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And with one turn of a page, we enter the sublimely ridiculous.

Yes, it’s time, in these last days of autumn, as the nights grow dark and cold, to begin singing our Spring and Summer songs. Because if spiritual practice teaches us anything, it’s to expect bizarre coincidences and juxtapositions. Plus, this is what I get for starting this project on my early October birthday. If I’d started on January 1st, like a normal person might have done, we’d be in the start of March right now and all this singing about spring might make sense. But no, I started on October 4th, which means we’re stuck with spring tunes here in Advent.

I’d say I’m sorry, but if you’re like me, you’re enjoying the juxtaposition too, delighting in my fake misery, and maybe a little relieved that I am giving you a break from the constant cacophony of carols this season brings. (Just remember this feeling when it’s May and we’re working through the aforementioned cacophony of carols.)

I will say this: I am glad we start with this hymn, a beloved and familiar tune, and more lyrics from our man Sam (Samuel Longfellow, that is).

Lo, the earth awakes again — Alleluia!
From the winter’s bond and pain.
Alleluia! Bring we leaf and flower and spray — Alleluia!
to adorn this happy day. Alleluia!

Once again the word comes true,
Alleluia! All the earth shall be made new. Alleluia!
Now the dark, cold days are o’er, Alleluia!
Spring and gladness are before. Alleluia!

Change, then, mourning into praise, Alleluia!
And, for dirges, anthems raise. Alleluia!
How our spirits soar and sing, Alleluia!
How our hearts leap with the spring! Alleluia!

As I sang this – especially the second verse, I thought about how it’s maybe not so bad to sing a spring hymn in autumn, as it reminds us that the dark, cold days we’re facing now will not last – even though at some point it feels like we will never see light and feel warmth again.

I like this one. And because it’s a catchy tune, I will probably be singing it all day. Thank god the only one I will annoy with that is my cat.

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This is such a gorgeous hymn, and a comforting one too.

First, let’s talk melody – Shelley Denham knew what she was doing, writing a sort of lullaby to winter in a gentle 3/2. It is both simple to sing and delicious to sing. I imagine my college choir director reminding us to sing through the long notes with some energy, because there is mystery there.

And then the lyrics –

Dark of winter, soft and still, your quiet calm surrounds me.
Let my thoughts go where they will; ease my mind profoundly.
And then my soul will sing a song, a blessed song of love eternal.
Gentle darkness, soft and still, bring your quiet to me.

Darkness, soothe my weary eyes, that I may see more clearly.
When my heart with sorrow cries, comfort and caress me.
And then my soul may hear a voice, a still, small voice of love eternal.
Darkness, when my fears arise, let your peace flow through me.

These are some beautiful, powerful lyrics for times when comfort and peace are needed…like now. It may not be winter quite yet, and it’s a sunny morning here, but there is a darkness in which ‘my heart with sorrow cries’. I love that Denham hears, out of that dark winter, ‘a still small voice of love eternal’ – yes, yes…not alone but present. Peaceful. Yes.

I’m finding my words are less elegantly composed this morning – but I think that in the face of this elegant hymn, nothing I say would match it.

Perhaps it’s time to just sing it again.

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I am a sucker for the old Southern Harmony tunes – especially the ones in minor keys, which feel like Appalachia to me.

For the record, I am not from Appalachia nor have I never lived in Appalachia. But for some reason, that music – whether it’s these hymn tunes, or the bluegrass that sprung up from the same place – connects to something in me. I oddly feel the same way with music from the Jewish diaspora – another culture I have no direct connection to but whose music resonates in me. And it’s not just music to listen to; rather, I am more connected when I sing it, like it comes out of something deeper inside me when I sing.

Maybe it’s the minor keys. Maybe it’s the flow of melody. Maybe it’s the sense of awe, mystery, and wonder that shows up in the lyrics paired with these tunes…

I walk the unfrequented road with open eye and ear;
I watch afield the farmer load the bounty of the year.

I filch the fruit of no one’s toil — no trespasser am I —
and yet I reap from every soil and from the boundless sky.

I gather where I did not sow, and bend the mystic sheaf,
the amber air, the river’s flow, the rustle of the leaf.

A beauty springtime never knew haunts all the quiet ways,
and sweeter shines the landscape through its veil of autumn haze.

I face the hills, the streams, the wood, and feel with all akin;
my heart expands; their fortitude and peace and joy flow in.

These lyrics hold a mystery. Unlike yesterday’s, which felt like nothing moved, this has a bit of a storyline, a character examination, a connection between narrator, earth, and mystery.

This is a beauty – a perfect hymn for a stark post-Thanksgiving morning.

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Huh – it’s autumn and I am singing an autumn hymn? That’s not bound to happen very often.

If only I liked it more.

I actually got a little excited to sing an autumn hymn on this Thanksgiving day. And then I sang it, and while I was unimpressed by the lyrics (I’ll get to that), I found myself connecting to memories because of the tune.

It’s a lullaby – fairly simple to sing, and quite familiar. As I started to sing, I was transported back to my bedroom in our farmhouse on Taborton Mountain – the northernmost mountain of the Taconic range, which help make the Hudson Valley a valley. Mom would come into my room when I had climbed into bed and sing lullabies. There must have been a dozen or more that she sang, in a deep alto voice. At some point in the 1970s she recorded them onto a cassette tape – but it got lost, or broken, or taped over, and so I don’t have those songs anymore. But I do remember many of them, including this soft tune (Cradle Song).

The lyrics to this hymn are not the lullaby lyrics – they are instead an unremarkable ode to the turning of the year.

In sweet fields of autumn the gold grain is falling,
the white clouds drift lonely, the wild swan is calling.
Alas for the daisies, the tall fern and grasses,
when wind-sweep and rainfall fill lowlands and passes.

The snows of December shall fill windy hollow;
the bleak rain trails after, the March wind shall follow.
The deer through the valleys leave print of their going;
and diamonds of sleet mark the ridges of snowing.

The stillness of death shall stoop over the water,
the plover sweep low where the pale streamlets falter;
but deep in the earth clod the black seed is living;
when spring sounds her bugles for rousing and giving.

To be honest, I don’t know when I would ever use this hymn in worship. The lullaby tune feels out of place for morning worship, and the lyrics don’t move worship along. They’re like a set piece in a musical – think “A Bushel and a Peck” from Guys and Dolls: Adelaide sings it on stage, as she’s a performer. The song is cute and features this great secondary character (who actually has some great songs and lines elsewhere in the show), but nothing changes because she sang this – only time has progressed. We learn nothing about character, plot, motives.

Similarly, in my musical theatre theory of worship (one of many frames I like to think about worship through), nothing moves forward here. It’s an ‘oh, look, the seasons change and we’re going to remind ourselves of this fact’ piece – there is, for me, no sense that hearts, minds, or spirits are changed or moved or even really affected by this. They’re more likely to be moved by a memory of the tune than inspired by the lyric.

And now, I expect this will be a favorite of folks I adore and admire, and once again I’ve stepped into the breach and an argument will ensue. Hopefully about the hymn, not about Guys and Dolls, which is an incredibly well-crafted musical, even if Brando did kinda screw up “Luck Be a Lady” in the movie version.

Anyway, I digress. Despite my not really liking this one, I’m dwelling in lots of good memories today, and that’s not a terrible consequence of this practice.

Happy Thanksgiving, all.

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That time I kept forgetting to sing.

Stillness reigns, the winds are sleeping. All the world is bent on keeping
tryst with night, whose wings are sweeping from the west each ray of light.

Dusk, a soft and silken cover, over all is seen to hover
in its readiness to cover all the drowsy world, good night.

Those who labored long, untiring, hail this time of rest desiring,
strength renewed through sweet retiring, welcome thoughts of peaceful night.

And through spaces real or seeming find the Eden of their dreaming,
soar to starry ways, redeeming hours of toil and pain, good night.

If a tune is unfamiliar (or even if it is vaguely familiar), I will sometimes visit the site Small Church Music to see if the tune is there, so that instead of plunking out notes on my little keyboard app, or just making it up, I can actually hear and learn the tune. Usually, there are a variety of accompaniments for a tune – piano, a band, and organ, and maybe some combination. I probably could have figured this one out fairly easily, but I opted for the easy way so I could focus on lyrics, as has been my wont lately.

Everything started off just fine. I found the tune and decided to play the organ version. I start singing: “Stillness reigns, the winds…” mm…I like this accompaniment. And how neatly the harmonies work. Oh. I’m not singing! “….ray of light.”

Next verse: “Dusk, a…” Oh, he’s changed it up. Neat. This works. It’s cheery, but not too schmaltzy. I wonder how this will work as a vespers tune. Is it really? What does it say?

Oh! Third verse…wow, I love this variation. Nicely played. It would be nice to have an organ sometimes. Oh crap, I’m not singing. “…welcome thoughts of peaceful night.”

Fourth verse: So strong, culminating in Eden! That works. Singing? What singing?

So yeah. That happened.

And I considered playing it again, singing it earnestly this time. But then I thought, this was my experience today – why change it? The tune’s in my head, so I’ll be humming it for a while – I’m humming it now. And maybe that’s all that’s necessary on a day like today, when my head is stuffy and the post-preaching exhaustion lingers and winter makes its first appearance.

Time for a little stillness to reign before the flurry of the holiday.

 

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Wherein I fangirl a bit over a 19th century Unitarian minister and poet.

Again, as evening’s shadow falls, we gather in these hallowed walls;
and vesper hymn and vesper prayer rise mingling on the holy air.

May struggling hearts that seek release here find the rest of God’s own peace:
and, strengthened here by hymn and prayer, lay down the burden and the care.

Life’s tumult we must meet again; we cannot at the shrine remain;
but in the spirit’s secret cell may hymn and prayer forever dwell.

This is a gorgeous lyric, set to a lovely tune. It makes me again wish that I had the ability right now to hold vespers services.

But more than that, what I love about this lyric is the reality of it – no lofty ‘God’s in his heaven, all’s right with the world’, no artificial perfection. No, it says, life sucks, but the singing and praying will help make it suck less so.

As I thought about the lyric, and noted that it was written by Samuel Longfellow, I realized that this is not the first time I’ve felt moved by his words. I noted in the post for O Life That Maketh All Things New that I felt better after singing the hymn, with its hopeful aspiration. And in the post for God of the Earth, The Sky, the Sea, that “I love this lyric – it’s grounding for me and harkens to something deep and primordial, something wholly of creation.” And now, today, I find comfort in lyrics like “may struggling hearts that seek release” and “life’s tumult we must meet again, we cannot at the shrine remain”… a sense that Longfellow isn’t willing to gloss over anything, but still recognizes that faith, and song, and prayer might be a reminder of our goodness and strength.

If ever there’s a message we need today, it’s this. It still feels in many ways like the world has crashed down around us… and yet our compulsion is still to gather in prayer, to lay down our burdens, to find strength. Our congregations were full or overflowing last week because of this compulsion. And Longfellow’s 150-or-so-year-old lyric not only speaks to this present moment, but reminds us that it’s a constant part of the human condition and human compulsion.

There doesn’t appear to be a lot known about him (although to be fair, I only just did a quick google search). And of course he fades under the light of his much more famous brother Henry. But I think that’s a shame, because our man Sam gets it. He speaks truth to our hearts. And he features prominently in our hymnal – we sing nine hymns with his lyrics. It’s becoming clear now why.

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More signs of life returning?

Now on land and sea descending, brings the night its peace profound;
let our vesper hymn be blending with the holy calm around.

(Chorus)
Jubilate! Jubilate! Jubilate! Amen.
Jubilate! Jubilate! Jubilate! Amen.

Soon as dies the sunset glory, stars of heav’n shine out above,
telling still the ancient story — their Creator’s changeless love. (Chorus)

Now, our wants and burdens leaving, to the Care that cares for all,
cease we fearing, cease we grieving; quietly our burdens fall. (Chorus)

As the darkness deepens o’er us, lo, eternal stars arise;
hope and faith and love rise glorious, shining in the spirit’s skies. (Chorus)

My first thought was “huh, this is an awfully cheerful song for an evening song.” But that thought soon passed as thought about a vespers service… I heard in my head the hymn sung by a choir, in a round, perhaps accompanied by a hand bell choir, echoing in a grand cathedral as day gives way to night. I longed for a space to hold such services with such performances. I added it to a mental checklist of worship experiences I wish to create for others – one of joy at a day’s work well done, with the ringing of bells and voices weaving together in joy.

My next thought was “wow, there’s a little bit of your creative spark returning.”

A few days ago, I attended a webinar led by my friend the Reverend Julie Taylor, the president of the UU Trauma Response Ministry (a group I hold dear to my heart, having availed myself of their services after a tragic accident a decade ago). In it, Julie talked about how our physiological response to traumatic events swings us into feeling over thinking, and in fact, that is part of why it feels abnormal; even when we feel strong emotion normally, our cognitive functioning far outweighs our emotional functioning. Julie suggested to us to find ways to get the thinking back. I didn’t really know what tasks to put on that side of the ledger… but I realize now that creating is one of those ways. And imagining a vespers service in a big space with a big musical presence and a spirit of jubilance – that’s a creative thing that is more thinking than feeling, even if the feelings are what propelled me.

I’m seeing glimmers now of my Self returning.

That feels like a bit of a relief.

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Not so much a morning song as a meditation song…

The morning, noiseless, flings its gold, and still is evening’s pace;
and silently the earth is rolled amid the vast of space.

Night moves in silence round the pole, the stars sing on unheard;
their music pierces to the soul, yet borrows not a word.

In quietude the spirit grows, and deepens hour to hour;
in calm eternal onward flows its all-redeeming power.

Attend, O soul; and hear at length the spirit’s silent voice;
in stillness labor; wait in strength; and, confident, rejoice.

In the land of hymns I have never sung arrives this one.

The morning song series has become almost comical now, one of those ironies you couldn’t make up if you tried. So I was bracing for another one, having spent the night thinking about straight white men and the propensity for some of them to see themselves as victims in a world they perceive as having limited power, success, and love. Bring it on, I thought, do your cheeriest happy morning song while I realize how sad life must be for some.

This hymn surprised me. Set in a minor key, it is contemplative – a hymn I might use to introduce a time of meditation, much like I might use a piece from Mark Belletini’s Sonata for Voice and Silence. And its lyrics invite us into silence – over and over. Not the rollicking springing forth of life as we’ve seen in other morning songs; instead, we get quietude and the silent music of the universe, inviting us to be silent, to labor, to wait, and finally to rejoice confidently.

Wow.

In the last week, I’ve spent a lot of time away from social media and the news, grieving alone, seeking strength where I can get it, sitting in all of my feelings, hoping that strength will return, that hope will show through the cracks, that I will be able to act boldly and confidently again. This hymn gives my process permission to unfold as it has and as it will.

I thank all that is holy for this gift.

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I didn’t think I was of a mood to appreciate this one, and yet…

Morning, so fair to see, night, veiled in mystery —
glorious the earth and resplendent skies!
Pilgrims, we march along, singing our joyous song,
as through an earthly paradise.

Tall are the verdant trees; deep are the flashing seas;
glorious each wonder the seasons bring.
Brighter is faith’s surmise, shining in pilgrim eyes,
from which our waking spirits spring.

Age after age we rise, ‘neath the eternal skies,
into the light from the shadowed past:
still shall our pilgrim song, buoyant and brave and strong,
resound while life and mountains last.

Another day, another morning song. I did not have the buoyant experience many of my colleagues did yesterday, for many reasons. I left feeling still sad and fearful and angry, not finding the healing I had hoped would be present in the readings, words, songs, and sharing we would engage in. And I have been dreading this cycle of morning songs lately – it’s not fair, I keep thinking, that hope pushes itself in. I’m not ready for it, I keep saying – and I am sure you are tired of me saying.

Still, I opened the hymnal again, because of my commitment to this practice. I read the lyrics before I sang them today, not really noticing the third verse because it’s all happy pilgrim songs marching along. Blech.

But then I sang – the tune is actually not bad and easy to sing; it put me in mind of some of the camp songs I learned as a kid, for some reason. And it matches the lyrics well….so for better or worse, I at least had enough …whatever… to notice that.

And then I got to the third verse. “Into the light from the shadowed past”…”still shall our pilgrim song…resound while life and mountains last.” In other words, what we know is true IS still true, and we must sing it bravely and buoyantly and be strong….because if we don’t, who will?

Here. Here in this cheery morning song is a call to strength, to courage, to prophetic witness.

Yeah, I’m in for that. I don’t have a lot of hope inside me right now, despite all I am preaching. But I do know I have to keep on singing our songs of righteousness, justice, freedom, compassion.

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Sometimes simple is best.

Though I may speak with bravest fire, and have the gift to all inspire,
and have not love, my words are vain as sounding brass and hopeless gain.

Though I may give all I possess, and striving so my love profess,
but not be given by love within, the profit soon turns strangely thin.

Come, Spirit, come, our hearts control, our spirits long to be made whole.
Let inward love guide every deed; by this we worship, and are freed.

This is such a familiar old tune, and such a familiar old Bible passage, it would be easy to sing it without much attention. Something I am sure I have done countless times.

But it is so rich, and deep, and full – and thanks to its simplicity, easy to access, if you’re willing.

Let’s start with the lyrics – a gorgeous, poetic interpretation of I Corinthians 13, the famous Love passage from Paul’s epistle. I have found myself returning to the passage again and again, certainly once I realized it wasn’t about romantic love but about community. And I’ve preached on it, more than once, most explicitly in a sermon called Sharing the Love. This is a powerful passage, and in this interpretation, it becomes a personal call – “let inward love guide every deed; by this we worship, and are freed.” Wow. Beautifully put. We hear “if I have not love, I am nothing” all the time, but this puts it into a frame we can see.

So that’s the words. Now let’s layer in the music.

This tune – from the British Isles, with an expectedly complex history – is perhaps best known as the folk song “The Water Is Wide.” It starts out as a love song… but it doesn’t end there. It’s about love gone wrong, a break of trust, a test. It expresses the complexity of relationships, of the first blush of love that ‘fades away like morning dew.’ It’s a hard song, a song of sadness, loss, indignance, and still a glimmer of hope.

It may seem odd, but pairing these words and this tune delights me.

Love is hard. Love takes a lot of work. In the passage from Paul, he outlines all the things that love is not, because it’s so easy to mistake those things for love or to let those things obscure love. And if you sink into it, love – even the deep, holy, sacred Love that we express with a capital L because it is bigger than any one Greek term – love can fade away like morning dew.

Love with a capital L takes work. And in this last weekend before the American presidential election, love is sometimes hard to come by, so it’s even more important that we lean into it. Deeply. Whole-heartedly. And if you have questions about how to turn the ‘what love is not’s into ‘what love is, read (or listen to) this from Kendyl Gibbons. Because what Love IS helps us through all the times when we are confronted with what Love isn’t.