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I don’t know where to begin with this one – while it is a joyful song of determination to sing, there are so many layers of complexity, and as a middle-aged white woman, I feel uncomfortable making any assumptions or proclamations about the things that make me go “hmm” here. So I’ll pose some questions and let those be my reflection.

According to Jacqui James in Between the Lines, the Hymnal Commission decided to rename the tune “Ethelred” to honor pioneering African American minister Egbert Ethelred Brown. Yet this is a traditional spiritual. So… cool? Not cool because it is still white people making a change to a song of the enslaved? Shortsighted but decent? Or totally excellent? (I know a member of that commission reads this blog, so I hope he’ll jump in with some insight.)

Also curious: many of the spirituals in our hymnal are called “spiritual” but this one is called “folk tune” – and I wonder why it’s parsed that way.

A question for ministers and music directors – how freely do you change/shift zipper songs like this to be more inclusive? We’re coming up on some more soon that sing to brothers and sisters, which reinforces a gender binary we now know to be incomplete. So do you add a verse? Change a verse and leave out another? Sing it as is to honor its origins (not knowing for certain what the original words are anyway)?

And then, if you do make changes, are you colonizing another’s music, or following a time-honored folk tradition? Can a folk musician like Reggie Harris change it because he is black, but not Joe Jencks because he is white? What are the rules? Are there rules?

I guess my questions come up in my attempts to be better as an ally but not treat it all so preciously either. I know that no matter what your place of privilege, you never get allyship 100% right, but I’d like to always be doing a little better, and music is one place where I can tangibly enter the work.

I’m on my way to the freedom land.
I’m on my way to the freedom land.
I’m on my way to the freedom land.
I’m on my way, great God, I’m on my way.

I asked my sister, come and go with me..

I asked my brother, come and go with me….

If they say no, I’ll go anyhow….

I’m on my way, and I won’t turn back…

And… as a song for our times, this certainly is one. We’re taking up the call to resistance, and asking those around us to come with us, to resist oppression and be free. And for people with marginalized identities, it is a matter of life and death. Yet: I hesitate to use this song for a new purpose without interrogating it first.

Yeah, this work is hard. But it’s a good hard.

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Thank all that is holy for this practice.

When the world is on fire and every day is another tanker truck of kerosene, it’s easy to get lost in the flames and forget ourselves, our joys, our pleasures, our soul. The fire is meant to burn our souls away – and so practices like this are a big reminder to me that not only do I still have a soul, but that the not-related-to-the-fire thoughts and ideas must be celebrated to keep the soul cool and safe.

Two not-related-to-the-fire and not-related-to-each-other thoughts came to me while I sang this hymn – a fine hymn about courage and wisdom with a rousing melody. (A hymn that I suspect many pass by because of the G word, which is too bad because it’s really a hymn about us.)

First thought was about the author, Harry Emerson Fosdick. If you don’t know about him, he’s worth googling – the short version is that Fosdick fought hard against fundamentalism in the 1920s and 30s and was a notable force in the social gospel movement (the idea that we must do the work Jesus’s ministry calls us to – justice, compassion, etc. – work that Universalist Clarence Skinner said we’ve been doing all along, let’s not talk about how you’re late to the party but be glad you showed up at all). Fosdick, who was the minister at Riverside Church in NYC (across the street from Union Theological Seminary), was apparently so compelling a preacher that his sermons were printed for the purpose of being read by other ministers around the country. He was so influential, fundamentalists still consider him a ‘false teacher’ to be taught against, because his posthumous influence is so great. And it makes me happy that we have Fosdick’s words in our hymnal.

God of grace and God of glory,
on thy people pour thy power;
crown thine ancient church’s story;
bring its bud to glorious flower.
Grant us wisdom, grant us courage,
for the facing of this hour, for the facing of this hour.

Lo, the clouds of evil ‘round us
hide thy brightness from our gaze;
from the fears that long have bound us,
free our hearts to faith and praise.
Grant us wisdom, grant us courage,
for the living of these days, for the living of these days.

Cure thy children’s warring madness;
bend our pride to thy control;
shame our wanton, selfish gladness,
rich in things and poor in soul.
Grant us wisdom, grant us courage,
make thy peace our daily goal, make thy peace our daily goal.

Fill us with a living vision,
heal our wounds that we may be
bound as one beyond division
in the struggle to be free.
Grant us wisdom, grant us courage,
ears to hear and eyes to see, ears to hear and eyes to see.

My other thought made me giggle. I am a big fan of a British mystery series called Midsomer Murders – it is everything you’d want in a British mystery: small village life, intricate relationships, multiple murders, and a fair bit of snark. The show, now entering its 20th year, is part good mystery, part taking the piss and poking fun of the British mystery.  And because they have some lightness (and gorgeous scenery), I find them to be oddly comforting in these uncomfortable days.

The episode I watched yesterday, “Secrets and Spies,” involves a series of murder at a country home run by former MI agents. The eldest of them is obsessed with his death and demands regular runs of the hearse to the crematorium, always singing “Bread of Heaven” – another set of lyrics set to this tune. It becomes a common theme in the episode, and it’s catchy enough that you might hum it after seeing the episode. Like I did. And so turning to today’s hymn, to be honest, all I could do in the first verse or two was sing “Bread of Heaven” really loud at the “Grant us wisdom” line and giggle uncontrollably. Which, of course, made me think of the pilot episode of Vicar of Dibley, where Geraldine instructs the congregation to shout that out. Which made me giggle even more. Which I think, in these soul-worn days, is a good thing.

So if you ever use this in a service and I’m in the room, don’t be surprised if you hear giggling.

 

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If ever there was a time to remind ourselves where our holy church is, it’s now. And this is just the right hymn to show us – if we allow it to.

Sure, some might find the tune old and stodgy – it is, after all, an old stodgy hymn from the 1551 English psalter, so it’s been around a while. But sometimes the old tunes are the best – and while I am resisting the urge to again wax poetic about the 16th/17th century Anglican devotional literature and music, I will say that they were on to something with these tunes. And I beg of you not to let a 500-year old tune keep you from this one, because it’s got some terrific lyrics for our – and any – time.

Lyricist Edwin Henry Wilson was a Unitarian minister and the first editor of The New Humanist magazine, helping to shape American religious humanism in the first half of the last century. And here’s something cool: his placing the church firmly amongst us humans is not only good humanist theology, it’s good process theology – it’s in us,  it’s in our relationships, it’s in our actions, its not in who we are but in what we do.

Where is our holy church?
Where race and class unite
as equal persons in the search
for beauty, truth, and right.

Where is our holy writ?
Where’er a human heart
a sacred torch of truth has lit,
by inspiration taught.

Where is our holy One?
A mighty host respond;
the people rise in every land
to break the captive’s bond.

Where is our holy land?
Within the human soul,
wherever free minds truly seek
with character the goal.

Where is our paradise?
In aspiration’s sight,
wherein we hope to see
arise ten thousand years of right.

More than ever, we need to remember that it starts here, with us, and that our call is indeed to unite all as equal; to break the captives’ bonds; to build principled, ethical character; to aspire to the beloved community; to free our minds and souls to touch that which some call the Divine.

It’s on every one of us to create this holy church, because it is us.

 

(The photo was taken by Ninie, a contributor at InterfaceLIFT, of a chapel in Yosemite on Christmas Day. )

 

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It is two days after the incredible Women’s March – one day after many ministers, including me, took to the pulpit to talk about our faith’s all to resist and rejoice, to do what’s next.

And what is so very clear is that the people at and supporting the Women’s March, and the folks sitting in the pews all understood is 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 reminds us of that – “do you hear, do you hear? All the dreams, all the dares, all the sighs, all the prayers – they are yours, mine, and theirs” … wow. This is not your rugged individuality calling, this is the sound of all of us, calling to our hearts and souls, calling us to attend, calling us to resist and rejoice.

Do you hear, oh my friend, in the place where you stand,
through the sky, through the land, do you hear, do you hear?
In the heights, on the plain, in the vale, on the main,
in the sun, in the rain, do you hear, do you hear?

Through the roar, through the rush, through the throng,
through the crush, do you hear in the hush of your soul, of your soul?
Hear the cry fear won’t still, hear the heart’s call to will,
hear a sigh’s startling trill in your soul, in your soul?

From the place where you stand to the outermost strand,
do you hear, oh my friend, do you hear, do you hear?
All the dreams, all the dares, all the sighs, all the prayers —
they are yours, mine, and theirs — do you hear, do you hear?

The lyrics are by religious educator Emily Thorn, set to one of my favorite tunes from the shape note collections (Southern Harmony, Union Harmony, Northern Harmony, etc.), Foundation. It’s easy to sing, and a bit sing-songy, but it carries that same sort of deep, true call to our hearts that Abigail Washburn talks about in the On Being podcast I reference here. There is something true about the music, the lyrics, the call  – something that lands for me and makes my entire being simply want to answer “Yes.”

Do you hear? Because if ever there was a time, this is the time to open up your heart and hear.

This is the  time to reengage with what matters, what our faith calls us to.

This is the time for strong words and rebellious thoughts and bold, beautiful, creative acts of resistance.

This is the time to be mad as hell and not want to take it anymore.

This is the time to be the people we have been waiting for.

This is the time to figure out what you will do to help resist hate and fear and discrimination and violence.

This is the time for courage, even a drop or two as we make our way in this uncertain world.

This is the time for heroes – and so we must reach for the stars.

It’s time. Do you hear?

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Each morning, as I sit down to write about my singing experience, I sometimes find poetry flows out; other times theology or history; other times musicology; often humor and snark. This morning, only one thing came to mind:

“For God’s sake, let us sit upon the ground and tell sad stories of the death of Kings.”  (Richard II, Act 2, Scene 2)

And I don’t know if I have much more to add this morning – Shakespeare pretty well sums up what this feels like for me. Sure, I’m glad we have a Palestrina tune, and no, I’m not saying I wouldn’t use this in the right circumstances. But in this run up to days of action, I’m not sure I’m much in the mood for resting on our ancestors’ laurels. And today, that’s what this feels like. I don’t want us to sit upon the ground and tell the old tales, I want us to get up and do something. I want us to follow their example, not be mesmerized into smug inaction by their example.

We are the people we should be singing about. Alleluia.

Now sing we of the brave of old
who would not sell themselves for gold,
yet left us riches manifold; Alleluia!

Of those who fought a goodly fight
for liberty, for truth and right,
their patient love their chiefest might; Alleluia!

Who, when no gleam did point the way,
pressed ever on, by night, by day,
and, spite of pain, did ever say Alleluia!

Who long the world’s old sorrows bore
and toiled and loved and suffered sore,
and, being dead, live evermore; Alleluia!

(Postscript about the photo: Yes, David Tennant did play Richard II, in 2013.)

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One of the tropes in musical theatre is the ‘my way’ trope: somewhere in the first act (usually toward the end of the act), a major character sings their song of defiance – the song that tells the audience they’re going to go against the grain, take the journey, follow their quest, follow their love. They’re often the first showstopper song, too, the memorable ones that keep us humming. I’m thinking about songs like “Defying Gravity” (Wicked); “Don’t Rain on My Parade” (Funny Girl); “I Am What I Am” (Le Cage aux Folles); “The Impossible Dream” (Man of LaMancha); “Epiphany” (Sweeney Todd); “Rose’s Turn” (Gypsy) because sometimes defiance kicks in late; even “My Shot” (Hamilton), because sometimes defiance kicks in early.

I could go on and on, but you get the point. At some point on a journey, you have to not just see what the path ahead is, you have to declare it and hush the naysayers in a song of defiance. This hymn, with words from John Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress, written in 1683, is the song of defiance, old school. Don’t hold me back – I’m doin’ this.

Who would true valor see, let them come hither;
one here will constant be, come wind, come weather;
there’s no discouragement shall make me once relent
my first avowed intent to be a pilgrim.

Whoso beset me ‘round with dismal stories,
do but themselves confound; my strength the more is.
No lion can me fright, I’ll with a giant fight,
but I shall have a right to be a pilgrim.

No word of foe or friend can daunt my spirit;
I know I at the end will life inherit.
Then fancies fly away; I’ll not fear what they say;
I’ll labor night and day to be a pilgrim.

This isn’t my favorite of the English melodies Ralph Vaughan Williams has set – but it’s pretty and a bit aspirational nonetheless, and it works well.

I’m glad we have this hymn; if others we’ve encountered have been fight songs to get us riled up, this is the moment when we open the door and go to take up the fight. It seems appropriate to sing this a few days before the Women’s March (I’ll be in NYC)… I’m ready, I’m geared up, and now, don’t tell me not to go, because it is “my first avowed intent” to do this thing I’m called to do. The time is now, don’t tell me not to, nobody is ever gonna bring me down, I’m not throwin’ away my shot.

 

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I swear I didn’t set this up this way, but I am so glad that I’m singing this hymn today.

It’s not my favorite melody (as much as I love Tom Benjamin and have waxed poetic about him before). But if we don’t sing a paean to the prophet souls on Martin Luther King Jr. Day, when should we? King’s words and ministry are more needed than ever right now: we need his prophetic words about racial and economic justice. We need his model of hope and resistance.

When these lyrics were written, King was just a kid; but they speak truth about him now too: “though dead, they speak today: how great the cloud of witnesses encompassing our way.” Dr. King joined that great cloud of witnesses in 1968, and he continues to point us toward truth and justice, showing us that everyone, no matter how scared, or unsure, or flawed, or struggling, can make a difference if we set our course toward freedom, justice, and compassion.

From age to age how grandly rise the prophet souls in line;
above the passing centuries like beacon lights they shine,
like beacon lights they shine.

They witness to one heritage, one spirit’s quick’ning breath,
one widening reign from age to age of freedom and of faith,
of freedom and of faith.

Their kindling power our souls confess; though dead they speak today:
how great the cloud of witnesses encompassing our way,
encompassing our way.

Through every race, in every clime, one song shall yet be heard:
move onward in thy course sublime, O everlasting Word,
O everlasting Word.

A quick postscript: Hulu has the film Selma for viewing – along with the MLK episode of Black-ish, which is both right on point and pretty hysterical. Watch them. (Along with all the other good stuff out there – Luke Cage, if you like superhero stuff; Twelve Years a Slave, in case you haven’t cried in a while; 13th, because we all need an education. And more…this is just the off-the-top-of-my-head list.)

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I’m going to let you down, dear reader, because there is a distinct lack of content today.

I feel like I have a lot more work to do to understand this song’s actual origins, the history of its use by Harriet Tubman as a code song for the Underground Railroad, and its use today. I feel ill-equipped to talk about whether I think this should, or shouldn’t be in our hymnal, and what conditions and warnings I would give around the use of such. And … I don’t have the energy to talk about the Biblical text this song speaks to, even though I spent eight months studying Exodus for a show I co-wrote and directed in seminary.

But right now all of these thoughts and directions to investigate seem too big, too important, and too much in need of thoughtful consideration to rush through it on a Sunday morning when I still have service preparations to make.

The short version of it all is this: the song tune is called Tubman to honor this incredible woman, the story of Israelite freedom was a useful and needed allegory for the enslaved as they sought their own freedom, and I always fear that as predominantly white folk, we misuse songs like this.

And still, it’s a good one to sing, especially on the eve of Martin Luther King Jr. Day – it gets down to your toes and resonates in your chest and speaks to that deep yearning in the belly of our humanity.

When Israel was in Egypt’s land,
let my people go;
oppressed so hard they could not stand,
let my people go.

(Chorus)
Go down, Moses,
way down in Egypt land,
tell old Pharaoh,
to let my people go.

The Lord told Moses what to do,
let my people go;
to lead the tribe of Israel through,
let my people go. (Chorus)

For you the cloud shall clear the way,
let my people go;
a fire by night,
a shade by day,
let my people go. (Chorus)

We need not always weep and moan,
let my people go;
and wear these slav’ry chains forlorn,
let my people go. (Chorus)

And so, dear reader, I owe you on this one.

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I’m gonna start right off and say, Gentle Reader, if you have an opinion on this hymn, please share it. If you use this hymn…ever, tell me when and how. If you feel a connection to the lyric, or in general the poetry of AE Houseman, please describe it.

Because hooo-boy, I don’t get this one. I mean, I get what Houseman is saying: I’m 70, I won’t be a child again, 50 adult years haven’t been long enough, wah wah wah, gather ye rosebuds or some such inanity. And yes, I am a fan of storytelling, finding universality in particularity, the living human document as a way to understanding. But frankly, I found myself (a) wondering whether this was really an Easter hymn, (b) wondering why we would ever sing this, and (c) doing the math.

Now I love the tune – Orientis Partibus is a gorgeous little medieval French melody used in countless hymns. These lyrics, though…

Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
is hung with bloom along the bough,
and stands about the woodland ride
wearing white for Eastertide.

Now of my three-score years and ten,
twenty will not come again,
and take from sev’nty springs a score,
leaving me just fifty more.

And since to look at things in bloom
fifty springs are little room,
about the woodlands I will go,
seeing the cherry hung with snow.

Anyone have a more helpful insight than mine? Because unless I am preaching to just a group of 70 year olds in the late spring, and I want them to feel (a) old and (b) superior, I don’t get this. Not one bit.

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This is a beautiful, complex, heart-wrenching lament, which brings up a thousand beautiful, complex, heart-wrenching memories. In fact, I can’t imagine not crying or at least getting a little choked up, even if a memory doesn’t come, simply because the tune and the origin story – again, a song born out of slavery – is so moving and haunting and bypasses the mind and goes directly to the heart. Even writing about it, after having sung it tearfully, I am getting choked up again.

Oh, there are a thousand memories I could share, and a thousand stories I could tell. I don’t want to bypass the import of the song’s origins – the 19th century image that serves today’s post reflects the harsh realities of the slave trade in America.

But I also want to share a particular memory of a time that honors the song, honors an ancient victim of violence, and honors an amazing colleague.

My master’s thesis was about theatricality in worship, and I created a half-hour service through which I explored aspects of theater that inform good worship. The service itself was on a topic that I found myself nearly obsessing over while in seminary, the huge swath of unnamed women in the Bible. Called “Nameless,” I told the stories of eight out of hundreds of women – women without whom a story could not progress but whom the male scribes could not be bothered to name – women like Lot’s wife, Pharaoh’s daughter, Job’s wife, and others. I set it in a cemetery the evoked Arlington, and we had a eulogy and a celebration (click here to read and see the service).

Once the tone was established by Sampson’s first wife (the one before Delilah), the women told their stories and asked “what’s my name?” The last was Jephthah’s daughter – a young woman whose excitement over seeing her father return from war results in her death, simply because Jephthah swore an oath to God that he would sacrifice the first living thing he saw on his farm if he returned victorious from battle. (Seriously – this a thing that’s in the Bible, in Judges 11:34-40.)

While the other women sat back down, the stunning Natalie Renee Perkins, who played Jephthah’s daughter, brought a rose to the grave marker with the ancient woman’s name on it, kneeled down, and began singing this spiritual….

Sometimes I feel like a motherless child,
sometimes I feel like a motherless child,
sometimes I feel like a motherless child,
a long way from home, a long way from home.

Sometimes I feel like I have no friend,
sometimes I feel like I have no friend,
sometimes I feel like I have no friend,
a long way from home, a long way from home.

Sometimes I feel like I’m almost gone,
sometimes I feel like I’m almost gone,
sometimes I feel like I’m almost gone,
a long way from home, a long way from home.

There was not a dry eye in the room.

Not just because Natalie sang it beautifully – which she did.

Not just because we were at a memorial service – which we were.

But because the power of this song to speak for those who are a long way from home – emotionally distanced, kept prisoner, even those murdered out of hate – the power of this song is that it speaks to something within all of us and to the bigger, scary realities out of which this song comes and to which this song belongs.

This is a beautiful, complex, heart-wrenching lament.