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It is possible I am about to ruin this hymn for some people.

If you can’t bear to read about the context of this lyric that might change how you see it,  close this window and go do something else. I say, write a letter to your Congress critter. I say, dive into some good work of resistance. Maybe that act for you today is to do art or play with children or run the errands you’ve been putting off. Whatever it is, if you don’t want this hymn ruined, go do it.

For those of you who have stayed, well, you still should do those things, but read first, because I can’t stop giggling. First, the lyrics – read them carefully, and relish in the beautiful language of Alfred, Lord Tennyson, as well as the beautiful vision of a world to be.

Not in vain the distance beacons. Forward, forward let us range.
Let the great world spin forever down the ringing grooves of change;
through the shadow of the globe we sweep ahead to heights sublime,
we, the heirs of all the ages, in the foremost files of time.

Oh, we see the crescent promise of that spirit has not set;
ancient founts of inspiration well through all our fancies yet;
and we doubt not through the ages one increasing purpose runs,
and the thoughts of all are widened with the process of the suns.

Yea, we dip into the future, far as human eye can see,
see the vision of the world, and all the wonder that shall be,
hear the war-drum throb no longer, see the battle flags all furled,
in the parliament of freedom, federation of the world.

Lovely, right? Stirring, right? And set to the triumphant melody “Ode to Joy” by Beethoven, it’s strong and inspiring.

Dear Reader, Alfred was writing about love gone wrong.

I’m not kidding.

In the poem “Locksley Hall”, the narrator of the poem is clearly a young man wondering what his future would be, and one evening, he catches a vision:

When I dipt into the future far as human eye could see;
Saw the Vision of the world and all the wonder that would be.—

Except it wasn’t a vision of the world as we might expect. It was a woman.

Our intrepid poet goes on for dozens of couplets about their meeting, their falling in love, and eventually the relationship ending. And in his despair, our narrator decided he’s so broken hearted that he’s done with women. The distant that beacons in “Not in vain the distant beacons” is a life on the sea and away from women.

THIS IS THE POEM OUR LYRICS ARE FROM.

Now, credit where credit is due – someone, somewhere, with identity lost to the annals of time, remembered the inspiring couplets buried in this poem, and managed to put them together into three sung verses that hold together fairly well.

And yes, it’s true that wisdom and inspiration can come out of otherwise secular pieces about other things. I am certainly not one to poo poo the idea that we find the sacred in the profane – hell, I co-led a service based on the Golden Girls, for goodness’ sake. And recently I played a game with myself to see how many turns of phrase from The West Wing I could sneak into the first 200 words of a sermon. (Seven, as it turns out.)

But I also know that I will never see this song the same way again, because at its root, it’s the grandiose thinking of a heartbroken young man.

Make of it what you will.

—

The image is of our brooding poet as a young man.

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Until recently this has seemed rather a cheery hymn – a warm, confirming, gentle reminder of the butterfly effect. Yay, our world is one world, we’re all connected, our optimism matters.

Right now, this feels largely like a warning that the Osmond Brothers were wrong, and one bad apple CAN spoil the whole bunch. I’m not saying that the one bad apple will absolutely ruin it all for us, but that even his words and actions affect us. This hymn, by Cecily Taylor, is a warning: how one person thinks, sees the world, seeks power and riches at all costs – all these things affect us all. We need to make sure that we are many, thinking differently, loving, giving, sharing, so that perhaps our way affects more and builds bridges.

In “Last of the Time Lords” from the third season of Doctor Who, the Doctor learns that he is not the only Time Lord left, and the one they call The Master is still alive and desiring to take over earth – and destroy the Doctor in the process. While the Doctor is held captive and powerless, his companion, Martha Jones, travels the globe, telling the Doctor’s story, and getting them all to think one thing at one moment in time. When Martha confronts the Master, the Master is dismissive – he has, he thinks, managed to control everyone’s minds, to brainwash them into paying fealty only to him. Yet the secret, that Martha reveals, is that even that power can backfire if everyone is thinking the same regenerative thought at the same time, focusing on and thinking the same thing all at once: “Doctor.” As the moment arrives and everyone thinks about the Doctor, the Master’s power is vanquished and the Doctor is released and revived.

Imagine if we could harness that kind of power to vanquish hate, greed, and fear.

Our world is one world:
what touches one affects us all:
the seas that wash us round about,
the clouds that cover us, the rains that fall.

Our world is one world:
the thoughts we think affect us all:
the way we build our attitudes,
with love or hate, we make a bridge or wall.

Our world is one world:
its ways of wealth affect us all:
the way we spend, the way we share,
who are the rich or poor, who stand or fall?

Our world is one world:
just like a ship that bears us all:
where fear and greed make many holes,
but where our hearts can hear a different call.

What touches one does affect us all. May we be well warned and well prepared.

—

Photo is a BBC still from the episode, featuring the incredible Freema Agyeman as Martha Jones, and David Tennant as the Doctor. (Martha has always been my favorite companion – sad she was given such short shrift by showrunner Stephen Moffat.)

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Depending on how it’s played, I either love this hymn or hate it. There’s no inbetween.

Because if it’s played square, and especially if it’s played square and slow, it’s like a zombie – dead but still going. And when the music is zombielike, the lyrics become saccharine and bitter in the mouth.

But when it’s played with energy and syncopation and soul, when it evokes good old gospel music, when there’s room for harmony and improvisation and attention, it soars. The lyrics are good, and real, and positive. It’s Universalism’s call – change the world with your love. And the truth is, as I listen to an imaginary gospel choir singing an as yet unwritten choral arrangement in my head, I am moved to refocus on love, despite the hard nights we’ve experienced.

There’s not much more to say. It’s a familiar hymn to most UUs, and I suspect – depending on their experience – it’s either beloved or reviled.

Love will guide us, peace has tried us,
hope inside us will lead the way
on the road from greed to giving.
Love will guide us through the hard night.

If you cannot sing like angels,
if you cannot speak before thousands,
you can give from deep within you.
You can change the world with your love.

Love will guide us, peace has tried us,
hope inside us will lead the way
on the road from greed to giving.
Love will guide us through the hard night.

One final note: the tune was named Olympia, after Olympia Brown, the first woman to be fully ordained in America, in the Universalist church. Like many before her and many since:, she was warned; an explanation was given; nevertheless, she persisted.

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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.

—

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

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I have no cohesive train of thought this morning – the truth is, the Overwhelm strategy of the Bannon White House is dangerously close to sweeping me up in its grasp. And the idea of forming a cohesive set of reflections on this hymn seems a bridge too far for me today. I mean, I couldn’t even sing all three verses at once this morning, thanks to the weltschmerz I’m experiencing. So…random thoughts:

I’m not a fan of this tune for this sentiment – it feels too cheery, and to be honest, too associated with Here We Have Gathered (360). This hymn needs something strong and intentional – the way yesterday’s tune was strong. It’s an awkward meter – 10.10.10.10.10 – so it’s not like a ton of tunes fit that. So I long for something different.

True fact: every time I look at this hymn, even in passing, I think of the song from the musical Godspell. While it plays with genre and the idea of temptation within its staging, it also has some strength our setting lacks.

Another thought: I love the first verse, and I love the second – especially in these days. And in these days, I would use the first two and then preach on it. I don’t like that this hymn wraps up the story so quickly. Sometimes we need songs that present the issue and don’t conclude anything – or else, what the heck is a sermon for? For me, I’m not dismissing it because of the God’s will like, I’m dismissing it because we set up that we’re terrible, people suck, but oh yay, it’ll all work out by the end of the song, without us actually having to do anything.

I might be a bit cynical this morning.

Turn back, turn back, forswear thy foolish ways.
Old now is earth, and none may count its days;
yet humankind, whose head is crowned with flame,
still will not hear the inner God proclaim —
”Turn back, turn back, forswear thy foolish ways.”

Earth might be fair, its people glad and wise.
Age after age our tragic empires rise,
built while we dream, and in that dreaming weep:
would we but wake from out our haunted sleep,
earth might be fair, and people glad and wise.

Earth shall be fair, and all its people one;
nor till that hour shall God’s whole will be done.
Now, even now, once more from earth to sky,
peals forth in joy that old undaunted cry —
”Earth shall be fair, and all its people one.”

Interesting note: this hymn is based on a passage from Ezekiel (33:6-16) – a prophet whose words seem awfully prescient in these days. My friend, the Reverend Dawn Fortune, preached on it this past week – a sermon as fiery as Ezekiel’s wheel. It’s worth a listen.

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This is traditionally a cheery piece – one of the few songs Unitarian Universalists feel comfortable clapping to. Everybody knows it and harmonizes to it and it feels sweet and simple and fun.

This morning, after a Saturday full of the unreasonable ban against some of our Muslim neighbors – which, despite a stay from a federal judge, is still being enforced; the dire predictions of war from China; and this morning’s news that the National Security Council no longer has any military members but only ideological sycophants… this morning, “This Little Light of Mine” is a call to arms.

It can be so easy to hide under the covers in fear, or be paralyzed by the overwhelming need, or sit back and say “my days of activism are over.” But we cannot. To quote Bernice Johnson Reagon, “we who believe in freedom cannot rest.”

And this song – again from the African American spirituals tradition – reminds us to show up. Despite the pain and fear and anger, we have to let our light shine – a light of freedom, justice, equality, openness, courage, compassion, peace, love.

Let us turn this song from a sweet, light, happy song to a song of defiant protest and resistance.

(And if you really want to get inspired, listen to this version, sung by Sweet Honey in the Rock.)

This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine.
This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine.
This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine.
Let it shine, let it shine, let it shine.

Ev’rywhere I go, I’m gonna let it shine…

Building up a world, I’m gonna let it shine…

Amen.

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Apologies for the delay, gentle readers – I needed to write the rest of my sermon to include reflections from the Women’s March.

But it’s in that spirit that I approach today’s hymn. The tune (Vienna) for me, is neither here nor there. But these lyrics, by Samuel Johnson (a contemporary of the Longfellow brothers) are right on point – because I saw life richly poured yesterday on the streets of New York, and in photos and reports from streets around the world. It cheered me to see such an intersectional crowd – people of all ages, all genders, all colors, all abilities – all cheering each other on, all talking nonstop about why they were marching, what we were seeing, how important this felt and how clear it was it’s just a first step.

There was laughter and joy, people sharing drinks and snacks and stories – but more, there was a clear understanding that that these people were not going to go home, hang up their pink hats, and forget to do anything else. These people – and I – understood 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 comes as a perfect coda to the experience, saying from 170 years ago, yes! Keep going! The exemplars and pioneers that went before are in and around you and supporting you today in your holy resistance.

Life of ages, richly poured, love of God, unspent and free,
flowing in the prophet’s word and the people’s liberty —

Never was to chosen race that unstinted tide confined;
yours is every time and place, fountain sweet of heart and mind.

Breathing in the thinker’s creed, pulsing in the hero’s blood,
nerving simplest thought and deed, freshening time with truth and good,

Consecrating art and song, holy book and pilgrim way,
quelling floods of tyrant wrong, widening freedom’s sacred sway.

Life of ages, richly poured, love of God, unspent and free,
flow still in the prophet’s word and the people’s liberty!

Amen.

Today’s photo is one of many I took yesterday at the Women’s March.

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Another one of those “hymns that make you go ‘huh’.”

I read the first two lines and thought “yes! A fight song! And then I read on…and found myself disappointed. You see, as soon as I hit publish, I’ll be heading out to NYC for the Women’s March, where New Yorkers will march in solidarity with marchers in Washington, DC, as well as other cities around the country and the world.  And I guess in some ways, this hymn could be conceived as a battle cry.

But it’s not the battle cry I want today. You see, I’m fired up, righteously angry – a mental state fueled by fear and frustration and a crystal clear call from my faith and my God. I don’t feel much in the mood for a song that calls us to stop warring, to set aside our grudges, to find common ground. I’m not feeling at all conciliatory. I want a fight song that takes no prisoners, that calls for unrepentantly bold resistance and holy belligerence.

But this is the song I’m presented with today. I suppose it’s a reminder that ultimately, this is what we want. Long term goals, I guess. And almost any other time, I might turn to this hymn as an aspirational call.

So…this might be a hymn to revisit when emotions aren’t running so hot and the stakes aren’t so high.

Come, children of tomorrow, come!
New glory dawns upon the world;
the warring banners must be furled,
the earth become our common home.

From plain and field and town there sound
the stirring rumors of the day;
old wrongs and burdens must make way
for all to tread the common ground.

Divided we have long withstood
the love that is our common speech.
The comrade cry of each to each
is calling us to humanhood.

(The artwork today is the poster artist Mary Engelbreit has made available free for download, posting, and printing in support of the march.)

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The synchronicity of this song being today’s hymn, on the eve of the Women’s March, is not lost on me.

Thus, I was going to do a bit of digging to learn more about the background of the phrase “bread and roses” and the poem, knowing it all sprung up a little over 100 years ago during the time of labor and women’s movements – and became popular during the demonstrations after the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire and during the Lawrence, Massachusetts, textile workers’ strikes. On the list of top hits was an article from, of all things, Epicurious, who is normally focused on food and entertaining. The entire article, by Sam Worley, is worth a read – it recounts the history, but also adds the perfect notes to connect it to today. This sentence in particular caught my eye:

But if the last few months have been a reminder of anything, it’s that the darker elements of our past are closer than they ought to be, and perennially in danger of catching up; that there are many dark things we have not, despite optimistic pieties, put behind us; and that vigilance against this darkness is constantly required.

Please read the entire article, because Worley draws some amazing connections between the movements that sparked the slogan (and the poem our lyrics today come from), food justice, economic and racial justice, women’s rights, and, of course, bread. And it’s hopeful – he ends with a line that reminds me of this verse from a powerful Judy Grahn poem:

the common woman is as common
as good bread
as common as when you couldnt go on
but did.
For all the world we didnt know we held in common
all along
the common is as common as the best of bread
and will rise
and will become strong–I swear it to you
I swear it to you on my own head
I swear it to you on my common
woman’s
head

Now to the hymn:  the tune we have here is not the tune we all grew up with, because we all grew up with Judy Collins singing it to the tune written by Mimi Farina. You can listen to that version, although I like Pat Humphries’ version better.

I’m not sure when the version we have, by Caroline Kohlsaat, was composed – there’s some research to suggest the poem itself faded away until the end of World War II, when working women were being pushed out of the factory to make room for soldiers returning from war.

And so here it is. On the eve of the Women’s March, with a lot of the same problems (including some of the same troubling views of women – see verse 2, line 2), fighting for some of the same things. We’ve made progress since then, but it has been and will continue to be a long, hard road.

And still we rise.

As we come marching, marching, in the beauty of the day,
a million darkened kitchens, a thousand workshops gray,
are touched with all the radiance that a sudden sun discloses:
for the people hear us singing, “Bread and roses, bread and roses!”

As we come marching, marching, we battle too for men,
for they are women’s children, and we mother them again.
Our lives shall not be sweated from birth until life closes:
hearts starve as well as bodies — give us bread, but give us roses!”

As we come marching, marching, unnumbered women dead
go crying, through our singing, their ancient song of bread!
Small art and love and beauty their drudging spirits knew:
yes, it is bread we fight for, but we fight for roses too!

As we come marching, marching, we bring the greater days:
the rising of the women means the rising of the race.
No more the drudge and idler, ten that toil where one reposes,
but a sharing of life’s glories — bread and roses, bread and roses!

(Image is from the Women’s Suffrage Procession, March 3, 1913.)