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Shelley Jackson Denham is a denominational treasure.

This hymn was commissioned by the hymnal commission, and wow, did she deliver. I know some might avoid this one because it’s an unfamiliar tune, but trust me when I say that (a) it’s not that difficult – although you definitely don’t want to just spring it on a congregation and (b) the tune is absolutely perfect for Denham’s lyrics.

And I wonder if one of the reasons it is perfect is that the open fourths and rhythmic patterns make room for the meaning. I know in earlier posts I’ve complained that unfamiliar tunes mean folks might miss the lyrics in favor of trying to pick out the notes. And that might happen here too, initially. But there is a particularly beautiful marriage of word and melody here that gives an expansive feel to what Denham names as faith.

Faith is a forest in which doubts play and hide;
insight can hear the still small voice deep inside.
Web of Life, may this thread I weave
strengthen commitment to all I believe.
Vision be my guide as I seek my way,
lead me into this tender day;
Speak through me in all I do and say.

Seeds of both meek and strong are scattered in air;
dignity shines undimmed by bigotry’s glare.
Web of Life, may this thread I weave
help me bear witness to all I believe.
Justice be my guide as I seek my way,
lead me into this tender day;
speak through me in all I do and say.

Fortune and famine ride the swift winds of chance;
sorrow and pleasure seem united in dance.
Web of Life, may this thread I weave
mingle compassion with all I believe.
Mercy be my guide as I seek my way,
lead me into this tender day;
speak through me in all I do and say.

Really, this is a beauty.

One more note: that the penultimate phrase is “lead me into this tender day” speaks volumes. It is poignant and elegant, especially in these long tender days.

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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.

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I’m of several minds with this hymn today.

My first thought: I wish I knew the tune, commissioned for STLT and written by Libby Larsen. It might make a more meaningful connection to the lyrics possible. As it was, I was plunking out notes on my phone’s keyboard for all three verses.

My second thought: This is reminiscent of the line in the Sermon n the Mount (Matthew 6:24): “So do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will bring worries of its own. Today’s trouble is enough for today.” And more, it’s reminiscent of the Timothy Wright song “Trouble Don’t Last Always.”

Nay, do not grieve though life be full of sadness,
dawn will not veil its splendor for your grief,
nor spring deny their bright appointed beauty
to lotus blossom and ashoka leaf.

Nay, do not pine though life be marred with trouble,
time will not pause or tarry on its way;
today that seems so long, so strange, so bitter,
will soon be some forgotten yesterday.

Nay, do not weep; new hopes, new dreams, new faces,
joy yet unspent of all the unborn years,
will prove your heart a traitor to its sorrow
and make your eyes unfaithful to their tears.

My third thought is more complex: it’s really hard, in these trouble times, to not grieve, to not be full of sadness and tears, along with the anger and determination. And I don’t think we should dishonor the need for some to continue their mourning, if it’s going to help them through. And. It’s not just that there’s beauty in life that we must look to – not just ‘new hopes, new dreams, new faces, joy yet unspent’ – but it’s getting up off the mat, turning the grief into determination, turning the sadness into action, that will bring a new dawn.

And it’s hard. Lord it’s hard. I don’t want to stop being angry and sad – and I don’t think I have to. As Nairu says, “life is full of sadness”… but here’s another hymn asking us to notice the joys despite the sorrows.

May we see through the tears and notice the richness of the life that it is we’re fighting for.

—

Photo (with credit on the image) is of ashoka leaves.

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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.)

 

 

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I’ve kind of been dreading this one, knowing the complexities inherent in both the lyrics and the tunes (and by the way, this is the first of only two times when you’ll see me cover two numbers at once – they are the same lyrics to different tunes, so it seems appropriate).

But, if this practice has taught me anything, it’s that a closer examination leads to both joy and sorrow, and here I definitely find both.

So let’s tuck right in. First, the lyrics.

Our friend Sam Longfellow is back, with what – according to Jacqui James in Between the Lines – is the first Christian hymn to recognize non-Christian religions. There is a lot to love about this text, not the least of which is that somewhere along the line we changed “God of ages” to “Light of ages” – a shift I think further opens up the message. But I digress. I love the rather plainspoken nature of the lyrics, making clear that revelation is not sealed, that reason matters, that we should look to the prophets.

What I am not crazy about is the phrase “Greek, Barbarian, Roman, Jew” in the last verse. Take a look at it in context:

Light of ages and of nations, every race and every time
has received thine inspirations, glimpses of thy truth sublime.
Always spirits in rapt vision passed the heavenly veil within,
always hearts bowed in contrition found salvation from their sin.

Reason’s noble aspiration truth in growing clearness saw;
conscience spoke its condemnation, or proclaimed eternal law.
While thine inward revelations told thy saints their prayers were heard,
prophets to the guilty nations spoke thine everlasting word.

Lo, that word abideth ever; revelation is not sealed;
answering now to our endeavor, truth and right are still revealed.
That which came to ancient sages, Greek, Barbarian, Roman, Jew,
written in the soul’s deep pages, shines today, forever new.

When I look at the history of the word, it’s always been a pejorative, always about the outsider, the stranger, the ‘uncivilized’. I kind of get what our man Sam was saying here, but instead of being inclusive, it still seems like a bit of a slam. What we would change it to, I’m not sure (I’m coming with half a thing) – I’m sure others have thought of good replacements for that phrase that still rhyme with “new”. I just know that for all that I really like the rest of the lyrics, I wince at that line and then miss the full sentiment, “that which [was] …written in the soul’s deep pages, shines today, forever new.”

So now let’s look at the tune issue.

The first appearance, 189, is set to In Babilone, a tune we already sang in the aspirational Wonders Still the World Shall Witness. It’s a touch cheery for my tastes in this case, but it’s a good solid hymn tune and am already considering its use for a service that wraps up this congregation’s year-long conversation with world religions. (If I can figure out what to do about the barbarian, that is.)

The second appearance, 190, to which this lyric was originally set, is much more complicated. Take a deep breath – we’re going in.

The tune, Austria, was written by Austrian Josef Haydn in 1797, as a birthday song for Francis II, the last Holy Roman Emperor. It later found life in 1841 as a revolutionary call to unite Germans against the ruling classes. It was called “Das Lied der Deutschen” but became known by its first line “Deutschland, Deutschland über alles” (“Germany, Germany above all else”).

And now you see the problem.

If you know anything about German history, you know that in the last few hundred years, long periods of stability are hard to come by, and every so often there’s a call for a new Germany to rise up, well, make Germany great again. And if you know anything about political movements, you know that the music and iconography of a culture can be used and abused by those movements.

Such is the case here. “Das Lied der Deutschen” got overused by the Third Reich and became a theme song of the Nazi regime. On the plus side, the song was banned in 1945. However, by 1952, it was clear that West Germany needed a national anthem for diplomatic occasions, and after much consternation, it was decided that the final verse ONLY of “Das Lied der Deutschen” would be used. (East Germany used a different song, “Auferstanden aus Ruinen” (“Risen from Ruins”), until about 1972).

And the memory of this tune as a tool of the Nazis remains to this day.

Now you may wonder why we keep this in. I wondered too, and often thought this was an error of sentimentality. But then, of course, Jacqui James comes to the rescue to explain it: “We have retained Austria to signal that Nazism has not had the final victory by ruining this fine melody of Haydn.”

I can definitely applaud that.

I just wish this note was in the hymnal itself. The way the pages lay out, there would have been plenty of room. How helpful it would be to know this, and to be able to set up the hymn or use it with this fact in mind. It’s a shame Between the Lines is out of print, and that it doesn’t get shipped with every order of hymnals, because as I’m learning with these hymns but as we are learning with, well, everything, context matters.

I doubt I would ever use this hymn with this tune, but you can bet I will now talk about why we have this in here and what it means to reclaim art that gets ruined by abuse.

—

The featured image is of Francis II. Now we know what a last Holy Roman Emperor looks like.

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What is it?

What is it that sounds along the ages, that breathes from Buddha’s tree, that speaks new truth, that resounds from the eternal chime?

Is it truth? Justice? Love? Spirit? Is it, as I first thought, Yes?

Is it, in fact whatever it is we seek from the wisdom of humanity?

What is it?

It sounds along the ages, soul answering to soul;
it kindles on the pages of every Bible scroll;
the psalmist heard and sang it, from martyr lips it broke,
and prophet tongues outrang it till sleeping nations woke.

From Sinai’s cliffs it echoed, it breathed from Buddha’s tree,
it charmed in Athens’ market, it hallowed Galilee;
the hammer stroke of Luther, the Pilgrims’ seaside prayer,
the oracles of Concord one holy word declare.

It calls — and lo, new justice! It speaks — and lo, new truth!
In ever nobler stature and unexhausted youth.
Forever on resounding, and knowing nought of time,
our laws but catch the music of its eternal chime.

We actually do have an answer… sort of. According to Jacqui James in Between the Lines, William Gannett’s original four verses were called “The Word of God.” (Lots of reframing/additions/shifts since its original publication in 1911.)

The word of God.

Okay. But what IS the word of God? Is it truth? Justice? Love? Spirit? Yes?

Ultimately, this is a lively and pretty cool hymn, one I can see using a number of ways, including in the wrap up service on our Conversations with World Religions that the church I serve has been engaged in since September. And what I like is that whatever you think the word of God might be, it’s in there.

So for me, I will say that It is Yes – because from all the things I’ve read in holy books and have experienced as a person of faith and a practical theologian, it seems to me everything comes down to saying Yes.

Yes to risk.

Yes to justice.

Yes to the vision of beloved community.

Yes to the all of our stories.

Yes to the opportunities to grow and learn.

Yes to love.

Yes to possibility.

Yes.

 

 

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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.

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Gentle readers, I’m in an odd place with this one.

I am certain (and am glad) there are people who draw strength and inspiration from this text, a beloved  (anonymously translated) passage from “Buddha’s Farewell Address” – a passage from the Mahaparinibbana Suttana.

I don’t. I mean, I get what it’s about – it’s all over the place, this idea that it starts within and goes outward. It’s a lot of how we understand our rather individualistic faith.

But this idea doesn’t give me strength or comfort. As an extrovert and a theist, I process externally, with others and the Divine, in order to understand myself. My comfort comes from without, not within. And knowing myself, knowing truth, knowing the divine spark – for me, anyway – is informed and revealed only through my experience with others. I know myself in relation. And when my spark goes out, when I am not confident, when I am unsure what the truth is, well, I can’t be my own lamp if my pilot light is out.

Perhaps its my mood, or the season, or the events of the past few weeks, or the weltschmerz and general malaise of the world, but I feel sadder having sung this one.

Be ye lamps unto yourselves;
be your own confidence;
hold to the truth within yourselves
as to the only lamp.

If it brings you comfort, I am glad. Not every song has to work for every person, just as not every theology has to work for every person. I am certain for those who are internal processors, or non-theists, or just of a different temperament, this one inspires deeply – hurrah for you!

It’s just not my jam.

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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.

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I have little to say this morning. In fact, most of what I have to say in this hurried morning will be below the lyrics.

But I will say WOW, these this song is timely. I appreciate it when this spiritual practice meets the times, even I grumble going through it – because it always has something to say to me.

Today’s lyrics, based on a text by Bishop Dr. Adedeji Ishola, who founded the Unitarian Brotherhood of Lagos, Nigeria in 1919 – and set to a traditional Yoruba tune – speak volumes to us today. “What will undo us is not our friend.” and “when we are raging, needing to mend, show us, O spirit, how to befriend.” Wow.

This is a beautiful, prayerful, important song for us today.

Words that we hold tight won’t let us go.
Paths we don’t follow will haunt us so.
What will undo us is not our friend.
Show us, O spirit, how to befriend.

(Chorus)
Show us how to forgive.
To all who live, show us forgiveness
that we may live.

To speak of loving is not to love.
Lies move among us, below, above.
When we are raging, needing to mend,
show us, O spirit, how to befriend.

(Chorus)

When love is doubtful, choice is not clear,
we turn to worship to cast out fear.
Teach us forgiveness, make love our end.
Show us, O spirit, how to befriend.

(Chorus)

I have a lot of opinions about the events of the past week, but I’m unfortunately running late due to a very sleepless night; thus, I will just share my edited version of something my colleague Cynthia Landrum wrote to offer some explanation for what the heck has been going on and why there’s a sea change happening in our movement:

On Thursday, two very different — and separate — pieces of painful news happened in the UU sphere:

The first issue is that a UU minister was arrested on charges of child pornography. He was a respected and well-connected colleague, and this is sending a shock wave through our association. I know him a little bit personally, and always found him to be a true pastor, living our our call to love our neighbor – his congregation is part church, part food bank. There seems to be little doubt to his guilt, as he has made admissions to the police. My heart goes out to his congregation and family, and to close colleagues of his, all of whom I’m sure are dealing with pain, grief, and shock.

The second issue is that in recent days our Unitarian Universalist Association has been in a crisis as we come to grips with the painful reality of our own racism, classism, and sexism and how that has affected hiring practices in our association, among other issues.

Not surprisingly, there have been many public statements on this from various groups and individuals in our association over the last week, seeking a systemic review of our policies and practices and calling our leadership back into covenant with the members of the denomination and our reflow religionists around the country.

Our UUA President, Peter Morales, had responded to the situation in an open letter that unfortunately escalated the situation. Today, despite his not being the decision maker in the hire that cause the controversy, Morales resigned, effective April 1, from his term that was to end in June, after the election of our next president at General Assembly. You can read more about this story here, here, and here.

It has been a hard few days leading up to Thursday, and definitely a hard day Thursday. It is a day fraught with anger, hurt, sadness, and frustration.

Our faith will remain strong. We will do the tough work to keep our leadership accountable and to examine how systemic racism, classism, and sexism have harmed us from the top of the denomination to our smallest congregations. And we will hold those in pain as they navigate the distrust and distress.

But it has been a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day for Unitarian Universalists.

—

No real meaning for the image today. It reflects peace and insight, something I pray for today.