.
Help to heal the hurts of life.

Be that helper nothing daunts —
doubt of friend or taunt of foe.
Ever strive for liberty.
Show the path that life should go.

Be that builder trusting good,
bitter though the test may be:
through all ages they are right,
though they build in agony.

Be that teacher faith directs.
Move beyond the old frontier:
though the frightened fear that faith,
be tomorrow’s pioneer!

Amen.

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I want to love this song. Really, I do.

It’s certainly a popular one that lots of people know. And here’s the thing: This song should be amazing and inspiring and strong – and I suspect in its original form, as crafted by Carolyn McDade herself, it was. I imagine that on guitar, it has a driving rhythm, and that the lyrics tumble forth in a ragged, folky, Dylanesque manner. I imagine selecting this for the hymnal was a no brainer. The words are tremendous, and the tune is easy to pick up.

But it has sadly become a sing-songy, rather long and annoying piece of music that many of us use sparingly because we fear a revolt.

And so I am looking for a little help – to find versions that capture what I suspect is a less pedestrian and more inspiring, less ooompa and more driving. Because that is what this lyric – inspired by two kickass prophets (Isaiah and Amos) requires. This isn’t “oh, look, nice aspirations,” this is “remember Noah’s flood? Ain’t got nothing on this justice we’re bringin’ down.” This isn’t a pop song,  this is King’s “I Have a Dream” speech.

We’ll build a land where we bind up the broken.
We’ll build a land where the captives go free,
where the oil of gladness dissolves all mourning.
Oh, we’ll build a promised land that can be.

(Chorus)
Come build a land where sisters and brothers,
anointed by God, may then create peace:
where justice shall roll down like waters,
and peace like an ever flowing stream.

We’ll build a land where we bring the good tidings
to all the afflicted and all those who mourn.
And we’ll give them garlands instead of ashes.
Oh, we’ll build a land where peace is born.
(Chorus)

We’ll be a land building up ancient cities,
raising up devastations from old;
restoring ruins of generations.
Oh, we’ll build a land of people so bold.
(Chorus)

Come, build a land where the mantles of praises
resound from spirits once faint and once weak;
where like oaks of righteousness stand her people.
Oh, come build the land, my people we seek.
(Chorus)

So can someone help me out with an arrangement that doesn’t make me think we’re singing a toothless campfire song?

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I have no cohesive train of thought this morning – the truth is, the Overwhelm strategy of the Bannon White House is dangerously close to sweeping me up in its grasp. And the idea of forming a cohesive set of reflections on this hymn seems a bridge too far for me today. I mean, I couldn’t even sing all three verses at once this morning, thanks to the weltschmerz I’m experiencing. So…random thoughts:

I’m not a fan of this tune for this sentiment – it feels too cheery, and to be honest, too associated with Here We Have Gathered (360). This hymn needs something strong and intentional – the way yesterday’s tune was strong. It’s an awkward meter – 10.10.10.10.10 – so it’s not like a ton of tunes fit that. So I long for something different.

True fact: every time I look at this hymn, even in passing, I think of the song from the musical Godspell. While it plays with genre and the idea of temptation within its staging, it also has some strength our setting lacks.

Another thought: I love the first verse, and I love the second – especially in these days. And in these days, I would use the first two and then preach on it. I don’t like that this hymn wraps up the story so quickly. Sometimes we need songs that present the issue and don’t conclude anything – or else, what the heck is a sermon for? For me, I’m not dismissing it because of the God’s will like, I’m dismissing it because we set up that we’re terrible, people suck, but oh yay, it’ll all work out by the end of the song, without us actually having to do anything.

I might be a bit cynical this morning.

Turn back, turn back, forswear thy foolish ways.
Old now is earth, and none may count its days;
yet humankind, whose head is crowned with flame,
still will not hear the inner God proclaim —
”Turn back, turn back, forswear thy foolish ways.”

Earth might be fair, its people glad and wise.
Age after age our tragic empires rise,
built while we dream, and in that dreaming weep:
would we but wake from out our haunted sleep,
earth might be fair, and people glad and wise.

Earth shall be fair, and all its people one;
nor till that hour shall God’s whole will be done.
Now, even now, once more from earth to sky,
peals forth in joy that old undaunted cry —
”Earth shall be fair, and all its people one.”

Interesting note: this hymn is based on a passage from Ezekiel (33:6-16) – a prophet whose words seem awfully prescient in these days. My friend, the Reverend Dawn Fortune, preached on it this past week – a sermon as fiery as Ezekiel’s wheel. It’s worth a listen.

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This is a beautiful prayer. A needed prayer. An elegant prayer.

And I am sure, in the right hands, a beautiful and elegant tune.

I am not sure if it’s unfamiliarity that keeps me from accessing the melody, or just sustained high notes before coffee, but the tune doesn’t work for me in this moment. Especially when I realized that the tempo was marked much faster than I had been singing it.

That was weird, actually – because sung slowly (half note = 60 bpm), the prayerfulness of the lyrics shone forth; it was like singing a meditative chant (until the high notes, that is). When I realized the tempo was quite fast (half note = 92 bpm), it lost not only its meditative qualities but its import. I don’t know the lyricist’s or the composer’s intent – perhaps they meant it to be less of a prayer and more of a declaration. But the lyrics don’t say that to me, and my first look at the tune (before I saw the tempo marking through the pre-coffee haze) screamed slow and purposeful.

And here’s where I realize the truth I learned at a UU Musicians Network Conference in the mid 2000s: in hymnody, the score is a suggestion. I suggest you take the tempo as fast or slow as you like, and if you want a prayer, 60’s your best bet.

O light of life that lives in us,
help us to turn away from war,
reveal the hate that lives in us,
help us to live no more in fear.
Save us, save our children.

O light of love, rain down on us,
help us to heal our wounded world,
our dying forests, gutted plains,
smoldering cities, wasted fields.
Save us, save our children.

O love of life that lives in me,
help me to lift my head and sing,
let me know joy as well as pain,
see beauty in the rain and wind.
Save me, save my children.

O light and life and love in us,
help us to open eyes and ears,
reach out and listen, touch and love,
that we may stand in strength and peace.
Save us, save our children.

(Image is from a painting by Igor Zenin.)

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If ever there was a time to remind ourselves where our holy church is, it’s now. And this is just the right hymn to show us – if we allow it to.

Sure, some might find the tune old and stodgy – it is, after all, an old stodgy hymn from the 1551 English psalter, so it’s been around a while. But sometimes the old tunes are the best – and while I am resisting the urge to again wax poetic about the 16th/17th century Anglican devotional literature and music, I will say that they were on to something with these tunes. And I beg of you not to let a 500-year old tune keep you from this one, because it’s got some terrific lyrics for our – and any – time.

Lyricist Edwin Henry Wilson was a Unitarian minister and the first editor of The New Humanist magazine, helping to shape American religious humanism in the first half of the last century. And here’s something cool: his placing the church firmly amongst us humans is not only good humanist theology, it’s good process theology – it’s in us,  it’s in our relationships, it’s in our actions, its not in who we are but in what we do.

Where is our holy church?
Where race and class unite
as equal persons in the search
for beauty, truth, and right.

Where is our holy writ?
Where’er a human heart
a sacred torch of truth has lit,
by inspiration taught.

Where is our holy One?
A mighty host respond;
the people rise in every land
to break the captive’s bond.

Where is our holy land?
Within the human soul,
wherever free minds truly seek
with character the goal.

Where is our paradise?
In aspiration’s sight,
wherein we hope to see
arise ten thousand years of right.

More than ever, we need to remember that it starts here, with us, and that our call is indeed to unite all as equal; to break the captives’ bonds; to build principled, ethical character; to aspire to the beloved community; to free our minds and souls to touch that which some call the Divine.

It’s on every one of us to create this holy church, because it is us.

 

(The photo was taken by Ninie, a contributor at InterfaceLIFT, of a chapel in Yosemite on Christmas Day. )

 

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Apologies for the delay, gentle readers – I needed to write the rest of my sermon to include reflections from the Women’s March.

But it’s in that spirit that I approach today’s hymn. The tune (Vienna) for me, is neither here nor there. But these lyrics, by Samuel Johnson (a contemporary of the Longfellow brothers) are right on point – because I saw life richly poured yesterday on the streets of New York, and in photos and reports from streets around the world. It cheered me to see such an intersectional crowd – people of all ages, all genders, all colors, all abilities – all cheering each other on, all talking nonstop about why they were marching, what we were seeing, how important this felt and how clear it was it’s just a first step.

There was laughter and joy, people sharing drinks and snacks and stories – but more, there was a clear understanding that that these people were not going to go home, hang up their pink hats, and forget to do anything else. These people – and I – understood that this was just the start. This was the kick off for the action we are called to. But if anything, the march set the tone – it told us we are not alone, that resistance may be fueled by fear and anger, but that it can be joyful, and funny, and kind, and creative – and that it should be. It must be.

This hymn comes as a perfect coda to the experience, saying from 170 years ago, yes! Keep going! The exemplars and pioneers that went before are in and around you and supporting you today in your holy resistance.

Life of ages, richly poured, love of God, unspent and free,
flowing in the prophet’s word and the people’s liberty —

Never was to chosen race that unstinted tide confined;
yours is every time and place, fountain sweet of heart and mind.

Breathing in the thinker’s creed, pulsing in the hero’s blood,
nerving simplest thought and deed, freshening time with truth and good,

Consecrating art and song, holy book and pilgrim way,
quelling floods of tyrant wrong, widening freedom’s sacred sway.

Life of ages, richly poured, love of God, unspent and free,
flow still in the prophet’s word and the people’s liberty!

Amen.

Today’s photo is one of many I took yesterday at the Women’s March.

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I’m gonna start right off and say, Gentle Reader, if you have an opinion on this hymn, please share it. If you use this hymn…ever, tell me when and how. If you feel a connection to the lyric, or in general the poetry of AE Houseman, please describe it.

Because hooo-boy, I don’t get this one. I mean, I get what Houseman is saying: I’m 70, I won’t be a child again, 50 adult years haven’t been long enough, wah wah wah, gather ye rosebuds or some such inanity. And yes, I am a fan of storytelling, finding universality in particularity, the living human document as a way to understanding. But frankly, I found myself (a) wondering whether this was really an Easter hymn, (b) wondering why we would ever sing this, and (c) doing the math.

Now I love the tune – Orientis Partibus is a gorgeous little medieval French melody used in countless hymns. These lyrics, though…

Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
is hung with bloom along the bough,
and stands about the woodland ride
wearing white for Eastertide.

Now of my three-score years and ten,
twenty will not come again,
and take from sev’nty springs a score,
leaving me just fifty more.

And since to look at things in bloom
fifty springs are little room,
about the woodlands I will go,
seeing the cherry hung with snow.

Anyone have a more helpful insight than mine? Because unless I am preaching to just a group of 70 year olds in the late spring, and I want them to feel (a) old and (b) superior, I don’t get this. Not one bit.

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Dr. Grathwohl would be proud.

You see, while I was a political studies/theater major at Meredith College in the 1990s, some of the courses that stick with me the most are the English classes – writing and composition, journalism, American literature, and everyone’s mandatory class, Major British Authors.

While many of my fellow students groaned and wondered, while hammering the first 18 lines of the Prologue to the Canterbury Tales (in the original middle English) into their noggins (“whan that Aprill with his shoures soute…”), what possible purpose any of this could have, others of us reveled in some of the most delicious writing in the English language. We got Chaucer and Shakespeare, of course, but also all the poets. Herbert, Donne, Spenser, Milton, Pope, Burns, Browning, Shelley, Keats, Coleridge, Wordsworth, and of course, Blake.

Now the reason I say Eloise Grathwohl would be proud is that I opened the page, sang the first couple of lines, and thought “Is this William Blake?” To which my answer was a glance at the bottom of the page to confirm my answer. I can’t help but wonder a little if I was already conditioned toward that reaction, since this appears to be the Major British Authors section of our hymnal.

To Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love
all pray in their distress,
and to those virtues of delight
return their thankfulness— return their thankfulness.

For Mercy has a human heart,
and Pity a human face;
and Love, the human form divine,
and Peace, the human dress— and Peace, the human dress.

Then every one, of every clime,
that prays in deep distress,
prays to the human form divine —
Love, Mercy, Pity, Peace — Love, Mercy, Pity, Peace.

Interestingly, this is only three verses of the five in the original poem – Blake’s second verse is, in spirit, a fairly UU sentiment, but I suspect the hymnal commission was struggling with how to make it not quite so male-heavy:

For Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love
Is God, our father dear,
And Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love
Is Man, his child and care.
 The fifth verse is also very First Principle, but also with troubling-for-our-time lyrics:
And all must love the human form,
In heathen, Turk, or Jew;
Where Mercy, Love, and Pity dwell
There God is dwelling too.

Yikes. What do we do with that, other than omit it? I mean, the sentiment is right – but yikes.

Maybe this is one of the reasons we studied Major British Authors in undergrad – not just to understand the growth, beauty, and truth in the language and the art created with it – but also to understand the growth, beauty, and truth in the bend of the moral arc, the expansion of our understanding, the widening of our scope.

Dr. Grathwohl would be proud.