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Lord, the days are hard. No sooner do we wrap our brains around one major news story than another one, or ten comes barreling down on us. What we need is something warm and loving and sweet.

Sometimes it’s a sweet song that is just what the doctor ordered.

And to be honest, there isn’t much more to say about this sweet benediction by Mortimer Barron that he doesn’t say himself (below the lyrics).

I love this little piece. It comforts me in its warmth and showers me with its blessing. And on these hard days that never end, comfort and blessing is something remarkable.

Go lifted up,
Love bless your way,
moonlight, starlight
guide your journey
into peace
and the brightness of day.

Here is what Barron has to say, courtesy of the UUA Song Information page:

Written by Mortimer Barron, and he writes, “When I was music director at Murray Unitarian Universalist Church, Attleboro, MA, Natalie Sleeth’s Go Now in Peace was often sung at the end of the Sunday services. Whereas I liked its words but not its music, I composed new music for this sung benediction. The congregation loved this new version and continues to sing it to this day. This new “Go Now in Peace” also became the traditional sung benediction at my present church, First Unitarian and Universalist Society of Middleboro, MA. Go Lifted Up is very easily learned by a congregation and may be accompanied by piano, organ, or guitar, or may be sung a cappella.”

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What is old is new again…

Back in March, we sang these words, written by English poet Rachel Bates. We know the hymn from STLT as When Windows That Are Black and Cold – a misleading title, which I note in the post about it. We sang it to Danby, a lovely Ralph Vaughan Williams tune that at the time – and still does – seem to me too cheery, too lush. Especially when you consider that Bates very likely wrote this during the Blitz, when blackout conditions in England were so strict a candle flicker would elicit a citation.

Now at the time, I leaned into the stillness of this lyric, not thinking at all about when it might have been written and what it might have been in reaction to. I waxed more poetically about the lyric being “reminiscent of those too-infrequent moments of real quiet without the ambient noise of 21st century motors and currents” and rather missed the point in the third verse, “when the sky is swept of wars.”

Fortunately for us, Jason Shelton didn’t.

When Jason read these words, just after September 11, 2001, he saw them afresh and felt their meaning keenly. Because while we didn’t black out our windows, we did feel terror in those days. We did struggle the day passenger jets started flying again. We did wonder if there were more to come. And we were willing to give up a fair bit of freedom for security.

Jason wrote a choral anthem with these words but with a new tune, one that sits in that slightly unfinished, pensive version of the 5, a 3/2 + 2/2… this kind of five count isn’t jazzy, it is mournful.

As it should be. Jason named the tune Mauro, after a family friend, Dorothy Mauro, who died in the World Trade Center that terrible day. Knowing about Dorothy, knowing the original meaning from Bates, knowing that Jason’s keen artistic sense connected them to create this gorgeous, haunting piece… makes me love this even more.

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.

The tune is fairly easy, as long as folks aren’t expecting a fairly predictable shape note song (because as much as I love them, lets face it: they have a form and are fairly predicable). When talking about war, and terror, and remembering, and peace, I don’t think you can get a much better hymn than this one.

(Also, thanks, Jason, for naming it correctly!)

 

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There’s a thing that’s been happening in our congregations that is reflective of what’s been happening in our society: anxiety.

Anxiety about the current administration – its real and sustained attacks on our principles and the real and sustained traumas we are experiencing – spill over from our personal lives into our houses of worship. And while we’d like to think we are our best selves at our congregations, we often are not. And suddenly, we find ourselves more anxious about things we can’t control and a bit overprotective of things we can. Things that were never an issue before are now a crisis, and things that require focus and attention get obscured by the day’s outrage.

Sound familiar?

It’s a natural thing, what we are experiencing – and I know religious professionals are in some cases struggling to help the congregations they serve remain focused on health and growth. There are many resources being employed, and I’m not here to talk about things like family systems or congregational management – there are many resources and well trained colleagues out there. But what I do know is that the one hour most of us spend together each week matters.

In that one hour each week, we can experience a pause in the action, that can help us deal with anxiety. We should be offering worship that subtly (or not so subtly) pushes the rudder to help us correct course, that provide comfort for those worn, frayed nerves while challenging the status quo. We need sermons and readings that call us to our best selves. And we perhaps most of all, music that reminds us of who we are and who we want to be must ring through our sanctuaries.

Like this one, another beauty by Jim Scott:

Let this be a house of peace,
Of nature and humanity,
of sorrow and elation,
Let this be our house,
A haven for the healing,
An open room for question,
and our inspiration.

Chorus:
Let this be a house of peace.
Let this be our house of peace.

Let this be a house of freedom;
Guardian of dignity
and worth held deep inside us,
Let this be our house,
A platform for the free voice,
Where all our sacred diff’rences
here shall not divide us.

Chorus

Let all in this house seek truth,
Where scientists and mystics,
abide in rev’rence here,
Let this be our house,
A house of our creation,
Where works of art and melodies
consecrate the atmosphere.

Chorus

Let this be a house of prophesy,
May vision, for our children
Be our common theme.
Let this be our house
Of myth and lore and legend,
Our trove of ancient story,
and cradle of most tender dreams.

Chorus

Now I’m on the fence about this being a congregational sing, because of two things: while The Oneness of Everything is considered long for a hymn, this one is actually really long and is hard to cut down without glaring omission; additionally, unlike Jim’s other songs, each verse has a different rhythm – fine for a solo or choral work, hard for a congregational sing.

And yet, the melody is gorgeous, and the chorus is amazing; even if this is only ever sung by a choir or soloist, the congregation should sing the chorus, repeating it as a mantra, especially noting the change from “a house” to “our house.” The lyrics (with more delightful phrases like “where works of art and melodies consecrate the atmosphere”) serve as reminders of who we are and want to be in crystal clear, yet still lush language. It is a wonderful piece for services about the sources and the third and fourth principles, but mostly a wonderful piece to use anytime we need to remind ourselves what our congregations should be at the best.

I’m not sure any of us – individuals or institutions – are at their best right now. But it’s nice to remember that a vision of what ‘best’ could be sits in our hymnals, ready for us to invoke.

—

I love this image of the Church of the Good Shepherd at Lake Tekapo in New Zealand – via Pixabay.

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More than once during my years at Union Theological Seminary, I said to myself “what is my life even like?” because of some improbable experience or another. To be clear, I didn’t choose to go to Union because of the possibility of meeting important or famous people;- I went because of the possibilities awaiting me in my journey to become a minister and, more importantly, a more fully faithful human being. Yet when I look back, I don’t know how I missed the fact that choosing Theology and the Arts as my program focus would lead to meeting important or famous people – or more, would lead to my sitting next to them in a small class and being told who I am.

Dr. Ysaye Barnwell had been on campus all day; she lead a community sing for our chapel service, consulted with a couple of PhD students in the afternoon, and that evening was the guest for a class I was taking on Worship and the Arts. The small class sat with our tables pushed together to form a circle that was really a square, and there we had amazing conversations about various art forms and how they inform our worship. Dr. Barnwell was with us to talk about  the power of community singing. To my surprise, she sat directly to my right. On the outside, I was pleasant and cool, on the inside I was jumping up and down like a five year old, so excited to be this close to someone whose music I’d been so connected to for three decades.

I don’t remember the conversation in any depth; I remember that on the first topic, I spoke a few times, and knowing that, I consciously moved back for the second topic to allow others to speak. At some point, a tangentially related story occurred to me, but I sat on it, knowing it wasn’t strictly relevant, and anyway, I had already spoken. I would wait until something more relevant and more pressing came to mind.

Dr. Barnwell wasn’t here for that, however. A few times she glanced at me as if in invitation, but I deflected it and the conversation continued. But finally, she looked straight at me with that Auntie Stare and said “go on.” I stammered something about no, it’s fine, it’s not important or some such nonsense. Which she rejected, saying “speak. You’re wearing your words on your face.”

Oh.

So I spoke. (How could I not?) And while the story I told (“Listening for our Song” by David Blanchard) wasn’t exactly on topic, it moved our conversation to a new, deeper topic. Afterwards, Dr. Barnwell thanked me for sharing that story, and with a twinkle in her eye, told me not to be afraid that what I have to say isn’t important. It was like she looked into my soul and saw who I am – perhaps the first time I’ve ever experienced that sort of knowing from someone who barely knew me.

Anyway. This song.

For each child that’s born,
a morning star rises and
sings to the universe
who we are.

For each child that’s born,
a morning star rises and
sings to the universe
who we are.

We are our grandmothers’ prayers
and we are our grandfathers’ dreamings,
we are the breath of our ancestors,
we are the spirit of God.

We are mothers of courage and fathers of time,
we are daughters of dust and the sons of great visions,
we’re sisters of mercy and brothers of love,
we are lovers of life and the builders of nations,
we’re seekers of truth and keepers of faith,
we are makers of peace and the wisdom of ages.

We are our grandmothers’ prayers
and we are our grandfathers’ dreamings,
we are the breath of our ancestors,
we are the spirit of God.

For each child that’s born,
a morning star rises and
sings to the universe
who we are.

It’s beautifully transcribed for our hymnal so that you don’t need all the rhythmic parts (even though I sing the bass line every time just because it’s so fun). It’s hopeful and full of possibility. I love it, and I hope congregations use it even if it seems scary on the page. The beauty is that it’s very repetitious, and once you get the rhythm and the flow, it’s a breeze to sing.

And it’s got a beautiful origin story; this, from the UUA Song Information page:

This is the last song in a suite that began with the lyric, “Lawd, it’s midnight. A dark and fear filled midnight. Lawd, it’s a midnight without stars.” Dr. Barnwell wanted to create a complete circle of experience, and so she wrote “for each child that’s born, a morning star rises…” This phrase is meant to establish hope, and it defines the uniqueness of each one of us. No matter what our race, culture or ethnicity, each one of us has been called into being and are the sum total of all who came before. In the composer’s words, “Each and every one of us stands atop a lineage that has had at its core, mothers and fathers and teachers and dreamers and shamans and healers and builders and warriors and thinkers and, and, and…so in spite of our uniqueness, we come from and share every experience that human kind has ever had. In this way, we are one.”

Amen.

 

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As I have mentioned before, I love an Alleluia.

And as I have mentioned before, I love music in 5, whether it’s 5/4 or 5/8, as we find here.

And as I have mentioned before, I am a huge fan of composer Tom Benjamin.

So there’s not much left to say, except this is a perfect storm of those three things I love – an Alleluia written in 5/8 by Tom Benjamin.

The words, obviously, are simple:

Alleluia, Alleluia, Alleluia, Allelu.

Alleluia, Alleluia, Alleluia, Allelu.

Alleluia, Alleluia,

I suspect some consider this a complex canon with all its syncopation and unusual time signature. But if you pick up the Dave Brubeck groove, it’s as simple as can be. And the blend of the three parts is amazing – Tom’s harmonic structures sing out the praise its lyric voices.

So without further ado, here’s the Brubeck piece you should listen to in order to get in the mood and begin feeling the jazz syncopation of this wonderful Jazz Alleluia:

—

Image today is the painting by Neil Fujita, used for the cover of Dave Brubeck’s album “Time Out” which first featured “Take Five.”

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This is the piece I love.

This is the Taizé piece that sets my heart and soul free.

This is the Taizé chant that sings not only to what our English verse calls the Holy Spirit but what the Italian verse calls the Creator Spirit. To me, that is the God of process theology, but also the spirit of our own creativity, the creative spark, the part of us that cannot help but imagine and experiment and express our stories through the arts.

Italian:
Vieni Spirito creatore,
vieni, vieni,
Spirito creatore,
vieni, vieni!

English:
Come and pray in us, Holy Spirit,
come and pray in us,
come and visit us, Holy Spirit,
Spirit, come, Spirit, come.

Spanish:
Ven Espiritu, fuente de vida
Ven, ven, ven Señor,
Ven Espiritu, fuente de vida,
Ven Senor, ven Señor.

Is it any wonder that this is my favorite Taizé piece?

It’s made even more wonderful by a spoken word piece called “Fire of the Spirit” by Ken Herman that I have used more than once; he shared it many moons ago with the UU Musicians Network and I share it here. (When I have done it, the choir has hummed the final chord under the spoken word.):

 

Spoken:
Fire of revelation, flame of compassion:
Illumine our hearts and kindle our spirits.
Cloven tongues of wisdom:
Rain down on us and unleash our tongues with the Spirit of Truth.

Sung:
Vieni Spirito Creatore…

Spoken:
Light from uncreated light:
Fill our sight with amazing revelations and new visions.
Fire of the Spirit:
Sear our conscience with zeal for justice.

Sung:
Vieni Spirito Creatore…

Spoken:
Flame of aspiration:
Move our feet to tread the paths of reconciliation.
Come, Creator Spirit:
Comfort us with the warmth of your eternal love.

Sung:
Vieni Spirito Creatore…

Spoken:
Come, Creator Spirit:
Unite us with a zeal for communion with all of Creation.
Bless us—convert us—
May we become the Fire!

Sung:
Vieni Spirito Creatore… repeat song until ready to end.

I love all that this song, and Ken’s words, evoke. I hum this often – more often than you would expect – because it connects me to my creative self and to the mystery of all creation. It calms and engages me. It reassures me and it awakens me. My muse and I find each other in the meditation of these words, beckoning the Spirit come.

This is the piece I love.

 

 

 

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At various times in my mother’s life, she was more or less religious; she knew the value of a good church community, and wherever her theology lay (usually on the Unitarian side), she loved an old hymn. Among the tapes – then CDs – in her car were collections of hymns sung by old familiar voices. The one I remember most is Tennessee Ernie Ford, the album full of songs intoned in Ford’s deep baritone – songs like The Old Rugged Cross, How Great Thou Art, and of course Shall We Gather at the River.

A song that, delightfully, is in this hymnal. Now I haven’t verified this with anyone, but I have heard a story that the song was in our hymnals up to Singing the Living Tradition but was removed for that collection; the uproar was such that the STJ commission added it back. Whether it’s true or not, it does contain a nugget of truth about tradition – that despite all the important, vibrant, relevant new music, there’s something about old familiar tunes that bring us back to a sense of … something: center? self? connection?

That being said, it’s a remarkable piece, written by Robert Lowry (who wrote How Can I Keep From Singing, among many others), and reflecting the river of life as described in the Book of Revelation. It is a hopeful song, calling us to rejoice and celebrate in life.

Shall we gather at the river, where bright angel feet have trod,
with its crystal tide forever flowing by the throne of God?

Chorus:
Yes, we’ll gather at the river,
the beautiful, the beautiful river,
gather with the saints at the river
that flows by the throne of God.

On the margin of the river, washing up its silver spray,
we will walk and worship ever, all the happy golden day.

Chorus

Ere we reach the shining river, lay we ev’ry burden down.
Grace our spirits will deliver, and provide a robe and a crown.

Chorus

Soon we’ll reach the shining river, soon our pilgrimage will cease,
soon our happy hearts will quiver, with the melody of peace.

Chorus

What’s interesting to me is how often I hear it these days in a gentle, somber, almost meditative pace so that it’s not so much a celebration as a contemplation. And that’s fine, but it was intended to be much more joyful; according to Hymnary, Lowry said: “It is brass band music, has a march movement, and for that reason has become popular, though for myself I do not think much of it.”

He may not have thought much of it, but there is a hopefulness and grounded joy in this hymn that makes it a classic and a favorite.

 

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I sing this to myself all the time but rarely use it in services.

Lately – well, for the past year or so certainly – this has seemed like the right prayer, not only for me and my own sin-sick soul, but for our communities and our nation. In fact, I did use it when I led a white supremacy teach-in at the First Universalist Church of Southold, where the repetition of the chorus was intended to draw us inward to look at our own sins.

I don’t use it very often, though, because it is rare that I find a congregation or group that’s comfortable with the idea that Jesus died for us. I know it’s classical Universalism, but I’m not sure even I’m comfortable with that idea. Yet to remove it completely takes away some of the power of the spiritual.

Chorus:
There is a balm in Gilead
To make the wounded whole;
There is a balm in Gilead
To heal the sin-sick soul.

Sometimes I feel discouraged
And think my work’s in vain,
But then the Holy Spirit
Revives my soul again.

Chorus

If you cannot preach like Peter,
If you cannot pray like Paul,
You can tell the love of Jesus,
And say “He died for all!”

Chorus

Yet for all of that, the chorus, based on Jeremiah 8:22 (“Is there no balm in Gilead? Is there no physician there? Why then has the health of my poor people not been restored?”) is amazing. It is meant to reassure and hold us, even when all is wrong and we are filled with shame, guilt, regret.

And no matter how slowly you sing it, no matter how long you take with some of the phrases, it’s perfect. There’s a roominess to the song that makes space for our prayers, for our souls, for God.

—

For those curious about what the balm actually is, see this note found at Hymnary:

Gilead was the name of the mountainous region east of the Jordan River (pictured in the featured image). This region was known for having skillful physicians and an ointment made from the gum of a tree particular to that area. Many believed that this balm had miraculous powers to heal the body. In the book of Jeremiah, God tells the people of Israel that though many believe in the mysterious healing power of this balm, they can’t trust in those powers for spiritual healing or as a relief of their oppression. He reminds them that He is ultimately in control, and only He can relieve their suffering.

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Happy New Year! In the words of Colonel Sherman Potter (M*A*S*H), “may it be a damn sight better than the old one.” If today’s hymn is any indication, it will be full of beautiful reminders that there is a love holding us.

This haunting song, composed by David Zehavi, is based on a poem by an Israeli hero I’d never heard of but am excited to learn about. This is the opening paragraphs from Wikipedia (there’s a longer bio at J*Grit, the Internet Index of Tough Jews):

Hannah Szenes (often anglicized as Hannah Senesh or Chanah Senesh; Hebrew: חנה סנש‬; Hungarian: Szenes Anikó; July 17, 1921 – November 7, 1944) was a poet and Special Operations Executive (SOE) paratrooper. She was one of 37 Jewish parachutists of Mandate Palestine parachuted by the British Army into Yugoslavia during the Second World War to assist in the rescue of Hungarian Jews about to be deported to the German death camp at Auschwitz.

Szenes was arrested at the Hungarian border, then imprisoned and tortured, but refused to reveal details of her mission. She was eventually tried and executed by firing squad. She is regarded as a national heroine in Israel, where her poetry is widely known.

Wow.

That definitely puts this poem, written in 1943 – just a year before her death – into some perspective.

Eli, Eli shelo yigamer l’olam,
Hachol v’hayam,
Rishrush shel hamayim
B’rak hashamayim,
T’filat haadam.
Hachol v’hayam,
Rishrush shel hamayim,
B’rak hashamayim,
T’filat haadam.

And the English translation:

My God of all, God’s love shall never end;
The sand and the sea,
the rush of the waters.
The thundering heavens,
the prayers of our heart.
The sand and the sea,
the rush of the waters.
The thundering heavens,
the prayers of our heart.

Wow. I might have found a hero to study in this upcoming year – a year where we need faith, grit, a moral center, and resolve.

Musically, I will say that I was  a bit anxious entering it, as I don’t know it and it seemed to go in unexpected places. But then I found this gorgeous version online, and suddenly the song made sense to me both musically and lyrically, even though I don’t know Hebrew. I leave you with this blessing:

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I’ve been wandering around the house for the better part of an hour, singing this sweet little piece by Tom Benjamin, with two questions on my mind:

First, what can I possibly say about this piece I quite like, when it’s short, theologically and ethically sound, and just plain pretty?

Second, and perhaps more importantly: is it an introit, a chalice lighting, a prayer, a response, or a benediction?

Be Thou with us,
now and always,
now and always,
blessed be.

Seriously, it could be any of those things. It could be sung to welcome all into the worship space at the top of the service. It could be sung as we invite the light into our chalices (reminiscent of a pagan line when calling in the directions, “be thou with us, spirit of fire.” It could be sung at the end of a pastoral prayer, or be the prayer itself. It could be a sending forth as a variation on “we extinguish this flame, but not the…” that many congregations use for extinguishing the chalice. It could be sung as the final notes of a service, blessing all who leave the worship space.

This might be the most utilitarian short piece we have, and one of my favorites.

Blessed be.