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Dear weaver of our lives’ design
whose patterns all obey,
with skillful fingers gently guide
the sturdy threads that will survive
the tangle of our days.

Take up the fabric of our lives
with hands that gently hold;
bind in the ragged edge that care
would sunder and that pain would tear,
and mend our rav’ling souls.

Let eyes that in the plainest cloth
a hidden beauty see;
discern in us our richest hues,
show us the patterns we may use
to set our spirits free.

Back in my holy roller days, a member of my prayer circle self-proclaimed herself as having the gift of prophesy. In that space and time, we understood that to be a huge gift, but the way it played out was her telling us things about life in poetic language. And yes, she was doing an MA in creative writing. She’d wax poetic about trees and rebirth, crystals and growth, wind and change. Nothing too wild, but our 18-year-old minds were blown away by her 25-year-old wisdom. At one of our gatherings, she went into ‘prophesy’ mode and talked to me about being a tapestry, a life woven through time with many threads coming together; I wouldn’t be able to see it because I was still young and too close, but it would become significant.

As time wore on and I fell away from that path, I forgot most of what happened in those circles and firmly rejected the harmful doctrines; however, her image of a tapestry has stayed with me, more than 30 years now. I return to it time and time again, thinking about how not just our individual lives but our communities and indeed our world are woven into beautiful tapestries we can only see part of. When something especially good or especially bad happens, I think about what color threads are being used, what the image on the tapestry looks like, how it connects to other parts of the design.

So it’s not surprising that I love the lyrics of this hymn. Me, in my theistic, “god is creator and creating and so are we” understanding of theology, resonates deeply with this weaver of our lives’ design. We are plain cloth and tangled threads; we are the sculpture under the stone; we are the unprocessed film; we are the unplayed notes on the piano – all ready to be and already woven into our life’s tapestry. This is creation and creating, this is possibility and anticipation, this is what is and what’s next.

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For the beauty of the earth, for the splendor of the skies,
for the love which from our birth over and around us lies:
Source of all, to thee we raise this, our hymn of grateful praise.

For the joy of ear and eye, for the heart and mind’s delight,
for the mystic harmony linking sense to sound and sight:
Source of all, to thee we raise this, our hymn of grateful praise.

For the wonder of each hour of the day and of the night,
hill and vale and tree and flower, sun and moon and stars of light:
Source of all, to thee we raise this, our hymn of grateful praise.

For the joy of human care, sister, brother, parent, child,
for the kinship we all share, for all gentle thoughts and mild:
Source of all, to thee we raise this, our hymn of grateful praise.

This is probably in my top five favorite hymns ever.

I loved it as a child, I loved it especially when I learned a solo version during my holy roller days, I loved it even more when I saw that the Unitarian Universalists changed “Lord” to “Source.” (I’m not sure why “glory” was changed to “splendor” – word allergies, I suppose.) I love it every time I hear it, just about every way it’s played (I once heard someone play it like a dirge. It was offensive.), I find myself singing it to myself. I have to be careful to not choose it as an opening hymn too often.

For me, this is a celebration of life – because for me, life isn’t just about the earth and its inhabitants. Life is about our spirits, our souls, our connection to something bigger and greater than us. Even if you don’t believe in God, it’s hard to believe we are completely isolated from each other – we are connected, and we constantly find ways to connect, whether through families and tribes, nations and states, highways and railways, telegraphs and telephones, the internet. We are connected to something greater, even if it is just our collective selves.

This hymn remembers that we’re connected to something greater than ourselves – Source of All. And it’s good, and appropriate that we sing a hymn of praise to that something greater. It’s what helps us find meaning, helps us find purpose, helps us be fully human and fully earthlings.

And in the praising, I find peace. I find comfort, I find assurance.

—

On a musical note (see what I did there?), I really wish everyone would take the breath, as marked, in the chorus. It’s “Source of all, to thee we raise this, [BREATH] our hymn of grateful praise.” Please, if you read this, breathe where you’re supposed to. It’s actually more meaningful and beautiful.

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Be thou my vision, O God of my heart;
naught be all else to me, save that thou art.
Thou my best thought, by day or by night,
waking or sleeping, thy presence my light.

Be thou my wisdom, and thou my true word;
I ever with thee and thou with me God;
thou my soul’s shelter, thou my high tower,
raise thou me heavenward, O Power of my power.

Riches I heed not, nor world’s empty praise,
thou my inheritance, now and always;
thou and thou only, first in my heart,
Sov’reign of heaven, my treasure thou art.

Commence theological whiplash in 3…2…1….

Yesterday, we sang a paean to the interconnected web of all existence. Today, we shall now sing one of the most theistic hymns we have.  We’ve gone from a recitation of things found in nature and among us (sun, wind, the lark, the seasons, rain and snow, play, sleep), saying “I’m as rich as rich can be, for all these things belong to me … to a singular focus on a transcendent God: “thou my inheritance, first and always.”

Like I said. Whiplash.

Not that it’s bad… in fact, it’s quite reflective of the vastness of our theologies and perspectives, and speaks deeply of who we are that these two hymns can be on facing pages, one touching the other almost all the time, getting our sense of the planet all mashed up with a focus on the Divine.

Oddly, it’s not entirely unreflective of my own theology – individually, they are what they are. But mashed up together (which musically would be difficult due to different time signatures and phrasing), they feel very much like the theistic process theology I find both comforting and challenging. Here’s creation and all the amazingness that it is, and we can celebrate our part in it, and… we can look to that which some call God as the source of vision, wisdom, comfort, protection to be key to that creation which we celebrate. It isn’t a perfect fit, of course; I’m not sure I’m completely down with this early 20th century picture of God, but some within our faith are, and I am glad we celebrate this transcendent God in our hymnal.

Musically, of course, this tune (Slane) is light, easy, familiar – I am sure most UUs regularly sing this to Thomas Mikelson’s words, “Wake now my senses and hear the earth call” (298 for those keeping score). It’s catchy – a tune I will probably find myself humming all day.

But beyond today, I will carry with me this juxtaposition, this theological whiplash, and continue to think about how we hold these differences in juxtaposition, put them in conversation, make space for the both outside a book where they don’t even know they’re connected. This is part of our work: making sense of the space where both these things are true.

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What wondrous love is this, O my soul, O my soul,
what wondrous love is this, O my soul?
What wondrous love is this that brings my heart such bliss,
and takes away the pain of my soul, of my soul,
and takes away the pain of my soul.

When I was sinking down, sinking down, sinking down,
when I was sinking down, sinking down,
when I was sinking down beneath my sorrows ground,
friends to me gather’d round, O my soul, O my soul,
friends to me gather’d round, O my soul.

To love and to all friends I will sing, I will sing,
to love and to all friends I will sing.
To love and to all friends who pain and sorrow mend,
with thanks unto the end I will sing, I will sing,
with thanks unto the end I will sing.

Sometimes the written music is just a suggestion.

In our hymnal, this hymn, based of course on a folk tune collected in The Southern Harmony, is set in 2/2 time – fairly square but not march-like. And I have liked it fine, admiring of the elegant rewritten lyrics to take the focus off “the thorny crown” and place it on “friends to me gathered ’round.” It is more personal, hold me – and many in our faith – more deeply.

But in the spring of 2015, in searching for a recording of this hymn (for reasons long forgotten now), I stumbled across Christian singer Chelsea Moon’s rendition – accompanied by two guitars (the Franz Brothers) – and performed in 6/8 time. Now technically, 6/8 is just a tripled breakdown of 2/2, but it’s remarkably different, both in tone, and ultimately in meaning.

Let’s give it a listen (and know that the lyrics are the original in both). First, here’s the song in 2/2 time (in a gorgeous choral arrangement performed by the St. Olaf Choir):

And now, Chelsea Moon’s version:

Both beautiful, but for me, the rolling 6/8 connects to a natural internal pulse that feels as though it comes from and through my body, connected directly to my heart and soul.

I have since sung this a capella, in a 6/8 time signature, in a handful of settings, and each time it has felt more personal to me. And I realize this, as I sing it over and over, even as I write this reflection: while there are many songs that move me deeply, this one – this one beautiful song, with our words of friendship and connection –  is my spirit’s song, my heart’s cry, my soul’s comfort…

To all my friends… with thanks unto the end, I will sing.

I will sing.

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Every night and every morn
some to misery are born;
every morn and every night
some are born to sweet delight.

Joy and woe are woven fine,
clothing for the soul divine:
under every grief and pine
runs a joy with silken twine.

It is right it should be so:
we were made for joy and woe;
and when this we rightly know,
safely through the world we go.

William Blake. Swoon.

Seriously – an amazing poet, writing alongside Wordsworth, Shelley, Coleridge, Burns, Keats. Some of the most elegant poets of the English language, all exploring all manner of life, divinity, nature, and the essence of humanity… while Channing, Emerson, and Thoreau were exploring the same through theology and philosophy. A heady time of new thought.

But I digress. I was swooning over Blake’s poetry – wondering how it is I have spent all this time skimming past this hymn, not seeing its depth and beauty. It is something I deeply believe – that we cannot have joy without woe, nor woe without knowing there is joy somewhere, feeding and clothing our souls.

And how did I skim over this, knowing now that it is set to one of my favorite hymn tunes, the lush and delicious Ralph Vaughan Williams piece “The Call”? The two together are deep, and meaningful, and rich.

Part of this practice is about my own spiritual care – it isn’t just a daily homework assignment, although sometimes it strikes me as such. No, singing aloud to these hymns, in my kitchen while the coffee is brewing, is meant to be a spiritual practice to feed me and open my eyes to something.

And this one has brought me Right. Back. To. Center.

All of the insanity of the presidential election, all the tumult in the congregation, all the pain in the world, for a moment anyway, has been taken off my shoulders so that I may sit with my soul, full of joy and woe, and luxuriate in this beautiful hymn for this beautiful moment.

Mmmmm.

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‘Tis a gift to be simple, ‘tis a gift to be free,
‘tis a gift to come down where we ought to be,
and when we find ourselves in the place just right,
‘twill be in the valley of love and delight.

When true simplicity is gained,
to bow and to bend we shan’t be ashamed.
To turn, turn will be our delight,
‘till by turning, turning we come ‘round right.

I am currently taking a unit of clinical pastoral education (CPE), and in my classroom and supervisory sessions, I’m finding myself reconsidering the stories I have told about my childhood from the perspective of who these stories mean I bring into each pastoral session. It’s been good work…holy work… but it also means I have cleared the path to those childhood memories, so they’re easier to get to right now. And so this simple hymn tune, rather than delighting me and drawing me toward reflecting on the Shakers is instead reminding me of a long-forgotten embarrassment.

I was eleven, going on twelve, the year of America’s Bicentennial. My family and I loved it all – the history, the passion and pomp and parade, the community spirit. We participated in everything we could. Dad was one of the men asked to play one of the signers of the Declaration in a July 4th pageant, and so Mom made his costume, along with one for me.

I loved my 18th century costume, but like many things I loved, it made me even more of an outcast amongst my schoolmates. On that day, though, I didn’t care too much. My dad was a Signer, and we loved the celebration.

Later that summer, the Hudson Valley Girl Scout Council put together a girls’ chorus to sing a program of patriotic tunes at the Schaighticoke Fair. I either didn’t listen or didn’t want to listen or simply misunderstood – but of the fifty or so girls who sang, 49 wore their Girl Scout uniforms, and one wore her Bicentennial costume. And what’s worse – I had a solo, on “Simple Gifts.’

I was mortified. I was embarrassed that I stuck out. I was teased by members of my troop. And I can’t imagine what the choir director thought, but there I was, sticking out like a sore thumb in that sea of Girl Scout Green. I don’t remember if anyone in the audience thought anything of it – maybe they thought it was intentional because of my solo. Maybe they thought I was also doing something else. Or maybe they didn’t even notice, and my mortification was a product of my own desire to just for once fit in.

And it’s entirely possible I am the only person in the world who remembers this. Heck, I didn’t know I held the memory until I started singing this morning – and yet here it is, on full display. I couldn’t sing through the piece, short as it is, without bursting into tears, remembering viscerally the embarrassment.

Such a simple, beautiful, song.

Telling me, by the way, to not be ashamed – because ‘by turning, turning, we come ’round right.’

My eleven-year-old self never heard the message of the song until now. The simple truth is, I am who I am, I have done what I have done, but I keep turning, turning. I keep moving on, keep finding out and being simply who I am.

Tis a gift, indeed, to be simple.

 

 

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The lone, wild bird in lofty flight
is still with thee, nor leaves thy sight.
And I am thine! I rest in thee.
Great spirit come and rest in me.

The ends of earth are in thy hand,
the sea’s dark deep and far-off land.
And I am thine! I rest in thee.
Great spirit come and rest in me.

I’m not sure I have much to say – I love the tune (Prospect) and have sung it in numerous settings, most beautifully in a choral setting of Michael Dennis Browne’s “The Road Home” arranged by Stephen Paulus.

The lyrics are much more theistic than its title would suggest. This stealth theism delights me a bit today…especially as I begin planning November’s services and programs, which are all about humanism.

That’s it really. A short, delightful little hymn with more than meets the eye and a lush memory.

 

(PS: The image above is of a tundra swan. Cool, eh?)

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O Life that maketh all things new,
the blooming earth, our thoughts within,
our pilgrim feet, wet with thy dew,
in gladness hither turn again.

From hand to hand the greeting flows,
from eye to eye the signals run,
from heart to heart the bright hope glows,
the seekers of the light are one:

One in the freedom of the truth,
one in the joy of paths untrod,
one in the soul’s perennial youth,
one in the larger thought of God;

The freer step, the fuller breath,
the wide horizon’s grander view,
the sense of life that knows no death,
the Life that maketh all things new.

This hymn feels extraordinarily aspirational to me today. It’s been a hard, heavy, trauma-laden week, thanks to our national flirtation with the collective Id. There doesn’t seem to be much in the way of truth, or freedom, or joy, or any space at all to have larger, wider, fuller thoughts about anything, let alone the Divine.

Yet here it is, this project’s gift to me today, lyrics by 19th century poet Samuel Longfellow, set to a familiar hymn tune many might know as “I Know My Redeemer Lives” – which in itself is similarly aspirational and hopeful. Easy and comfortable to sing, cheerful but not sentimental, strong but not defiant.

O Life that maketh all things new … not worn, not reused, not tired. New.

the blooming earth, our thoughts within … even as the seasons cycle through, so will – or should – our thoughts.

our pilgrim feet, wet with thy dew … we are always searching, seeking, mo

in gladness hither turn again … and thank god Life DOES make all things new, because we need it to be that way, for our sanity. We need to be refreshed, renewed, revived, and clearly – at least today – reminded that this does happen. It does get better. It does get easier. Today’s heaviness and worry will morph and change and sometimes become harder and sometimes turn into joy, but Life is here to remind us that it all happens to all of us and there is newness always because that is the very nature of Life.

And here’s the truth: I felt a little better after I sang this. Not because I sang (although singing does feel good physically and emotionally), but because I sang this song despite feeling rather worn and emotionally exhausted. I feel a little better because I caught a glimpse of the aspirational. Sometimes the aspirational feels too precious. And sometimes – like today – the aspirational is a balm.

 

 

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Immortal love, forever full, forever flowing free,
forever shared, forever whole, a never-ending sea!

Our outward lips confess the name all other names above;
but love alone knows whence it came and comprehendeth love.

Blow, winds of love, awake and blow the mists of hate away;
sing out, O Truth divine, and tell how wide and far we stray.

The letter fails, the systems fall, and every symbol wanes;
the Spirit overseeing all, Eternal Love, remains.

I finished singing this hymn and thought ‘the tune betrays the lyric.’

This is a powerful lyric – “blow the mists of hate away”… “tell how far and wide we stray”… “the letter fails, the systems fall”… powerful words demanding we answer the call of Love and seek justice. We believe first in Love and the power of Love to make us agents of change, truth, justice, and compassion. This is a strong, time to show up, walk the talk, get woke and stay woke lyric. And one that reminds us that Love remains the constant – the one thing we can lean on, count on, avail ourselves of, learn from, embody.

And…it’s set to a light Irish air.

The truth is, I often overlook it when choosing hymns because I hadn’t dug deep into it before, had not realized the force that is Whittier’s words. “Immortal love, forever full”…okay, let’s remember you on Valentine’s Day…next.

But it is amazing. It deserves a better, stronger tune. Our own hymnal is limited – this tune, called St. Columba, is the only one in our hymnals with this meter (8.6.8.6) – yet there are at least 150 other tunes with this meter (according to the site Small Church Music). So what are we doing here? Why did the folks who set this tune in the first place think this was the right match?

It’s time to find a new tune – one that is commiserate with the bold call of Whittier’s words. One that propels us into action. One that reminds us what Love looks like when it is Lived.

Words by John Greenleaf Whittier, set to an Irish melody

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Just as long as I have breath, I must answer, “Yes,” to life;
though with pain I made my way, still with hope I meet each day.
If they ask what I did well, tell them I said, “Yes,” to life.

Just as long as vision lasts, I must answer, “Yes,” to truth;
in my dream and in my dark, always that elusive spark.
If they ask what I did well, tell them I said, “Yes,” to truth.

Just as long as my heart beats, I must answer, “Yes,” to love;
disappointment pierced me through, still I kept on loving you.
If they ask what I did best, tell them I said, “Yes,” to love.

It is a bit of a relief to turn to a hymn I know well, whose lyrics are very familiar.

Which also makes this day an interesting challenge, because it would be easy to sing through without paying attention. If yesterday’s hymn was like learning the steps of a complex dance, today’s is a dance I know so well I have forgotten its actual form.

And so I sang it a second time, paying attention to the lyric – and I noticed something difficult and uncomfortable in the third stanza: “disappointment pierced me through, still I kept on loving you.” Now on one hand, this is the beauty of our covenant and of unconditional love – despite the hard times, disappointments, struggles, love still abides.

But the political atmosphere right now – with sexual assault being headline news and many women struggling with the doubts and traumas of their own assaults (physical and emotional) – this line screams out to me. I think of the women who believed their partner’s abuse was somehow their fault. The women who lean on “but I still love him” as reason enough to stay. The women who are told they are a disappointment and it’s only because no one else will love them that he stays.

And then I think of the same kinds of manipulations that can happen in our congregations: Those who excuse bad behavior, because “well, he is a longtime member.’ Those who threaten to take their pledge and their membership if a vote doesn’t go their way. Those who believe the bad behavior was because of something the congregation did/didn’t do.

We are struggling, in this time and place, in our homes, communities, and in the nation, with a callousness that demands love despite disappointment, that blames rather than takes responsibility, that gives too long a rope to bad behavior and is unpracticed in the art of calling in and recommitting to covenant.

I don’t know what the answer is. I don’t know what kind of radical, global epiphany we have to have in order to wake up and stay woke. I don’t know what kind of personality characteristic we need to collectively unearth to stand up to that which we know in our guts is wrong, abusive, or harmful. I’d like to think that we’re practicing it in our congregations – churches, synagogues, fellowships, mosques, and circles should be the places where we build these muscles and gain a little bit of courage. But the harm has permeated our walls too – and so what should be safe havens, practice spaces, and soul gyms, become just as harmful, hurtful, and distressing.

“Disappointment pieced me through” – and then I named the problem, I called you back in, we talked about the harm, we developed a plan for reconciliation, we kept each other accountable – and then, “I kept on loving you.”

Let’s not mistake “love” for permission. And let’s stop using “love” as permission. Let’s make sure “love” means calling for, expecting, and giving, the very best of ourselves.

Words by Alicia Carpenter
Music by Johann Ebeling