By |

Q: How do you know a hymn lyric is written by an Englishman?

A: It’s simultaneously proud and self-deprecating.

Yes, folks, John Andrew Storey – a beloved English Unitarian hymn writer – manages to write a very English lyric here. And it’s not that I disagree with any of it; in fact, I am now thinking about using it for our wrap up service about our conversation with world religions.

It’s just that last verse that made me chuckle at the Englishness of it. (For those who want another example of what I mean, watch Hugh Grant’s character in Four Weddings and a Funeral, or the comedy of Jon Richardson or Jack Whitehall, or any modern British panel show, really.)

But I digress. This is a pretty good lyric for getting the point across. I’m not sure it’s an inspiring hymn – I certainly wouldn’t use it as a closer, especially with the minor-key Southern Harmony tune Distress. But sometimes I think we need to spell it out, because I think sometimes a little less metaphor for congregational singing helps the singing part, especially if we’re trying to make a point.

Anyway, here’s our hymn:

Our faith is but a single gem upon a rosary of beads;
the thread of truth which runs through them supports our varied human needs.

Confucian wisdom, Christian care, the Buddhist way of self-control,
the Muslim’s daily call to prayer are proven pathways to the goal.

From many lips, in every age, the truth eternal is proclaimed
by Western saint, and Eastern sage, and all the good, however named.

Beside the noblest of our race our lives as yet cannot compare:
may we at length their truth embrace and in their sacred mission share.

I must admit, I especially like that Storey puts us on “a rosary of beads.” I don’t have negative associations with rosaries, so for me, it makes us as worthy of prayer and attention as any other. Well done, sir.

—

Apologies for the shortness – I awakened early and now must prepare to preach at a washing of feet and hands service for Maundy Thursday. I’m excited for the opportunity to bring some Brother Sun into an AME Zion church.

By |

Lyrics don’t have to rhyme. Lyrics don’t have to rhyme. Lyrics don’t have to rhyme.

This is the mantra I’ve been repeating to myself between singing this song and getting settled at the computer. I know…I KNOW lyrics don’t have to rhyme. But WOW a song sits weirdly on my ear when they don’t. There isn’t even approximate rhyming, like you hear in a lot of pop songs (where words sound vaguely like rhymes, or where the last words of the verse rhyme). I think what makes it notable in a lot of hymns is that they are, relatively speaking, square and short – meaning you’re not lost in an intense verse for a while that offers a rhyming chorus to release the tension. Rather, you’re in and out quickly on a hymn like this, and so you notice.

Or at least I do.

I know, I go on and on about lyric structure a lot. And I am sure if you’re a regular reader, you’re rolling your eyes at me about now and saying “c’mon, Debus, get on with it!” Okay, okay, just don’t blame me when you sing it and long for a rhyme.

So yeah. The tune, Sursum Corda, has been used before, in Now Light Is Less and The Peace Not Passing Understanding… two hymns which I grouse about rhyme. What is it about this tune that attracts awkward rhymes? Sorry, y’all, but it’s a thing.

Now these lyrics – poetic free verse from Rabindranath Tagore – are beautiful, but I’m not sure when I would ever use it. My hesitation may be contextual – I serve a congregation whose average age is over 70, and who has been told by others that they’re old and dying, both as a congregation and as individuals. So having them sing of coming death makes me – and them – squirmy. Yet I’m sure there are good uses for this hymn, in those services about simple joys, connecting with nature, perhaps even mother’s day.

Now I recall my childhood when the sun
burst to my bedside with the day’s surprise;
faith in the marvelous bloomed anew each dawn,
flowers bursting fresh within my heart each day.

Then looking on the world with simple joy,
on insects, birds, and beasts, and common weeds,
the grass and clouds had fullest wealth of awe;
my mother’s voice gave meaning to the stars.

Now when I turn to think of coming death,
I find life’s song in starsongs of the night,
in rise of curtains and new morning light,
in life reborn in fresh surprise of love.

But I don’t know. I think there are beautiful phrases and imagery, and “my mother’s voice gave meaning to the stars” makes me cry as I miss my own mother. And yet, when it comes to songs that out and out inspire me, this isn’t it. And I may be alone in this feeling.

(I am chuckling, because a few days ago, on Facebook, I invited friends to ‘sound like me’ and one totally captured my “it doesn’t work for me but it may work for you” thing that I do perhaps a little too often. And yeah, I don’t always have a positive connection to a hymn, but I am always willing for it to work for someone else, in a setting and perspective that is different from mine.)

This one just doesn’t compel me, and not just because it doesn’t rhyme.

Que sera, sera.

(Which rhymes.)

 

 

By |

I don’t know what to say about this one.

It’s not that I don’t get it – I do. It’s an encapsulation of Confucianism, ending in the golden rule. It captures the nuggets of carefully measured wisdom and advice a Confucian parent doles out to their child, reminding them that the way out of chaos is order, and the achievement of order is relationship and right action.

And other than that, really, I don’t know what to say. Here it is.

Grieve not your heart for want of place, nor yearn for easy praise;
but fit yourself some task to do, and well employ your days.

From wise and foolish both alike we should all try to learn,
for one can show us how to live, the other what to spurn.

Be fair to people when they err, when good, your pleasure show;
their faults be quick to understand, in judging them be slow.

But this above all else obey, it is the best of goals,
what you would wish not done to you, do not to other souls.

There’s nothing to argue with because there’s no real depth. It’s the aphorism song. It’s the be nice song.

As I said in my recent UU World article, “blech.”

(Tens – maybe hundreds – of thousands of words written between blogs, articles, essays, and sermons, and the thing I quote is “blech.” Go me.)

Anyway. It’s a lovely Southern Harmony tune and easy to sing, and for the right service on the golden rule or on compassion, this might be just fine.

By |

It may be lack of coffee.

It may be lack of ease with Buddhism.

It may be lack of sleep.

But whatever it is I am lacking seems to be keeping me from understanding what the heck this lyric, written by Sarojini Naidu, the first female president of the Indian National Congress, is saying.

It feels mostly like it’s saying ‘life sucks and there’s nothing we can do so just give up already.’ Which I am certain isn’t true and maybe it’s in there but that’s not the point… but dammit, meaning is eluding me today.

So instead I’ll nitpick about bad rhymes, like ‘won’ and ‘throne’ and ‘flight’ and ‘infinite’ (grr) and wonder at the combination of a very Buddhist poem and a very German hymn tune.

The wind of change forever blown across the tumult of our way,
tomorrow’s unborn griefs depose the sorrows of our yesterday.
Dream yields to dream, strife follows strife, and death unweaves the webs of life.

For us the labor and the heat, the broken secrets of our pride,
the strenuous lessons of defeat, the flower deferred, the fruit denied;
but not the peace, supremely won, great Buddha, of the lotus throne.

With futile hands we seek to gain our inaccessible desire,
diviner summits to attain, with faith that sinks and feet that tire;
but nought shall conquer or control the heav’nward hunger of our soul.

The end, elusive and afar, still lures us with its beck’ning flight,
and our immortal moments are a session of the infinite.
How shall we reach the great, unknown nirvana of your lotus throne?

I’m missing something big here today…for which I apologize. Although I guess it’s okay if not every piece speaks clearly to every person – that whole pesky 4th principle thing, eh?

Now go have a day – stay dry if it’s raining, stay warm if it’s cold, cheer up if you’re a Gonzaga fan.

By |

Among the most meaningful compliments I’ve gotten so far about this series is from my colleague and mentor, Michael Tino, who told me about a month ago how he now turns to it when making hymn choices and how frustrated he was that I hadn’t gotten to #181 yet.  I’m here now; I have never sung this before, and you promised to tell me how the singing went, so here’s your chance!

Meanwhile, here’s how my singing went:  in a word, well. This is a lush, somber, beautiful Indian tune, set by Frederic Mathil. I’d love to hear the full harmonies, as I suspect it’s even more lush in its fullness.

The lyrics are timely; given all that our movement is facing, we need more than ever the reminder that “there is not one alive we count outside.” This sutta should be our mantra.

No matter if you live now far or near,
no matter what your weakness or your strength,
there is not one alive we count outside.
May deeper joy for all now come at length,
may deeper joy for all now come at length.

Let none among us lie or self-deceive;
nor cultivate a hatred all or part,
may never one of us live by our rage
nor wish another injury of heart,
nor wish another injury of heart.

Just as the goodly mother will protect
her children, e’en at risk of her own life,
so may we nurture an old mindfulness,
a boundless heart beyond all fear and strife,
a boundless heart beyond all fear and strife.

One note, however: the hymnal lists this as coming from the Sutta Nopata, but I can only find references to a “Sutta Nipata,” which is in fact the larger work of scripture, meaning literally “suttas falling down.” I suspect this is because, at  quick glance, they appear to be discourses (from sutra, meaning thread)  of deep consideration, and maybe even confession. Our lyrics come from one of the 72 suttas in this collection, the Metta Sutta.

By |

This morning’s practice started as it normally does, with me flipping to the page and meeting my first reaction – depending on the song, it might be one of joy, apathy, annoyance, or curiosity. Having never sung or heard this one before, curiosity won the day.

Because it’s in an unfamiliar language and set to an unfamiliar tune, I turned to the trusty old YouTube to have a listen.

Video after video, offering me something near to what was on our page, but often with different lyrics (no biggie) and usually with differences in the melody (confusing). Video after video, each offering wildly different takes on the song, from the woman in a garden trying to be floaty and ethereal and failing, to the Bollywood mashup, to the westernized sitars, to the Indian marching band, and everything in between. To be honest, I went down the rabbit hole, listening to all these different versions.

At first, I was frustrated. “I just want to learn the song!” I shouted to the now already brewed coffee. (It didn’t answer back.) Click to the next video. Grrr. Click to the next video. Hmmmm. Click to the next video. Huh…. Click to the next video. Oh.

You see, because this was Gandhi’s favorite hymn, which he used in his morning devotionals, it became a favorite across India and the Hindu world. And just as there are probably thousands of recorded versions of Amazing Grace across the Christian diaspora, there are easily that many or more across the Hindu diaspora. Each one a different take, with differences reflecting the particularities of time, place, genre, belief…reflecting the universality of this simple hymn.

(Chorus)
Raghupati, Raghava, Raja Ram.
Patita Paban, Seeta Ram.

Seeta Ran jai, Seeta Ram. Patita Paban, Seeta Ram,
Seeta Ram jai, Seeta Ram, Patita Paban, Seeta Ram.

(Chorus)

Eeswara Allah tere nam Sabko sanmoti de bhag wan.
Eeswara Allah tere nam Sabko sanmoti de bhagwan.

(Chorus)

Seeta Ram jai, Seeta Ram. Patika Paban Seeta Ram,
Seeta Ram jai, Seeta Ram, Patika Paban, Seeta Ram.

(Chorus)

And it is simple. It’s prayer to Ram, the seventh (of 12) incarnation of Vishnu, asking for, among other things, peace between Hindus and Muslims.

And ultimately, while I may not have the tune as written in our hymnal in my head, I do have the tune, so if I sang it to a Hindu, they’d recognize it – and probably correct my articulation, as Indian music has a particular vocal articulation we aren’t trained for in the west.

It’s a beautiful hymn. I hope there are those congregations who have found a way to use it, because its call for peace never gets old.

By |

Sometimes a hymn sits next to our principles, or waves from across the room at them, or bumps into them in the hallway as they’re rushing to a committee meeting, or left a cryptic email, or BS’d its way through an essay about them in an ethics class.

Sometimes a hymn is a principle, embodied.

Welcome to the seventh principle, in song.

Sure, we’ll come across others of a similar bent; but if you asked me to pick one hymn for our seventh principle, ‘the interconnected web of which we are all a part’, this would be my winner. And it’s entirely possible that this was the charge to Alicia Carpenter, whose lyrics were commissioned for Singing the Living Tradition.

To Alicia I say a hearty “Well Done!” Plus, she set it to what might be described as an old Lutheran hymn, Christus Der Ist Mein Leben by German composer Melchior Vulpius, who wrote this, oh, a little over 500 years ago. I say it’s a plus because it’s a lovely tune – spirited but majestic, given a fresh look with these fresh lyrics. (Bonus: no cankerworms! Seriously, that’s still stuck in my craw…)

We celebrate the web of life, its magnitude we sing;
for we can see divinity in every living thing.

A fragment of the perfect whole in cactus and in quail,
as much in tiny barnacle as in the great blue whale.

Of ancient dreams we are the sum; our bones link stone to star,
and bind our future worlds to come with worlds that were and are.

Respect the water, land, and air which gave all creatures birth;
protect the lives of all that share the glory of the earth.

Yep, I’m a fan, and I try to use this when I preach on climate justice, stewardship and appreciation of the earth, and the immanent divine.

Despite a gloomy, chilly, foggy morning, and despite a hard night full of fear-filled dreams, this hymn brings me some solace and joy today.

—

Yes. That pic is of a quail next to a cactus. You’re welcome.

By |

Yesterday (and elsewhere) I talked about how the first line of a song wasn’t always or necessarily the title of a song, and the use of such can be frustrating or misleading.

I’m thinking it may be a good thing that the original title of this piece, by Universalist minister Adin Ballou, “Reign of Christian Peace,” is not being used in our hymnal. I wish it was noted somewhere besides Between the Lines, however, because it is an interesting note in our theological history, a reminder that Universalism was not always as expansive and inclusive as we think of it today – it was a long while before Universalists pushed the doctrine of universal salvation to its inevitable conclusion.

But I digress from the hymn. Despite some unfamiliar-to-me language (a falchion is a machete-like sword), it’s your basic call for peace in a time of war. (It’s interesting that this was first published in 1842, during the Seminole Wars, and then republished in 1861, at the start of the US Civil War. Not surprising, just interesting. What may be more interesting (as I scan a history timeline) is that the Mormon War, which took place as Mormons were moving west through Missouri, also took place in the late 1830s, a much more theologically-based war, which the Universalists would have been on the non-Mormon side of. I don’t know if there’s any writing from Universalists of the day about the Mormons and other movements that cropped up… might be an interesting side trip some day.

But again, I digress. (Sorry – it’s one of those days.)

The lyrics ultimately are fine – but I am a tad disoriented by the tune it’s set to. Yes, this is set to Hyfrodol, which is such a joyful tune, made even more joyful by Peter Mayer in his recasting for Blue Boat Home. And it seems really odd to be singing about swords and trumpets and war banners in this delightful Welsh melody. But maybe that’s the point. I don’t know if this lyric has ever been set to anything else – it could be that Ballou himself wanted a spirit of joy and loveliness to emphasize the call of his words, setting the ridiculousness of war in contrast to the joy that the reign of Peace portends.

Years are coming, speed them onward
when the sword shall gather rust,
and the helmet, lance, and falchion
sleep at last in silent dust.
Earth has heard too long of battle,
heard the trumpet’s voice too long.
But another age advances,
seers foretold in ancient song.

Years are coming when forever
war’s dread banner shall be furled,
and the angel Peace be welcomed,
regent of a happy world.
Hail with song that glorious era,
when the sword shall gather rust,
and the helmet, lance, and falchion
sleep at last in silent dust.

But it’s still weird to sing those words to this tune.

—

I know, the image of the peace sign on the American flag may draw controversy… but it seems the right image for this hymn today.

 

By |

This is a great piece – best sung a capella, with three strong song leaders to help fill in the rich harmony.

I often forget about it, this sweet song written by cantor Linda Hirschhorn, and I’m not sure why. So when it comes up in conversation or I hear a snippet of it, I go ‘oh yeah, that’s a good song.’ And then promptly forget it again.

I don’t have much more to add today – still fighting off the crud. But I like it and I wish we sang it more… it’s a beautiful sung prayer. You can hear it here, courtesy of the Church of the Larger Fellowship and the Oakland Chancel Choir:

Circle ‘round for freedom, circle ‘round for peace,
for all of us imprisoned, circle for release,
circle for the planet, circle for each soul,
for the children of our children, keep the circle whole.

Amen.

By |

Hurrah for the Hymnal Commission, who noted at the bottom of the page that this was a code song used by the Underground Railroad, much like Wade in the Water and Swing Low, Sweet Chariot, to communicate the map to freedom.

I won’t go through the whole song – there are plenty of sites that do that for you. Of course, the drinking gourd is the big dipper, ‘when the sun comes back and the first quail calls’ is springtime; the second two verses are remarkably explicit.

The question, of course, is whether they’re too explicit, and was this version written after the Civil War? There’s some evidence to suggest that might be the case, although it’s also possible that it’s not at all contradictory to have some lyrics codified in various forms long after the original was sung, thanks to oral tradition.

(Chorus)
Follow the drinking gourd,
follow the drinking gourd,
for the old man is awaiting for to carry you to freedom,
follow the drinking gourd.

When the sun comes back and the first quail calls,
follow the drinking gourd.
The old man is awaiting for to carry you to freedom,
follow the drinking gourd.

(Chorus)

Now the river bank makes a mighty good road,
the dead trees will show you the way.
Left foot, peg foot, traveling on,
follow the drinking gourd.

(Chorus)

Now the river ends between two hills
follow the drinking gourd.
There’s another river on the other side,
follow the drinking gourd.

(Chorus)

Whether or not we believe that exactly these verses are what was sung in 1860, this song is a potent reminder of the bravery of Harriet Tubman and those – white and black – who worked the Railroad. It’s a potent reminder of the strength and power of music. And it’s a tribute to the enduring heart and soul of the oppressed.

Again, we must sing it with care. Of course. But I think we have been left enough breadcrumbs that we’re unlikely to enter this one without some care.