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These are the days I wish I was a pianist, or lived with one.

Because while I have listened to a recording of this hymn at Small Church Music, I feel like I want to play with this rather square tune by Frederick Charles Maker. I don’t want to change it, partly because the tune was written for this text by John Greenleaf Whittier and partly because there’s something lush in the melody. But the way I have heard it, it’s square and old timey, and I bet if I were a pianist or living with one, we’d be the kind of people who could reimagine the accompaniment.

And if we did that, I’d probably use this hymn – although I would take Whittier’s first line, “Dear Lord and Father of Mankind” one step further than our Hymnal Commission knew to do in 1993, and I’d make it something like “Dear God of All Humanity.” These lyrics are pretty great otherwise:

Dear Mother-Father of us all forgive our foolish ways.
Reclothe us in our rightful mind,
in purer lives thy service find, in deeper reverence, praise.

In simple trust like theirs who heard, beside the Syrian sea,
the gracious calling of the Word,
let us, like them, our faith restored, rise up and follow thee.

O Sabbath rest by Galilee, O calm of hills above,
where Jesus knelt to share with thee
the silence of eternity, interpreted by love.

With that deep hush subduing all our words and works that drown
the tender whisper of thy call,
as noiseless let thy blessing fall as fell thy manna down.

Drop thy still dews of quietness, till all our strivings cease;
take from our souls the strain and stress,
and let our ordered lives confess the beauty of thy peace.

Now barring the first line business, the lyrics are almost entirely Whittier’s, with just a couple of adjustments by our Hymnal Commission that I think make it stronger – mainly the second verse. Here’s Whittier’s, with the changed words in bold:

In simple trust like theirs who heard,
beside the Syrian sea,
the gracious calling of the Lord,
let us, like them, without a word,
rise up and follow thee.

I think our version is better, and I’m glad for it. It’s clearer that we are being called not by one man but in service to that which is greater and more powerful than all humanity and yet is the best of humanity.

All in all, a good hymn. I just long for a better arrangement…

—

The photo is of Syrian refugees along the Syrian Sea. In case we forget what we are called to.

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Fred’s back!

Good ol’ Frederick Hosmer (with an M)  – 19th/early 20th c Unitarian minister and hymn lyricist – gives us the lyrics to the second of our two official Pentecost hymns.

I say official because according to STLT, this and Come Down O Love Divine are the two marked “Pentecost” – but what has become clear is that we have a lot of Pentecost hymns and songs all over our hymnals… from the joyful Every Time I Feel the Spirit, the jazzy Do When the Spirit Says Do (from Singing the Journey), and even the prayerful Spirit of Life.

It seems to me that Unitarian Universalists should be the people of the Pentecost, that time of spirit calling us to answer yes to loving the hell out of this world. Whether you believe this is the time of Jesus’ ascension into heaven or just that moment when the disciples truly became apostles (meaning they went from learning to preaching), it is a significant recognition of that which some call Spirit (or which we might call the fire of commitment – another good Pentecost hymn, as I think about it) dwelling within us, being that flame that burns within.

So I don’t know about our having only two official Pentecost hymns – but I do know this: as I said yesterday, Pentecost is about joy and excitement; I don’t think it’s a mistake that our General Assembly happens each year just after Pentecost, as we often get ourselves revved up for the work ahead, and our church is reborn a little into something a little different each time.

Anyway, I really like the lyrics Hosmer gives us for a Unitarian Pentecost:

O prophet souls of all the years, speak yet to us in love;
your faroff vision, toil and tears to their fulfillment move.

From tropic clime and zones of frost they come of every name;
this, this our day of Pentecost, on us the tongues of flame.

One Life together we confess, one all-in-dwelling Word,
one holy Call to righteousness within the silence heard:

One Law that guides the shining spheres as on through space they roll,
and speaks in flaming characters on Sinais of the soul:

One Love, unfathomed, measureless, an ever-flowing sea,
that holds within its vast embrace time and eternity.

What I don’t love is the tune. This one is Bangor – a serviceable tune to be sure, but not at all a rouser. In fact, it’s somewhat dour and all too serious. As it’s in common meter (CM), we have a plethora of other tunes to choose from – I personally like the McKee tune for these lyrics but would love even a new tune if that ever happened.

And yes, I still maintain that “love” and “move” don’t rhyme. GRR.

But all in all, a good hymn. Just don’t let this be the only Pentecost song you sing.

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Um…yeah. Wow. Okay. Um… hooboy.

I don’t even know where to begin with this one. Not because I’m in awe or enraged, but because, well, wow… someone actually turned this into a song? Like, for us to sing?

You see, I sing these words and what I hear is a minister trying to explain to their very humanist congregation that we’re gonna celebrate at least one Christian holy day, dammit, so get off my back already and enjoy it, and it’s just one damn day of the year so chill out, because I’m about to give you a way to enter into the holy day that doesn’t offend your religious allergies.

Seriously:

O we believe in Christmas, and we keep Christmas day;
and we will honor Christmas the ancient worldwide way:
the Christmas of all peoples, the sun’s returning cheer
rung out from towers and steeples at midnight of the year.

And we will join at Christmas the song of hope and joy
that finds its theme at Christmas in every girl and boy.
The flame of life will dwindle as fades the sunset sky
until a child shall kindle new light and raise that high.

Then sing we all at Christmas the song of that new birth
which holds the hope of Christmas and brings its joy to earth;
which knits the generations, each daughter and each son,
beyond all tribes and nations, and makes the many one.

Shine out ye lights of Christmas from hearth and tree and star!
And let the warmth of Christmas shed kindness near and far!
And clang, ye bells of Christmas, upon the frosty air!
And may the joy of Christmas spread gladness everywhere!

It’s entirely possible this song has turned me into a curmudgeon.

And I’d love to hear from others if they ever use this song from ethical culturist Percival Chubb, an Englishman (with a name like that, who’d have doubted it?) who moved to America to teach in the Ethical Culture School in New York City (and founded the Drama League in America – yay!). I can’t imagine ever using this, even as a reading.

—

The image is the first thing that came up when I searched for Percival Chubb, and it delighted me so I decided to use it.

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I’ve been staring at the screen, sipping coffee, for longer than is entirely comfortable, feeling empty and lacking in anything of substance – humorous, snarky, historic, theological, musical, or otherwise – to say.

Perhaps in a different time and place, when there is a sense of pride in who we are as a nation, this might feel a little more inspiring. And even then, I might find this somewhat frustrating – inasmuch as I find any kind of nationalism and belief in chosenness frustrating.

This hymn, with its very German folksongy tune, celebrates the military victory of a nation and a temple at the hands of a strong-armed god. I know it is popular in many synagogues around the world, and there is biblical precedent for singing a song of victory – see Exodus 15, a song of victory led by Moses and the guys after the Egyptians die in the Reed Sea.

But, well… I don’t know. It feels strange to follow up Light One Candle and Mi Y’Malel, with their broader vision of justice for all, with this song of Maccabean military triumph.

Rock of Ages, let our song praise your saving power;
you amidst the raging foes were our sheltering tower.
Raging they assailed us, but your arm availed us,
and your word broke their sword when our own strength failed us.

Kindling new the holy lamps, priests, unbowed by suffering,
purified the nation’s shrine, brought to God their offering.
And in lands surrounding hear the joy abounding,
happy throngs singing songs with a mighty sounding.

Children of the prophet’s word whether free or fettered,
wake the echoes of the songs where you may be scattered.
Yours the message cheering that the time is nearing
which shall see nations free, tyrants disappearing.

I suspect some of my gentle readers will have a different perspective on the hymn, which I wholeheartedly welcome. I suspect they’ll put this in context, they’ll talk about right over might, they’ll see this as celebration of truth and freedom.

And perhaps if we weren’t bingewatching this bizarre thing that’s part House of Cards, part Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, and isn’t fiction at all but actual international crisis and possible treason, I might feel willing to celebrate a bit more.

To say “I have nothing interesting to say” – which has happened – is a misnomer. I have something interesting to say…it’s just not very happy or perhaps even helpful.

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It is apparently old folky week here at the Far Fringe… because I first learned this song a million years ago through a recording by The Weavers:

Yessiree, that’s Pete Seeger on the banjo, along with the incredible Ronnie Gilbert on lead vocals, along with Lee Hays and Fred Hellerman. I remember once in my twenties hearing Holly Near, whose music I had learned at Girl Scout camp, singing with Ronnie Gilbert, and it was an embarrassingly long time before I connected Gilbert as the female singer in the Weavers.

I know I’m hardly writing about the songs these last few days, because I suddenly find myself swimming in the deep blue waters of memory. I suppose some of it is that I’m at the end of a ministry and ready to launch a new one, some of it is that I’m just a couple of weeks away from my ordination, but certainly some of it is that the Hymnal Commission had the good sense to include in our Living Tradition music that resonates beyond its immediate meaning. For just as Light One Candle is about Hanukkah but so much more, so is Mi Y’Malel. And these songs carry with them lyrical meaning but also the meaning of a time, when folk exploded in the American consciousness as a gentle, familiar form to help us enter the difficult sideways.

Anyway, this is a traditional Hebrew song for Hanukkah, given life by our familiar and beloved folkies, and now preserved with all its meaning and memory for us.

Mi y’malel g’vurot Yisrael Otan mi yimneh?
Henb’chol dor yakum hagibor, Goel Haam.

Sh’ma! Bayamin hahem baz’man hazeh.
Makabi moshia u fodeh,
Us v’ya menu kol am Yisrael,
Yitached, yakum v’yigael.

Mi y’malel g’vurot Yisrael Otan mi yimneh?
Henb’chol dor yakum hagibor, Goel Haam.

—

Who can retell the things that befell us? Who can count them?
In every age a hero or sage came to our aid.

Ah! At this time of year in days of yore
Maccabees the Temple did restore,
and today our people, as we dreamed,
will arise, unite, and be redeemed.

Who can retell the things that befell us? Who can count them?
In every age a hero or sage came to our aid.

Who can retell the things that befell us? We must preserve the stories and write the histories and make sure future generations – and we in the present – know what happened. This is important, certainly today in this weird time of alternative facts and fake news. Who will be our heroes and sages….and bards?

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Day two of laryngitis – day two of not actually singing, and letting a series of YouTube videos sing for me (by and large, videos of high school choirs around the world singing this with a simplicity this middle aged voice long ago relinquished).

It is again a simple piece with deep complexity, a prayer from the Book of Lamentations 5:21: “Restore us to yourself, O Lord, that we may be restored; renew our days as of old.” (NRSV)

Hashiveinu, hashiveinu,
Adonai eilecha venashuva.
Venashuva.
Chadeish, chadeish yameinu kekedem.

“Restored” can mean a lot of things – from simple sleep and rest, to remembering who we actually are, to being brought back to repent and renew. And while I know the prayer seems like it starts with the Divine – ‘restore us to yourself” – the very act of saying this prayer is the first step. We must be willing to ask, to use that pesky free will we have, to spiritually ask God to “open the door, please, I want to repent.”

Lately in Unitarian Universalist circles, there’s been some discussion about our lack of prayers of confession, and how, without our formally being able to say “we’ve messed up, we repent, and we seek forgiveness” means a lot gets bottled up, overlooked, swept under the rug. This happens amongst each other, in our congregations, and in our denomination. I know we aren’t a ‘confessing church’ – rather, we are much more likely to feel that if humanity is innately good, what have we to confess? We forget that good people sin too, and confessing isn’t necessarily about saying “I’m terrible and was born terrible” as much as the Calvinists would like us to believe. Rather, it’s about saying “I want to be restored to the goodness I know lives in and among us.” Our Universalist theology doesn’t say we don’t sin – rather, it says sin and evil are here on earth, and we must work hard so that love, freedom, justice, and compassion win. And part of that has to be confession. How can we be good, honest partners for each other if we can’t acknowledge the elephants in the room that keep us from one another?

Lord help me, I am about to quote a poem I want beyond want to forget – mostly because I had to memorize it for a class in seminary and it annoyed me – but for real, this is at the heart of WIlliam Stafford’s poem, “A Ritual to Read to each Other”:

If you don’t know the kind of person I am
and I don’t know the kind of person you are
a pattern that others made may prevail in the world
and following the wrong god home we may miss our star.

For there is many a small betrayal in the mind,
a shrug that lets the fragile sequence break
sending with shouts the horrible errors of childhood
storming out to play through the broken dyke.

And as elephants parade holding each elephant’s tail,
but if one wanders the circus won’t find the park,
I call it cruel and maybe the root of all cruelty
to know what occurs but not recognize the fact.

And so I appeal to a voice, to something shadowy,
a remote important region in all who talk:
though we could fool each other, we should consider–
lest the parade of our mutual life get lost in the dark.

For it is important that awake people be awake,
or a breaking line may discourage them back to sleep;
the signals we give–yes or no, or maybe–
should be clear: the darkness around us is deep.

Hashiveinu calls us to reawaken, to see beyond the darkness, to talk to each other and seek restoration.

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Hmm.

I’ve been staring at the screen for longer than is helpful, thinking about this hymn and what to say about it, wondering what it really is I feel about it that’s quantifiable. There’s something about it that bugs me, which actually makes me sad, as it’s perfectly suited for the beloved Hyfrodol hymn tune, and I’m always happy to connect the earth and our sense of the Divine.

I can see why, in 1993, it won a competition held by the Hymnal Commission, seeking new hymns. This lyric, by UU Quaker Roberta Bard, has everything you could want, for its time. And I say that, because as Jacqui James points out in Between the Lines, “her lyrics reflect her concern for gender-inclusive and spiritually-inclusive language.”

In 1993, I could see how this would be true.

And yet.

By now, you now I will point out the binaries, which 25 years ago was fine, but as we now know doesn’t accurately reflect our current understanding of a gender spectrum. (I recently saw someone brilliantly compare this new understanding to the relatively late human understanding of the color blue.)

But even that’s not quite what’s stuck in my craw.

I think it’s that I bristle against the use of the Genesis lens, the idea that earth was given to humans, as though we were so special that all of this is ours to do with as we wish:

Earth was given as a garden, cradle for humanity;
tree of life and tree of knowledge placed for our discovery.
Here was home for all your creatures born of land and sky and sea;
all created in your image, all to live in harmony.

Show to us again the garden where all life flows fresh and free.
Gently guide your sons and daughters into full maturity.
Teach us how to trust each other, how to use for good our power,
how to touch the earth with rev’rence. Then once more will Eden flower.

Bless the earth and all your children, one creation: make us whole,
interwoven, all connected, planet wide and inmost soul.
Holy mother, life bestowing, bid our waste and warfare cease.
Fill us all with grace o’erflowing. Teach us how to live in peace.

I know Bard tries to redeem it in the third verse, making sure we know we’re part of one creation, but it feels too little too late for me. I know it’s hard to say I don’t love this hymn, given that there’s a lot of good stuff within it, but it has an overall feeling of ‘ick’ to me. The parts do not make up a good whole.

One more thing – and this is something I would not have thought of except for a long conversation with my colleague Marisol Caballero, whose ancestors are from east Texas long before Europeans conquered the Americas. When we talk about discovery in connection to land, it reinforces a long and hard doctrine of discovery that dates back to the 16th century, which “sanctioned and promoted the conquest, colonization, and exploitation of non-Christian territories and peoples.” This isn’t to say that discovery in and of itself isn’t important – Mari would likely agree with me that discovering new cures, new planets, and new species is pretty awesome. But ‘discovery’ of lands that are inhabited already and taking dominion over them? Not cool. And that first verse suggests we do just that with the entire earth.

(I should note that our memories are short – this is all we talked about just five years ago when we prepared for Justice GA in Arizona.)

So yeah. I’m not a fan of this hymn – despite some good parts, and despite its award-winning status 25 years ago. It’s proof that as times goes on, our knowledge and our faith evolves.

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Before the hymn, I want to address a comment: On the Facebook comments for yesterday’s post, a colleague noted with  surprise that I actually liked one, as though I hate our hymns and this is a chore.

I’m surprised that this came up, and maybe that colleague is the only one who thinks that, but it is absolutely worth addressing in case that colleague is the only one who felt brave enough to say it.

Do I hate our hymns? Nothing could be further from the truth.

Yes, it is true there are hymns I am not fond of here, and occasionally one I out and out hate and would rip out of the book and sear from our memories if only I had that kind of power (and didn’t like the hymn on the next page). But there are many more I like, and yes, quite a few I adore.

And still, the ones I like and love may contain some problems, or quirks, or lead me to wonder about how others might perceive it. And yes, liking or loving or hating a song largely depends on the time of year, the news, external circumstances, or even just a mood. I am sure if I go back now to the morning songs I sang the week after the election, I might have different things to say. And if I knew how much people love Bring Many Names, I might not have been so harsh…no, wait, I really still dislike that one…

My point is this: if you only read this blog when I am critical, then you might think I hate our songs and this practice. But if you actually read the blog on a regular basis, then you know that I have a deep love for this practice,  our songs, and even the particular ones I hate I still have an affection for, because they are part of our expansive living tradition. I wouldn’t keep doing this practice if it didn’t do something for me, and frankly for many of my readers.

On the whole, I love our music. I love this critical evaluation from which incredible richness emerges – both my own and from those readers who comment here and on Facebook (and even a few times on Twitter). I definitely love this practice, as it brings focus – and music – to my days.  And I love the idea that something bigger may emerge from it.

Now, on to the hymns….

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Where has this hymn been all my life?

Wow. It’s gorgeous. It is a loving, comforting song in a gentle, minor key. It’s pretty easy to pick up, singing wise, And I can imagine it being used in any number of situations, especially when some contemplation or gentleness or simply rest after a lot of busy-ness is called for (which is every Sabbath, really).

The lyrics alone, from Rabbi Gustav Gottheil, a leader in the Reform Judaism movement in the late 19th century, are amazing – a wonderful prayer to offer in the morning or evening (as noted by the optional ‘rising’).  But for me, the tune, by Abraham Binder, is what gives the lyrics a fullness and completeness.

Come, O Sabbath day and bring peace and healing on thy wing:
and to every weary one let a word of blessing come:
thou shalt rest. Thou shalt rest.

Welcome Sabbath! Let depart ev’ry care of troubled heart.
Now the daily task is done, let a word of comfort come:
Thou thalt rest. Thou shalt rest.

Work and sorrow cast away! Sabbath is for prayer and play.
With the setting* of the sun, let a cheering message come:
thou shalt rest. Thou shalt rest.

*or “rising”

If you use this already, huzzah! If you haven’t, please try it – I will be, for sure.

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It’s Disconnected Thoughts Day here at the Far Fringe!

Disconnected Thought number one: the words and melody were written by Rabindranath Tangore, whose poetry we also find in Your Mercy, O Eternal One and Now I Recall My Childhood. That we also now have one of his melodies here I think is cool.

Disconnected Thought number two: did anyone else think this was a love song at first? I mean, it’s not surprising – this is another in a line of devotional poems from the Hindu traditions. But my first thought was “wedding song.”

Disconnected Thought number three: I had a moment of anxiety when I got to the word “smite” because I thought this was heading in the direction of some of the Psalms from the Old Testament – “I love God, God loves me, now go smite my enemies” (which I oddly just sang to the tune of “This Old Man”).

Disconnected Thought number four: is this a Diwali song?

(Refrain)
There are numerous strings in your lute,
let me add my own among them.

Then when you smite your chords,
my heart will break its silence,
and my heart will be one with your song.

(Refrain)

Amidst your numberless stars,
let me place my own little lamp.

(Refrain)

In the dance of your festival of lights
my heart will throb and my life
will be one with your smile. (Refrain)

Disconnected Thought the final: I don’t really like this one. For all of my love of art/music metaphors, this doesn’t work for me. I thought at first that it might have been the oddly somber tone of the melody, but really, I think it’s the idea that I’m not one of the strings in the Divine’s lute already, like I have to work to become part of this creation.

Meh.

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I like it when I have eureka moments with hymns I have never sung – those moments when I wonder “where has this song been all my life” or at the very least “wow, did I need this lyric this morning.”

I am sorry to say there was no eureka today. Maybe a moment of “oh, these Asian melodies arranged by I-to Loh, which the hymnal commission used several times, are beautiful and so good to include” but no flat out eureka.

And why is there no eureka? Perhaps it’s because I’m personally a little annoyed with the Transcendentalists right now. Perhaps it’s because while I like Robert Louis Stevenson’s prose, I find his poetry stilted. Perhaps it’s the AAAB pattern that makes me long for a final rhyme. Perhaps…. and this may be most likely…. it’s that some days this daily practice gives me an overdose of themes that I wouldn’t get if I had randomized the singing practice, and I’m ready, if not eager, to move on.

Anyway, here are our lyrics, from Stevenson’s untitled poem:

Let us wander where we will,
something kindred greets us still:
something seen on vale or hill
falls familiar on the heart.

Dew and rain fall everywhere,
harvests ripen, flow’rs are fair,
and the whole round earth is bare
to the sunshine and the sun.

And the live air, fanned with wings,
bright with breeze and sunshine,
brings into contact distant things,
and makes all the countries one.

Anyway. This is again a melody you’ll have to teach a congregation – it may be better for a soloist or small group to start. And I can see it being useful for a particular kind of service.

I’m just not feeling the eureka.

—

Today I offer a pic of a swallow, as it’s referenced in the first stanza of Stevenson’s poem.