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The sun that shines across the sea, the wind that whispers in the tree,
the lark that carols in the sky, the fleecy clouds a-sailing by,
O, I’m as rich as rich can be, for all these things belong to me!

The raindrops which refresh the earth, the springtime mantle of rebirth,
the summer days when all things grow, the autumn mist and winter snow,
O, I’m as rich as rich can be, for all these things belong to me!

The task well done, the fun of play, the wise who guide me on my way,
the balm of sleep when each day ends, the joy of family and friends,
O, I’m as rich as rich can be, for all these things belong to me!

Part one, wherein I reflect on familiarity

And now we’re back to the unfamiliar hymns.

I am thinking about how we learn hymns, what makes one more familiar than another, why we gravitate toward some even when we are the hymn choosers ourselves. Sure, some of it is that we lean into our favorites – whether because of the lyric or the tune or the combination. Some become favorites because of a particular memory that we associate with it. But let’s not discount the fact that some of the hymns we know well are previous ministers’ favorites. And those a previous minister doesn’t like doesn’t get chosen for services, week after week.

And in the case of this hymn, that’s too bad. It’s a sweet little song, one I would happily introduce into a service on gratitude or transcendentalism or even a celebration of the seventh principle. It is sweet, and draws the circle of blessings wide. I’m not 100% sold on the melody yet, but it’s pretty; this is another case of wanting to hear the whole accompaniment to make a real judgment about the tune.

It may not have been on the list of my minister’s favorites, but it may wind up on mine.

 

Part two, where I reflect on this section of the hymnal

This section is called “The Celebration of Life” – it’s been full of opening songs, celebrating who we are, extoling our various and varied theologies, exploring our sense of humanity’s self in concert with the rest of the planet, being thankful for life itself and all it has to offer.

Outside of these morning singing reflections, life has been much less celebratory. Politicians are fighting about who we are, battling over various and varied ideologies, exploiting our humanity (and forgetting to talk about the rest of the planet), insulting and harming each other. It’s a cantankerous, rancorous, angry time – and the atmosphere both within and outside of politics is at times vile.

Is it any wonder these hymns sometimes seem too sweet, too saccharine, too fluffy?

And yet – certainly as I discovered yesterday with What Wondrous Love – even these kinds of songs reach deep, almost imperceptibly, into our hearts and minds and keeps us going. It’s terrible out there, but we are still alive, and maybe that alone is worth celebrating. Maybe, during each of these horrible and hard and traumatizing days, the few minutes spent with these hymns is not just helpful but necessary medicine to ease our collective existential pain.

In other words, perhaps it is not entirely by chance that I began singing, at the beginning, on my early October birthday. Perhaps this is exactly the long-term treatment I need. That we need.

August 7, 2017 Edit:  I added the Content Warning tag on this because it strikes me as maybe a bit privileged to sing about riches of family and friends in the third verse; that could be a problematic sentiment to some. Use with care.

 

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What wondrous love is this, O my soul, O my soul,
what wondrous love is this, O my soul?
What wondrous love is this that brings my heart such bliss,
and takes away the pain of my soul, of my soul,
and takes away the pain of my soul.

When I was sinking down, sinking down, sinking down,
when I was sinking down, sinking down,
when I was sinking down beneath my sorrows ground,
friends to me gather’d round, O my soul, O my soul,
friends to me gather’d round, O my soul.

To love and to all friends I will sing, I will sing,
to love and to all friends I will sing.
To love and to all friends who pain and sorrow mend,
with thanks unto the end I will sing, I will sing,
with thanks unto the end I will sing.

Sometimes the written music is just a suggestion.

In our hymnal, this hymn, based of course on a folk tune collected in The Southern Harmony, is set in 2/2 time – fairly square but not march-like. And I have liked it fine, admiring of the elegant rewritten lyrics to take the focus off “the thorny crown” and place it on “friends to me gathered ’round.” It is more personal, hold me – and many in our faith – more deeply.

But in the spring of 2015, in searching for a recording of this hymn (for reasons long forgotten now), I stumbled across Christian singer Chelsea Moon’s rendition – accompanied by two guitars (the Franz Brothers) – and performed in 6/8 time. Now technically, 6/8 is just a tripled breakdown of 2/2, but it’s remarkably different, both in tone, and ultimately in meaning.

Let’s give it a listen (and know that the lyrics are the original in both). First, here’s the song in 2/2 time (in a gorgeous choral arrangement performed by the St. Olaf Choir):

And now, Chelsea Moon’s version:

Both beautiful, but for me, the rolling 6/8 connects to a natural internal pulse that feels as though it comes from and through my body, connected directly to my heart and soul.

I have since sung this a capella, in a 6/8 time signature, in a handful of settings, and each time it has felt more personal to me. And I realize this, as I sing it over and over, even as I write this reflection: while there are many songs that move me deeply, this one – this one beautiful song, with our words of friendship and connection –  is my spirit’s song, my heart’s cry, my soul’s comfort…

To all my friends… with thanks unto the end, I will sing.

I will sing.

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No longer forward nor behind I look in hope or fear;
but, grateful, take the good I find, the best of now and here.
I break my pilgrim staff, I lay aside the toiling oar;
the angel sought so far away I welcome at my door.

For all the jarring notes of life seem blending in a psalm,
and all the angles of its strife slow rounding into calm.
And so the shadows fall apart, and so the west winds play;
and all the windows of my heart I open to the day.

I need to learn how to play the piano – and by sight – fast. Here’s another hymn I am unfamiliar with, and it took a little time to get the hang of the melody. Once I felt it, though, I longed to hear the harmony, which looks to be a counterpoint.

The lyrics are an interesting addition for a people on the move – “I break my pilgrim staff”…”the best of now and here”… there is something very Zen about this lyric, something very present. This isn’t “one more step” or “I’m gonna keep on ’til I find it” or “come and go with me.” This is the all too infrequent reminder in our faith to be here now, be present to this moment of life. It’s what we hope for when we meditate or pray…I know it’s what worship leaders hope for the people attending…. that for a few moments, anyway, what you seek is found here, in this moment, in a place where the angels can speak and our hearts can open.

May we all have moments such as this.

 

Words by John Greenleaf Whittier, set to an English folk tune

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The leaf unfurling in the April air,
the newborn child, the loving parents’ care;
these constant, common miracles we share:
Alleluia! Alleluia!

All life is one, a single branching tree,
all pain a part of human misery,
all happiness a gift to you and me:
Alleluia! Alleluia!

The self-same bells for joy and sorrow ring.
No one can know what the next hour will bring.
We cry, we laugh, we mourn, and still we sing:
Alleluia! Alleluia!

While I was waiting for my coffee to brew this morning, I was scrolling through Facebook on my phone, nearly ever post about last night’s presidential debate. I found myself – as is all too frequent these days – feeling a mix of sadness, fear, outrage, and frustration, a hard way to start a day, especially when the feelings are rooted not in personal crisis but in a larger, existential weltschmerz.

As I took my first sip of that miracle brew, I opened the hymnal to today’s entry – and as I read the first lines, I breathed for maybe the first time since I hit the on button on the coffeemaker. I realized what a gift spiritual practice is, for just reading this lyric brought me back to myself, brought me back to the enormity of life, reminded me that particular events – whether happening to just me or to the whole nation – are just blips in the vast grandeur that is life.

Interdependent web indeed.

—

On a musical note, this is another hymn I am unfamiliar with – it’s got some unexpected intervals that may make more sense with the accompaniment, so it’s not entirely intuitive to sing. However, I want to really learn it, because I would hate for such poetry to go unsung. It also dawns on me that this would be a fine substitution to “We Laugh, We Cry”, which I am honestly quite tired of.

Grateful for this practice this morning. Grateful for music and how it awakens the soul. Grateful for the music makers.

Words by Dan Cohen
Music by John Corrado

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It is something to have wept as we have wept,
and something to have done as we have done;
it is something to have watched when all have slept,
and seen the stars which never see the sun.

It is something to have smelt the mystic rose,
although it break and leave the thorny rods;
it is something to have hungered once as those
must hunger who have ate the bread of gods:

To have known the things that from the weak are furled,
the fearful ancient passions, strange and high;
it is something to be wiser than the world,
and something to be older than the sky.

Lo, and blessed are our ears for they have heard:
yea, blessed are our eyes for they have seen:
let the thunder break on human, beast, and bird,
and lightning. It is something to have been.

I feel like this is one of those hymns I want to come back to after I have actually heard it – plunking out the notes on my little keyboard app, I know, isn’t doing it justice – and I don’t know what to think of it. Perhaps it is the time of year, but the melody sounds a bit to me like a Jewish folk song; and if that is true, I want to delve more deeply into the pairing of these words with that melody.

What I am learning pretty quickly about this spiritual practice is that it’s frustrating when the tune doesn’t come easily. I’m a good sight reader, but the practice well, takes practice. I suppose there are days I will have glorious insights and some days when I’m like the King in the film Amadeus, haltingly plunking out notes.

I am also learning  – in just five pages – how little of the hymnal I actually know. It’s true that we get used to singing certain hymns, but I think even in my first years of ministry, I have been remiss in learning new pieces to add life and meaning to our services. While they might not all come easily, I hope that in part, this long practice yields some new favorites. It reminds me of a time when I was tiny – I don’t remember this, but my family does: Mom got tired of cooking the same nine or ten meals all the time, so she decided to spend a year fixing a new dish each evening. The rule was that you had to taste it at least, and there was always PB&J or hot dogs or spaghetti if the meal was a failure. But out of that experiment, mom dutifully going through her cookbooks to find appealing dinners, we now have dozens of family favorite recipes, considered staples in our home – beef roulades, rice pilaf, curried fruit, Irish stew, and more – and we all have copies of those cookbooks in our own homes – Gourmet, James Beard, Julia Child, etc.

So maybe this will become a favorite. I will be revisiting.

Words by GK Chesterton
Music by Robert L. Sanders

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The world stands out on either side no wider than the heart is wide;
above the world is stretched the sky no higher than the soul is high.

The heart can push the sea and land so far away on either hand;
the soul can split the sky in two and let the face of God shine through.

Hmm.

This is a hymn I have never sung, nor never heard.  The lyrics are amazing – let’s not kid ourselves: Edna St. Vincent Millay can write. The lyrics talk about the expansiveness of our souls, of God, and what I perceive as a challenge against the limits we try to put on our ideas of the divine. It’s a lush pair of couplets. That last line… so delicious: the SOUL can split the sky in two. It comes from us. We’re the only thing trying to hold it all in, but as Leonard Cohen taught us, ‘there’s a crack in everything – that’s how the light gets in.’ I wonder if Cohen had read Millay before writing that song. And I am led to wonder about the ways I try to hold it in, hold it all together, try to seal the cracks that my soul is yearning to open up.

Yes. The lyric is inspiring, beautiful, hopeful, lush.

The music is not so lush – at least not the melody, which is the only thing I can manage to play on the piano app on my iPad. I long for a Ralph Vaughn Williams kind of tune here – something with a bit of sentimentality, but maybe with a bit of simplicity.

I agree with Jason Shelton that no song is unsingable – and I did indeed sing it. But I didn’t feel it – there seemed to me no marriage of word and melody, and thus it was a chore, not a delight.

Alas.

Words by Edna St. Vincent Millay
Music by W. Fredrick Wooden