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I am very tired of the humanist/theist debate. It seems to me that there are so many bigger, more important things for us to wrestle with, especially since – at least in Unitarian Universalist circles – even our most divergent theologies support the principles where we all meet.

And I get that it’s harder to be a religious humanist in America than it is to be a liberal theist. I know that the process of exploration and discovery of a personal non-theistic theology means (as wrestling with our theologies always does) thinking about language, finding entry points, seeking new ways of capturing spiritual connection.

And… I’d like to think that most of our religious professionals take care to ensure there is something for everyone in a service, or over the span of a church year, certainly. Sure, a service about the ten commandments will be heavy on the god language, but a service on awe and wonder in scientific discovery will likely ignore god language entirely. And many social justice sermons are very humanist, because that’s what social justice is: concern and care for humans.

It seems to me we waste a lot of time arguing about whether there is a god or not, when that’s a personal theology anyway, and what matters is how we treat each other and how we answer the call of love.

This soapbox, by the way, is brought to you by the crown jewel of the debate – a poem by William Herbert Carruth, set to an old New England melody:

A firemist and a planet, a crystal and a cell,
a starfish and a saurian, and caves where ancients dwelt;
the sense of law and beauty, a face turned from the sod —
some call it evolution, and others call it God.

Haze on the far horizon, the infinite tender sky,
the ripe, rich tints of cornfields, and wild geese sailing high;
and over high and lowland, the charm of goldenrod —
some people call it autumn, and others call it God.

Like tides on crescent seabeach, when moon’s so new and thin,
into our hearts high yearnings come welling, surging in,
come from the mystic ocean whose rim no foot has trod —
some people call it longing, and others call it God.

A sentry lone and frozen, a mother starved for her brood,
and Socrates’ dread hemlock, and Jesus on the rood;
and millions, who, though nameless, the straight, hard pathway trod —
some call it consecration, and others call it God.

Carruth’s point – which often gets lost – is that we all have different ways of understanding the interdependent web of all existence, and our reactions to it. And none is better or worse – just different perspectives.

Now the truth is, I’m not fond of this hymn. I find it scans awkwardly and has some outmoded language. But it makes the point that Down the Ages We Have Trod also makes – that there are many paths, many theologies, many ways to understand Mystery, so get over it.

My calling myself a theist means that I use theistic language to describe what others would use non-theistic language to describe – in terms of mystery, wonder, connection, and sense of the expansive infinite All. But in all the ways that I understand this world and our call in it, I am most assuredly a humanist – as is probably every UU. So I really don’t see the need for the debate.

I will leave you with this beloved poem, “That Which Holds All” by the late Nancy Shaffer:

Because she wanted everyone to feel included
in her prayer,
she said right at the beginning
several names for the Holy:
Spirit , she said, Holy One, Mystery, God.

But then thinking these weren’t enough ways of addressing
that which cannot fully be addressed, she added
particularities, saying,

Spirit of Life, Spirit of Love,
Ancient Holy One, Mystery We Will Not Ever Fully Know,
Gracious God, and also Spirit of this Earth,
God of Sarah, Gaia, Thou.

And then, tongue loosened, she fell to naming
superlatives as well: Most Creative One,
Greatest Source, Closest Hope –
even though superlatives for the Sacred seemed to her
probably redundant, but then she couldn’t stop:

One who Made the Stars, she said, although she knew
technically a number of those present didn’t believe
the stars had been made by anyone or thing
but just luckily happened.
One Who Is an Entire Ocean of Compassion,
she said, and no one laughed.
That Which Has Been Present Since Before the Beginning,
she said, and the room was silent.

Then, although she hadn’t imagined it this way,
others began to offer names.
Peace, said one.
One My Mother Knew, said another.
Ancestor, said a third.
Wind.
Rain.
Breath, said one near the back.
Refuge.
That Which Holds All.
A child said, Water.
Someone said, Kuan Yin.

Then: Womb.
Witness.
Great Kindness.
Great Eagle.
Eternal Stillness.

And then, there wasn’t any need to say the things
she’d thought would be important to say,
and everyone sat hushed, until someone said

Amen.

Image courtesy of NASA.

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Wow.

I have a service I love to do called “Holey, Holy, Wholly” about the myth of wholeness and the grace of brokenness as a truer path to healing. It is one of those deeply pastoral services that fulfills the call to ‘comfort the afflicted’ – because we can’t always just ‘afflict the comfortable.’ I have a few hymns I like to do with this service, but some of my choices are, sadly, not ideal – they fall into that category of ‘general hymns, good for any occasion’. In other words, our hymnals aren’t teeming with pastoral hymns.

Except, surprise surprise, this hymn bubbles up – because using the first line as the title is rather misleading. How many of us have flipped past it, thinking it’s another “yay, we’re together” hymn? I sure have.

But this hymn – much like Jeanne Gagne’s “In My Quiet Sorrow,” which we’ll get to in late November – speaks to the person who comes to church for solace that day, not for celebration. It gives voice to the need to be seen and held in all of our brokenness and heartache. It reminds us that this too is part of life, and it shouldn’t be hidden away but rather held in community.

Though gathered here to celebrate,
my spirit’s burning low;
instead of serving, now I wait,
the breath of worship’s not too late,
breathe, let the embers glow.

There have been losses on the way;
a parent, partner, friend.
At times I need to grieve and say,
“I have enough to bear today,
be near and help me mend.”

The stillness strips the masks away,
exposes lonely hearts;
self-pity must not have its way;
I’ll live my life from day to day,
and now the healing starts.

I hate that it took until now for me to find this hymn – set to a lovely tune by Fred Wooden, which we last sang in January when one of my cats went in for surgery to remove a malignant tumor from his intestine (he’s fine now; his only problems now are living with my other cat again, and hairballs).

This hymn has gotten inside me. I hadn’t expected to be so deeply moved this morning – but I suppose that’s the grace of this or any spiritual practice.

Wow.

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Welcome to Pinocchio’s favorite hymn.

I can’t deny making Diana wonder what this hymn practice as actually done to my sanity, because I am sitting next to her on the couch, drinking coffee and cackling manically as I ponder why we ever doubted that children might not be real, unless we are surrounded by Geppetto’s marionettes.

I mean, I get where lyricist Carl Seaburg is going – he’s trying to say that children have little pretense and experience the world openly and honestly. But “real” is just awkward and frankly stopped me in my tracks.

Odd lyric aside, this is a lovely piece. The tune – the Sussex Carol – gets a nice not-at-all-Christmas-related treatment here (fyi, another gorgeous Ralph Vaughan Williams setting), and yes, I could see this being used at Yuletide anyway, when we adults get so overwhelmed and jaded by the commercialization and possible sadness of the season. But it also speaks to that beginner’s mind, that childlike wonder that we all long for.

I seek the spirit of a child, the child who meets life naturally,
the child who sings the world alive, and greets the morning sun with glee.
Children are real beyond all art. May I see: Joy’s a gift to our heart.

I seek the freedom of a child, a child who loves instinctively,
who lights our day with just a smile, and shines that light on all we see.
Children are real beyond all fears. May I see: Hope’s a gift to our tears.

I seek the wonder of a child, a child who sees delightfully,
now clowns in cloud, now gold in sun — imaginations true and free.
Children are real beyond all lies. May I see: Faith’s a gift to our eyes.

If I can get past giggling about “children are real” I could see using it.

But it might be a while.

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Over the past almost eleven months, this spiritual practice has gone from personal folly to best kept secret. Somewhere along the way, Mark Belletini noticed this and has been a wonderful resource of stories from the STLT hymnal commission and these hymns. He said to me at General Assembly this year that he’s grateful that I am doing this project, examining every hymn, singing them as best I can and thinking about the massive scope of work such an undertaking requires.

And occasionally I irk him.

A few days ago, I found myself baffled by the inclusion of a particular hymn – not because it had what I consider troubling lyrics or history, but because I just didn’t get the theological purpose of its inclusion. On Facebook, colleague David Miller Kohlmeier found what I had been missing:

It reminds me of the Max Kapp hymn I Brought My Spirit to the Sea, in that it has a single individual in a moment of existential wondering and questioning. The difference is that the Wordsworth hymn has the speaker focused on another human and not on his own subjective mystical experience.

It feels profoundly theological to me in that its about (IMO) a male voice of privilege trying to feel a connection in the human experience of someone from a totally different social location, and leaving the encounter with something changed inside of him that he can’t quite articulate.

It’s one of those hymns that is about the question and not about the answer. That it doesn’t name God explicitly only makes it more theological, IMO. It’s deeply human. Which makes it about God.

And that’s all good. Mark followed up with frustration – not directly aimed at me (although maybe at my obtuseness over the hymn), but at those who think a song has to explicitly mention God in order to be theological. I get his frustration; from stories he’s told, this is among the many slings and arrows the STLT commission battled in their work to create a inclusive hymnal.

I tell you all this to say this: Mark, I don’t need a direct reference to God to be inspired by this one. I get it.

Once when my heart was passion free to learn of things divine,
the soul of nature suddenly outpoured itself in mine.

I held the secrets of the deep and of the heavens above;
I knew the harmonies of sleep, the mysteries of love.

And for a moment’s interval the earth, the sky, the sea —
my soul encompassed each and all, as they encompass me.

These words, by Catholic priest John Bannister Tabb (and set to the sweet shape note tune Primrose), encapsulate for me our first source, the direct experience of transcending mystery.

This is just lovely. Again, a hymn I have managed to bypass for reasons passing understanding. A hidden gem for sure…. a hidden gem speaking of that hidden gem that is transcendent awe.

—

Photo source: http://heroes-get-made.tumblr.com/image/155737200748

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So…

I’ll be honest. I don’t know what to think here. I’ve been staring at this screen for a solid five minutes wondering what to say.

It’s not that it’s a bad piece. It is sweet – first, it’s set to a lovely Missouri Harmony tune (Devotion), which we first sang back in early January.

And it’s Wordsworth, one of my favorite English poets, lyrics excerpted from his poem “The Solitary Reaper.”

So the pieces aren’t bad. And they even go well together, despite the one verse of ABAB rhyme in a AABB song:

Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
and sings a melancholy strain:
O listen! for the vale profound
is overflowing with the sound.

Will no one tell me what she sings?
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
for old, unhappy far-off things,
and for the battles long ago.

Or is it some more humble lay,
familiar matter of today?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
that once has been, may be again?

I listened, motionless and still,
and, as I mounted up the hill,
the music in my heart I bore
long after it was heard no more.

I think the reason I have nothing to say, really, is that I don’t have a clue as to what theological or spiritual purpose this might have. In other words, why is it in a hymnal, and not just a songbook? Like, I get why we have some more complex or troubling songs in the hymnal – it’s songs of our living tradition. But this seems, well, like a really lovely song you might hear at a coffeehouse or folksy open mic or a shape note sing-along.

I don’t know what to say. I hope others can tease out meaning where I cannot.

—

What I can do is share one of my favorite paintings in the permanent collection of the North Carolina Museum of Art, “Christina’s World” by Andrew Wyeth. To be honest, it’s the image I have in my head every time I see this poem or this song.

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Now this is an appreciation of beauty I can get behind.

And no, I’m not just saying this because I know lyricist Mark Belletini is reading… honest. I simply love the connection he makes between the beauty of the earth and the beauty of our own creativity, that we are all a part of creation and we are all creators.

The arching sky of morning glows like frescoes high in vaulted rows.
The ragged hills of greening spring like chorus masters bid us sing.

The colors of our contoured land no artist born could hue as grand,
but contours of the human heart sole groundings are for every art!

Whenever sounds the sacred sigh beneath this gable of the sky,
the forms of art and spirit blend, by craft and morn our hearts transcend.

Set to the Tallis Canon, it’s an easy piece to sing; and I find it sounds more like bells than voices when sung with care. It’s harder to sing a round with multiple verses, but I imagine it must sound lush and gorgeous done that way.

I’ve not much more to say – we’re on the penultimate day of Goldmine Youth Leadership School, and my energy is loooowww. My spirits are high (we have amazing youth) but I am more like a three-toed tree sloth than a human today, moving veeeeery slooooowly from moment to moment. I even sang this more slowly than usual, but perhaps that let me linger over the poetry.

Anyway. I like this a lot and wish I remembered to use it more.

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When I say “Beethoven” I bet most of you think “da da da DUM” and the strikingly innovative opening to the Fifth Symphony. But for me, it’s this – Ode to Joy.

I first waxed poetic about it on November 1st, noting the joy of the music and the lyrics by Henry Van Dyke. And while Van Dyke’s lyrics are more well know. it is these lyrics, by German dramatist, poet, and historian Friedrich Schiller, that Beethoven included in the Ninth Symphony.

Joy, thou goddess, fair immortal, offspring of Elysium,
mad with rapture, to the portal of thy holy fane we come!
Fashion’s laws, indeed, may sever, but thy magic joins again;
humankind is one forever ‘neath thy mild and gentle reign.

Joy, in nature’s wide dominion, mightiest cause of all is found;
and ‘tis joy that moves the pinion, when the wheel of time goes round;
from the bud she lures the flower, suns from out their orbs of light;
distant spheres obey her power, far beyond all mortal sight.

Freude, schóner Götterfunken, Tochter aus Elysium,
wir betreten feuertrunken, himmlische, dein Heiligtum.
Deine Zauber binden wieder, was die Mode streng geteilt,
alle Menschen werden Brúder, wo dein sanfter Flúgel weilt.

Freude heiefst die starke Feder in der ewigen Natur.
Freude, Freude treibt die Ráder in der grossen Weltenuhr.
Blumen lockt sie ausden Keimen, Sonnen aus dem Firmament,
Spháren rollt sie in den Raumen, die des Sehers Rohr nicht kennt.

I love that we have to verses of the German, along with two English verses. The first line, “Freude, schóner Götterfunken” translates directly as “Joy, beautiful spark of God, daughter of Elysium” – the English translation we use appears to be uncredited (at least according to my Google search).

I could talk more about the theology of this versus Joyful, Joyful – and I’m sure it’s worthy of analysis. But today, in the midst of the Goldmine Youth Leadership School (with incredible youth and their incredible minds and enthusiasm), I don’t have the energy for deep thought. I do also wonder about attributing gender to an abstract – but I am not sure how I feel about it. Maybe someday.

Meanwhile, JOY! In a big, famous, broad, triumphant German way.

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Welcome to another edition of “Hymns Kimberley Would Use Too Often If Let Loose.”

I love this one. I love its inspiration, I love the joy, I love the celebration. And, not surprisingly, I love the tune too – another Ralph Vaughan Williams setting (Danby). It is lush and sweet.

Let all the beauty we have known illuminate our hearts and minds.
Rejoice in wonders daily shown, in faith and joy, and love that binds.

We celebrate with singing hearts the loveliness of sky and earth,
the inspiration of the arts, the miracle of ev’ry birth.

Life’s music and its poetry surround and bless us through our days.
For these we sing in harmony, together giving thanks and praise.

And it is most assuredly a part of my theology, and my ministry.

—

Today’s image is the gorgeous watercolor I bought for my 49th birthday from the talented Jordan Lynn Gribble. It hangs on my bedroom wall and is often the first thing I see in the morning.

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One of the delights of being an active member and now religious professional in the Saint Lawrence District (upstate NY and part of Ontario) is getting to know Richard and Joyce Gilbert a little. They are so much a part of my story, in the way peanuts are a part of a Snickers bar – not a constant presence, but the nuggets of experience and wisdom are priceless. From Dick’s telling of how simple his fellowshipping process was (after completing seminary, he had dinner with denominational leaders. They talked, laughed, ate, and at the end, stood up and shook Dick’s hand, saying “welcome to fellowship.”) to learning about the founding of the UU Musicians Network over dinner with Joyce, to various interactions, workshops, and worship over the years. And many slim volumes of Dick’s meditations – edited by Joyce – sit on my shelf, inherited from Linda Hoddy, who bought some and inherited others from Charles Sapp.

One of the collections is called Thanks Be for These – named for a meditation from which this lyric is based. That Joyce is also credited suggests she helped set the words to a sweet Hungarian tune (Transylvania). And this song is sweet indeed:

Thanks be for these, life’s holy times,
moments of grief, days of delight;
triumph and failure intertwine,
shaping our vision of the right.

Thanks be for these, for birth and death;
life in between with meaning full;
holy becomes the quickened breath;
we celebrate life’s interval.

Thanks be for these, ennobling art,
images welcome to our sight;
music caressing ear and heart,
inviting us to loftier height.

Thanks be for these, who question why;
who noble motives do obey;
those who know how to live and die;
comrades who share this holy way.

Thanks be for these, we celebrate;
sing and rejoice, our trust declare;
press all our faith into our fate;
bless now the destiny we share.

Even if the Gilberts hadn’t written it, I would love this hymn. It’s such a loving prayer of gratitude for the wide ranging experiences of our lives. It’s setting in the tune is perfect – a tune that is joyful but tender. I use this maybe too often – most certainly at Thanksgiving, but also in other services.

If you don’t know it, please learn it. It’s one of my favorites.

And it always reminds me of the precious gift that is Richard and Joyce Gilbert. Thanks be for them, too.

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I wish…

I wish I felt better so I could really dig into this hymn.

I wish I had looked ahead and scheduled a Hymn-by-Hymn conversation with Suzanne Fast about this hymn.

I’ll just say that having had a conversation with Suzanne at General Assembly, I now understand how difficult this embracing our bodies without shaming our bodies for the ways they work, move, and look can be.

The pen is greater than the sword.
To wield a blade or write a word
we need the skill which hands accord.

A surgeon takes a knife to heal;
assassins do the same to kill.
Each acts according to their will.

I pick the cherries from a tree,
or break the branch and let it die.
For good or ill, my hands are free.

With fingers I can soothe a brow,
or make a fist and strike a blow,
kindness or cruelty bestow.

Then let us now this lesson see:
like life itself our hands can be
for evil used, or charity.

My analytical abilities continue to be put off by a flu that has settled into my shoulder, causing great pain. I’m on anti-virals and muscle relaxers to ease it out; they’re starting to work, but I am Flexeril-loopy.

Anyway – have at it: the song about assassins and hands.

At least it’s not a cankerworm?

—

Cool pen image via deviantart.net.