By |

Sometimes a hymn sits next to our principles, or waves from across the room at them, or bumps into them in the hallway as they’re rushing to a committee meeting, or left a cryptic email, or BS’d its way through an essay about them in an ethics class.

Sometimes a hymn is a principle, embodied.

Welcome to the seventh principle, in song.

Sure, we’ll come across others of a similar bent; but if you asked me to pick one hymn for our seventh principle, ‘the interconnected web of which we are all a part’, this would be my winner. And it’s entirely possible that this was the charge to Alicia Carpenter, whose lyrics were commissioned for Singing the Living Tradition.

To Alicia I say a hearty “Well Done!” Plus, she set it to what might be described as an old Lutheran hymn, Christus Der Ist Mein Leben by German composer Melchior Vulpius, who wrote this, oh, a little over 500 years ago. I say it’s a plus because it’s a lovely tune – spirited but majestic, given a fresh look with these fresh lyrics. (Bonus: no cankerworms! Seriously, that’s still stuck in my craw…)

We celebrate the web of life, its magnitude we sing;
for we can see divinity in every living thing.

A fragment of the perfect whole in cactus and in quail,
as much in tiny barnacle as in the great blue whale.

Of ancient dreams we are the sum; our bones link stone to star,
and bind our future worlds to come with worlds that were and are.

Respect the water, land, and air which gave all creatures birth;
protect the lives of all that share the glory of the earth.

Yep, I’m a fan, and I try to use this when I preach on climate justice, stewardship and appreciation of the earth, and the immanent divine.

Despite a gloomy, chilly, foggy morning, and despite a hard night full of fear-filled dreams, this hymn brings me some solace and joy today.

—

Yes. That pic is of a quail next to a cactus. You’re welcome.

By |

Remember back when the news was bad and I was singing happy cheerful hope-filled hymns?  It was hard; I struggled to get past my own fears and anger and see the message those songs at those times held for me.

Well, what goes around comes around, I suppose.

Yesterday, I spent the day in Boston with a dear friend, Elizabeth Assenza, who was seeing the Ministerial Fellowship Committee. I got to be her chaplain; she didn’t need a quiet, contemplative experience – she needed me to “extrovert at her” so we gabbed excitedly and told stories in the lead up to her appointment. We also got to meet the legendary Denny Davidoff and spend time talking with Danielle DiBona and others in the room. And yes, Elizabeth is now in preliminary fellowship (yay!). We had a delicious meal in Chinatown, and then went to Kings Chapel, where a shared ancestor – John Winthrop – is buried.

It was a terrific day, made a breath or two easier knowing the ACA repeal vote was not brought to the floor, knowing that at least for a moment, the hard work of justice and the holy work of ministry won the day.

So here I am, having had a good, joyful day, and I wake up to sing this.

O earth, you are surpassing fair, from out your store we’re daily fed,
we breathe your life-supporting air and drink the water that you shed.
Yet greed has made us mar your face, pollute the air, make foul the sea:
the folly of the human race is bringing untold misery.

Our growing numbers make demands that e’en your bounty cannot meet;
starvation stalks through hungry lands and some die hourly in the street.
The Eden-dream of long ago is vanishing before our eyes;
unwise, unheeding, still we go, destroying hopes of paradise.

Has evolution been in vain that life should perish ere its prime?
Or will we from our greed refrain and save our planet while there’s time?
We must decide without delay if we’re to keep our race alive:
the choice is ours, and we must say if we’re to perish or survive.

Our lyricist, John Andrew Storey, is not wrong. And set to Welsh composer Joseph Parry’s tune Merthyr Tyfdil, with its somber, minor tones and lamenting rhythms, it’s well done and much needed. Unlike yesterday’s, that felt difficult as a congregational song (and really, cankerworms?), this has the right combination of melody and lyric to be well sung and thoughtfully internalized.

But wow did this harsh my mood.

By |

This is our happy, light Hymn.

Not.

A short post today, as I am traveling and typing this on my phone.

I will say that the tune was deceptively harder than I expected – the intervals didn’t flow gracefully for me, and were at times discordant.

Maybe that’s the point.

This lyric is clearly not meant to cheer but to make the point that if we don’t do our duty as stewards of the earth, we’re failing. Yet it feels manipulative – and I am not sure that given this is an unfamiliar tune that congregants singing it would pay attention – until they got to the word “cankerworm” – I’m sure that stops everyone in their tracks.

In the branches of the forest, in the petals of the marigold,
on the shoulder of the mountain, in the vastness of the sea,
you will find a brooding sadness over all the ancient watershed.
You will see it written plainly on the wind and in the sand.

There’s a blight upon the mountain, there’s a sickness in the evening sky,
and we ask the age-old question: can we purge us of this sin?
Can we save the little nestling from the venom of the cankerworm?
Can we clear the look of anguish from the soft eyes of the doe?

In the thunder new commandments sound a warning through the wilderness,
let the forest be untainted, let the streams be undefiled,
let the waters of the river as they flow down to the ocean
be as sweet as in the old days when the mountain stood alone.

The song is not wrong.  And in the right hands, it certainly makes a good point. I also think it is just a helluva thing to turn to after the energetic strength of yesterday’s South African call for justice.

So… there it is.

By |

This is another freedom song from South Africa, from during the time of apartheid.

It’s got energy and power and a sense of urgency that is compelling and captivating. And while it isn’t the only thing that makes liberation happen, song does remain a powerful tool in the activist toolbox. From the songs of enslaved Africans, to the protest songs of the civil rights movement, to the Singing Revolution in Estonia, to the songs of the Anti-Apartheid movement – along with many other examples I am too precaffeinated to think of – music makes a difference.

Music has power to give voice to our spirits, to soothe our nerves, to engage us, to motivate and awaken us, to bring us together, to provide not just a soundtrack but a unifying …. something… for what freedom and justice sound like. Music doesn’t just come from our heads through our mouths and to our ears, it vibrates our entire bodies. And when my body, vibrating in song, is next to your body, vibrating in song, we change the atmosphere and matter itself.

(Zulu) Siph’ amandla N’kosi. Wokungeverysabi.
Siph’ amandla N’kosi. Siyawadinga.

O God, give us power to rip down prisons.
O God, give us power to lift the people.

O God, give us courage to withstand hatred.
O God, give us courage not to be bitter.

O God, give us power and make us fearless.
O God, give us power because we need it.

I’m waxing a bit poetic today without much content about this particular song, I know. I am still not sure if the language of our first verse is Zulu or Xhosa – again, some varying sources. But it is inspiring nonetheless – such strong words of prayer, not just to make change but to keep us whole and remind us of our humanity. Good stuff.

Good good stuff.

By |

My first instinct this morning was to talk around the history of this song to get to a discussion of grammar – namely the meaning that shifts when we go from singing ‘we will overcome’ to ‘we shall overcome’… there’s something there, but god help me I just can’t be bothered to dig in. And really, if you are interested in the history, Google is your friend.

As soon as I started writing, I thought about what actually awakened me with a start this morning, and that’s this thought: with the testimony of the Director of the FBI, clearly stating there’s an investigation about 45’s ties to Russia, and Rep. Adam Schiff’s eloquent litany of the circumstantial evidence, I worry this morning: are we being played?

Will this result in nothing, like a tantalizing distraction, while morality, ethics, justice, and compassion are thrown away like yesterday’s candy wrappers? Are we really placating ourselves with these snippets only to find ourselves being crushed and destroyed as a country, as a democracy, as human beings?

And if that’s the case, shall we ever overcome? I know it’s our duty as humans to overcome, but will we? And how will singing a song together at marches and rallies and services make a whisper of a difference?

 We shall overcome,
we shall overcome,
we shall overcome someday!
Oh, deep in my heart I do believe
we shall overcome someday!

We’ll walk hand in hand,
we’ll walk hand in hand,
we’ll walk hand in hand someday!
Oh, deep in my heart I do believe
we’ll walk hand in hand someday!

We shall all be free,
we shall all be free,
we shall all be free someday!
Oh, deep in my heart I do believe
we shall all be free someday!

We shall live in peace,
we shall live in peace,
we shall live in peace someday!
Oh, deep in my heart I do believe
we shall live in peace someday!

This is so aspirational, so confident. I feel so little of that this morning. I am scared to death, and on a day like today I feel paralyzed. Singing this song, alone with my thoughts, did nothing to assuage my fears.

Perhaps it would be better if I was singing with others, or in a place of action. Sitting in my sister’s living room is most assuredly not that place.

But as am scared today. Maybe I’ll be better tomorrow, and maybe tomorrow I will see a way out of the paralyzing fear, but today, I’m not so sure we shall overcome.

—

image is from a 1966 rally organized by SNCC in Virginia.

By |

Today we get to the first of several pieces by Jim Scott, a prolific UU songwriter and performer. It’s interesting to me that while some of his songs are full on hymns (Gather the Spirit, The Oneness of Everything, etc.) we also get some short pieces that are the choruses of longer songs. That’s the case here, the joyful chorus of a longer song.

Now Between the Lines will only tell you that he is a singer songwriter who was part of the Paul Winter Consort. But in this interview with Northern Spirit Radio, Jim tells a longer story about this song, inspired by the people who walked for six months on the Great Peace March for Global Nuclear Disarmament in 1986; having played concerts along the way, he felt inspired to join them in Baltimore, and then inspired to write this song, hearing the snippets of other music they were singing and knowing they needed a good 4/4 marching song for peace.

Nothing but peace is enough for me.
Nothing but peace is enough,
nothing but peace is enough!
Nothing but peace is enough for me.

Now I must admit, while I know Jim’s other songs in our hymnals, I didn’t know this one until this morning, and I really was baffled in a way by its notation in the hymnal. I’m not sure why…. but I couldn’t get the hang of it until I listened to it in that interview. Then it all made sense. So I recommend that whoever leads it should know it and have the hang of it – it’ll make it easier for the rest of the congregation.

Oh…and the sentiment. Nothing but peace is enough. I’m not sure it’s all I want it to be, and I could spend a few thousand words unpacking what that all means, but it’s a pretty good, simple sentiment for those seeking an end to wars and conflicts. So I won’t quibble, I won’t unpack, I’ll let it be.

And then I’ll go listen to the rest of the interview, because Jim has some great music and great stories to tell.

—

Photo from this flickr album by Dan Coogan of the Great Peace March. It is ABSOLUTELY worth looking through.

By |

Yesterday (and elsewhere) I talked about how the first line of a song wasn’t always or necessarily the title of a song, and the use of such can be frustrating or misleading.

I’m thinking it may be a good thing that the original title of this piece, by Universalist minister Adin Ballou, “Reign of Christian Peace,” is not being used in our hymnal. I wish it was noted somewhere besides Between the Lines, however, because it is an interesting note in our theological history, a reminder that Universalism was not always as expansive and inclusive as we think of it today – it was a long while before Universalists pushed the doctrine of universal salvation to its inevitable conclusion.

But I digress from the hymn. Despite some unfamiliar-to-me language (a falchion is a machete-like sword), it’s your basic call for peace in a time of war. (It’s interesting that this was first published in 1842, during the Seminole Wars, and then republished in 1861, at the start of the US Civil War. Not surprising, just interesting. What may be more interesting (as I scan a history timeline) is that the Mormon War, which took place as Mormons were moving west through Missouri, also took place in the late 1830s, a much more theologically-based war, which the Universalists would have been on the non-Mormon side of. I don’t know if there’s any writing from Universalists of the day about the Mormons and other movements that cropped up… might be an interesting side trip some day.

But again, I digress. (Sorry – it’s one of those days.)

The lyrics ultimately are fine – but I am a tad disoriented by the tune it’s set to. Yes, this is set to Hyfrodol, which is such a joyful tune, made even more joyful by Peter Mayer in his recasting for Blue Boat Home. And it seems really odd to be singing about swords and trumpets and war banners in this delightful Welsh melody. But maybe that’s the point. I don’t know if this lyric has ever been set to anything else – it could be that Ballou himself wanted a spirit of joy and loveliness to emphasize the call of his words, setting the ridiculousness of war in contrast to the joy that the reign of Peace portends.

Years are coming, speed them onward
when the sword shall gather rust,
and the helmet, lance, and falchion
sleep at last in silent dust.
Earth has heard too long of battle,
heard the trumpet’s voice too long.
But another age advances,
seers foretold in ancient song.

Years are coming when forever
war’s dread banner shall be furled,
and the angel Peace be welcomed,
regent of a happy world.
Hail with song that glorious era,
when the sword shall gather rust,
and the helmet, lance, and falchion
sleep at last in silent dust.

But it’s still weird to sing those words to this tune.

—

I know, the image of the peace sign on the American flag may draw controversy… but it seems the right image for this hymn today.

 

By |

1:52pm: Cool update at the end of this post.

One of my regular readers, Kaye, regularly points out in comments the titles that don’t make sense because they aren’t titles at all but rather first lines. I know from experience that if the first line doesn’t grab me, I don’t look further, and sometimes I wonder why we’d have a song about that.

And thus, sometimes this practice surprises me with a hymn I have regularly flipped past. Like today’s – a setting of a poem by Rachel Bates (more on that in a minute).  It’s set to one of my favorite contemplative tunes, Danby, by the master Ralph Vaughn Williams – perhaps most familiarly known to us as the Advent hymn Let Christmas Come (which we’ll get to in May. Yes, May.).

The poetry is beautiful; its imagery is reminiscent of those too-infrequent moments of real quiet without the ambient noise of 21st century motors and currents. Its pattern brings to mind the Howard Thurman piece “When the song of the angels is stilled…” And the denouement is a beautiful meditative idea – after all of the noise and bright banging flashes and shouts and screams of war…  “how sweet the darkness there.”

When windows that are black and cold are lit anew with fires of gold;
when dusk in quiet shall descend and darkness come once more a friend;

When wings pursue their proper flight and bring not terror but delight;
when clouds are innocent again and hide no storms of deadly rain;

And when the sky is swept of wars and keeps but gentle moon and stars,
that peaceful sky, harmless air, how sweet, how sweet, the darkness there.

Before we go… I promised a bit on Rachel Bates. Here’s what I know: Rachel Bates was an English woman from the Wirral (a peninsula between Liverpool and Wales) who wrote at least one poem during the First World War.

Yep, that’s all I know. I found her in a list of female war poets here. My google searches have come up with nothing useful – there are plenty of modern Rachel Bateses to fill up my search results, and no matter what details I put in, I can’t get anything other than this site.

And that to me is a real shame. Perhaps this was the only good poem Bates ever wrote. Perhaps it was the only poem period. Or perhaps she had a longer life as a poet but was obscured or cut short or… who knows. It makes me sad, and I hope her life wasn’t. I hope she found love, fulfillment, space to express her heart’s desire and her creative passion.

For all the Rachel Bateses of the world, and for those who bring them to our attention, if only for a moment, thank you.

 

UPDATE! After I posted, I decided to poke around the female war poets website and discovered that for £2 ($2.56) I could buy a PDF of the first compendium of poetry. It arrived about a half hour ago, and author Lucy London has this to say:

Rachel Bates was born in 1897 to parents Joseph Ambrose Bates and Edith Annie Grimshaw. The family lived in lived in Great Crosby, Waterloo, Merseyside, where she worked as a secretary at The Liverpool Daily Post and Echo in their editorial department.

In 1922 she produced her first volume of poetry entitled  “Danae And Other Poems” which was published by Erskine MacDonald Ltd, London WC1.

During the Second World War, Rachel moved to Sawrey in the Lake District where she continued to write poetry.

In 1947 she produced a collection of poems about her lakeland surroundings called “Songs From A Lake” which was published by Hutchinson.

She died in 1966 and is buried at St Michael & All Angels cemetery in Hawkshead.

Hurrah! She was a published poet! She got some recognition! And it sound as if she lived a full life in Northwest England. Now to find her published collections…

—

The photograph is of a British soldier and his family, circa 1917. Is the woman Rachel Bates? Probably not, but who knows…

By |

This tune is apparently a magnet for messed up rhymes.

Now to John Holmes’ credit, his lyrics generally rhyme in a comfortable ABAB structure, but goodness, we got off to a rocky start, as ‘tablecloth’ does not rhyme with ‘truth’ … and while we’re at it, the tune does not support the correct pronunciation of the word ‘harvest’ instead making us sing ‘har-VEST’ which is just silly.

But let’s get into the hymn itself – these lyrics from John Holmes, whose words I adore in O God of Stars and Sunlight.

As a song, I don’t like them. This is one of those cases where the metaphors and narrative imagery require time and connection; singing them in this Gregorian-like chant disguises the poem’s ebb and flow. While I like this tune in other settings, I think it’s a bad pairing here.

I mean, who doesn’t want to sit with that second verse – ‘careless noon, the houses lighted late’… ‘the doorways worn at sill’… wow. The images are lush as Holmes describes the peace we can know right now… the peace and restorative, emotional and spiritual coziness the Danes call ‘hygge.’

The peace not past our understanding falls
like light upon the soft white tablecloth
at winter supper warm between four walls,
a thing too simple to be tried as truth.

Not scholar’s calm, nor gift of church or state,
nor everlasting date of death’s release;
but careless noon, the houses lighted late,
harvest and holiday: the people’s peace.

Days into years, the doorways worn at sill,
years into lives, the plans for long increase
come true at last for those of God’s good will:
these are the things we mean by saying, Peace.

This is a terrific lyric, awkward rhyme notwithstanding. It captures something ineffable about our everyday lives that matters in how we live with and for each other. But I say read it – or find a more lush, graceful, expansive tune.


By |

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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