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It feels a little like cheating that this was our closing hymn yesterday, and I’ve had it as an earworm for 24 hours – and it’s been on my mind since I first chose it for this service weeks ago.

And in this case, I don’t even care that only verse one is original, and that Eugene Navias, a Minister of Religious Education and 1977 winner of the Angus McLean Award for excellence in religious education, wrote the second and third verses for us. I don’t mind at all, because (a) the original invokes ‘Ebenezer’ (Hebrew for ‘stone of God’), which is referenced in Samuel 7:12 and is used to say it’s only because of God that we are able to do anything, which is very NOT Unitarian or Universalist in theology; and (b) Navias captures some of my own theistic humanism – namely, saying that which we look to (which some call God) reminds us to look to each other and work together and love together.

I used this as the closing hymn for a sermon talking about how religious community can be and should be a place of sanctuary for our souls and spirits. As I say in the sermon,

At its best, religious community is a shelter from the storm. It is a space set apart where we can release our weltschmerz (world weariness) and breathe into the present moment. And yet it isn’t a place that simply holds the holy for us; rather, it helps us integrate our faith into the rhythm of our daily lives. It makes space for restoring loving and intimate connections with each other. It is the small rituals and gestures we undertake with each other in this sacred space that give everyday life its value and meaning, that comfort us, make us feel at home, rooted and generous. It is the safe space for learning and discussion that prepares us lovingly for the hard work of justice and compassion ahead. It is the ever-present invitation to stop, be still, and give thanks.

We sing this hymn in gratitude for the communities we intentionally create to support us, for the reminder that we are more than the sum of our parts, for the vision that we must remember to keep before us.

Come, thou fount of ev’ry blessing, tune our ears to sing thy grace.
Streams of mercy never ceasing, call for songs of loudest praise.
While the hope of life’s perfection fills our hearts with joy and love,
teach us ever to be faithful, may we still thy goodness prove.

Come, thou fount of ev’ry vision, lift our eyes to what may come.
See the lion and the young lamb dwell together in thy home.
Hear the cries of war fall silent, feel our love glow like the sun.
When we all serve one another, then our heaven is begun.

Come, thou fount of inspiration, turn our lives to higher ways.
Lift our gloom and desperation, show the promise of this day.
Help us bind ourselves in union, help our hands tell of our love.
With thine aid, O fount of justice, earth be fair as heav’n above.

I love this hymn. I love our words, plus I love the tune (Nettleton). It recharges me and sends me forth. It is, for me, a moment to be present with and among others, to stop, be still, and give thanks.

—

The photo is of Paint Branch UU (photo from the UUA site page for Welcoming Congregations), chosen because of the love and sanctuary this religious community is showing in this beautiful rainbow picture.

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From the “I never really understood it until now” department comes this hymn.

Wow.

This is a familiar hymn to me, with its rolling triplets and pulsing, pushing melody. The tune sits for me in the same category as “Do You Hear the People Sing” from Les Miz – strong, defiant, meant to rouse and inspire. (I love the version I just linked to – it features Jean Valjeans from 17 different countries.)

But I don’t think I ever really read the lyrics – although I wonder if the lyrics would have ever seemed so relevant as they do today. These words could be preached from the pulpit or proclaimed at a protest. They should be echoing through the halls of Congress and every state legislature, read to journalists and news chiefs. I mean, this calls us to the moment, to be brave or be cowards (I’m lookin’ at you, Ryan and McConnell), to stand with truth, to decide whether to support greed and manipulation or generosity and truth. Now is the moment to decide.

And what gives me hope is that millions have shown what it looks like when a nation decides to stand up for good – Standing Rock, the Women’s March, the Muslim ban protests, the rogue twitter accounts from governmental science organizations (EPA, NASA, etc.), the media’s willingness to call a lie a lie, the daily calls and letters people are making to members of Congress. It’s happening. And it’s effective.

The moment has come, and people are deciding for the good side.

Once to every soul and nation comes the moment to decide,
in the strife of truth with falsehood, for the good or evil side:
then to stand with truth is noble, when we share its wretched crust;
ere that cause bring fame and profit, and ‘tis prosperous to be just.

Though the cause of evil prosper, yet ‘tis truth alone is strong;
though its portion be the scaffold, and upon the throne be wrong.
Then it is the brave one chooses, while the coward stands aside,
till the multitude make virtue of the faith they have denied.

One lyrical note:  again, our hymnal commission has pieced together lyrics for two verses from four verses; as originally written, they do include a fair bit of language that lands in a much more Christian theology. I’ve linked the original lyrics here. Sometimes that piecing together gets awkward and changes the meaning in a way that the hymn becomes toothless. However, they (a) did it much more artfully here than they have elsewhere, and (b) I think the message is stronger the way we have it now.  While this is a lyric written by a Unitarian (James Russell Lowell), you can see the shifts in our own theology from the late 1800s to today.

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It is two days after the incredible Women’s March – one day after many ministers, including me, took to the pulpit to talk about our faith’s all to resist and rejoice, to do what’s next.

And what is so very clear is that the people at and supporting the Women’s March, and the folks sitting in the pews all understood is that this was just the start. This was the kick off for the action we are called to. But if anything, the March set the tone – it told us we are not alone, that resistance may be fueled by fear and anger, but that it can be joyful, and funny, and kind, and creative – and that it should be. It must be.

This hymn reminds us of that – “do you hear, do you hear? All the dreams, all the dares, all the sighs, all the prayers – they are yours, mine, and theirs” … wow. This is not your rugged individuality calling, this is the sound of all of us, calling to our hearts and souls, calling us to attend, calling us to resist and rejoice.

Do you hear, oh my friend, in the place where you stand,
through the sky, through the land, do you hear, do you hear?
In the heights, on the plain, in the vale, on the main,
in the sun, in the rain, do you hear, do you hear?

Through the roar, through the rush, through the throng,
through the crush, do you hear in the hush of your soul, of your soul?
Hear the cry fear won’t still, hear the heart’s call to will,
hear a sigh’s startling trill in your soul, in your soul?

From the place where you stand to the outermost strand,
do you hear, oh my friend, do you hear, do you hear?
All the dreams, all the dares, all the sighs, all the prayers —
they are yours, mine, and theirs — do you hear, do you hear?

The lyrics are by religious educator Emily Thorn, set to one of my favorite tunes from the shape note collections (Southern Harmony, Union Harmony, Northern Harmony, etc.), Foundation. It’s easy to sing, and a bit sing-songy, but it carries that same sort of deep, true call to our hearts that Abigail Washburn talks about in the On Being podcast I reference here. There is something true about the music, the lyrics, the call  – something that lands for me and makes my entire being simply want to answer “Yes.”

Do you hear? Because if ever there was a time, this is the time to open up your heart and hear.

This is the  time to reengage with what matters, what our faith calls us to.

This is the time for strong words and rebellious thoughts and bold, beautiful, creative acts of resistance.

This is the time to be mad as hell and not want to take it anymore.

This is the time to be the people we have been waiting for.

This is the time to figure out what you will do to help resist hate and fear and discrimination and violence.

This is the time for courage, even a drop or two as we make our way in this uncertain world.

This is the time for heroes – and so we must reach for the stars.

It’s time. Do you hear?

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This is one of those cases where, given the times in which we live and the still unbelievable event about to happen on Friday, all I can do is let the lyrics of this beautiful song of joy and resistance speak for themselves. Sorry, folks, no deep analysis today, because this song has shaken me to my core with its undeniable truths and hope-filled demands. Please sing and cry with me today:

My life flows on in endless song above earth’s lamentation.
I hear the real though far-off hymn that hails a new creation.
Through all the tumult and the strife I hear the music ringing.
It sounds an echo in my soul. How can I keep from singing!

What though the tempest ‘round me roars, I know the truth, it liveth.
What though the darkness ‘round me close, songs in the night it giveth.
No storm can shake my inmost calm while to that rock I’m clinging.
Since love prevails in heav’n and earth, how can I keep from singing!

When tyrants tremble as they hear the bells of freedom ringing,
when friends rejoice both far and near, how can I keep from singing!
To prison cell and dungeon vile our thoughts to them are winging;
when friends by shame are undefiled, how can I keep from singing!

I should note, as Jacqui James points out in Between the Lines, the third verse was written during the McCarthy era to protest that round of paranoia and fear; it seems especially appropriate right now.

My sermon this week is called “What’s Next?” wherein I’ll be talking about what this elderly congregation can expect and can do, since for nearly all of them, their days of protest marches and door-knocking are long over. I want them to do is keep singing the songs of resistance and freedom, to keep telling their stories, and do the little things they can (letter writing, calls to representatives, etc.) to keep hope alive. And so we’ll end on this hymn.

And hopefully I can keep it together long enough to do the benediction.

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I went on a bit yesterday about early Anglican poetry and music, not realizing that one of the most famous pieces – and my favorite – to come out of that era (1550-1650) was next on our hit parade.

This poem, “The Call,” was written by George Herbert, an Anglican priest and poet from Wales. Herbert was considered a masterful orator and writer, and did a brief stint in Parliament and as Trinity College’s public orator (because apparently that was a thing) before returning to the priesthood.

But what we remember from Herbert is not his service to the Crown or the Church but his writing. His posthumously published book A Priest in the Temple, more commonly known as The Country Parson is both a snapshot into early 17th century England and in parts could definitely be written today. It’s a slim volume that serves largely as a handbook for clergy in rural parishes; it addresses such practical questions as keeping house, and local charity, as well as providing advice for issues around marriage and caring for women in the parish. Herbert’s observations and advice are just as appropriate for today; proof that while technology and culture may change, people don’t.

But I digress (I told you I was a geek). This poem is part of Herbert’s vast body of work that places him squarely in the cannon of the Metaphysical Poets – John Donne perhaps the most famous of them all. These poets – loosely held together under this moniker, did not write all together in one particular style, but what connects them is a particular use of nature as metaphor, mystical sensibilities, and a particular intelligence and cleverness that some contemporaries (and subsequent critics such as Samuel Johnson – the guy who wrote a dictionary) found untenable.

And yet, the poetry lives – beautifully, I might add. Enough trivia – let’s get to it:

Come, my way, my truth, my life:
such a way as gives us breath,
such a truth as ends all strife,
such a life as killeth death.

Come, my light, my feast, my strength:
such a light as shows a feast,
such a feast as mends in length,
such a strength as makes a guest.

Come, my joy, my love, my heart:
such a joy as none can move,
such a love as none can part,
such a heart as joys in love.

This is, at its heart, a meditation on John 14:6 – “Jesus said to him, ‘I am the way, and the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.” Yet it speaks beyond any one belief and to a greater call from the Spirit of Life that we can all find truth, strength, joy, love. Come, Herbert asks of us. If we come to that which we call a higher power, we will know.

Beautiful.

And…beautifully set to a tune by Ralph Vaughan Williams as part of a piece called Five Mystical Songs, all based on Herbert poems. Each one is simply gorgeous and perfectly matched to Herbert’s lush poetry. I recommend taking the 20 minutes to listen.

Clearly, I love this one. And on a day when we say goodbye to one year and hello to a new, very uncertain one, it’s good to remember to come home to love.

Come.

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Now this one really is a prayer.

In fact, Jacqui James points out in Between the Lines that the incredible Shelley Denham wrote this as a prayer. And called the tune Prayer.

And wow, what a prayer. It is gentle to self even as it calls for strength. It is a quiet prayer of preparation, of focus and stillness. This is the song we should be singing every morning, not just an occasional Sunday or a random Wednesday. I don’t have a lot to say because it already says so much – it is beautifully crafted and beautiful to sing and carries our prayer on its gentle melody.

Blessed Spirit of my life, give me strength through stress and strife;
help me live with dignity; let me know serenity.
Fill me with a vision, clear my mind of fear and confusion.
When my thoughts flow restlessly, let peace find a home in me.

Spirit of great mystery, hear the still, small voice in me.
Help me live my wordless creed as I comfort those in need.
Fill me with compassion, be the source of my intuition.
Then, when life is done for me, let love be my legacy.

Amen.

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Merry Christmas to me – this is one of my very favorite hymns.

First of all, let’s not kid ourselves – 19th century English composer Samuel Wesley knew what he was doing when he wrote the anthem “Praise the Lord, O My Soul,” which includes the melody that we know as “Lead Me Lord.” Its composition itself – even without lyrics – is a prayer, beautifully formed in a conversational style (and an irregular meter) that calls us to speak what is on our hearts. Whether that is a prayer to God (“Lead me lord”) or as we encounter it, a prayer to Creation, this tune – with its complex harmonies yet ease of singing – calls us to look inward even as we look far outward.

And then we add the lyrics – for some Unitarian Universalists, this might be as close to prayer to anything or anyone as they might come. The words themselves draw us outward and inward – stillness, flight, and light become prayerful metaphors for that which our souls cry out for.

Winds be still.
Storm clouds pass and silence come.
Peace grace this time with harmony.
Fly, bird of hope, and shine, light of love,
and in calm let all find tranquility.

Bird fly high.
Lift our gaze toward distant view.
Help us to sense life’s mystery.
Fly high and far, and lead us each to see
how we move through the winds of eternity.

Light shine in.
Luminate our inward view.
Help us to see with clarity.
Shine bright and true so we may join our songs
in new sounds that become full symphony.

When I sing this hymn alone, I find a moment of stillness, a sense of release, and often – like this morning – a few tears that offer a moment of clarity. When I sing this hymn with others, I find a surprising connection, as though we have just breathed together in harmony for the first time and we have been, for even a moment, changed.

I love this hymn. I am grateful the universe conspired to give it to me on this Christmas morning.

To all of you – Happy Christmas and Happy Hanukkah. May this day bring you joy and comfort.

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This is such a gorgeous hymn, and a comforting one too.

First, let’s talk melody – Shelley Denham knew what she was doing, writing a sort of lullaby to winter in a gentle 3/2. It is both simple to sing and delicious to sing. I imagine my college choir director reminding us to sing through the long notes with some energy, because there is mystery there.

And then the lyrics –

Dark of winter, soft and still, your quiet calm surrounds me.
Let my thoughts go where they will; ease my mind profoundly.
And then my soul will sing a song, a blessed song of love eternal.
Gentle darkness, soft and still, bring your quiet to me.

Darkness, soothe my weary eyes, that I may see more clearly.
When my heart with sorrow cries, comfort and caress me.
And then my soul may hear a voice, a still, small voice of love eternal.
Darkness, when my fears arise, let your peace flow through me.

These are some beautiful, powerful lyrics for times when comfort and peace are needed…like now. It may not be winter quite yet, and it’s a sunny morning here, but there is a darkness in which ‘my heart with sorrow cries’. I love that Denham hears, out of that dark winter, ‘a still small voice of love eternal’ – yes, yes…not alone but present. Peaceful. Yes.

I’m finding my words are less elegantly composed this morning – but I think that in the face of this elegant hymn, nothing I say would match it.

Perhaps it’s time to just sing it again.

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For the beauty of the earth, for the splendor of the skies,
for the love which from our birth over and around us lies:
Source of all, to thee we raise this, our hymn of grateful praise.

For the joy of ear and eye, for the heart and mind’s delight,
for the mystic harmony linking sense to sound and sight:
Source of all, to thee we raise this, our hymn of grateful praise.

For the wonder of each hour of the day and of the night,
hill and vale and tree and flower, sun and moon and stars of light:
Source of all, to thee we raise this, our hymn of grateful praise.

For the joy of human care, sister, brother, parent, child,
for the kinship we all share, for all gentle thoughts and mild:
Source of all, to thee we raise this, our hymn of grateful praise.

This is probably in my top five favorite hymns ever.

I loved it as a child, I loved it especially when I learned a solo version during my holy roller days, I loved it even more when I saw that the Unitarian Universalists changed “Lord” to “Source.” (I’m not sure why “glory” was changed to “splendor” – word allergies, I suppose.) I love it every time I hear it, just about every way it’s played (I once heard someone play it like a dirge. It was offensive.), I find myself singing it to myself. I have to be careful to not choose it as an opening hymn too often.

For me, this is a celebration of life – because for me, life isn’t just about the earth and its inhabitants. Life is about our spirits, our souls, our connection to something bigger and greater than us. Even if you don’t believe in God, it’s hard to believe we are completely isolated from each other – we are connected, and we constantly find ways to connect, whether through families and tribes, nations and states, highways and railways, telegraphs and telephones, the internet. We are connected to something greater, even if it is just our collective selves.

This hymn remembers that we’re connected to something greater than ourselves – Source of All. And it’s good, and appropriate that we sing a hymn of praise to that something greater. It’s what helps us find meaning, helps us find purpose, helps us be fully human and fully earthlings.

And in the praising, I find peace. I find comfort, I find assurance.

—

On a musical note (see what I did there?), I really wish everyone would take the breath, as marked, in the chorus. It’s “Source of all, to thee we raise this, [BREATH] our hymn of grateful praise.” Please, if you read this, breathe where you’re supposed to. It’s actually more meaningful and beautiful.

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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.