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Ear Worm Alert!

This round is so common in Unitarian Universalist circles it’s hard to remember that in the scheme of things, it’s only about as old as the grey hymnal itself. Yet here it is, a standard welcoming song, even if it’s incomplete.

As my beloved colleague Lynn Ungar originally wrote it, this setting also includes a descant that captures perhaps the most important line of this Rumi verse: “Though you’ve broken your vows a thousand times.” To me, it’s the key to the verse – the chance to start anew. That no matter who we are and what we’ve been though, we can come back to this place, where we can find healing and comfort and inspiration.

Come, come, whoever you are,
wanderer, worshiper, lover of leaving.
Ours is no caravan of despair.
Come, yet again come.

I don’t think it’s a mistake that this one came up on Palm Sunday, either. I haven’t thought deeply about the connection yet, but it feels right that on the day we remember Jesus’s coming to Jerusalem to celebrate Passover and ‘poke the bear’ of the institutions, I am singing a song that could in fact be his message too.

Fascinating how the universe works sometimes, eh?

—

“K21 Street” – painting by Jackie Carpenter.

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What is it?

What is it that sounds along the ages, that breathes from Buddha’s tree, that speaks new truth, that resounds from the eternal chime?

Is it truth? Justice? Love? Spirit? Is it, as I first thought, Yes?

Is it, in fact whatever it is we seek from the wisdom of humanity?

What is it?

It sounds along the ages, soul answering to soul;
it kindles on the pages of every Bible scroll;
the psalmist heard and sang it, from martyr lips it broke,
and prophet tongues outrang it till sleeping nations woke.

From Sinai’s cliffs it echoed, it breathed from Buddha’s tree,
it charmed in Athens’ market, it hallowed Galilee;
the hammer stroke of Luther, the Pilgrims’ seaside prayer,
the oracles of Concord one holy word declare.

It calls — and lo, new justice! It speaks — and lo, new truth!
In ever nobler stature and unexhausted youth.
Forever on resounding, and knowing nought of time,
our laws but catch the music of its eternal chime.

We actually do have an answer… sort of. According to Jacqui James in Between the Lines, William Gannett’s original four verses were called “The Word of God.” (Lots of reframing/additions/shifts since its original publication in 1911.)

The word of God.

Okay. But what IS the word of God? Is it truth? Justice? Love? Spirit? Yes?

Ultimately, this is a lively and pretty cool hymn, one I can see using a number of ways, including in the wrap up service on our Conversations with World Religions that the church I serve has been engaged in since September. And what I like is that whatever you think the word of God might be, it’s in there.

So for me, I will say that It is Yes – because from all the things I’ve read in holy books and have experienced as a person of faith and a practical theologian, it seems to me everything comes down to saying Yes.

Yes to risk.

Yes to justice.

Yes to the vision of beloved community.

Yes to the all of our stories.

Yes to the opportunities to grow and learn.

Yes to love.

Yes to possibility.

Yes.

 

 

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I don’t know what to say about this one.

It’s not that I don’t get it – I do. It’s an encapsulation of Confucianism, ending in the golden rule. It captures the nuggets of carefully measured wisdom and advice a Confucian parent doles out to their child, reminding them that the way out of chaos is order, and the achievement of order is relationship and right action.

And other than that, really, I don’t know what to say. Here it is.

Grieve not your heart for want of place, nor yearn for easy praise;
but fit yourself some task to do, and well employ your days.

From wise and foolish both alike we should all try to learn,
for one can show us how to live, the other what to spurn.

Be fair to people when they err, when good, your pleasure show;
their faults be quick to understand, in judging them be slow.

But this above all else obey, it is the best of goals,
what you would wish not done to you, do not to other souls.

There’s nothing to argue with because there’s no real depth. It’s the aphorism song. It’s the be nice song.

As I said in my recent UU World article, “blech.”

(Tens – maybe hundreds – of thousands of words written between blogs, articles, essays, and sermons, and the thing I quote is “blech.” Go me.)

Anyway. It’s a lovely Southern Harmony tune and easy to sing, and for the right service on the golden rule or on compassion, this might be just fine.

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This is a devotional prayer if ever I heard one.

And I suspect this text, by Bengali poet Rabindranath Tagore, would make some Unitarian Universalists squeamish, this whole-hearted surrender to the Divine. Yet it is a vital theological perspective found in our congregations – even if those who adhere to it might not say it aloud very much.

For me and my theology, I could use a little whole-hearted surrender now and then. We talk a lot about the expansiveness of God’s love in our Universalist theology, but then we try to place limits on how much love we’ll give back, in the name of reason, as though a devotion to the Eternal One means we have less devotion to give to each other and the planet.

Here’s the thing about love: it really, truly, honestly is limitless. The first line of There Is More Love Somewhere isn’t about a gathering of resources, it’s an opening to what already exists. So what happens when we do give the whole and not the part of ourselves to that which is bigger than ourselves, which some call Spirit of Life, or Holy One, or Collective Unconscious, or God? What happens when we surrender?

Your mercy, Oh Eternal one by no heart measured yet;
in joy, or grief, or shade, or sun I never will forget.

I give the whole and not the part of all you gave to me;
my goods, my life, my soul, my heart I yield them all as free.

And when in silent awe we wait, and word and sign forebear,
the hinges of the golden gate move soundless at our prayer.

I can tell you what happened when I surrendered: I heard the call to ministry.

And here’s the truth: by giving myself whole-heartedly to that something greater, I regularly challenge my perspective, my ego, my deeply held beliefs, my way of doing things. Whole-hearted devotion doesn’t mean losing yourself, it means losing the things that no longer serve or help. In fact, I am more in touch with my mind, my reason, the needs of others, the call to justice, the healing and transforming power of love.

Maybe we need a little less skepticism and a little more devotion.

We need a little more whole-heartedness.

—

I can’t let this go by without a mention of the tune, Dundee. While most of the tune is rather typical of psalter tunes from the British Isles, the first line is magical. There’s something about the closing of the interval in the second phrase of the line that is delicious and warm and other words I can’t access at the moment. It’s a powerful musical moment for me.

—

Today’s pic is another beautiful image by photographer Jeremy Garretson.  Go look, then buy  his stuff.

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It may be lack of coffee.

It may be lack of ease with Buddhism.

It may be lack of sleep.

But whatever it is I am lacking seems to be keeping me from understanding what the heck this lyric, written by Sarojini Naidu, the first female president of the Indian National Congress, is saying.

It feels mostly like it’s saying ‘life sucks and there’s nothing we can do so just give up already.’ Which I am certain isn’t true and maybe it’s in there but that’s not the point… but dammit, meaning is eluding me today.

So instead I’ll nitpick about bad rhymes, like ‘won’ and ‘throne’ and ‘flight’ and ‘infinite’ (grr) and wonder at the combination of a very Buddhist poem and a very German hymn tune.

The wind of change forever blown across the tumult of our way,
tomorrow’s unborn griefs depose the sorrows of our yesterday.
Dream yields to dream, strife follows strife, and death unweaves the webs of life.

For us the labor and the heat, the broken secrets of our pride,
the strenuous lessons of defeat, the flower deferred, the fruit denied;
but not the peace, supremely won, great Buddha, of the lotus throne.

With futile hands we seek to gain our inaccessible desire,
diviner summits to attain, with faith that sinks and feet that tire;
but nought shall conquer or control the heav’nward hunger of our soul.

The end, elusive and afar, still lures us with its beck’ning flight,
and our immortal moments are a session of the infinite.
How shall we reach the great, unknown nirvana of your lotus throne?

I’m missing something big here today…for which I apologize. Although I guess it’s okay if not every piece speaks clearly to every person – that whole pesky 4th principle thing, eh?

Now go have a day – stay dry if it’s raining, stay warm if it’s cold, cheer up if you’re a Gonzaga fan.

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I wish…

I wish I lived with someone, because I would have made them sing this round with me so I could revel in the fullness of this beautiful piece. Although there’s a good chance I would have gotten the pre-coffee stink eye, so maybe it’s just as well.

I wish the hymnal indicated that it’s Arabic. Not because most won’t figure it out, but it feels a bit like erasure to me. Maybe I’m a little oversensitive these days, but I am keenly aware of subtle methods of cultural erasure.

I wish I was less keenly aware of the Christian liturgical calendar that says we don’t sing alleluias during Lent, but then I remembered that I am not a Christian, the round is not Christian, and anyway, all those choirs rehearsing for Easter Sunday have to sing it over and over and over…

I wish I could articulate why, after this week that has shaken our institution, we should sing praises to God (however we understand “God”), but we should.

Alhamdulillah, Alhamdulillah, Alhamdulillah,
Alhamdulillah, Alhamdulillah, Alhamdulillah.

I wish I could hug you all right now, my gentle, loving, funny, insightful readers. It means the world to me that you find something to keep your interest, and even more when you comment here or on social media.

(I wish I hadn’t used “I wish” as my hook, because now I will be singing that piece from Into The Woods all day. There’s nothing worse than giving yourself an ear worm.)

—

Today’s photo is by my friend, photographer Jeremy Garretson – of the Milky Way over Orient Point, Long Island. Maybe this is a good reason to sing praises to God.

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Sometimes a hymn sits next to our principles, or waves from across the room at them, or bumps into them in the hallway as they’re rushing to a committee meeting, or left a cryptic email, or BS’d its way through an essay about them in an ethics class.

Sometimes a hymn is a principle, embodied.

Welcome to the seventh principle, in song.

Sure, we’ll come across others of a similar bent; but if you asked me to pick one hymn for our seventh principle, ‘the interconnected web of which we are all a part’, this would be my winner. And it’s entirely possible that this was the charge to Alicia Carpenter, whose lyrics were commissioned for Singing the Living Tradition.

To Alicia I say a hearty “Well Done!” Plus, she set it to what might be described as an old Lutheran hymn, Christus Der Ist Mein Leben by German composer Melchior Vulpius, who wrote this, oh, a little over 500 years ago. I say it’s a plus because it’s a lovely tune – spirited but majestic, given a fresh look with these fresh lyrics. (Bonus: no cankerworms! Seriously, that’s still stuck in my craw…)

We celebrate the web of life, its magnitude we sing;
for we can see divinity in every living thing.

A fragment of the perfect whole in cactus and in quail,
as much in tiny barnacle as in the great blue whale.

Of ancient dreams we are the sum; our bones link stone to star,
and bind our future worlds to come with worlds that were and are.

Respect the water, land, and air which gave all creatures birth;
protect the lives of all that share the glory of the earth.

Yep, I’m a fan, and I try to use this when I preach on climate justice, stewardship and appreciation of the earth, and the immanent divine.

Despite a gloomy, chilly, foggy morning, and despite a hard night full of fear-filled dreams, this hymn brings me some solace and joy today.

—

Yes. That pic is of a quail next to a cactus. You’re welcome.

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Remember back when the news was bad and I was singing happy cheerful hope-filled hymns?  It was hard; I struggled to get past my own fears and anger and see the message those songs at those times held for me.

Well, what goes around comes around, I suppose.

Yesterday, I spent the day in Boston with a dear friend, Elizabeth Assenza, who was seeing the Ministerial Fellowship Committee. I got to be her chaplain; she didn’t need a quiet, contemplative experience – she needed me to “extrovert at her” so we gabbed excitedly and told stories in the lead up to her appointment. We also got to meet the legendary Denny Davidoff and spend time talking with Danielle DiBona and others in the room. And yes, Elizabeth is now in preliminary fellowship (yay!). We had a delicious meal in Chinatown, and then went to Kings Chapel, where a shared ancestor – John Winthrop – is buried.

It was a terrific day, made a breath or two easier knowing the ACA repeal vote was not brought to the floor, knowing that at least for a moment, the hard work of justice and the holy work of ministry won the day.

So here I am, having had a good, joyful day, and I wake up to sing this.

O earth, you are surpassing fair, from out your store we’re daily fed,
we breathe your life-supporting air and drink the water that you shed.
Yet greed has made us mar your face, pollute the air, make foul the sea:
the folly of the human race is bringing untold misery.

Our growing numbers make demands that e’en your bounty cannot meet;
starvation stalks through hungry lands and some die hourly in the street.
The Eden-dream of long ago is vanishing before our eyes;
unwise, unheeding, still we go, destroying hopes of paradise.

Has evolution been in vain that life should perish ere its prime?
Or will we from our greed refrain and save our planet while there’s time?
We must decide without delay if we’re to keep our race alive:
the choice is ours, and we must say if we’re to perish or survive.

Our lyricist, John Andrew Storey, is not wrong. And set to Welsh composer Joseph Parry’s tune Merthyr Tyfdil, with its somber, minor tones and lamenting rhythms, it’s well done and much needed. Unlike yesterday’s, that felt difficult as a congregational song (and really, cankerworms?), this has the right combination of melody and lyric to be well sung and thoughtfully internalized.

But wow did this harsh my mood.

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This is another freedom song from South Africa, from during the time of apartheid.

It’s got energy and power and a sense of urgency that is compelling and captivating. And while it isn’t the only thing that makes liberation happen, song does remain a powerful tool in the activist toolbox. From the songs of enslaved Africans, to the protest songs of the civil rights movement, to the Singing Revolution in Estonia, to the songs of the Anti-Apartheid movement – along with many other examples I am too precaffeinated to think of – music makes a difference.

Music has power to give voice to our spirits, to soothe our nerves, to engage us, to motivate and awaken us, to bring us together, to provide not just a soundtrack but a unifying …. something… for what freedom and justice sound like. Music doesn’t just come from our heads through our mouths and to our ears, it vibrates our entire bodies. And when my body, vibrating in song, is next to your body, vibrating in song, we change the atmosphere and matter itself.

(Zulu) Siph’ amandla N’kosi. Wokungeverysabi.
Siph’ amandla N’kosi. Siyawadinga.

O God, give us power to rip down prisons.
O God, give us power to lift the people.

O God, give us courage to withstand hatred.
O God, give us courage not to be bitter.

O God, give us power and make us fearless.
O God, give us power because we need it.

I’m waxing a bit poetic today without much content about this particular song, I know. I am still not sure if the language of our first verse is Zulu or Xhosa – again, some varying sources. But it is inspiring nonetheless – such strong words of prayer, not just to make change but to keep us whole and remind us of our humanity. Good stuff.

Good good stuff.

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The downside of this spiritual practice is that it demands attention even on days when attention is hard to give. And more often than not, it is demanding the exact kind of attention I want to hide from on that particular day.

This song, written by Holly Near in the wake of the Harvey Milk assassination, is a call to action. It demands that we make sure everyone knows who we are and how many we are, we who will not be moved, we who are scared, and angry, and loving, and resisting.

We are a gentle, angry people,
and we are singing, singing for our lives.
We are a gentle, angry people,
and we are singing, singing for our lives.

We are a justice-seeking people…

We are young and old together…

We are a land of many colors…

We are gay and straight together….

We are a gentle, loving people…

The truth is, I’m nearly paralyzed by fear right now – it’s all coming on so many fronts, this insanity. And I am really worried that there are so many things happening we’ll miss the big one – and they’re all big ones. And worse, it seems like there is no one to hold them accountable, because they’ve stacked the decks. I know there are simple things I can do, and I know that just by refusing to accept this as normal, contacting elected officials, preaching justice, supporting boots on the ground – I know those things matter. But this is big, all that is rolling down the hill at us in speeds heretofore unmeasured. And that’s got me scared and not sleeping and a little afraid to take my eyes off the ball and even more afraid to look at the ball.

So…yeah. Holly Near’s song wants me to stop being paralyzed and get back in the game. I’m not ready. But I suppose none of us ever truly are when it matters like this.

Sigh.

Okay.

Still scared, but …okay. What’s next?

—

UPDATE November 5, 2017: In a concert at the Eighth Step @ Proctors in Schnectady, NY, last night, Holly Near performed, and toward the end of the show led us in this song. We sang the first couple of verses, and then she began to speak (her words transcribed to the best of my ability – I was typing on my phone as quickly as I could once I realized what was happening):

“I wrote this song when Harvey Milk and George Moscone were assassinated. We originally sang ‘we are gay and lesbian together’ but then we were surrounded by the support of allies and so I changed it to ‘we are gay and straight together.’ And now we are learning more and more about gender and sexuality and it now requires many more syllables than I can fit into the song, and so let us now sing ‘we are all in this together.”

In that 30 second riff, she updated her lyrics to expand the circle of love that this song holds.

Thank you, Holly.

—

Photo is at an unnamed rally, with Holly Near and emma’s revolution, and other singers I’m not familiar with…