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Blech.

Seriously – it was like I had bit into a sour lemon or sipped some turned milk when I sang this. I honestly don’t know when I’ve ever had such a reaction to a song as I have sung; I’ve had lots of “um…what” and “dang, I cannot get this” moments, particularly the first time singing through a complex score. But this one isn’t complex. It’s just… awful.

It starts with a tune that is indelibly imprinted with the lyrics “Onward, Christian Soldiers / Marching as to war / with the cross of Jesus / going on before.” I love repurposing hymn tunes, but it’s hard to separate the tune from those militant lyrics. And learning that WIlliam Sullivan (of Gilbert & Sullivan) wrote the tune doesn’t help. While their light operettas rank high for me for their cleverness and singability, they are all – from The Mikado to Iolanthe to HMS Pinafore – are all about duty. And they all feature major generals and admirals and all manner of military positivity.

The lyrics we use emerge from the late 19th century as well, from Unitarian minister and hymn writer Frederick Hosmer, and heaven help us, carry that same militarism that is found in the original lyrics. “Forward…in unbroken line”… “heroes for it died” … “not alone we conquer” … “loss or triumph” …. Blech.

Forward through the ages, in unbroken line,
move the faithful spirits at the call divine:
gifts in differing measure, hearts of one accord,
manifold the service, one the sure reward.

(Chorus) Forward through the ages, in unbroken line,
move the faithful spirits at the call divine.

Wider grows the vision, realm of love and light;
for it we must labor, till our faith is sight.
Prophets have proclaimed it, martyrs testified,
poets sung its glory, heroes for it died. (Chorus)

Not alone we conquer, not alone we fall;
in each loss or triumph lose or triumph all.
Bound by God’s far purpose in one living whole,
move we on together to the shining goal. (Chorus)

I won’t use this hymn. It honestly scares me a little to think modern Unitarian Universalists would take up a fight in this manner. Yes, fight – of course, always fight for what is just and right and inclusive and expansive. But this feels very … just wrong in its manner of fighting. And I can’t imagine it would go over well with congregants who fought (or fought against) the 20th century wars, especially Vietnam.

There are many other great hymns to talk about commitment and action and rallying us for the resistance ahead. This one doesn’t work anymore.

Blech.

Postscript: some might argue that we need to preserve this as part of our history – which says to me there’s a new book to be written, one that collects our musical history so we don’t lose them but don’t use them, because they no longer are in line with our theology and principles. Hmmm. Maybe this project is two books?

 

Image by Susan Herbert, for purchase here: http://www.chrisbeetles.com/gallery/animals/cats/gilbert-and-sullivan.html

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If ever there was a time to remind ourselves where our holy church is, it’s now. And this is just the right hymn to show us – if we allow it to.

Sure, some might find the tune old and stodgy – it is, after all, an old stodgy hymn from the 1551 English psalter, so it’s been around a while. But sometimes the old tunes are the best – and while I am resisting the urge to again wax poetic about the 16th/17th century Anglican devotional literature and music, I will say that they were on to something with these tunes. And I beg of you not to let a 500-year old tune keep you from this one, because it’s got some terrific lyrics for our – and any – time.

Lyricist Edwin Henry Wilson was a Unitarian minister and the first editor of The New Humanist magazine, helping to shape American religious humanism in the first half of the last century. And here’s something cool: his placing the church firmly amongst us humans is not only good humanist theology, it’s good process theology – it’s in us,  it’s in our relationships, it’s in our actions, its not in who we are but in what we do.

Where is our holy church?
Where race and class unite
as equal persons in the search
for beauty, truth, and right.

Where is our holy writ?
Where’er a human heart
a sacred torch of truth has lit,
by inspiration taught.

Where is our holy One?
A mighty host respond;
the people rise in every land
to break the captive’s bond.

Where is our holy land?
Within the human soul,
wherever free minds truly seek
with character the goal.

Where is our paradise?
In aspiration’s sight,
wherein we hope to see
arise ten thousand years of right.

More than ever, we need to remember that it starts here, with us, and that our call is indeed to unite all as equal; to break the captives’ bonds; to build principled, ethical character; to aspire to the beloved community; to free our minds and souls to touch that which some call the Divine.

It’s on every one of us to create this holy church, because it is us.

 

(The photo was taken by Ninie, a contributor at InterfaceLIFT, of a chapel in Yosemite on Christmas Day. )

 

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It is two days after the incredible Women’s March – one day after many ministers, including me, took to the pulpit to talk about our faith’s all to resist and rejoice, to do what’s next.

And what is so very clear is that the people at and supporting the Women’s March, and the folks sitting in the pews all understood is that this was just the start. This was the kick off for the action we are called to. But if anything, the March set the tone – it told us we are not alone, that resistance may be fueled by fear and anger, but that it can be joyful, and funny, and kind, and creative – and that it should be. It must be.

This hymn reminds us of that – “do you hear, do you hear? All the dreams, all the dares, all the sighs, all the prayers – they are yours, mine, and theirs” … wow. This is not your rugged individuality calling, this is the sound of all of us, calling to our hearts and souls, calling us to attend, calling us to resist and rejoice.

Do you hear, oh my friend, in the place where you stand,
through the sky, through the land, do you hear, do you hear?
In the heights, on the plain, in the vale, on the main,
in the sun, in the rain, do you hear, do you hear?

Through the roar, through the rush, through the throng,
through the crush, do you hear in the hush of your soul, of your soul?
Hear the cry fear won’t still, hear the heart’s call to will,
hear a sigh’s startling trill in your soul, in your soul?

From the place where you stand to the outermost strand,
do you hear, oh my friend, do you hear, do you hear?
All the dreams, all the dares, all the sighs, all the prayers —
they are yours, mine, and theirs — do you hear, do you hear?

The lyrics are by religious educator Emily Thorn, set to one of my favorite tunes from the shape note collections (Southern Harmony, Union Harmony, Northern Harmony, etc.), Foundation. It’s easy to sing, and a bit sing-songy, but it carries that same sort of deep, true call to our hearts that Abigail Washburn talks about in the On Being podcast I reference here. There is something true about the music, the lyrics, the call  – something that lands for me and makes my entire being simply want to answer “Yes.”

Do you hear? Because if ever there was a time, this is the time to open up your heart and hear.

This is the  time to reengage with what matters, what our faith calls us to.

This is the time for strong words and rebellious thoughts and bold, beautiful, creative acts of resistance.

This is the time to be mad as hell and not want to take it anymore.

This is the time to be the people we have been waiting for.

This is the time to figure out what you will do to help resist hate and fear and discrimination and violence.

This is the time for courage, even a drop or two as we make our way in this uncertain world.

This is the time for heroes – and so we must reach for the stars.

It’s time. Do you hear?

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Apologies for the delay, gentle readers – I needed to write the rest of my sermon to include reflections from the Women’s March.

But it’s in that spirit that I approach today’s hymn. The tune (Vienna) for me, is neither here nor there. But these lyrics, by Samuel Johnson (a contemporary of the Longfellow brothers) are right on point – because I saw life richly poured yesterday on the streets of New York, and in photos and reports from streets around the world. It cheered me to see such an intersectional crowd – people of all ages, all genders, all colors, all abilities – all cheering each other on, all talking nonstop about why they were marching, what we were seeing, how important this felt and how clear it was it’s just a first step.

There was laughter and joy, people sharing drinks and snacks and stories – but more, there was a clear understanding that that these people were not going to go home, hang up their pink hats, and forget to do anything else. These people – and I – understood that this was just the start. This was the kick off for the action we are called to. But if anything, the march set the tone – it told us we are not alone, that resistance may be fueled by fear and anger, but that it can be joyful, and funny, and kind, and creative – and that it should be. It must be.

This hymn comes as a perfect coda to the experience, saying from 170 years ago, yes! Keep going! The exemplars and pioneers that went before are in and around you and supporting you today in your holy resistance.

Life of ages, richly poured, love of God, unspent and free,
flowing in the prophet’s word and the people’s liberty —

Never was to chosen race that unstinted tide confined;
yours is every time and place, fountain sweet of heart and mind.

Breathing in the thinker’s creed, pulsing in the hero’s blood,
nerving simplest thought and deed, freshening time with truth and good,

Consecrating art and song, holy book and pilgrim way,
quelling floods of tyrant wrong, widening freedom’s sacred sway.

Life of ages, richly poured, love of God, unspent and free,
flow still in the prophet’s word and the people’s liberty!

Amen.

Today’s photo is one of many I took yesterday at the Women’s March.

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Another one of those “hymns that make you go ‘huh’.”

I read the first two lines and thought “yes! A fight song! And then I read on…and found myself disappointed. You see, as soon as I hit publish, I’ll be heading out to NYC for the Women’s March, where New Yorkers will march in solidarity with marchers in Washington, DC, as well as other cities around the country and the world.  And I guess in some ways, this hymn could be conceived as a battle cry.

But it’s not the battle cry I want today. You see, I’m fired up, righteously angry – a mental state fueled by fear and frustration and a crystal clear call from my faith and my God. I don’t feel much in the mood for a song that calls us to stop warring, to set aside our grudges, to find common ground. I’m not feeling at all conciliatory. I want a fight song that takes no prisoners, that calls for unrepentantly bold resistance and holy belligerence.

But this is the song I’m presented with today. I suppose it’s a reminder that ultimately, this is what we want. Long term goals, I guess. And almost any other time, I might turn to this hymn as an aspirational call.

So…this might be a hymn to revisit when emotions aren’t running so hot and the stakes aren’t so high.

Come, children of tomorrow, come!
New glory dawns upon the world;
the warring banners must be furled,
the earth become our common home.

From plain and field and town there sound
the stirring rumors of the day;
old wrongs and burdens must make way
for all to tread the common ground.

Divided we have long withstood
the love that is our common speech.
The comrade cry of each to each
is calling us to humanhood.

(The artwork today is the poster artist Mary Engelbreit has made available free for download, posting, and printing in support of the march.)

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The synchronicity of this song being today’s hymn, on the eve of the Women’s March, is not lost on me.

Thus, I was going to do a bit of digging to learn more about the background of the phrase “bread and roses” and the poem, knowing it all sprung up a little over 100 years ago during the time of labor and women’s movements – and became popular during the demonstrations after the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire and during the Lawrence, Massachusetts, textile workers’ strikes. On the list of top hits was an article from, of all things, Epicurious, who is normally focused on food and entertaining. The entire article, by Sam Worley, is worth a read – it recounts the history, but also adds the perfect notes to connect it to today. This sentence in particular caught my eye:

But if the last few months have been a reminder of anything, it’s that the darker elements of our past are closer than they ought to be, and perennially in danger of catching up; that there are many dark things we have not, despite optimistic pieties, put behind us; and that vigilance against this darkness is constantly required.

Please read the entire article, because Worley draws some amazing connections between the movements that sparked the slogan (and the poem our lyrics today come from), food justice, economic and racial justice, women’s rights, and, of course, bread. And it’s hopeful – he ends with a line that reminds me of this verse from a powerful Judy Grahn poem:

the common woman is as common
as good bread
as common as when you couldnt go on
but did.
For all the world we didnt know we held in common
all along
the common is as common as the best of bread
and will rise
and will become strong–I swear it to you
I swear it to you on my own head
I swear it to you on my common
woman’s
head

Now to the hymn:  the tune we have here is not the tune we all grew up with, because we all grew up with Judy Collins singing it to the tune written by Mimi Farina. You can listen to that version, although I like Pat Humphries’ version better.

I’m not sure when the version we have, by Caroline Kohlsaat, was composed – there’s some research to suggest the poem itself faded away until the end of World War II, when working women were being pushed out of the factory to make room for soldiers returning from war.

And so here it is. On the eve of the Women’s March, with a lot of the same problems (including some of the same troubling views of women – see verse 2, line 2), fighting for some of the same things. We’ve made progress since then, but it has been and will continue to be a long, hard road.

And still we rise.

As we come marching, marching, in the beauty of the day,
a million darkened kitchens, a thousand workshops gray,
are touched with all the radiance that a sudden sun discloses:
for the people hear us singing, “Bread and roses, bread and roses!”

As we come marching, marching, we battle too for men,
for they are women’s children, and we mother them again.
Our lives shall not be sweated from birth until life closes:
hearts starve as well as bodies — give us bread, but give us roses!”

As we come marching, marching, unnumbered women dead
go crying, through our singing, their ancient song of bread!
Small art and love and beauty their drudging spirits knew:
yes, it is bread we fight for, but we fight for roses too!

As we come marching, marching, we bring the greater days:
the rising of the women means the rising of the race.
No more the drudge and idler, ten that toil where one reposes,
but a sharing of life’s glories — bread and roses, bread and roses!

(Image is from the Women’s Suffrage Procession, March 3, 1913.)

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This is one of those cases where, given the times in which we live and the still unbelievable event about to happen on Friday, all I can do is let the lyrics of this beautiful song of joy and resistance speak for themselves. Sorry, folks, no deep analysis today, because this song has shaken me to my core with its undeniable truths and hope-filled demands. Please sing and cry with me today:

My life flows on in endless song above earth’s lamentation.
I hear the real though far-off hymn that hails a new creation.
Through all the tumult and the strife I hear the music ringing.
It sounds an echo in my soul. How can I keep from singing!

What though the tempest ‘round me roars, I know the truth, it liveth.
What though the darkness ‘round me close, songs in the night it giveth.
No storm can shake my inmost calm while to that rock I’m clinging.
Since love prevails in heav’n and earth, how can I keep from singing!

When tyrants tremble as they hear the bells of freedom ringing,
when friends rejoice both far and near, how can I keep from singing!
To prison cell and dungeon vile our thoughts to them are winging;
when friends by shame are undefiled, how can I keep from singing!

I should note, as Jacqui James points out in Between the Lines, the third verse was written during the McCarthy era to protest that round of paranoia and fear; it seems especially appropriate right now.

My sermon this week is called “What’s Next?” wherein I’ll be talking about what this elderly congregation can expect and can do, since for nearly all of them, their days of protest marches and door-knocking are long over. I want them to do is keep singing the songs of resistance and freedom, to keep telling their stories, and do the little things they can (letter writing, calls to representatives, etc.) to keep hope alive. And so we’ll end on this hymn.

And hopefully I can keep it together long enough to do the benediction.

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Each morning, as I sit down to write about my singing experience, I sometimes find poetry flows out; other times theology or history; other times musicology; often humor and snark. This morning, only one thing came to mind:

“For God’s sake, let us sit upon the ground and tell sad stories of the death of Kings.”  (Richard II, Act 2, Scene 2)

And I don’t know if I have much more to add this morning – Shakespeare pretty well sums up what this feels like for me. Sure, I’m glad we have a Palestrina tune, and no, I’m not saying I wouldn’t use this in the right circumstances. But in this run up to days of action, I’m not sure I’m much in the mood for resting on our ancestors’ laurels. And today, that’s what this feels like. I don’t want us to sit upon the ground and tell the old tales, I want us to get up and do something. I want us to follow their example, not be mesmerized into smug inaction by their example.

We are the people we should be singing about. Alleluia.

Now sing we of the brave of old
who would not sell themselves for gold,
yet left us riches manifold; Alleluia!

Of those who fought a goodly fight
for liberty, for truth and right,
their patient love their chiefest might; Alleluia!

Who, when no gleam did point the way,
pressed ever on, by night, by day,
and, spite of pain, did ever say Alleluia!

Who long the world’s old sorrows bore
and toiled and loved and suffered sore,
and, being dead, live evermore; Alleluia!

(Postscript about the photo: Yes, David Tennant did play Richard II, in 2013.)

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One of the tropes in musical theatre is the ‘my way’ trope: somewhere in the first act (usually toward the end of the act), a major character sings their song of defiance – the song that tells the audience they’re going to go against the grain, take the journey, follow their quest, follow their love. They’re often the first showstopper song, too, the memorable ones that keep us humming. I’m thinking about songs like “Defying Gravity” (Wicked); “Don’t Rain on My Parade” (Funny Girl); “I Am What I Am” (Le Cage aux Folles); “The Impossible Dream” (Man of LaMancha); “Epiphany” (Sweeney Todd); “Rose’s Turn” (Gypsy) because sometimes defiance kicks in late; even “My Shot” (Hamilton), because sometimes defiance kicks in early.

I could go on and on, but you get the point. At some point on a journey, you have to not just see what the path ahead is, you have to declare it and hush the naysayers in a song of defiance. This hymn, with words from John Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress, written in 1683, is the song of defiance, old school. Don’t hold me back – I’m doin’ this.

Who would true valor see, let them come hither;
one here will constant be, come wind, come weather;
there’s no discouragement shall make me once relent
my first avowed intent to be a pilgrim.

Whoso beset me ‘round with dismal stories,
do but themselves confound; my strength the more is.
No lion can me fright, I’ll with a giant fight,
but I shall have a right to be a pilgrim.

No word of foe or friend can daunt my spirit;
I know I at the end will life inherit.
Then fancies fly away; I’ll not fear what they say;
I’ll labor night and day to be a pilgrim.

This isn’t my favorite of the English melodies Ralph Vaughan Williams has set – but it’s pretty and a bit aspirational nonetheless, and it works well.

I’m glad we have this hymn; if others we’ve encountered have been fight songs to get us riled up, this is the moment when we open the door and go to take up the fight. It seems appropriate to sing this a few days before the Women’s March (I’ll be in NYC)… I’m ready, I’m geared up, and now, don’t tell me not to go, because it is “my first avowed intent” to do this thing I’m called to do. The time is now, don’t tell me not to, nobody is ever gonna bring me down, I’m not throwin’ away my shot.

 

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File this under Hymns that Make You Go ‘Huh.’

Sometimes these things begin with the ‘huh’, sometimes they begin on a joyful note and then somehow turn. I opened the hymnal and smiled because I love this one. As regular readers know, I love hymn tunes by Ralph Vaughan Williams, and this one is particularly and simultaneously joyful and regal. It is well crafted too, with a third line that revels in the release of the alleluias.

I also like the lyrics in our hymnal – they are, in part, how I understand my theistic humanism (on days when I describe my theology like that). The saints – the exemplars and pioneers of the present and the past – should be recognized, honored, and praised. And thank all that is holy that they were here, they were strong ‘in the well-fought fight” and they inspire us in our fights. Amen, amen, amen.

And so I sang this rousing hymn while waiting for the coffee, a bit more enthusiastically than other hymns I’ve sung, grateful for this section of the hymnal being timed for right now, on the eve of a week than starts with a celebration of Martin Luther King, Jr. and ends with the Women’s March, and features in the middle the inauguration of someone whose words and actions call us to resist, that call us to remember more than ever the exemplars of our past and be the exemplars of our present.

As I sang, I thought, I really love this hymn….

For all the saints who from their labors rest,
who thee by faith before the world confessed,
thy name most holy be forever blest. Alleluia! Alleluia!

Thou wast their rock, their shelter, and their might;
their strength and solace in the well-fought fight;
thou, in the darkness deep their one true light. Alleluia! Alleluia!

O blest communion of the saints divine!
We live in struggle, they in glory shine;
yet all are one in thee, for all are thine. Alleluia! Alleluia!

And when the strife is fierce, the conflict long,
steals on the ear the distant triumph-song,
and hearts are brave again, and arms are strong. Alleluia! Alleluia!

So why the turn?

Well, as I am wont to do, I check out some of the background and history – where did this song come from, why did they write it, what was the original use of the tune and what was the original lyric. These things intrigue me, and as I’ve reflected on before, they matter.

And so, I was a bit surprised to find that our four verses are part of a much longer, eleven-stanza piece, that (a) makes it abundantly clear that the “thy” and “thee” is Jesus (and his partners in divinity, the Father and the Holy Ghost)… and (b) is in fact careful to single out the Apostles, the Evangelists, the Martyrs, and the Soldiers, each with their own verses, all part of the Saints that this Anglican song sings praises for.

And that preposition is important – it’s not praises to, as we might see it in our truncated (and edited, of course) version. It’s praises to the Big Three for their existence. It’s not so humanist as our version is, by any stretch. The original is a processional, a calling in of the ancestors, as it were. The way ours is revised, it’s more a recessional – a get out there and fight the good fight song. In many ways, it’s a different song – a different intent, with a number of different lyrics (and the adaption is not noted in the hymnal, by the way).

And so the “huh”, as is often the case, is about whether this was appropriate for us to do, when is it appropriate to do so, and how do we honor original intent when it doesn’t fit our theologies. Do we lose beloved songs? Are we okay in making these dramatic shifts in some instances even as we rail against the same in others? I know that folk music has a time-honored tradition of changing/adding lyrics, but this isn’t a folk song. I’m not sure what the line is, where the line is, and what it says about us that we cling to old hymns that in some cases still really move us, as long as we can make the lyrics work for us.

I don’t know any of the answers to the above – hence my “huh” – and in the midst of it, I still know that as we sing it today, and especially this week, it is inspiring and glorious, even with all the questions it raises. And maybe that’s the metaphor – we can question a thing and still love it. We can love a thing and still want it to be better.

 

(Postscript: I chose this great photo of religious leaders in North Carolina, including the Reverend William Barber, because they are our present exemplars and pioneers. I am grateful for their witness.)