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Two new rules today, because the thing that makes UUs go “huh” should be the theology:

  1. Hymns should avoid using lyrics that have an ABBA rhyme scheme.
  2. Hymns should never end in words most people have to look up.

Just look at these lyrics as a poem, which is how they started. Not bad, really. Very nature-oriented, and I’m sure that in the early 1990s, it was appealing to have more nature-based hymns in the hymnal, especially with the adoption of the seventh principle and sixth source. I mean, it’s not a great poem, but it’s definitely an autumn poem.

Now light is less; noon skies are wide and deep;
the ravages of wind and rain are healed.
The haze of harvest drifts along the field
until clear eyes put on the look of sleep.

The garden spider weaves a silken pear
to keep inclement weather from its young.
Straight from the oak, the gossamer is hung.
At dusk our slow breath thickens on the air.

Lost hues of birds the trees take as their own.
Long since, bronze wheat was gathered into sheaves.
The walker trudges ankle deep in leaves;
the feather of the milkweed flutters down.

The shoots of spring have mellowed with the year.
Buds, long unsealed, obscure the narrow lane.
The blood slows trance-like in the altered vein;
our vernal wisdom moves through ripe to sere.

But now, let’s look at my new rules.

In poetry, internal rhyme and bracketed rhyming structures work well. Rhyme speaks volumes in terms of the way a piece is read and the reflective nature of the words in the rhyme – as well as a lot more stuff professors of poetry and Stephen Fry can tell you. But a poem read is not the same as a poem sung, and different rules apply. Sure, there is free verse in lyrics – “Thank U” by Alanis Morrisette for some reason just came to mind as a good example of free-verse lyric. But putting that aside, if you’re going to use bracketed rhyming schemes or free verse as lyrics, the tune should support it, not make you think ‘that didn’t end right.’  Maybe I’m biased – but I know I’m more comfortable in a congregational singing situation if the rhyming isn’t spread so far apart – an AABB or ABAB scheme just feels more…finished? Hymns aren’t intended to be masterpieces (just kidding, Jason) – they are supposed to move us and support the work of the worship event. The verses of this lyric don’t sing – they thud to a close.

I suspect you already know where I’m going with Rule Two, but let’s talk about it. Now, I am an educated woman. I am well read. I have a reasonably large vocabulary. And if the word ‘sere’ is a mystery to me, it is more than likely a mystery to many. This isn’t a ‘oh, whine, I had to look up a word’ comment where I am just being picky and you’ll come back at me with words I use that others don’t know. This is about singing hymns together, and getting a feeling of whatever it is the hymn is supposed to evoke. In this case, I assume it’s a connection to the deep autumn (although I was already thinking about how little actually happens in this hymn before I hit the last verse). But then you hit “sere” – and unless you’re one of the fourteen people who still use the word, you stop, think ‘I wonder what that word means’ and even if you try to suss it out from context, it’s difficult to know whether we’re talking a word that means overripe, spoiled, or turned to seed. As it happens, ‘sere’ means ‘without moisture’ – which I might have gotten to eventually, but then would have missed the next five or ten minutes of the service. Add in the couple of minutes everyone spent wondering if they’d sung the lyrics wrong because of the rhyming structure, and you might as well not have anything of any import coming up after it, because no one will pay attention, and soon you will be reconsidering your choice to use this hymn at all, and then remembering that you could have gone into publishing but no, you had to become a minister, and now look what’s happened.

It’s too bad, really, that this piece doesn’t work. I love this tune (Sursum Corda) – it’s very Gregorian chant to me, and it has a simple reverence I appreciate. It’s appropriate that it would be paired with a nature-focused lyric. Just not this one.

Thud.

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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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Finally – a hymn about the feminine divine.

I’m not surprised these lyrics are by the Rev. Dr. Kendyl Gibbons – I love her writing and have used her words often in services, including her wonderful piece on the “love is patient, love is kind” passage from I Corinthians 13, which I use in my Share the Love service.

But I digress. Gibbons offers us an image of the feminine divine that is (gasp!) not just motherhood! Halleluiah! The heavens opened and the angels sang, “it’s about freaking time!”

I say this, because over and over we have “mother God” or “mother spirit” or other paeans to women couched in motherhood. I am grateful for the framing of women and the feminine divine in many aspects – include the aspect of justice seeker.

Lady of the seasons’ laughter, in the summer’s warmth be near;
when the winter follows after, teach our spirits not to fear.
Hold us in your steady mercy, Lady of the turning year.

Sister of the evening starlight, in the falling shadows stay
here among us till the far light of tomorrow’s dawning ray.
Hold us in your steady mercy, Lady of the turning day.

Mother of the generations, in whose love all life is worth
everlasting celebrations, bring our labors safe to birth.
Hold us in your steady mercy, Lady of the turning earth.

Goddess of all times’ progression, stand with us when we engage
hands and hearts to end oppression, writing history’s fairer page.
Hold us in your steady mercy, Lady of the turning age.

This hymn works for me today, especially, when I find myself worn down by men, mansplaining, misogyny, and madness. I don’t want to be told how to feel, how things I know already should be, how I shouldn’t make noises or make waves, or just this constant, pervasive insistence that men are more important. I’m worn down. I’m tired. I’m angry. And thus, Gibbons’ call to the Goddess to “stand with us when we engage hands and hearts to end oppression” is a reminder of all the women throughout history who have made a difference in everyone’s lives – and who continue, daily, to answer the call for justice for all, not just women. (Note to self: this would make a great Women’s History Month sermon.)

Two more things, and then I’ll go, because I’m at my sister’s for the holiday and there’s cranberry sauce to be made:

First, the tune. It’s familiar to me, but not because of singing this particular hymn in our congregations. I am fairly certain we sang it a few times in chapel at Union, but I can’t seem to remember what lyrics we used – certainly they were more Christian ones. I was surprised when I picked it up, realizing that while the hymn was unfamiliar, the tune certainly was.

Second, the format: it’s been bugging me that when this publishes to Facebook and email, you get my opening line, and then the lyrics all in an unformatted box. I love having the lyrics at the top for reference, but I think having my words up top is more important, so I’ll try putting the lyrics in the middle of the page. Let me know what you think – it’s not like I don’t still have over a year to tweak this further…

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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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“I have no response to that.”

— Angelica, Joe Versus the Volcano

Now the day is over, night is drawing nigh,
shadows of the evening steal across the sky.

Now the leafless landscape settles in repose,
waiting for the quiet of the winter snows.

Now as twilight gathers let us pause and hear
all the slowing pulsebeats of the waning year.

May the season’s rhythms, slow and strong and deep,
soothe the mind and spirit, lulling us to sleep.

Sleep until the rising of another spring
keeps the ancient promise fall and winter bring.

Huh. So…

I suppose it’s right for the season, but my only real thought is it feels like something to be sung in welcome for a Yuletide vespers.

And I sit here really having not much more to say today. I didn’t like or hate it, I didn’t find it moving or annoying, the tune just is. I really feel like one of Meg Ryan’s characters (she plays three) in Joe Versus the Volcano (which you should watch). Truly, I have no response to this hymn.

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I’m trying – I really am. These songs, tho’…

We sing of golden mornings, we sing of sparkling seas,
of prairies, valleys, mountains, and stately forest trees.
We sing of flashing sunshine and life-bestowing rain,
of birds among the branches, and springtime come again.

We sing the heart courageous, the youthful, eager mind;
we sing of hopes undaunted, of friendly ways and kind.
We sing the roses waiting beneath the deep-piled snows;
we sing the earth’s great splendor, whose beauty ‘round us glows.

If I were in a different headspace, I’d be making some vaguely academic comments about Emerson and his journey with the immanent divine, which might include a dalliance into his exploration of Hindu texts.

And then I’d be commenting on the richness of the tunes from William Walker’s Southern Harmony and expressing gratitude for the preservation of these folk tunes.

But I am not in the right headspace today. My spiritual practice isn’t working to give me comfort or enliven thought. I suppose it’s true of any spiritual practice – sometimes you do it and it blows your mind, sometimes you do it and you check it off your To-Do list. Today is definitely the latter.

What has been helping are conversations with friends and colleagues – and a bit of immersion into the arts. My friend Micah Bucey, the fierce minister of the arts at Judson Memorial in NYC, reminded me that I need to both make art and take in art. Dr. Hal Taussig, one of my professors at Union Theological Seminary, says art helps us “enter the difficult sideways” so that we can approach the hard and sad and terrifying safely.

So… art.

Which I suppose these hymns are, too.

Maybe I’ve been doing as Micah and Hal have advised all along…

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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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Another damn morning song.

You that have spent the silent night in sleep and quiet rest,
and joy to see the cheerful light that rises in the east,
that rises in the east,

Now lift your hearts, your voices raise, your morning tribute bring;
all nature join in grateful praise — rejoice, give thanks, and sing,
rejoice, give thanks, and sing.

So here’s my truth this morning – I am preparing to lead a service that will include hard feelings, tears, frustrations, and I’m trying to get the congregation to a place of at least some hope. It’s a hope I don’t feel yet. I am feigning faith today.  But I know sometimes that’s called for, when hope is needed.

So I’m finding it awfully annoying that my spiritual practice has me singing songs like this, shoving hope in my face when I’m not ready for it.

And I wonder if that’s the point (spoiler: it is). We don’t always feel this, even when all seems reasonably okay in the world. I know there are times when people come into our doors feeling all kinds of terrible, sad, traumatized – and I wonder what starting a service off with this song would be like for them. Would they, as I did when I encountered it this morning, be filled with rage and tears? Would I find a little hope in it anyway? Would it tell me this community might be a place to put down that burden?

I don’t know, but I have to assume that might be true. So… yeah. I’m not feeling this today, but these damn morning songs keep bringing me back to a truth that says love hasn’t ended, hope still exists, there is something more out there to hold onto in these dark times.

May it be so for all of us.

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Not sure I am ready for hope yet…

The morning hangs a signal upon the mountain crest,
while all the sleeping valleys in silent darkness rest.
From peak to peak it flashes, it laughs along the sky,
till glory of the sunlight on all the land shall lie.

Above the generations the lonely prophets rise,
while truth flares as the daystar within their glowing eyes;
and other eyes, beholding, are kindled from that flame;
and dawn becomes the morning, when prophets love proclaim.

The soul has lifted moments, above the drift of days,
when life’s great meaning breaketh in sunrise on our ways.
Behold the radiant token of faith above all fear;
night shall release its splendor that morning shall appear.

But when I am, this is the hymn I might turn to – because if nothing else, the middle verse reminds us that others have gone before and struggled against tyranny and hate, and we can turn to them and their loving example.

But that day is not today. I’m not there in the process yet. But it’s kinda nice to know this hymn is here for when I am.