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I once almost made a mistake with this hymn.

It was spring 2011, and a small committee of Unitarian Universalists from four NY Capital Region congregations were planning our third joint service. We had moved to a new venue, which features an historic tracker organ, and we decided to do a hymn sing before the service, featuring the organ. Thus, we were selecting familiar, rousing hymns we thought would sound especially good on the organ, and I suggested this one.

One of the committee members, colleague Viola (Vee) Abbitt, recoiled, feeling some shock that I had cavalierly suggested this hymn be used without context. Vee explained her concerns, namely that this piece is considered the African American National Anthem and is not to be thought of as just another hymn, especially when it would be so casually sung by a predominantly white crowd greeting each other and finding their seats.

Of course, I quickly eliminated it from the list, and later went home to learn more.

I learned that this song, originally written as a poem by James Weldon Johnson and set to music by his brother John Rosamond Johnson, was sung by a group of young black children at a segreated school in Jacksonville, Florida, to honor Booker T. Washington. It became popular almost immediately, and by 1919, the NAACP dubbed it the African American National Anthem. It is said that this was one of Martin Luther King, Jr.’s favorite hymns.

And thus, we must be careful about using it.

Yes, these powerful lyrics could be sung about, by, and for many today – and yet it is specific enough that we should not consider for a moment adopting it or colonizing it for other needs. I think back to the lesson I learned in seminary, that we cannot make a presumption of sameness or else we run the risk of normalizing events, attitudes, and experiences that are not shared, not universal, not normal.

Resist the urge to use this song for purposes other than talking about racism, Jim Crow, the NAACP, and the incredible, bittersweet, angry yet hopeful expression of resistance that I see reflected by my African American friends and colleagues.

Lift every voice and sing, till earth and heaven ring,
ring with the harmonies of liberty;
let our rejoicing rise high as the listening skies,
let it resound loud as the rolling sea.
Sing a song full of the faith that the dark past has taught us;
sing a song full of the hope that the present has brought us;
facing the rising sun of our new day begun,
let us march on till victory is won.

Stony the road we trod, bitter the chastening rod,
felt in the days when hope unborn had died;
yet with a steady beat, have not our weary feet
come to the place for which our fathers sighed?
We have come over a way that with tears has been watered;
we have come, treading our path thru the blood of the slaughtered,
out from the gloomy past, till now we stand at last
where the white gleam of our bright star is cast.

God of our weary years, God of our silent tears,
thou who hast brought us thus far on the way;
thou who hast by thy might led us into the light,
keep us forever in the path, we pray.
Lest our feet stray from the places, our God, where we met thee;
lest our hearts drunk with the wine of the world, we forget thee;
shadowed beneath thy hand, may we forever stand,
true to our God, true to our native land.

Do not colonize this song. Let it shine in the context in which it is intended.

—

The photo is of John and James Weldon.

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We now enter what we might call “The New Eden” section but which we actually call “In Time To Come” – this section is very aspirational, very “kingdom of heaven.” Which, I suppose, is needed, and helpful – goodness knows Dr. King’s “I have a dream” motivated people to reach for it, to believe in something better. Even Barack Obama’s “yes we can” was similarly hopeful and visionary. And when we compare it to the backward thinking “make America great again” it’s a needed corrective and comfortable reframing.

Here are the lyrics – and don’t get tripped up by the word “race” in the first line – our lyricist John Addington Symonds was writing from a Victorian English literary perspective, where the word was used instead of “humanity” or worse, “mankind.” (I really don’t know what he was talking about in the first line of verse 3 – maybe one of you has a clue?)

These things shall be: a loftier race
than e’er the world hath known shall rise,
with flame of freedom in their souls,
and light of science in their eyes.

Nation with nation, land with land,
unarmed shall live as comrades free;
in every mind and heart shall throb
the pulse of one humanity.

High friendship, hitherto a sin,
or by great poets half-divined,
shall burn a steadfast star within
the calm, clear spirit of the mind.

New arts shall bloom of loftier mold,
and mightier music thrill the skies,
and every life a song shall be
when all the earth is paradise.

My biggest problem with this hymn is not the vision – I’m cool with it. (And the tune feels a little cheery, but this is the same tune as used in #12, O Life that Maketh All Things New, another aspirational song.)

No, problem is not with the hymn at all. My problem is that we should already BE HERE, and how are we not? What the hell happened?

I know there are a lot of answers, and it doesn’t change the reality that we face which is not at all this vision. I don’t feel particularly energized to go look for all the reasons why we’re in a pickle. We just are, and we can’t change the past.

What we can change is the future, and so keeping this peaceful, creative, intelligent, reality based vision of one world in the forefront like a carrot dangling before our eyes may help us remember what it is we’re fighting for.

—

The image is of the Peter Wenzel painting, “Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden.” I just couldn’t resist.

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I would bet I am not the only person who has looked at the bottom of the page of a hymn, seen words like “traditional Asian melody” and flipped past. Not because we don’t appreciate music from other cultures, but because the scales are sometimes unfamiliar and the intervals are tricky for unrehearsed singers. I know that the times I have been asked to learn a song not composed on the pentatonic scale, it’s been a delightful mixture of challenging, surprising, and pleasing.

And… seeing it noted as the source on a hymn when your office administrator is not so patiently waiting for your submission on the order of service and the accompanist really just wants to know what you want the congregation to sing… well, that note makes it easy to flip past, in favor of a more well known but perhaps less perfect choice.

Well, flip no more, my friends, past number 136! I sat down with my little keyboard app and counted out the 6/4 time, and discovered that while there are a couple of surprising intervals, they make sense to our western-trained ears. But what’s really interesting is that just the melody, without knowing the accompaniment, this could have been in one of the shape note books (Southern Harmony, Union Harmony, etc.). Its 6/4 lends itself to a gentle, rolling hint of a lilt; the four-line structure follows a traditional pattern; and each phrase is remarkably predicable in that “we’ve sung a lot of hymns just like this” way. Of course, I don’t know what the accompaniment is like, and it’s possible that all of my ‘gee, this sounds like Appalachian shape note’ flies out the window. But seriously, flip no more, because it’s highly singable.

Of course… I say flip no more, unless the lyrics do you in.

Where gentle tides go rolling by along the salt sea strand,
the colors blend and roll as one together in the sand.
And often do the winds entwine to send their distant call.
The quiet joys of humankind, when love embraces all.

Where road and wheat together rise among the common ground,
the mare and stallion, light and dark, have thunder in their sound.
The rainbow sign, the blended flood still have my heart enthralled,
the quiet joys of what we share where love embraces all.

But we have come to plow the tides, the oat lies on the ground.
I hear their fires in the field, they drive the stallion down.
The roses bloom, both light and dark, the winds do seldom call.
The running sands recall the time when love embraces all.

Maybe it’s just me, but I had to look twice while singing to make sure of what section I was in – yep, still Love and Compassion. I kept getting distracted by the horses, and definitely the whole light and dark business. I also stumbled on what lyricist Richard Farina meant with the reference to Genesis (“The rainbow sign, the blended flood still have my heart enthralled”) – blended flood? I know it stopped me singing, and I bet I’m not the only one. And seriously, what’s all this light and dark business? And that third verse is really just word salad at this point.

I’m not entirely sure if I’m baffled because I’m not feeling especially metaphorical today or because the lyrics really don’t work. Either way, I really love the melody of this hymn and now need to find another 8.6.8.6.8.6 lyric to set to it.

So… flip as you will, but don’t let it be because of a hesitation on the melody.

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Until recently this has seemed rather a cheery hymn – a warm, confirming, gentle reminder of the butterfly effect. Yay, our world is one world, we’re all connected, our optimism matters.

Right now, this feels largely like a warning that the Osmond Brothers were wrong, and one bad apple CAN spoil the whole bunch. I’m not saying that the one bad apple will absolutely ruin it all for us, but that even his words and actions affect us. This hymn, by Cecily Taylor, is a warning: how one person thinks, sees the world, seeks power and riches at all costs – all these things affect us all. We need to make sure that we are many, thinking differently, loving, giving, sharing, so that perhaps our way affects more and builds bridges.

In “Last of the Time Lords” from the third season of Doctor Who, the Doctor learns that he is not the only Time Lord left, and the one they call The Master is still alive and desiring to take over earth – and destroy the Doctor in the process. While the Doctor is held captive and powerless, his companion, Martha Jones, travels the globe, telling the Doctor’s story, and getting them all to think one thing at one moment in time. When Martha confronts the Master, the Master is dismissive – he has, he thinks, managed to control everyone’s minds, to brainwash them into paying fealty only to him. Yet the secret, that Martha reveals, is that even that power can backfire if everyone is thinking the same regenerative thought at the same time, focusing on and thinking the same thing all at once: “Doctor.” As the moment arrives and everyone thinks about the Doctor, the Master’s power is vanquished and the Doctor is released and revived.

Imagine if we could harness that kind of power to vanquish hate, greed, and fear.

Our world is one world:
what touches one affects us all:
the seas that wash us round about,
the clouds that cover us, the rains that fall.

Our world is one world:
the thoughts we think affect us all:
the way we build our attitudes,
with love or hate, we make a bridge or wall.

Our world is one world:
its ways of wealth affect us all:
the way we spend, the way we share,
who are the rich or poor, who stand or fall?

Our world is one world:
just like a ship that bears us all:
where fear and greed make many holes,
but where our hearts can hear a different call.

What touches one does affect us all. May we be well warned and well prepared.

—

Photo is a BBC still from the episode, featuring the incredible Freema Agyeman as Martha Jones, and David Tennant as the Doctor. (Martha has always been my favorite companion – sad she was given such short shrift by showrunner Stephen Moffat.)

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Dear readers, I’m afraid I will, for the first time in this practice, completely fail you. I am on the verge of illness and I don’t know this one at all – and my feeble attempts to plunk it out on my phone’s keyboard was futile.

I may come back to this one when I feel more focused – maybe you have some opinions you can share in comments here or Facebook that I can incorporate into a fuller exploration.

All I can say right now is that nothing about this captured or inspired me or enraged me. It was just too much today. I apologize.

One world this, for all its sorrow;
one world shaping one tomorrow;
one humanity, though riven, we,
to whom a world is given.
From one world there is no turning;
for one world the prophet’s yearning.
One, the world of poets, sages;
one world, goal of all the ages.

World so eagerly expected,
world so recklessly rejected,
one, as common folk have willed it,
one, as covenants can build it:
world of friendly ways and faces,
cherished arts and honored races,
one world, free in word and science;
people free, its firm reliance.

“Honored races” tho….? Yeah, that caught my eye as I scrolled down. Hmm….

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Sometimes I know what I think about a hymn before I start singing, and let the experience of singing affirm or shift those thoughts. Sometimes I don’t know, and I let the experience of singing take me somewhere, and as a result some of my posts have been more theological, or musical, or silly, or timely, or emotional.

Sometimes I leave the singing with really, no concrete thoughts at all, and on those occasions need to learn a bit more about the hymn.

Welcome to my experience today.

Yes, of course I smiled at noting the lyrics were written by Mark Belletini, a poet and minister I greatly admire and am glad to be getting to know a little. And I knew if I read the lyrics again, I’d see its powerful message, with a second verse that could have been written for today.  Let’s look at the lyrics, and then I’ll continue.

O liberating Rose, that glows on ragged stem,
your beauty helps all hearts lose power to condemn.
Your buds are tight with prophecy;
your thorns, a tougher poetry:
you sign the whole and Gift of life.

O liberating Fire that calls for cleansing rage
whenever hurtful lies distort our present age.
Your dancing dreams our liberty
to challenge each indignity:
you sign the whole and Faith of life.

O liberating Song whose echo now we sing,
your lyric, swelling line rekindles strengthening.
Your harmonies portray the time
when seeds we sow shall bloom sublime:
you sign the whole and Hope of life.

O liberating Love, we hear you in a sigh;
we glimpse you when we see a wet or weary eye;
we touch you when our hands extend
to soothe, or to embrace a friend:
you sign the whole and Source of life.

So good lyrics, right? But they honestly, to me, need to be read, not sung, to get their full effect. But that’s me. Still, I had no real clue about how I felt, because I couldn’t see its arc and direction.

I felt similarly clueless about the tune – it doesn’t make a whole lot of sense to me: it’s one part late 19th century hymnody, one part mid-20th century modern, wholly confusing.

And so, feeling a bit adrift on this one, I turned to Jacqui James’ Between the Lines, and learn the following:

Belletini’s text was written for the dedication service of a home for people with AIDS, supported by Seattle’s University Unitarian Church. The words are based on conversations Belletini had with Canadian Unitarian minister Mark DeWolfe, for whom the home was named, before DeWolfe’s death.

Suddenly. the pieces of the lyric fit – the conversations the two Marks had about new kinds of theistic language became poetry, became new ways of expressing the Divine, and became liberative. Wow.

So now, the tune, which oddly (to me) is named Initials. According to James, the tune is a present from composer Larry Phillips to his father, with the pitches chosen by a formula using the initials of the family members and connecting them to the pentatonic scale.

No wonder it’s got odd jumps and feels both old and modern – it’s as much an art song as anything. And I’m sure the meter was meant to match Belletini’s poem – no one just decides to write a 6.6.6.6.8.8 for fun.

So…now what do I think? I think that sometimes we write in memory of someone or to honor someone, and this hymn accomplishes that on two fronts. It isn’t maudlin or sentimental – but rather a bit of something old and something new. Old ideas in new language, old forms in new patterns.

I’m not sure I would use it without a good deal of preparation and learning, but I really appreciate this one now.

And herein lies the lesson: sometimes it’s okay to not know immediately what you think of a thing, but rather let it sit, learn more, explore. It’s really okay to take time for slow thinking.

—

The picture is of a quilt made on a Liberated Log Cabin pattern, specifically a Liberated Log Cabin Rose. Quilter Gwen Marston created the style, showing you can liberate traditional patterns and create original quilts result that engage the quilter’s intuition and emotion as well as technical skills. The resulting quilts are modern, funky takes on traditional forms. This particular quilt was created by Maree at the blog Block Lotto.

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Thank all that is holy for this hymn practice. Because of it, I was finally able to supplant the earworm my colleague Erika Hewitt gave me yesterday. (It was “One Tin Soldier.” No, I am not going to link to it, or sing it in any way. If it becomes your earworm, it wasn’t me.)

But also, thank all that is holy for this hymn practice because I entered it today anxious. I have little problem engaging political debate with others – I majored in it in undergrad for goodness’ sake. But I have no constitution for this kind of argument with family. It crushes my heart, and I get an anxiety attack, which causes me to stumble and be set on the defensive – a position I am already too familiar with as the youngest by 13 years. When my conservative brother and cousin engaged late last night, I shut down, and this morning asked them to not engage me on this for exactly these reasons. I value our relationships more than who will win a political fight, and knowing I enter at a disadvantage, it makes these fights potentially damaging to those familiar bonds.

And then I turn to this hymn by Berkley Moore, which holds a special meaning this morning – almost as if the Divine felt I needed a particularly moving punctuation mark at the end of my comment to them. I know that’s not what this hymn is actually about – but today, in this moment, it is speaking to me on a very personal level.

I’m not sure I can say much that will help anyone else – except to say that no matter our intent in worship, no matter what the intent of a writer or composer, the elements (songs, readings, sermons, rituals, visuals, etc.) will meet people where they are, not where we necessarily expect them to be. Today, this one is meeting me in my anxiety.

Let love continue long,
and show to us the way,
and if that love be strong,
no hurt can have a say;
and if that love remain but strong,
no hurt can ever have a say.

If love cannot be found,
though common faith prevails,
when love does not abound,
a common faith will fail.
When human love does not abound,
a common faith will always fail.

If we in love unite,
debate can cause no strife:
for with this love in sight,
disputes enrich our life.
For with this bond of human love,
disputes can mean a richer life.

May love continue long,
and lead us on our way:
for if that love be strong,
no hurt can have a say.
For if that love remain but strong,
no hurt can ever have a say.

So may it be.

Today’s pic is not exactly the scene outside my window at the moment – we just shifted from heavy snow to sleet – but it’s reminiscent….

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There are some who consider this to be THE UU Hymn – it is perhaps the best well known of the insider songs, used throughout the denomination as an invocation, a sung response to joys and concerns, a hymn of meditation, even a song of welcome to membership (in my home congregation, if someone signed the book outside of a membership Sunday ritual, those who were near would gather to speed-sing this to the new member).

I’m not so sure we’re using it right. Carolyn McDade purposely wrote this as a personal prayer. In a 2007 interview in UU World, McDade reflects with contributing editor Kimberly French on the initiating event, a meeting for Central American solidarity:

What she remembers most clearly was the feeling she had. “When I got to Pat’s house, I told her, ‘I feel like a piece of dried cardboard that has lain in the attic for years. Just open wide the door, and I’ll be dust.’ I was tired, not with my community but with the world. She just sat with me, and I loved her for sitting with me.”

McDade then drove to her own home in Newtonville. “I walked through my house in the dark, found my piano, and that was my prayer: May I not drop out. It was not written, but prayed. I knew more than anything that I wanted to continue in faith with the movement.”

And thus, this prayer was written. A request for support, for rest, for renewal, for perspective.

Not, as it happens, a declaration of theology.

Because as a declaration of theology, it stinks. It’s incredibly self-serving, individualistic, narrowly focused. As a prayer, it is clear and focused and perfect for its intention. But it should never have become The Song. For the … oh, who am I kidding, I don’t have any readers who don’t know this one… but here are the lyrics anyway – look at them as though you are reading a statement of belief:

Spirit of Life, come unto me.
Sing in my heart all the stirrings of compassion.
Blow in the wind, rise in the sea;
move in the hand, giving life the shape of justice.
Roots hold me close; wings set me free;
Spirit of Life, come to me, come to me.

See what I mean? Great lines, focus on compassion and justice, inclusive name of that which some call God, but it’s all ME ME ME ME. I recall a conversation with fellow Unionite Ranwa Hammamy about this, where we wondered: what happens when you make it a collective prayer?

Spirit of Life, come unto us.
Sing in our hearts all the stirrings of compassion.
Blow in the wind, rise in the sea;
move in the hand, giving life the shape of justice.
Roots hold us close; wings set us free;
Spirit of Life, come to us, come to us.

Still not a theology, but a beautiful communal prayer, and maybe on the right path …shifting from the individual to the beloved community, a struggle we’ve been having our entire existence (certainly since Emerson shocked the establishment with his commencement speech at Harvard Divinity lo those many years ago).

And maybe praying for us, instead of me, will help us get out of our own way. As Nancy McDonald Ladd described at General Assembly last year, we must stop focusing on the “fake fights we waste our time on,” as others struggle against injustice. Instead, we should be focused on “real struggles and real battles” and not “confined by the smallness of our loving.” She said,

“The world does not need another place where like-minded liberals hang out and fight about who is in charge. … we need to lean into the real fights of our age. … And we cannot do that holy work together unless we are really willing to set aside our own need to win and reach out our hands and seek the deeper understanding that comes with difference.”

Spirit of life, come to us… Come to us.

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From the “I never really understood it until now” department comes this hymn.

Wow.

This is a familiar hymn to me, with its rolling triplets and pulsing, pushing melody. The tune sits for me in the same category as “Do You Hear the People Sing” from Les Miz – strong, defiant, meant to rouse and inspire. (I love the version I just linked to – it features Jean Valjeans from 17 different countries.)

But I don’t think I ever really read the lyrics – although I wonder if the lyrics would have ever seemed so relevant as they do today. These words could be preached from the pulpit or proclaimed at a protest. They should be echoing through the halls of Congress and every state legislature, read to journalists and news chiefs. I mean, this calls us to the moment, to be brave or be cowards (I’m lookin’ at you, Ryan and McConnell), to stand with truth, to decide whether to support greed and manipulation or generosity and truth. Now is the moment to decide.

And what gives me hope is that millions have shown what it looks like when a nation decides to stand up for good – Standing Rock, the Women’s March, the Muslim ban protests, the rogue twitter accounts from governmental science organizations (EPA, NASA, etc.), the media’s willingness to call a lie a lie, the daily calls and letters people are making to members of Congress. It’s happening. And it’s effective.

The moment has come, and people are deciding for the good side.

Once to every soul and nation comes the moment to decide,
in the strife of truth with falsehood, for the good or evil side:
then to stand with truth is noble, when we share its wretched crust;
ere that cause bring fame and profit, and ‘tis prosperous to be just.

Though the cause of evil prosper, yet ‘tis truth alone is strong;
though its portion be the scaffold, and upon the throne be wrong.
Then it is the brave one chooses, while the coward stands aside,
till the multitude make virtue of the faith they have denied.

One lyrical note:  again, our hymnal commission has pieced together lyrics for two verses from four verses; as originally written, they do include a fair bit of language that lands in a much more Christian theology. I’ve linked the original lyrics here. Sometimes that piecing together gets awkward and changes the meaning in a way that the hymn becomes toothless. However, they (a) did it much more artfully here than they have elsewhere, and (b) I think the message is stronger the way we have it now.  While this is a lyric written by a Unitarian (James Russell Lowell), you can see the shifts in our own theology from the late 1800s to today.

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This is a beautiful prayer. A needed prayer. An elegant prayer.

And I am sure, in the right hands, a beautiful and elegant tune.

I am not sure if it’s unfamiliarity that keeps me from accessing the melody, or just sustained high notes before coffee, but the tune doesn’t work for me in this moment. Especially when I realized that the tempo was marked much faster than I had been singing it.

That was weird, actually – because sung slowly (half note = 60 bpm), the prayerfulness of the lyrics shone forth; it was like singing a meditative chant (until the high notes, that is). When I realized the tempo was quite fast (half note = 92 bpm), it lost not only its meditative qualities but its import. I don’t know the lyricist’s or the composer’s intent – perhaps they meant it to be less of a prayer and more of a declaration. But the lyrics don’t say that to me, and my first look at the tune (before I saw the tempo marking through the pre-coffee haze) screamed slow and purposeful.

And here’s where I realize the truth I learned at a UU Musicians Network Conference in the mid 2000s: in hymnody, the score is a suggestion. I suggest you take the tempo as fast or slow as you like, and if you want a prayer, 60’s your best bet.

O light of life that lives in us,
help us to turn away from war,
reveal the hate that lives in us,
help us to live no more in fear.
Save us, save our children.

O light of love, rain down on us,
help us to heal our wounded world,
our dying forests, gutted plains,
smoldering cities, wasted fields.
Save us, save our children.

O love of life that lives in me,
help me to lift my head and sing,
let me know joy as well as pain,
see beauty in the rain and wind.
Save me, save my children.

O light and life and love in us,
help us to open eyes and ears,
reach out and listen, touch and love,
that we may stand in strength and peace.
Save us, save our children.

(Image is from a painting by Igor Zenin.)