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I may be wildly speculating here, but I am pretty sure there isn’t a person my age brought up in the United States that wasn’t in some way inspired by/shaped by/comforted by/taught by/entertained by the Muppets. Now this is likely also true for people not in their early 50s, but I know that we who were born in the early to mid 1960s were just the right age for Sesame Street when it came out, and just the right age for The Muppet Show when it debuted.

One of the brilliant things about The Muppet Show was the way they simultaneously humanized celebrities and allowed those celebrities to shine. (A full list of stars can be found here.) There are some great, memorable moments, like Sandy Duncan dancing with Sweetums, Gladys Knight singing “God Bless the Child” with Rowlf, Alice Cooper’s Faustian affect on the cast, and of course Harry Belafonte – perhaps the most memorable appearance of all.

Not only did Belafonte sing the classic “Banana Boat Song”, he helped bring to the screen one of Jim Henson’s best work, on Turn the World Around. As Belafonte recounted in Of Muppets and Men, he and Henson thought that the show ” might provide the occasion to take a look at the lore and history of other worlds, other places.” From there, the designers at The Muppet Workshop researched African masks that would support Belafonte’s story of the song’s inspiration – namely the stories and wisdom of people he met in Guinea. But here’s where the care comes in:  while the masks were patterned on African masks, Henson was very careful about the final choices, because, as Belafonte recalled, “he didn’t want to cause offense by choosing masks that would have some religious or national significance.”

And thus, we have a beautifully crafted piece that doesn’t just use another culture but explains, expresses, and celebrates. Here’s the full clip (the only version I could find):

Transcript of the story:

I discovered that song in Africa. I was in a country called Guinea. I went deep into the interior of the country, and in a little village, I met with a storyteller. That storyteller went way back in African tradition and African mythology and began to tell this story about the fire, the sun, the water, the Earth.

He pointed out the whole of these things put together turns the world around. That all of us are here for a very, very short time. In that time that we’re here, there really isn’t any difference in any of us, if we take time out to understand each other.

The question is: Do I know who you are, or who I am? Do we care about each other? Because if we do, together we can turn the world around.

Wow.

“Do we care about each other? Because if we do, together we can turn the world around.” I’m not sure there’s a clearer statement of our theology than that. And what a gift we have in this song, and in the care both Belafonte and Henson took to bring it to us, beyond a recording on an album. Without that appearance on The Muppet Show, my generation might not ever have known this song, and it might not have come up in the minds of this hymnal’s commission.

I am grateful… and happy to share with you the lyrics as we have them laid out – in what could be seen as a complex arrangement:

We come from the fire, living in the fire,
go back to the fire, turn the world around.

We come from the water, living in the water,
go back to the water, turn the world around.

We come from the mountain, living on the mountain,
go back to the mountain, turn the world around.

Chorus 1:
Whoa, so is life! Ah, so is life!
Whoa, so is life! Ah, so is life!

Chorus 2:
Whoa, so is life! Abateewah, so is life!
Whoa, so is life! Abateewah, so is life!

Chorus 3:
Whoa, so is life! Abateewah, (ha!) so is life!
Whoa, so is life! Abateewah, (ha!) so is life!

Section 1:
Do you know who I am?
Do I know who you are?
See we one another clearly?
Do we know who we are?

Section 2:
Do you know who I am? Do I know who you are?
See we one another clearly? Do we know who we are?
Do you know who I am? Do I know who you are?
See we one another clearly? Do we know who we are?

Water make the river, river wash the mountain,
Fire make the sunlight, turn the world around.

Heart is of the river, body is the mountain,
Spirit is the sunlight, turn the world around.

We are of the spirit, truly of the spirit,
Only can the spirit turn the world around!

It seems complex when you look at it, but it’s really quite simple – and with some good song leading, you can get a congregation to sing the various parts without freaking out. I think once they get the feel of it, and understand where it goes and what they’re supposed to sing, it becomes a truly joyful, meaningful experience.

—

Well, there it is.

The end of this spiritual practice.

I have some wrap up thoughts, and some thoughts about what’s next, which I’ll share tomorrow.

But for now, well… thanks. Thanks for reading, and thanks for indulging me in the outward expression of my inward spiritual practice. It’s been a pleasure, even on those days when it wasn’t a joy.

Ah, so is life.

 

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This may be one of the most elegantly crafted songs in our hymnals.

I mean no offense to other composers who read this, or to those songs that are also beloved. But there is something absolutely wondrous in this composition by Carolyn McDade.

On its surface, the song is another earth based song of praise and wonder. And a quick listen to the tune suggests it might be an old melody from the British Isles. And on their own, that’s plenty. There’s a great deal of gorgeousness contained within, expressing McDade’s vision of interdependence. As quoted on the UUA Song Information page, McDade writes:

“Earth shakes out a mantle of green—each blade of grass true to the integrity within, yet together with others is the rise of spring from winter’s urging. Our coming is with the grass—the common which persists, unexalted, but with the essence of life. Our humanness, our rhythms and dreams, the faith which nurtures our ardent love and hope for life—all this we share with earth community, of which we are natural and connected beings.”

This song is certainly that:

My blood doth rise in the roots of yon oak, her sap doth run in my veins.
Boundless my soul like the open sky where the stars forever have lain.
Where the stars, where the stars, where the stars forever have lain.

My hands hold the weavings of time without end, my sight as deep as the sea.
Beating, my heart sounds the measures of old, that of love’s eternity.
That of love, that of love, that of love’s eternity.

I feel the tides as they answer the moon, rushing on a far distant sand.
Winging my song is the wind of my breast and my love blows over the land.
And my love, and my love, and my love blows over the land.

My foot carries days of the old into new, our dreaming shows us the way.
Wondrous our faith settles deep in the earth, rising green to bring a new day.
Rising green, rising green, rising green to bring a new day.

But what’s elegant is the way the tune and lyric paint a feeling, an image, a texture, a sense of movement. It begins at the end of the first line of each verse… “sap doth run in my veins”… “sight as deep as the sea”… “rushing on a far distant sand”…”dreaming shows us the way” – each of those phrases evoking something bigger than ourselves, held open with a dotted half note, not ended quickly on the quarter note you were expecting. And then the next phrase soars up a fourth, an arpeggio in the bass clef leading the way, opening up the melody almost like a miracle, with “boundless” and “beating” and “winging” and “wondrous” giving language to that moment of opening and arrival. In the singing and listening, you can hear a sense of hope and release and movement, as the phrase settles back into the notes the verse began with, almost like a wave, or a sudden breeze, or an epiphany.

It is so elegantly crafted. I am in awe.

I should note that I’ve never used this as a congregational song, only as a solo, so I don’t know how easily it’s picked up. I’d like to think this one isn’t too hard, and I hope it’s not taken too slowly or too quickly – or people will miss the beauty that McDade’s piece evokes.

 

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From so much to say to little to say. (Which is, of course, the nature of spiritual practice.)

This is a lovely tune, by  Pablo Fernández Badillo, a Puerto Rican lay minister and federal judge who held various positions in the Puerto Rican government. Yet it is his time as a missionary that led to his songwriting (with 104 hymns published in Himnario Criollo); this song is one of many written in a folk style.

According to the UUA Song Information page,  “Alabanza celebrates the glory of the Creator in the magnificent flowering of the natural world. This nature is filled with the particular accents of Badillo’s homeland, the duende (a smallish, purple flower) and the coquí (a small frog-like animal that makes singing sounds). Alabanza is one of 104 hymns Badillo published in 1977 in Himnario Criollo.”

Spanish:
Al caer la lluvia resurge con verdor,
toda la floresta. ¡Renueva la creación!
Mira el rojo lirio; el duende ya brotó.
¡Bella primavera que anuncia su fulgor!
Toda flor silvestre, la maya, el cundeamor.
¡Todo manifiesta la gloria de mi Dios!

El ‘coquí’ se alegra, se siente muy feliz.
Canta en su alabanza: “coquí, coquí, coquí.”
El pitirre canta y trina el ruiseñor.
¡Cuán alegremente alaban al Creador!
¡Cómo se te alaba en toda la creación!
Yo quisiera hacerlo en forma igual mi Dios.

English:
As the rain is falling, the forest is reborn,
All the fields are verdant; creation is renewed.
Look at the red lily; the ‘duende’ now has bloomed:
Beautiful the springtime, its brilliance showing forth.
Now all of the wildflowers are singing new songs of love,
All manifest surely the glory of our God!

The ‘coquí’ is cheerful, and filled with joy is he,
As he sings the praises: “Coquí, coquí, coquí.”
Mocking bird is chirping, as is the nightingale,
Sounding joyful anthems, a symphony of praise.
How all of creation reflects the glory of God!
I also would offer my songs in praise to God.

I’m sad to say I’m woefully unfamiliar with this one – it seems like a joyous celebration and yet also seems to call for reverence. Truth is, however you perform it, it’ll be a beautiful ode to creation.

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I’m sure there is someone who loves this piece.

I’m sure there is someone who isn’t bothered by gendered language.

I’m sure there is someone who thinks four verses makes a chant.

I am not that someone.

Children of the Earth,
we have come to
sing to each other,
Sister to Brother,
songs of our Mother Earth.

Children of the Earth,
Autumn soon will
breathe her last breath and
quick will her death bear
witness to Winter’s Birth.

Children of the Earth,
can you feel the
air getting cold as
darkness takes hold and
sleep covers Mother Earth?

Children of the Earth,
we have come
to sit in the darkness,
breathe in the silence,
think of our Mother Earth.

Now don’t get me wrong; it’s not the pagan flavor that bothers me one bit. I often talk about the spiritual journey 1992-2004 as my “high pagan days.” I know that my religious experiences in that time – from the solitary to the communal – inform much of who I am today; it was in those days that I learned the ‘year and a day’ of spiritual study and practice that sparked Hymn by Hymn. I learned a great deal about shared ritual, the power of chant, the richness of the elements.

But I also learned that by and large, pagan chants leave me wanting. I’m not sure why, but there are only one or two that I think of with affection or even remember. And this one is not one of them.

I mean, it’s not a bad song. Phillip Palmer offers something interesting in the middle of his song, but it ends with a thud, and no amount of beautiful arranging by Jeannie Gagné can fix a thud like that.

But let’s not kid ourselves: this is not a chant. A chant is a short musical passage that is repeated. This is a song, with four verses. Yet because of the misleading title, countless winter solstice service coordinators – myself included – tried to figure out of how to use this as a chant, and it just doesn’t play well that way.

Anyway. I’m feeling curmudgeonly about this one. To the person who loves it, sorry.

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So… I have thoughts. In no particular order:

Jim Scott does like a long verse, doesn’t he? (No judgment, really, just noticing that his song make for long hymns.)

It took three phrases to become a Jim Scott song, because he has a signature style – and then it’s very much a Jim Scott composition. (Again, no judgment – more of an ‘oh!’ when we get there.)

If you omit the first verse, this is a great child dedication song. (And maybe you don’t even have to omit the first verse, if you can hang through “ancient story” and “longest night.”

Ancient story lived again, dark of longest night.
Birth of innocence and hope kindles our delight.
All celebrate the labor’s end.
Forth in laughter, tear and smile.
Light of love and joy extend all around the child

New life fragile yet complete, life from love once more.
Universal miracle, faith in life restore.
The harmony of all the world
lulls the newborn child to rest.
Welcome dreamer, safely sleep on your mother’s breast.

May our wonder never cease, Nature’s greatest art.
Birth and breath of life again warms the coldest heart.
Now rich and simple gifts bestowed,
Sacred promises well made.
Reverence and hope renewed all around the babe.

Vision for humanity, all around the child.
Loving as one family all around the child.
Life passages well understood,
known and felt around the earth;
Rich or poor we each are blessed by the miracle of birth.

Which brings me to the last thought (well, almost – I’m trying to figure out his use of the word “forth” in the first verse): this is a very non-offensive hymn for a group of people who are offended by celebrating the birth of Jesus every year and the explicit nature of many beloved carols. And I get it. I mean, I have personally heard the criticisms of a rather Christian Christmas Eve service (“because it’s Christmas-freaking-Eve” I want to shout but don’t), and I suspect this piece comforts people because while some of the key notes are hit (“reverence and hope renewed”, “miracle of birth”, “the child”, “ancient story”, etc.) there’s nothing terribly explicit about the birth of Jesus – thus my assertion that this could be used for a child dedication. You know it’s a Christmas song because we put it in the Christmas section and hint to it, but it’s really quite ubiquitous.

Don’t get me wrong – it’s a good song, and I have used it. It’s one of the easier Jim Scott pieces for a congregation to sing, as long as there are strong song leaders for the Scott turn in the third phrase. I am always impressed with Jim’s lyricism and turns of phrase.

But my thoughts have turned into feelings, and something isn’t feeling right to me. Maybe it’s the grief talking, maybe it’s the exhaustion of so many days of hymns, maybe it’s the spectre of a new project that involves the Bible. The truth is, I am not sure what I’m feeling about it, but it feels tender to me.

Anyway. Don’t be put off by its length. Or break it up. Or pick a couple of verses. And have a strong song leader.

—

Another image from Pixabay. Babies come with hats.

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For a long time I loved this one. I thought it was a great creative, artsy way to think about our lives.

But when you sit down and really think about it – the initial metaphor, the remaining lyrics – yeah, not so much. Here are Jim Scott’s lyrics – the chorus of a longer song turned into a round (based on a Russian folk song):

May your life be as a song,
Resounding with the dawn
to sing awake the light.
And softly serenade the stars,
Ever dancing circles in the night.

Here are my problems:

First, if my life is a song, it’s reasonably short and likely forgettable. Short is okay, when you think about how short our time is on earth compared to the earth itself or even the universe. But likely forgettable? An annoying ear worm? A repetitive hook? Yeah, no thanks. I’d rather my life be a symphony, or an opera, or something longer that tells a story and contains themes and variations and a sense of impact.

Second, why is my song only in concert with things I have no affect on? Sun’s gonna rise whether I’m here or not, stars did that dancing we see long before we were more than a single-cell paramecium. I’d rather my life resound with the interconnected web of existence as it is now, singing awake our own internal lights, serenading the children we raise, voicing our truths.

Maybe it’s my mood, but I’m growing tired of our desire to be detached and sound wise, when all we are really is detaching from the wisdom we find on the ground.

My third problem is less about the lyrics and more about the music – Jim’s full song is a bossa nova – but if you don’t know that, it becomes complex to sing, and the unusual timing of some lines just doesn’t work if you don’t have that beat in your head. As the image shows below, it’s a syncopated beat that you almost need to feel before this round makes any sense.

 

 

Fourth – how did a Russian folk song become a bossa nova anyway?

Bottom line: I used to love this song, and I really don’t anymore.

 

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I want to start with a word of gratitude for the STJ hymnal commission, who thought to include some short responses in this slim volume. It would have been easy to only include bigger songs and hymns, but they knew (probably because most of them were music directors themselves) that we needed fresh music to fill those spaces in our worship – spaces where we receive the offering, or send the children to religious education classes, or respond to a prayer, or welcome us in, or send us out.

This short piece – another beauty composed by Tom Benjamin – is a pretty setting of the Theodore Parker words (a fuller version can be found in STLT, reading #683).

Be ours a religion
which like sunshine goes everywhere,
its temple all space,
its shrine the good heart,
its creed all truth,
its ritual works of love.

I could see this as an introit – welcome to this faith community, and here’s what we’re like – or as a benediction – go bring this out to the world. Either way, it’s a lovely little piece. I think it’s a bit tricky, but once you learn it, it’s in your bones.

I wish I had more to say today. Parker’s words are in some ways a call to arms, and in some ways an admonition – this is who we say we are, but are we? It’s easy to puff ourselves up and say “we are this” but I think it’s more important that we say “we strive to be this.” Parker’s words are a vision of Unitarianism (and, by modern extrapolation and extension, Unitarian Universalism). And on this day when we remember Dr. King’s dream, we can remember our own dreams for who we strive to be.

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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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I don’t know if it’s still true, but I remember in high school learning a bit about quantum physics – enough at least to know that physicists at the time weren’t sure if the universe is made of particles or waves. (Google suggests that there’s now an uncomfortable acceptance of a duality, but that’s a mind-blowing thought for another day.) Back then, the research fell victim to confirmation bias – if scientists were looking for a particle, they saw a particle; if they were looking for a wave, they found a wave.

I think the same is true for this song. Are you looking for humanism? It’s here. Looking for God? Yep. Looking for a song about the interdependent web? Gotcha covered. Fourth principle too. Looking for first source? Fifth source? Sixth source? Yep, yep, yep. Oh, and do you want a bit of process theology? Howdy!

Far beyond the grasp of hands,
or light to meet the eye,
past the reaches of the mind,
There find the key to nature’s harmony
in an architecture so entwined.
Like the birds whose patterns grace the sky
and carry all who join in love expanding,
The message of peace will rise in flight
taking the weight of the world upon its wings,
In the oneness of ev’rything.

Peace is in the dance of trees,
who stir before the first
breath of wind is yet perceived.
Trust in the song, becoming one with the dance,
and all mysteries can be believed.
Songs of lives long past that touch our own
are written in the earth evergiving,
And now to maintain the harmony
gives to us all lives worth living,
For the oneness of ev’rything.

Still we seek to find a truth
that we might understand
and reduce to terms defined
Vast and immeasurable time and space
all so overwhelmingly designed.
Oh, passing years just might I know the faith
that winters in the heart to be reborn in spring.
To hear and to feel the pulse of life
enters my soul as a song to sing,
Of the oneness of ev’rything.

There are many wonderful Jim Scott songs in our hymnals – from the very familiar Gather the Spirit to the hardly sung Tradition Held Fast, along with others we’ve sung/will sing. But I think this is my favorite; its lyrics are rich (I mean, how many times do you get to sing “vast and immeasurable time and space”?), the melody is interesting and easy to sing, and while it seems long, it’s worth it. (I should write about why we expect hymns to be so short when we don’t expect songs on the radio to be.)

The melody, while not super-easy, is much more intuitive than some of his other pieces, and I’ve never seen a congregation just not get it with a good song leader. The key to singing this in our congregations is not dragging. It’s written in a lush 2/2 with one beat = half note – 64 bpm, which is about right. Any slower and it’s just deadly, and definitely not the song Jim wrote (which you should totally listen to here).

 

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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.”