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Of course this is the hymn today, as I set out on 14-hour trip home from SUUSI that was called Blessed Is the Path. And in fact, I’m a little surprised no one used this in their worship this week… except that it’s probably a bit stodgier than most of what we sing here.

Yet it is a favorite hymn of mine, one I find myself using (or wanting to use) a lot. Perhaps it’s because I talk about our journeys a lot – all kinds of journeys, from personal journeys to collective, from spiritual to intellectual, from historical to prophetic. Unitarian Universalist Mark DeWolfe’s lyrics are simply gorgeous:

Sing out praises for the journey, pilgrims, we, who carry on,
searchers in the soul’s deep yearnings, like our forebears in their time.
We seek out the spirit’s wholeness in the endless human quest.

Look inside, your soul’s the kindling of the hearth fire pilgrims knew.
Find the spirit, always restless, find it in each mind and heart.
Touch and hold that ancient yearning, kindling for a newfound truth.

Stand we now upon the threshold, facing futures yet unknown.
Hearth behind us, wayside hostel built by those who knew wild roads.
Guard we e’er their sacred embers carried in our minds and hearts.

An aside – while training friend and colleague Elizabeth Assenza to take over as a Union chapel minister, we giggled a lot at “forebears” because it didn’t scan to our eyes correctly. We wanted it to say “forebearers” because we weren’t quite sure four bears were quite up to the task.

And now you will never look at that word the same way again. Our work here is done.

Now back to the hymn – a lush lyric set to a lovely if somewhat squarely notated – and thus played – tune by the English composer Henry Purcell. I wonder if it would make it drag if done in a 6/8 time signature; it certainly would dance a bit more. Or maybe we find a new tune.

But no matter. I like the Purcell, and I don’t know why I’m stuck on trying to change it, but, well, there it is.

Bottom line: this is a favorite of mine, and it’s a good, useful hymn. I’m grateful for it.

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This is the second of what I realize now are three times when the same lyrics are applied to two different tunes. Now in the case of Light of Ages and of Nations, and later, O Little Town of Bethlehem, they are actually two completely different tunes. But here, we have two distinct versions of the same tune – the one you all know and love.

The first is in 3/4 time, as we commonly sing it. The second is an expansion into 4/4 time, giving it a different sort of swing and feel. The first swings in an old timey sort of way. It feels comfortable and familiar, like an old shoe. The second offers some swing, to be sure, but also a little breathing room for that emotional swing and subsequent trills.

It’s a trick that’s used for a variety of reasons, this expansion of time signature. Perhaps most famously, it was used to highlight a beautiful voice at a momentous occasion, namely Whitney Houston singing the National Anthem at Super Bowl XXV in 1991.

The original is written in 3/4 – you can feel it as you being singing, right? Or if you need help, here’s Martina McBride singing it in 3/4 during the 2005 World Series, in St. Louis:

Beautiful, yes. Familiar. And pure, in its simplicity.

But now hear what Whitney did, by expanding it to 4/4:

While it’s true that this also came in the midst of a tense Gulf War, this rendition – giving space for leaning into the meaning and her beautiful voice – made this an instant classic.

Giving space – isn’t that what grace is all about anyway? And so I invite you to sing this both ways – to feel both its grounding and its expansive space.

Amazing grace! How sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me!
I once was lost but now am found, was blind but now I see.

‘Twas grace that taught my heart to fear, and grace my fears relieved;
how precious did that grace appear the hour I first believed!

Through many dangers, toils and snares, I have already come;
‘tis grace that brought me safe thus far, and grace will lead me home.

When we’ve been there ten thousand years, bright shining as the sun,
we’ve no less days to sing God’s praise than when we’d first begun.

I know there are some who hate the word “wretch,” but there is something grittier, more real, about it. Soul (the option offered in the hymnal) can be sweet and ambiguous. Wretch is clear and focused. And while I firmly believe humans are innately good (a very anti-Calvinist position), I believe that we can be easily sucked into despair, destruction, and evil – and grace, however you define it and wherever it comes from, is what saves us. For me, it’s an easy line to draw between this song and the not-very-old UUA slogan, “nurture our spirits, help heal the world.”

But however you sing it, it’s a comforting hymn that calls us back to ourselves and gives us room to let go of the fears and pains we carry.

Amazing grace, indeed.

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This is a devotional prayer if ever I heard one.

And I suspect this text, by Bengali poet Rabindranath Tagore, would make some Unitarian Universalists squeamish, this whole-hearted surrender to the Divine. Yet it is a vital theological perspective found in our congregations – even if those who adhere to it might not say it aloud very much.

For me and my theology, I could use a little whole-hearted surrender now and then. We talk a lot about the expansiveness of God’s love in our Universalist theology, but then we try to place limits on how much love we’ll give back, in the name of reason, as though a devotion to the Eternal One means we have less devotion to give to each other and the planet.

Here’s the thing about love: it really, truly, honestly is limitless. The first line of There Is More Love Somewhere isn’t about a gathering of resources, it’s an opening to what already exists. So what happens when we do give the whole and not the part of ourselves to that which is bigger than ourselves, which some call Spirit of Life, or Holy One, or Collective Unconscious, or God? What happens when we surrender?

Your mercy, Oh Eternal one by no heart measured yet;
in joy, or grief, or shade, or sun I never will forget.

I give the whole and not the part of all you gave to me;
my goods, my life, my soul, my heart I yield them all as free.

And when in silent awe we wait, and word and sign forebear,
the hinges of the golden gate move soundless at our prayer.

I can tell you what happened when I surrendered: I heard the call to ministry.

And here’s the truth: by giving myself whole-heartedly to that something greater, I regularly challenge my perspective, my ego, my deeply held beliefs, my way of doing things. Whole-hearted devotion doesn’t mean losing yourself, it means losing the things that no longer serve or help. In fact, I am more in touch with my mind, my reason, the needs of others, the call to justice, the healing and transforming power of love.

Maybe we need a little less skepticism and a little more devotion.

We need a little more whole-heartedness.

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I can’t let this go by without a mention of the tune, Dundee. While most of the tune is rather typical of psalter tunes from the British Isles, the first line is magical. There’s something about the closing of the interval in the second phrase of the line that is delicious and warm and other words I can’t access at the moment. It’s a powerful musical moment for me.

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Today’s pic is another beautiful image by photographer Jeremy Garretson.  Go look, then buy  his stuff.

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I am a little bit excited to get to this hymn today.

First, because it’s just so beautiful. It’s sweeping and lush in its composition, and similarly sweeping and lush in its lyric. Written for Paul Winter’s Missa Gaia, Kim Oler captured something here that is a bit ineffable even as it is grounded and real.

Second, I love this hymn because of a memory I have of a fellow congregant at my home congregation in Saratoga Springs, NY. I don’t remember the service or my role in it, but I do remember Jane Root coming up to me afterwards, tears in her eyes, thanking us for doing this hymn because it was her favorite and made her cry every time. Which made me cry. To which we laughed and shared a deep connection for a moment.

Third, I can’t help but wonder if Peter Mayer was a little inspired to write “Blue Boat Home” (1064) because of this song – and I spent the five or so minutes between singing this and getting settled at my computer imagining a mashup of the two … and surprisingly, it works.

For the earth forever turning; for the skies, for ev’ry sea;
for our lives, for all we cherish, sing we our joyful song of peace.

For the mountains, hills, and pastures in their silent majesty;
for the stars, for all the heavens, sing we our joyful song of peace.

For the sun, for rain and thunder, for the seasons’ harmony,
for our lives, for all creation, sing we our joyful praise to Thee.

For the world we raise our voices, for the home that gives us birth;
in our joy we sing returning home to our bluegreen hills of earth.

This song is truly beautiful. Unlike some of the other hymns we sing that seem to be very ‘in your face’ about beauty, hope, and aspiration, this one gently entices you into a consideration of beauty, hope, and aspiration. More, it makes you feel part of it, not looking in at it. It’s so elegantly crafted that it in four short verses it entices and embraces and maybe changes us a bit.

 

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This hymn, y’all.

First – we’re already into the Peace section; Labor and Learning was short, sweet, and to the point.

Second – I am not Finnish. Nowhere in my family’s known genealogy is there any Scandinavian blood; we’re all German and English, with a dollop of Dutch and a dash of Irish. Yet this tune, from a longer symphonic piece by Finnish composer Jean Sebelius and considered if not the national anthem then at least Finland’s most important song, makes me weep from its beauty and connection to the ineffable.

In our hymnal, this tune appears twice – with these lyrics, by Lloyd Stone, written as a prayer of peace – and later in our journey as We Would Be One. And every time we use it, whichever lyrics we use, I am literally moved to tears. Because not only does the tune reach something deep in our souls, the lyrics reach something deep in our hearts: the call of peace, the call of humanity.

I sometimes think of this lyric as the First Principle on the national/global level. If we affirm and promote the inherent worth and dignity of every person, we must also affirm and promote the inherent worth and dignity of every nationality – with the important caveat, of course, that governments regularly deny and oppress and stir up nationalistic jingoism in egotistical shows of empty bravado. (I’m lookin’ at you, 45.)

But this… this is the vision, the prayer, the call for peace.

This is my song, O God of all the nations,
a song of peace for lands afar and mine.
This is my home, the country where my heart is;
here are my hopes, my dreams, my holy shrine;
but other hearts in other lands are beating
with hopes and dreams as true and high as mine.

My country’s skies are bluer than the ocean,
and sunlight beams on cloverleaf and pine;
but other lands have sunlight too, and clover,
and skies are everywhere as blue as mine.
O hear my song, thou God of all the nations,
a song of peace for their land and for mine.

Amen.

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I’m a little more in love with this hymn today than I was yesterday.

I’ve used it several times – often with services about the arts or knowledge and reason. But even then, I don’t know that I actually meditated on the lyrics, written by Thomas Troeger, now a professor of preaching at Yale (officially the J. Edward and Ruth Cox Lantz Professor of Christian Communication – isn’t that a helluva metaphor for preaching?).

But I digress.

The reason I love this hymn a little more is that Troeger’s lyrics rather described my personal theology, which is most decidedly a Universalist process theology. The lyric never defines what the “source of faith and learning” is, but instead invite us to consider the wonder of creation and the act of creating as connected to some source within and beyond us. The lyrics command us to learn and explore and create, and never lose a sense of wonder. And they implore us to use our reason and faith-led, ethical, humanist core to carry out justice and compassion, and to reject things that do not aid in the growth and nurturance of this world.

Just look at these words:

Praise the source of faith and learning that has sparked and stoked the mind
with a passion for discerning how the world has been designed.
Let the sense of wonder flowing from the wonders we survey
keep our faith forever growing and renew our need to pray.

Source of wisdom, we acknowledge that our science and our art
and the breadth of human knowledge only partial truth impart.
Far beyond our calculation lies a depth we cannot sound
where the purpose for creation and the pulse of life are found.

May our faith redeem the blunder of believing that our thought
has displaced the grounds for wonder which the ancient prophets taught.
May our learning curb the error which unthinking faith can breed
lest we justify some terror with an antiquated creed.

Praise for minds to probe the heavens, praise for strength to breathe the air.
Praise for all that beauty leavens, praise for silence, music, prayer.
Praise for justice and compassion and for strangers, neighbors, friends.
Praise for hearts and lips to fashion praise for love that never ends.

I am weak.

(Also – while the tune has a decidedly Irish lilt, it was a commission, written for the 125th anniversary celebration of the First Unitarian Universalist Church of Ann Arbor, Michigan. Well met.)

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Image is of the seven wonders of the ‘modern’ world.

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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.

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I was hoping Jacqui James would bail me out today.

I was really hoping there would be some long explanation of the origins of this song – that the lyricist, Ehud Manor, had written this in response to a particular moment/tragedy/event that I could expand upon, or that the composer, Nurit Hirsch, had discovered an ancient melody that he modernized in a unique way.  Something. ANYTHING to capture my interest as we come to the close of this seemingly endless section In Time To Come.

But no, in Between the Lines, James has written simply this:

Well hell.

Okay, so there’s no there there. It’s just another song expressing belief in a better tomorrow. In case we didn’t have enough of those already in the hymnal.

Now be clear: I like this one. I am fond of whatever quality it is that makes Jewish music distinctive, despite being not at all Jewish. It’s easy to sing, it’s got better than decent lyrics, and it’s going to be with me all day because of its prime ear worm qualities. I have used it and will used it. I just don’t have anything else to say about it. It’s a song. A good, decent, hopeful song.

Soon the day will arrive when we will be together,
and no longer will we live in fear.
And the children will smile without wondering whether
on that day thunderclouds will appear.

(Chorus)
Wait and see, wait and see what a world there can be
if we share, if we care, you and me.
Wait and see, wait and see what a world there can be
if we share, if we care, you and me.

Some have dreamed, some have died to make a bright tomorrow,
and our vision remains in our hearts.
Now the torch must be passed with new hope, not in sorrow,
and a promise to make a new start.

(Chorus)

I guess Freud was right. Sometimes a song is just a song.

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(And sometimes a sunrise behind a tree is just a picture to use because no other images come to mind.)

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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 one nearly speaks for itself – it asks the question many of us ask of those who seem to take a perverse joy at the suffering of others. Over and over, in the face of laws and judgments that seek to punish the victims, the oppressed, the suffering, we ask of those people: what if it were your daughter? what if it were your child? what if you were in need of sanctuary? what if you had nothing to eat, no roof, no comfort?

And, discomfortingly, these are questions we have been asking for centuries, if not millennia. William Blake’s poem, “On Another’s Sorrow”, from which our hymn is deftly crafted, asked this in the 18th century. How hard-hearted have humans been! How cold, calculating, and disdainful humans have been!

And this makes me weep. In my heart of hearts, I believe that humans are essentially good, that we are born good. And yet, over and over, there is evidence not only that evil exists in the world but also that some may have a propensity for it – or at least a lack of empathy that allows evil to flourish. This, more than anything, is what causes my weltschmerz – my world weariness.

This hymn – and the longer Blake poem – are intended to swell the mystic chords of memory by the better angels of our nature. To me, the hymn is a sad, haunting reminder of how few actually hear those mystic chords.

Can I see another’s woe,
and not be in sorrow too?
Can I see another’s grief,
and not seek for kind relief?

Can I see a falling tear,
and not feel my sorrow’s share?
Can a father see his child weep,
nor be with sorrow filled?

Can a mother sit and hear
infant groan, an infant fear?
No, no, never can it be!
Never, never can it be!

The tune is another favorite – another delicious melody from the 16th century. Its minor key and flowing lines are solemn and bittersweet. A perfect match for these words.

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The image is also by William Blake, illustrations created for an illuminated edition of Dante’s Divine Comedy. Learn more here.