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Let’s not kid ourselves: Willa Cather could write.

This lyric, from a longer poem “I Sought the World in Winter” is a graceful meditation on the beauty of nature:

I sought the wood in summer when every twig was green;
the rudest boughs were tender, and buds were pink between.
Light-fingered aspens trembled in fitful sun and shade,
and daffodils were golden in every starry glade.

“How frail a thing is Beauty,” I said, “when every breath
she gives the vagrant summer but swifter woos her death.
For this the star dust troubles, for this have ages rolled:
to deck the wood for bridal and slay her with the cold.”

I sought the wood in winter when every leaf was dead;
behind the wind-whipped branches the winter sun was red.
The birches, white and slender, in breathless marble stood,
the brook, a white immortal, slept silent in the wood.

“How sure a thing is Beauty,” I cried. “No bolt can slay, nor wave
nor shock despoil her, nor ravishers dismay.
The granite hills are slighter, the sea more like to fail,
behind the rose the planet, the Law behind the veil.”

Gorgeous.

And yet, this one leaves me flat. And I think it’s the tune; it just doesn’t inspire or engage me at all. And maybe it’s my mood – I am halfway through this leadership school with 13 of the most incredible, engaged, passionate youth I’ve met, and they are so full of life, laughter, and inspiration – and their songs reflect their qualities. In comparison, this hymn is old, dull, and resigned.

Oh well. I’m sure this is a favorite of many. While it’s not on my Nope list, it’s not one I’m likely to reach for any time soon.

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One of the downsides of so many hymn tunes is that groups of them begin to sound alike. For instance, there’s a whole set of them in the O Waly Waly/Gift of Love milieu that I constantly confuse for one another.

And now there is another set of them – including this English tune, called Kingsfold, set by Ralph Vaughan Williams. I started singing it and was sure I knew what it was and where it was going, until I realized there were differences in what I thought I knew. Google told me, surprisingly, that Kingsford is NOT the tune to Canticle of the Turning – that one’s called Star of the County Down, an Irish tune set by Rory Cooney.

So are they originally different? Or are they both based on a tune that ran around the British Isles, and we have two different interpretations? They’re both great, but both different.

What I do know is that whichever of the two you wind up singing to yourself, the lyrics (by Alicia Carpenter) are fitting – the tune is joyful yet melancholy, as are these words:

Where my free spirit onward leads, well, there shall be my way;
by my own light illumined I’ve journeyed night and day;
my age, a time-worn cloak I wear as once I wore my youth;
I celebrate life’s mystery; I celebrate death’s truth.

My family is not confined to mother, mate, and child;
but it includes all creatures be they tame or be they wild;
my family upon this earth includes all living things
on land, or in the ocean deep, or borne aloft on wings.

The ever spinning universe, well, there shall be my home;
I sing and spin within it as through this life I roam;
eternity is hard to ken and harder still is this:
a human life when truly seen is briefer than a kiss.

I hadn’t ever really sung this one before, to be fair, but I like it. I would use this for a memorial service, I think, in its loving picture of a life well lived. And I’d use it for services on community.

I wish I had more insights today – I’m about to get in a car and drive to Murray Grove and the Goldmine Youth Leadership School, where I will be working  with youth on worship (surprise, surprise). Thus – programming note – the week’s posts may not come out in the mornings, but that’s my hope.

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Just before I opened the hymnal, I saw a Facebook post from a dear friend who asked ‘But what if this world runs out of lovers? What then?”

Then for me was opening the hymnal to this wonderful hymn, reminding us to draw the circle ever wider, because – as Susan Frederick Gray has reminded us, “no one is outside the circle of love.”

And to me, that’s our call. Right now, as we find ourselves shockingly having debates about Nazis and white supremacists, we also must find ourselves speaking out from this circle of enabling love, growing it ever wider, actively loving the hell – and the hate – out of this world.

This hymn is incredibly aspirational. Seemingly unattainable, in fact. Can there ever be this much love? And yet, the vision described by Fred Kahn (who also wrote lyrics for Almond Trees Renewed in Bloom is precisely what we need today.

Break not the circle of enabling love
where people grow, forgiven and forgiving;
break not that circle, make it wider still,
till it includes, embraces all the living.

Come, wonder at this love that comes to life,
where words of freedom are with humor spoken,
and people keep no score of wrong and guilt,
but will that human bonds remain unbroken.

Join then the movement of the love that frees,
till people of whatever race or nation
will truly be themselves, stand on their feet,
see eye to eye with laughter and elation.

A side note about the tune, written by the delightful Tom Benjamin (whose praises I have sung before): do you ever wonder why a tune has a particular – and sometimes unusual name? I suppose there are any number of reasons, often tied to the original lyrics, although some tunes get a name to honor a person or a place. Such is the case with this one, called Yaddo. I learned from Tom that he once spent a summer at an artist’s retreat at Yaddo, this incredible place with a gorgeous mansion and lovely gardens, and it was there – not 3 miles from my home congregation – where he wrote this tune. It is one that holds a special place in my heart because of the local connection.

Anyway. I love this hymn. I think it is exactly what we need to remember today as we show up on the side of good, the side of inclusion, the side of love.

–

Photo is part of this article from Lake George Magazine on Yaddo – a very interesting read!

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Before I dive into the hymn, a few words about Charlottesville, since my only pulpit today is this one:

I am certain I don’t have anything to say that hasn’t been said more publicly and eloquently by colleagues, friends, and admired public figures. But I too must proclaim this as loudly as possible, because we cannot keep silent. Of course – OF COURSE – I condemn the hatred of white nationalism and white supremacy, and I condemn any person or system that encourages, excuses, or refuses to say anything to stop it. It tore our country apart 160 years ago and it’s tearing us apart now.

I pray for healing and comfort for the families and friends of those who lost their lives yesterday as they answered the call of love. Their deaths were senseless. And they were doing good in the world at the moment of their senseless deaths. No words of comfort will be enough, but I see you, and I see them.

And for the young white men who have been radicalized into religious and racial terrorism, I offer my own prayers that they let go of their hate and fear – and I pray that young white men stop being radicalized – and I pray we figure out what the solutions to that radicalization really are. Because it’s a problem we white people have to solve in order to ensure that the black, brown, and queer lives that we say matter actually live.

I’m heartbroken that three people have died. I’m more heartbroken that we have agents of radicalization in power in this country. And … my Universalism tells me that all souls – even those peddling evil – are human souls, worthy of the radical love of God. I’m reminded of that scene in the film Contact, when Ellie (Jodie Foster) goes through the wormhole and sees the extraordinary beauty and vastness of the universe, and she says two things: “they should have sent a poet” and “I had no idea.” I believe that even the most hate-filled people have that moment at death, when they cry in amazement at the awe-some, extraordinarily expansive, radical love.

May we – on the streets, in congregations, in conversations, in work and play, on blogs and social media – may we all show a glimpse of the radical love that dissolves fear and hate and holds all.

Amen.

—

Now, the hymn. Another short commentary, not surprisingly.

This is one of the Brian Wren songs I actually really like. It isn’t a litany of metaphors; rather, it goes somewhere. And it’s got a graceful tune, thanks to David Hurd. It’s warm, loving, affirming. And maybe it was just the thing to sing today – reminding us of the bigger picture of life, love, action, compassion, connection.

We are not our own. Earth forms us,
human leaves on nature’s growing vine,
fruit of many generations,
seeds of life divine.

We are not alone. Earth names us:
past and present, peoples near and far,
family and friends and strangers
show us who we are.

Therefore let us make thanksgiving,
and with justice, willing and aware,
give to earth, and all things living,
liturgies of care.

Let us be a house of welcome,
living stone upholding living stone,
gladly showing all our neighbors
we are not our own!

Again I say Amen.

—

The image is of amazing faith leaders, including UUA President Susan Frederick Gray, bringing love in defiance to hate yesterday in Charlottesville.

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I’ve been sitting here trying to troubleshoot a problem with the site in an attempt to avoid writing about today’s hymn.

But I know I must, so here goes.

I have problems with this hymn. Not because it’s set to an unfamiliar tune by noted Vietnamese composer Nguyễn Đức Toàn. (We also have from him the sad, haunting tune for Almond Trees, Renewed in Bloom.) And not because it’s weirdly repetitive. But because its lyrics, by Alicia Carpenter, is so godawful limiting.

I should note that Carpenter’s work has been and will again be praised in this series – she’s the author of Just as Long as I Have Breath, With Heart and Mind, We Celebrate the Web of Life, and several others. I mostly really like her work. A lot.

But this one really gets my goat.

We are children of the earth, children of the earth,
and we love our mother earth, love our mother earth.
From the mountain and the streams, from the flowing streams,
comes the fountain of our dreams, fountain of our dreams.

We dream of a village fair, of a village fair.
Laughing children playing there children playing there,
and our elders can be found, elders can be found,
here beside us safe and sound, always safe and sound.

There is nothing to desire, nothing to desire,
more than home and hearth and fire, home and hearth and fire,
in a village that we love, village that we love,
living side by side in peace, evermore in peace.

First verse, of course, is great. yay! Grounded eco-theology for the win. We’re earthlings, and we love where we come from.

Second verse, well, okay… sure, if we extend the metaphor of ‘village’ to be ‘wherever you most want to live’. And I like the multigenerational language – although the ‘safe and sound’ bit feels a bit patronizing.

Third verse: this is where it goes off the rails for me. All we want is home? Seriously? Are we so replete of aspiration that there is nothing more that we want? I mean, I get that for those without a home, a home is plenty. But even theologically, this doesn’t seem to work for me. It feels so limiting, so not aspirational – and for all the aspiration we have in our theologies, this is not it. It reminds me of a bit from Eddie Izzard’s Dress to Kill:

I grew up in the 70s, when the careers advisor used to come to school, and he used to get the kids together and say, “Look, I advise you to get a career, what can I say? That’s it.”

And he took me aside, he said, “Whatcha you want to do, kid? Whatcha you want to do? Tell me, tell me your dreams!”

“I want to be a space astronaut! Go to outer space, discover things that have never been discovered.”

He said, “Look, you’re British, so scale it down a bit, all right?”

“All right, I want to work in a shoe shop then! Discover shoes that no one’s ever discovered right in the back of the shop, on the left.”

And he said, “Look, you’re British, so scale it down a bit, all right?”

I want more. I want to wish for home and community, yes, but it’s not all I want And this lyric suggests I should only want those things. It’s most assuredly theological whiplash when you compare it to yesterday’s hymn, which celebrated human ingenuity and potential.

I MIGHT use that first verse someday, but not the rest.

I want more.

Like enough ingenuity to figure out why something here is broken.

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This was rather unexpected.

I’ve never sung this one before – lyrics are by Thomas Mikelson, who wrote the magnificent lyrics to Wake Now My Senses and was my home congregation’s first interim minister. The tune is by another colleague, Fred Wooden, whose generosity means a few of his books (pictured) are now in my library.

So even though I know the writers of this hymn, I’ve never sung it before. And that’s a shame, because this is a terrific hymn.

First, let’s look at Mikelson’s lyrics:

Sing of living, sing of dying, let them both be joined in one,
parts of an eternal process like the ever-circling sun.
From the freshness of each infant giving hope in what is new,
to the wisdom of the aged deepened by a longer view.

Open to a deeper loving, open to the gift of care,
searching for a higher justice, helping others in despair.
Through the tender bonds of living in a more inclusive way
we are opened more to suffering from the losses of each day.

My only criticism is that it’s only about generational differences, in a time when we need to sing about other differences as well. But maybe this is the jumping off point for services about living inclusively and expansively, living as if we believe the first principle.

The tune is lovely – a bit unexpected in places, but that gives it depth. It’s interesting that it’s set in 3/2 with 2/2 measures to even it off; it could easily been done in a squarer 4/4, but then the song wouldn’t dance. And while some people flip away as soon as they see time signature changes, they come naturally here and allow the melody to pulse rather than plod.

That I’d never sung this before is a shame. But I’m grateful to sing it now, this lovely, unexpected hymn.

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I am really struggling today to know what to say about this song.

Partly, it’s because I didn’t look ahead enough to think about interviewing colleagues Julica Hermann DelaFuente or Marisol Caballero, both of whom might have more insight into the difficulties or joys of this Mexican folk tune appearing in our hymnal – perhaps there will be a Hymn by Hymn Extra in our near future…

What can say is that it likely got noticed because (again) of the folkies we all know and love, this time the incomparable Joan Baez. While David Arkin’s lyrics were written for the 1976 song collection “How Can I Keep from Singing?” and published by the First Unitarian Church of Los Angeles, they appear to be reasonable musical translations of what appear to be original Spanish lyrics (except for the rooster crowing verse – which seems sad, since I want to hear a congregation sing “quiri, quiri, quiri” and “cara, cara, cara” and “pio, pio, pio” – or at least “cock-a-doodle-doo” and “cluck, cluck, cluck” and “cheep, cheep, cheep.”).

All the colors, yes, the colors we see in the springtime with all of its flowers.
All the colors, when the sunlight shines out through a rift in the cloud and it showers.
All the colors, as a rainbow appears when a storm cloud is touched by the sun.
All the colors abound for the whole world around and for ev’ryone under the sun.

All the colors, yes, the colors of people parading on by with their banners.
All the colors, yes, the colors of pennants and streamers and plumes and bandannas.
All the colors, yes, the colors of people now taking their place in the sun.
All the colors abound for the whole world around and for ev’ryone under the sun.

All the colors, yes, the black and the white and the red and the brown and the yellow.
All the colors, all the colors of people who smile and shake hands and say “Hello!”
All the colors, yes, the colors of people who know that their freedom is won.
All the colors abound for the whole world around and for ev’ryone under the sun.

De colores, de colores se visten los campos en la primavera.
De colores, de colores son los pajaritos que vienen de a fuera.
De colores, de colores es al arco iris que vemos lucir.
Y por eso los grandes amores de muchos colores me gustan a mi.

My problem in response is this: is it misappropriation? Should we have all the Spanish verses? Should we sing those?

I also bristle at the first line of the third verse. And I fear that white congregations don’t know how to sing this, and thus turn it into something it is not (often a dirge, sometimes almost a polka, and never – more’s the pity – on guitar). And I’m not sure if I’m making assumptions or judgments that aren’t mine to make.

Meanwhile, I’m going to leave you with this recording of the song by Mexican musician José-Luis Orozco, whose music promotes bilingual education:

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Dear STLT Hymnal Commission:

I love you, you know I do. I have been impressed with all you did to come up with this collection, and I have been honored to hear some of the stories from your chair, Mark Belletini. I know it was hard. I know it required a lot of sometimes unpopular choices in order to serve the greater good. I know you found some amazing songs to include and commissioned some amazing music that is now among our favorites.

But this one… well, I’m sure it makes someone happy, but lordy, it isn’t me.

First of all – this tune. Again with this tune. I was kinda hoping the commission from Thomas Oboe Lee was a one and done, getting it out of the way early in Songs of Spirit. But no. It shows up again. (I won’t go on about the tune here – I did a pretty fair job of expressing my opinion when it showed up the first time.)

And you know I generally like John Andrew Storey’s lyrics, but yowza, this pair of verses sets my teeth on edge:

Children of the human race, offspring of our Mother Earth,
not alone in endless space has our planet given birth.
Far across the cosmic skies countless suns in glory blaze,
and from untold planets rise endless canticles of praise.

Should some sign of others reach this, our lonely planet Earth,
differences of form and speech must not hide our common worth.
When at length our minds are free, and the clouds of fear disperse,
then at last we’ll learn to be Children of the Universe.

Now understand, Hymnal Commission, I am both a theist and a humanist, and I’m a Star Trek fan, and I don’t think we’re alone in the universe. But I hate this philosophy of first contact that says we have to get our shit together before anyone will notice us. This hymn is scolding us (and making us cross for having to sing this terrible tune, too).

I love you, Hymnal Commission, but I’d personally recommend this one for the chopping block.

Sincerely,
Kimberley “thank all that is holy that there are great hymns coming up in the next few days” Debus

—

Image is a still from Star Trek: First Contact – the moment that humans on earth were first visited by a humanoid race from another planet.

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It seems that every month or so there is a day I let my faithful –  and even not so faithful – readers down. Today is one of them. I’ll chalk it up to utter exhaustion after an amazing, if sleep-deprived, week at SUUSI, and a beautiful but long drive home from the Smoky Mountains of North Carolina to the foothills of the Adirondacks. And I’m not a kid anymore. This pace, while awesome in the moment, does take its toll. I slept in late, and even after two cups of coffee, I just can’t handle a new tune in four flats on my little keyboard app.

I’m sorry to say this tune, by composer Dede Duson and commissioned for this hymnal, seems like it is beautiful; but I just can’t get a handle on it. And as it turns out, the last time I encountered one of Duson’s tunes, I was also letting you all down, finding the tune too hard to manage through less-than-perfect conditions. Perhaps I need to find an accompanist I can call on mornings such as this to play tunes for me.

Anyway. Having not sung the tune – thus letting you and my practice down – I turn to the lyrics, by our old friend John Andrew Storey.

The star of truth but dimly shines behind the veiling clouds of night,
but ev’ry searching eye divines some partial glimmer of its light.

The certainty for which we crave no mortal ones can ever know;
uncharted waters we must brave, and face whatever winds may blow.

Though for safe harbor we may long, we must not let our courage fail,
and, though the winds of doubt blow strong, upon the trackless ocean sail.

From honest doubt we shall not flee, nor fetter the inquiring mind,
for where the hearts of all are free, a truer faith we there shall find.

I love this lyric. Every single line of it. The idea that we not only are able to have our answers questioned but that we can engage the search together, and that our hearts will open wide in the search? Sign me up.

I wish I was familiar with the tune and could teach it – I could have used this hymn several times in the last year. I mean, I could have us sing it to a different tune, like Winchester New (also used for As Tranquil Streams), but I would really like to use the new tune written for us.

So I ask: anyone willing to sign up to be on the other end of a Dial-A-Pianist Hotline?

—

Anyone know the artist of this image of safe harbor? Google is also failing me today.

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Confession: sometimes I sing a hymn and all I really have to say is, ‘yep, it’s great’ and then I look for more to say.

I love this hymn. It’s great. The melody, a late 15th century French tune by Franciscan monk Jean Tisserand, is lush and a bit bittersweet, and provides a perfect mood for these last three absolutely perfect verses of Christina Rossetti’s poem “What Good Shall My life Do to Me?”

O filii et filiae, Alleluia.

O ye who taste that love is sweet,
set waymarks for the doubtful feet
that stumble on in search of it.
Alleluia.

Sing hymns of love; that some who hear
far off, in pain, may lend an ear.
Rise up and wonder and draw near.
Alleluia.

Lead lives of love; that others who
behold your lives may kindle too
with love, and cast their lot with you.
Alleluia.

Two last notes, and then I’m heading on the last leg toward home from SUUSI.

The hymn tune is called O Filii et Filiae, which in Latin means “o sons and daughters” – and yes, it’s problematic now in terms of gender expansiveness. However, it is also the title of this rather famous-in-Catholic-circles tune, and I am not sure we can or should change it.

Also: this first line is the priest’s ‘get your attention’ line. It’s the “gather around and listen up” line. It absolutely sets the mood of the piece, too. If you use this as a congregational hymn, you probably want the song leader to sing the first line and then the congregation to sing the verses. Or, consider a song leader, then the choir on the verses, with everyone joining in on the ‘Alleluia.” or, drop that first line altogether and just do the verses. But know you have options, because this tune is somewhat unfamiliar in form, and it may prove to be a good way to teach it.

So this hymn? Yep, it’s great.