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Hey, look! We’ve entered the “Harvest and Thanksgiving” section of the hymnal. And we start right off with the usual Thanksgiving song.

C.J.: There’s a usual song?
DONNA: “We Gather Together.”
C.J.: The song.
DONNA: That’s the usual song.
C.J.: So you know it?
DONNA: Everybody knows it.
C.J.: I don’t know it.
DONNA: [sighs] Didn’t you go to elementary school?
C.J.: Yes, right before being a National Merit Scholar.

(Sorry, West Wing fans, I couldn’t find a clip. But it’s season 2, episode 8, “Shibboleth”, written (of course) by Aaron Sorkin).

So yes, there’s a song. And somewhere later in the hymnal, we sing the usual words to the usual song. But here, in the “Harvest and Thanksgiving” section, we sing this paean to humanity.

We sing now together our song of thanksgiving,
rejoicing in goods which the ages have wrought,
for life that enfolds us, and helps and heals and holds us,
and leads beyond the goals which our forebears once sought.

We sing of the freedoms which martyrs and heroes
have won by their labor, their sorrow, their pain;
the oppressed befriending, our ampler hopes defending,
their death becomes a triumph, they died not in vain.

We sing of the prophets, the teachers, the dreamers,
designers, creators, and workers, and seers;
our own lives expanding, our gratitude commanding,
their deeds have made immortal their days and their years.

We sing of community now in the making
in every far continent, region, and land;
with those of all races, all times and names and places,
we pledge ourselves in covenant firmly to stand.

It’s not bad. Overall, it’s a decent “yay, humans” piece, sweet in an approaching-but-not-quite-completely-mired-in-treacle sort of way.

However – and here comes the serious quibble:  What is hard is the ending of the second verse – I am not a fan of the idea that tragic deaths and assassinations are in any way a triumph. “They died not in vain” is a humanist’s way of saying “It is God’s will” and it constantly feels empty and angering. They died and they shouldn’t have is the only right answer. Maybe we get woke and stay woke because they died, but they still should not have died. Death is never a triumph and anyone who says that has a pretty twisted way of understanding life.

But I digress.

The question is this: on balance, would I use this hymn? Probably in the right setting, gritting my teeth through the end of verse two, made easier with a memory of the sweetest flentl in the entire series:

 

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What is it about the Southern Harmony tunes? There’s something that just gets me about them – they get inside me and speak deeply to my soul.

In a recent episode of Krista Tippett’s On Being with Béla Fleck and Abigail Washburn, two amazing banjo players and musicians, Washburn talks about hearing Doc Watson for the first time. She remarks that although she was studying law in China at the time, that ancient melody played on banjo and sung by Watson revealed the heart and truth of America. Washburn talks about the African roots of the banjo and this music:

“As people were being boarded onto the slave ships, the people said “throw your heart down here; you’re not going to want to carry it to where you’re going.’ A lot of the slave masters figured out that if they had a banjo player on board, playing the music of home, more of the ‘cargo’ would live to the other side. So the origins of the banjo in America are the bitterest of roots … and it formed an amazing origin to what became a blend of traditions from Africa, Scotland, and Ireland, when those banjo players from Africa and the fiddlers from Scotland and Ireland started playing plantation dances together. That’s what started what we know as that early Appalachian and that early American sound. That sound is based in this bitter root but with this hope ‘that I can live – I can survive.’

It is that truth – the bitter root tinged with hope – that appears in the Southern Harmony tunes, I think. And so whatever words we apply to them both benefit from and should contribute to this deep soul truth.

In this case, the lyric gets close, but for me, doesn’t go deep enough.

When the summer sun is shining over golden land and sea,
and the flowers in the hedgerow welcome butterfly and bee;
then my open heart is glowing, full of warmth for everyone,
and I feel an inner beauty which reflects the summer sun.

When the summer clouds of thought bring the long-awaited rain,
and the thirsty soil is moistened and the grass is green again;
then I long for summer sunshine, but I know that clouds and tears
are a part of life’s refreshment, like the rainbow’s hopes and fears.

In the cool of summer evening, when the dancing insects play,
and in garden, street, and meadow linger echoes of the day;
then my heart is full of yearning; hopes and mem’ries flood the whole
of my being, reaching inwards to the corners of my soul.

It’s close – so close – dancing around the edges of meaning, offering a glimpse of some deeper words to come.

And they don’t here. But maybe that’s a good thing in this case. Maybe this hymn is an opening, an invitation to offer the ‘next ten words, and the ten after that’ because our bitter roots tinged with hope need more words and more ideas and more play.

Meanwhile, set to the tune Holy Manna, these words open the door to something deeper, something maybe unnamable.

Like, maybe, truth.

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Man oh man. Robert Frost can really bring it, can’t he?

There’s a reason he is one of the 20th century’s most celebrated poets – while this is not as famous as “The Wall” or “The Road Less Traveled” or “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening,” this poem too had impact and depth and meaning.

It’s almost a shame that it’s set to a hymn tune.

Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers today,
and give us not to think so far away
as the uncertain harvest; keep us here
all simply in the springing of the year.

Oh, give us pleasure in the orchard white
like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night;
and make us happy in the happy bees,
the swarm dilating round the perfect trees.

And make us happy in the darting bird
that suddenly above the bees is heard,
the meteor that thrusts in with needle bill,
and off a blossom in mid air stands still.

For this is love and nothing else is love,
the which it is reserved for God above
to sanctify to what far ends he will,
but which it only needs that we fulfill.

Now why on earth would I say that? Especially when it’s a lovely tune, one I love, that has its own tinge of melancholy (which is apparently something I am drawn to). For the record: I adore the Coolidge tune.

However: what I know about hymn singing is that the song moves right along. Hymns don’t meander, so we don’t get a chance to ponder the lyrics we’re singing, that is even if we notice them at all (I am convinced that while the lyrics are important, if a singer is learning the tune, the lyrics are just syllables, and the meaning goes right by). And these lyrics especially beg to be noticed.

And herein lies the problem – this poem is written in four equal verses, making it easy to set to a hymn tune. But I wish it wasn’t, because there is a masterful build in the poem that takes us into nature, deeper and deeper, and then POW! “For this is love, and nothing else is love.” We don’t need quite yet to move on to the next powerful phrase of the verse, we need to sit with that for a bit. Ponder. Consider the path Frost has created for us. Lean into the meaning and depth. Only then can we entertain the rest of the verse, which is as powerful as the turn phrase at the top of this verse.

This isn’t to say I wouldn’t use it – I probably would. But I am grateful today for the chance to ponder the poem.

 

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I’m not sure I have much to say about this one – partly because I’m jetlagged and got too little sleep thanks to a trip to Phoenix. Yay.

What I know is that the lyrics are fine – another praise for spring. Yay. This set is from the Renaissance, so it’s historical. Yay.

And I know that the tune is lovely – almost as lovely as the man who wrote it, Tom Benjamin. I met Tom at UU Musicians Network conferences, and he was sweet and kind to me.

The year we were in St. Paul, I organized a series of lunchtime salons, where various musicians could perform a piece – sometimes on instruments they don’t normally play, sometimes music they can’t use in worship, sometimes putting together ad hoc combos. I hosted each day’s offerings, knowing that I would close the whole series with Cole Porter’s “Every Time We Say Goodbye” because I’m a huge fan of the American Songbook. I put out a call to get some musicians to play with me, and I was blessed to have Vicki Gordon on piano, Matt Meyer on drums, Dana Decker on bass.

The one that surprised me though, was a meek request from Tom, who asked if he could play clarinet. Now understand: I had been a fan of his for a while, and I was just some random chick who didn’t play an instrument and didn’t compose music, so who the hell was I? And here he is, asking permission to play with me! Well of course I said yes, and we worked out an arrangement where he got to shine. It was amazing. I loved the alchemy of the group, even for that one song. And more, I loved how real, and gentle, and insanely talented Tom is. As a result, I love singing hymns that he wrote – especially when we can use the Yaddo tune while in Saratoga Springs, NY, because Tom wrote it when visiting Yaddo, which is about a mile down the road from our congregation.

So – yeah. Sometimes our spiritual practice doesn’t go the way we expect. Sometimes it takes us to a memory that gives us joy and comfort.

Anyway, here are the lyrics. Yay.

Spring has now unwrapped the flowers, day is fast reviving,
life in all her growing powers toward the light is striving.
Gone the iron touch of cold, winter time and frost time,
seedlings working through the mold now make up for lost time.

Herb and plant that, winter long, slumbered at their leisure,
now bestirring green and strong, find in growth their pleasure.
All the world with beauty fills, gold the green enhancing;
flowers make glee among the hills, set the meadows dancing.

 

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That time I kept forgetting to sing.

Stillness reigns, the winds are sleeping. All the world is bent on keeping
tryst with night, whose wings are sweeping from the west each ray of light.

Dusk, a soft and silken cover, over all is seen to hover
in its readiness to cover all the drowsy world, good night.

Those who labored long, untiring, hail this time of rest desiring,
strength renewed through sweet retiring, welcome thoughts of peaceful night.

And through spaces real or seeming find the Eden of their dreaming,
soar to starry ways, redeeming hours of toil and pain, good night.

If a tune is unfamiliar (or even if it is vaguely familiar), I will sometimes visit the site Small Church Music to see if the tune is there, so that instead of plunking out notes on my little keyboard app, or just making it up, I can actually hear and learn the tune. Usually, there are a variety of accompaniments for a tune – piano, a band, and organ, and maybe some combination. I probably could have figured this one out fairly easily, but I opted for the easy way so I could focus on lyrics, as has been my wont lately.

Everything started off just fine. I found the tune and decided to play the organ version. I start singing: “Stillness reigns, the winds…” mm…I like this accompaniment. And how neatly the harmonies work. Oh. I’m not singing! “….ray of light.”

Next verse: “Dusk, a…” Oh, he’s changed it up. Neat. This works. It’s cheery, but not too schmaltzy. I wonder how this will work as a vespers tune. Is it really? What does it say?

Oh! Third verse…wow, I love this variation. Nicely played. It would be nice to have an organ sometimes. Oh crap, I’m not singing. “…welcome thoughts of peaceful night.”

Fourth verse: So strong, culminating in Eden! That works. Singing? What singing?

So yeah. That happened.

And I considered playing it again, singing it earnestly this time. But then I thought, this was my experience today – why change it? The tune’s in my head, so I’ll be humming it for a while – I’m humming it now. And maybe that’s all that’s necessary on a day like today, when my head is stuffy and the post-preaching exhaustion lingers and winter makes its first appearance.

Time for a little stillness to reign before the flurry of the holiday.

 

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Wherein I fangirl a bit over a 19th century Unitarian minister and poet.

Again, as evening’s shadow falls, we gather in these hallowed walls;
and vesper hymn and vesper prayer rise mingling on the holy air.

May struggling hearts that seek release here find the rest of God’s own peace:
and, strengthened here by hymn and prayer, lay down the burden and the care.

Life’s tumult we must meet again; we cannot at the shrine remain;
but in the spirit’s secret cell may hymn and prayer forever dwell.

This is a gorgeous lyric, set to a lovely tune. It makes me again wish that I had the ability right now to hold vespers services.

But more than that, what I love about this lyric is the reality of it – no lofty ‘God’s in his heaven, all’s right with the world’, no artificial perfection. No, it says, life sucks, but the singing and praying will help make it suck less so.

As I thought about the lyric, and noted that it was written by Samuel Longfellow, I realized that this is not the first time I’ve felt moved by his words. I noted in the post for O Life That Maketh All Things New that I felt better after singing the hymn, with its hopeful aspiration. And in the post for God of the Earth, The Sky, the Sea, that “I love this lyric – it’s grounding for me and harkens to something deep and primordial, something wholly of creation.” And now, today, I find comfort in lyrics like “may struggling hearts that seek release” and “life’s tumult we must meet again, we cannot at the shrine remain”… a sense that Longfellow isn’t willing to gloss over anything, but still recognizes that faith, and song, and prayer might be a reminder of our goodness and strength.

If ever there’s a message we need today, it’s this. It still feels in many ways like the world has crashed down around us… and yet our compulsion is still to gather in prayer, to lay down our burdens, to find strength. Our congregations were full or overflowing last week because of this compulsion. And Longfellow’s 150-or-so-year-old lyric not only speaks to this present moment, but reminds us that it’s a constant part of the human condition and human compulsion.

There doesn’t appear to be a lot known about him (although to be fair, I only just did a quick google search). And of course he fades under the light of his much more famous brother Henry. But I think that’s a shame, because our man Sam gets it. He speaks truth to our hearts. And he features prominently in our hymnal – we sing nine hymns with his lyrics. It’s becoming clear now why.

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I didn’t think I was of a mood to appreciate this one, and yet…

Morning, so fair to see, night, veiled in mystery —
glorious the earth and resplendent skies!
Pilgrims, we march along, singing our joyous song,
as through an earthly paradise.

Tall are the verdant trees; deep are the flashing seas;
glorious each wonder the seasons bring.
Brighter is faith’s surmise, shining in pilgrim eyes,
from which our waking spirits spring.

Age after age we rise, ‘neath the eternal skies,
into the light from the shadowed past:
still shall our pilgrim song, buoyant and brave and strong,
resound while life and mountains last.

Another day, another morning song. I did not have the buoyant experience many of my colleagues did yesterday, for many reasons. I left feeling still sad and fearful and angry, not finding the healing I had hoped would be present in the readings, words, songs, and sharing we would engage in. And I have been dreading this cycle of morning songs lately – it’s not fair, I keep thinking, that hope pushes itself in. I’m not ready for it, I keep saying – and I am sure you are tired of me saying.

Still, I opened the hymnal again, because of my commitment to this practice. I read the lyrics before I sang them today, not really noticing the third verse because it’s all happy pilgrim songs marching along. Blech.

But then I sang – the tune is actually not bad and easy to sing; it put me in mind of some of the camp songs I learned as a kid, for some reason. And it matches the lyrics well….so for better or worse, I at least had enough …whatever… to notice that.

And then I got to the third verse. “Into the light from the shadowed past”…”still shall our pilgrim song…resound while life and mountains last.” In other words, what we know is true IS still true, and we must sing it bravely and buoyantly and be strong….because if we don’t, who will?

Here. Here in this cheery morning song is a call to strength, to courage, to prophetic witness.

Yeah, I’m in for that. I don’t have a lot of hope inside me right now, despite all I am preaching. But I do know I have to keep on singing our songs of righteousness, justice, freedom, compassion.

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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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‘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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O God of stars and sunlight, whose wind lifts up a bird,
in marching wave and leaf-fall we hear thy patient word.
The color of thy seasons goes gold across the land:
by green upon the treetops we know thy moving hand.

O God of cloud and mountain, whose rain on rock is art,
thy plan and care and meaning renew the head and heart.
Thy word and color spoken, thy summer noons and showers —
by these and by thy dayshine, we know thy world is ours.

O God of root and shading of boughs above our head,
we breathe in thy long breathing, our spirit spirited.
We walk beneath thy blessing, thy seasons, and thy way,
O God of stars and sunlight, O God of night and day.

Another day, another unfamiliar hymn. This time, the tune (Bremen) is, if not actually a song I have sung, at least a song like many other songs I have sung; it’s of that early 18th century German formulaic, rather easily anticipated with one brief surprise hymn tune. Which of course, makes it easy to sing.

I think sometimes we forget the value of easy, seemingly familiar tunes, because they’re not wildly interesting. And I think it’s why some of the more modern hymns might fail – they are looking for interest, not easy singability. Musical interest is important – we don’t want to fall asleep while singing; but familiar musical patterns are easier for non-musicians to get the hang of.  It’s why zipper songs like Come and Go With Me and There Is More Love Somewhere work so well – the pattern, both of tune and lyric, are familiar to our Western bones and are easy to pick up.  Anyway – a long way to go to say this isn’t a spectacular tune but a serviceable one for this lyric, if not the most inspired match. (I’d have gone for Lancaster myself – the tune of O Day of Light and Gladness. But that’s me.)

This is a soaring lyric – by poet John Holmes (who, by the way, was a teacher of Ann Sexton). It is a beautiful paean to the Immanent God, the God in all things, in and above all the earth. “O God of cloud and mountain, whose rain on rock is art” – wow. How can we not want to sing praises to this God, even if we don’t believe in God? To sing to the poetry and awesomeness of the planet – to sing praise to stars and sunlight, night and day – is to sing about ourselves and all that is beyond ourselves.

A celebration of life, indeed. And one we need, in these tumultuous, trying days. It’s easy for us to read the news and think about the possibilities and become forlorn, full of world weariness and ennui. This hymn – this glorious, soaring praise for this glorious planet – is a balm to our souls.