By |

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.

—

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.

—

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

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 |

I wish…

I wish I lived with someone, because I would have made them sing this round with me so I could revel in the fullness of this beautiful piece. Although there’s a good chance I would have gotten the pre-coffee stink eye, so maybe it’s just as well.

I wish the hymnal indicated that it’s Arabic. Not because most won’t figure it out, but it feels a bit like erasure to me. Maybe I’m a little oversensitive these days, but I am keenly aware of subtle methods of cultural erasure.

I wish I was less keenly aware of the Christian liturgical calendar that says we don’t sing alleluias during Lent, but then I remembered that I am not a Christian, the round is not Christian, and anyway, all those choirs rehearsing for Easter Sunday have to sing it over and over and over…

I wish I could articulate why, after this week that has shaken our institution, we should sing praises to God (however we understand “God”), but we should.

Alhamdulillah, Alhamdulillah, Alhamdulillah,
Alhamdulillah, Alhamdulillah, Alhamdulillah.

I wish I could hug you all right now, my gentle, loving, funny, insightful readers. It means the world to me that you find something to keep your interest, and even more when you comment here or on social media.

(I wish I hadn’t used “I wish” as my hook, because now I will be singing that piece from Into The Woods all day. There’s nothing worse than giving yourself an ear worm.)

—

Today’s photo is by my friend, photographer Jeremy Garretson – of the Milky Way over Orient Point, Long Island. Maybe this is a good reason to sing praises to God.

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 |

I started this post thinking it was random thought day here at the Far Fringe, but as I write, I realize I do have some thoughts, largely because what I have learned about the song. So here goes:

First, it’s helpful to know what this song is and where it’s from. It was written in 1897 by Enoch Sontonga, a Xhosa minister at a Methodist mission school. The hymn was originally a pan-African song of liberation and was adopted at different times as a national anthem by various countries, including Zambia, Tanzania, Namibia , and Zimbabwe. It is now part of the South African national anthem and remains the national anthem of Tanzania.

It’s interesting to listen to the South African national anthem, as it is definitely a mashup of several songs in several languages (South Africa recognizes 11 official languages – English, Xhosa, and Zulu are the top three). And recognizing that getting to that moment (in 1994) was hard won, it’s (to me at least) a joy to know that this song of liberation leads off the anthem.

While the hymnal, Between the Lines, and some other sites list this as being in the Zulu language, I have also found references to this being in Xhosa, which are somewhat related but distinct South African languages. I’m not faulting the hymnal commission, because they might be right – I just wonder why there’s some conflict in the information. Is this a byproduct of western imperialism that we can’t even detect what language a song is written in?

I wasn’t sure how I felt about this being included in the hymnal, nor the idea of a bunch of white Americans singing it. I’m glad we have it, and I think because the continent of Africa is the cradle of humanity itself, it’s important that we remember and raise our awareness of the ugly imprint centuries of European colonization have left across the continent. I’m not sure as a European American I can sing this without a great deal of care and preparation. I’d be curious to hear from others on this score. But I am glad it’s here for us to see and hear and think about.

I’ll leave you with this version, with Miriam Makeba, Ladysmith Black Mambazo and Paul Simon (this has to be in the 1990s, but I’m not clear what this was).

N’ko-si, si-kel-el’ i Afrika,
mal-u-pha-ka-nyi-sw’u-phon-do lwa-yo.
Yiz-wa i-mi-than-da-zo ye-thu.
N’ko-si sikel-el-a.
Thi-na lu-sa-pho lwa-yo.

Wo-za mo-ya, (wo-za mo-ya,)
wo-za mo-ya, (wo-za mo-ya,)
wo-za mo-ya o-wo-yi-ngcwe-le.
U-si-si-kel-el-e.
Us-si-si-kel-el-e.

Bless, O God, our country, Africa,
so that she may waken from her sleep.
Fill her horn with plenty, guide her feet.
Bless our mother Africa.
Bless our mother Africa.

Spirit descend, (spirit descend,)
spirit descend, (spirit descend,)
spirit descend, spirit descend.
Spirit divine,
Spirit divine.

Bless our mother Africa.

By |

The downside of this spiritual practice is that it demands attention even on days when attention is hard to give. And more often than not, it is demanding the exact kind of attention I want to hide from on that particular day.

This song, written by Holly Near in the wake of the Harvey Milk assassination, is a call to action. It demands that we make sure everyone knows who we are and how many we are, we who will not be moved, we who are scared, and angry, and loving, and resisting.

We are a gentle, angry people,
and we are singing, singing for our lives.
We are a gentle, angry people,
and we are singing, singing for our lives.

We are a justice-seeking people…

We are young and old together…

We are a land of many colors…

We are gay and straight together….

We are a gentle, loving people…

The truth is, I’m nearly paralyzed by fear right now – it’s all coming on so many fronts, this insanity. And I am really worried that there are so many things happening we’ll miss the big one – and they’re all big ones. And worse, it seems like there is no one to hold them accountable, because they’ve stacked the decks. I know there are simple things I can do, and I know that just by refusing to accept this as normal, contacting elected officials, preaching justice, supporting boots on the ground – I know those things matter. But this is big, all that is rolling down the hill at us in speeds heretofore unmeasured. And that’s got me scared and not sleeping and a little afraid to take my eyes off the ball and even more afraid to look at the ball.

So…yeah. Holly Near’s song wants me to stop being paralyzed and get back in the game. I’m not ready. But I suppose none of us ever truly are when it matters like this.

Sigh.

Okay.

Still scared, but …okay. What’s next?

—

UPDATE November 5, 2017: In a concert at the Eighth Step @ Proctors in Schnectady, NY, last night, Holly Near performed, and toward the end of the show led us in this song. We sang the first couple of verses, and then she began to speak (her words transcribed to the best of my ability – I was typing on my phone as quickly as I could once I realized what was happening):

“I wrote this song when Harvey Milk and George Moscone were assassinated. We originally sang ‘we are gay and lesbian together’ but then we were surrounded by the support of allies and so I changed it to ‘we are gay and straight together.’ And now we are learning more and more about gender and sexuality and it now requires many more syllables than I can fit into the song, and so let us now sing ‘we are all in this together.”

In that 30 second riff, she updated her lyrics to expand the circle of love that this song holds.

Thank you, Holly.

—

Photo is at an unnamed rally, with Holly Near and emma’s revolution, and other singers I’m not familiar with…

 

By |

A few short thoughts today.

First, composer Joyce Poley is one of the sweetest people I have ever met and very much wrote this before we had an awareness of ableist language.

But despite how sweet she is, she wrote one of the most annoying earworms we have. Sadly, it mostly gets played as an oom-pa-pa and not the more gentle waltz I am sure Poley anticipated. And so it’s often avoided on those grounds, even before considering the language of the first verse.

Yet the sentiment is good and righteous and motivating. It’s Frederick Buechner’s “There can be no peace and joy for me until there is peace and joy for you also” in song. So it still works – but requires a lot of care in the introduction and performance.

One more step,
we will take one more step,
‘til there is peace for us and everyone,
we’ll take one more step.

One more word,
we will say one more word,
‘til every word is heard by everyone,
we’ll say one more word.

One more prayer,
we will say one more prayer,
‘til every prayer is shared by everyone,
we’ll say one more prayer.

One more song,
we will sing one more song,
‘til every song is sung by everyone,
we’ll sing one more song.

I think my feelings about this can be summed up as ‘this song hasn’t aged well – but bless its heart.’

—

I rarely use stock images, but this one seemed to fit…

By |

It’s non sequitur day here on the Far Fringe – I have several utterly unrelated thoughts, so I’m just going to write them and let you make up the transitions in your head.

I would love to know exactly what English pronunciations were like in previous centuries that allowed ‘sword’ to be rhymed with ‘word’ and ‘remove’ with ‘love’.

Somewhat related, is this particular pronunciation found in a particular dialect in a particular corner of England, one that our lyricist John Andrew Storey hails from? Because while you half expect it from Shakespeare, Milton, Blake, Coleridge, and even Keats and Byron, you don’t much see it in 20th century writing.

I know it’s set to a 19th century German tune (Lobb Den Herrn, Die Morgansonne), but I wanted to sing it to Westminister Abbey (by Henry Purcell, most familiarly used in Sing Out Praises for the Journey).

This song should be sung at every UN General Assembly and in every war room and situation room in the world.

I’m not sure I would ever use this hymn unless I was talking about war and peace.

I’m not sure who Storey expects to found the dynasty of love – maybe this is an implicit “let there be peace on earth and let it begin with me.” All I know is that if we’re to cease from warring, we need to start in our congregations’ meeting rooms and let go of the petty, inconsequential fights (see Nancy McDonald Ladd’s sermon at the 2016 General Assembly).

Far too long, by fear divided, we have settled with the sword
quarrels which should be decided by the reconciling word.

Now the nations are united, though as yet in name alone,
and the distant goal is sighted which the prophet souls have shown.

May, at least, we cease from warring, barriers of hate remove,
and, earth’s riches freely sharing, found the dynasty of love.

And… scene. Hope you’re not running late because your devices failed to awaken you for Daylight Saving Time. And if you are, what are you reading for? Get going!

By |

When I started this practice, I intended to talk about what was on my mind, what the song brought up for me. As it has evolved, I have incorporated a lot of history, literary criticism, and musicology, along with my thoughts and feelings.

My thought today is that this song, thought to be a response to the Emancipation Proclamation, must speak for itself.

Oh, freedom, oh, freedom, oh, freedom, over me;
and before I’d be a slave,
I’d be buried in my grave,
and go home to my God and be free.

No more moaning, no more moaning, no more moaning over me;
and before I’d be a slave,
I’d be buried in my grave,
and go home to my God and be free.

There’ll be singing, there’ll be singing, there’ll be singing over me;
and before I’d be a slave,
I’d be buried in my grave,
and go home to my God and be free.

A final note: while today is a general strike, A Day Without Women, I recognize that actually striking is a privileged position, and most women will not be able to completely strike, even if it’s just their work at home for family. For me, I signed up for events before the strike was announced that I cannot back out of, nor should I. Instead, I will wear red, and I will remember that at my worst I have more freedom than most, and that my work must be in part to ensure all who identify as women are free.

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.