By |

If you open your hymnal, you will see that the song has a different title printed.

Now if you’ve been paying attention, you have also marked up this song’s title and lyrics, as per the composer’s instructions, changing “standing on the side” to the much less ableist and much more active “answering the call.” I won’t rehash Jason Shelton’s commentary on the lyric change – You can see what he’s said about it here. What I will say is that I whole heartedly support the change; it is evidence of a living tradition that is forever responding to new ways to draw the circle of love ever wider.

And it’s been a while since I listened to it, but I think Jason covers the origin story in the linked post/sermon as well.

So what’s left to say?

First – I like this song. I like the lyrics (especially now), I like the melody, I like the general feel of the piece. It moves, too – so many of our hymns are musically static; they establish a melodic phrase and pattern and then just sit there. But as I learned in conversation with Jason this past week, like the great composers, he thinks deeply about the picture the music paints and how the image we begin with changes by the end of it.

And we are the better for it. As I’ve talked about before in this practice, our music is where our theology is writ large – and I’m beginning to conclude that we will be stronger as a faith when most of what we sing from our hymnals is written by Unitarian, Universalist, and Unitarian Universalist composers. Singing the Journey – and songs like this – go a long way toward that goal.

Back to the song: if it’s unfamiliar to the congregation, introduce it with a soloist or a choir, and consider an additional use with a soloist on the verses and the congregation joining in the chorus. Before they know it, they’ll be humming it along with the rest of us.

With the new, authorized lyrics.

(Pardon the weird formatting – typing on my phone today as I left my laptop right near the front door so I wouldn’t forget to bring it with me to Peterborough. You have permission to laugh at me.)

The promise of the Spirit:

faith, hope and love abide.

And so ev’ry soul

is blessed and made whole;

the truth in our hearts is our guide.

.

Chorus:

We are answering the call of love:

hands joined together as hearts beat as one.

Emboldened by faith, we dare to proclaim

we are answering the call of love.

.

Sometimes we build a barrier

to keep love tightly bound.

Corrupted by fear,

unwilling to hear,

denying the beauty we’ve found.

.

Chorus

.

A bright new day is dawning

when love will not divide.

Reflections of grace

in ev’ry embrace,

fulfilling the vision divine.

.

Chorus

Amen.

—

Image comes from Prairie UU – a few of our fellow UUs answering the call of love.

By |

There’s a wonderful podcast called Song Exploder, where host Hrishikesh Hirway invites songwriters to talk about the origins and construction of their songs; they ‘explode’ the song apart to share insights about the ideas for the song, and about the various parts as it goes from hummed melody and chords on a piano to fully arranged and produced.

Much like that process, there is a process here at Hymn by Hymn too; I am gonna explode my own process for a few minutes – break it apart and explain how I get from spiritual practice to post. (I should note that it didn’t start this way, but curiosity led to this process after a few short weeks).

It starts with coffee. Or at least the making of… I get the coffeemaker set up, press on, and then sit down nearby with my hymnal. Flip, flip, flip to the right page, and I start to sing. If I’m lucky, I know the hymn, or at least the tune (I’m getting a lot better at recognizing tunes by their name because of this). If I don’t, I do a search through various hymn tune sites…maybe YouTube… and as a last resort, open the keyboard app on my phone to plunk out the melody. And I sing.

I really do sing the song, folks. Sometimes it’s quietly, sometimes it’s begrudgingly, sometimes it’s joyfully, sometimes it’s robustly … but I always sing it. I do that because I know that singing shifts our bodies energetically – it gets something moving in our bodies and our souls. And singing lyrics wakes up the mind, too.

Out of the singing comes some experiences, some questions, some affirmations. It might be a lyric that stops me, or a melodic phrase that captures me, or questions arising about its origins. I think about those questions, as well as my opening line, while I prepare the first sacred cup of the holy brew.

Then I sit down to the computer.

Sometimes I know just where I’m going and I begin writing. Other times, my curiosity leads me to a bit of research, which helps me frame my post for the day. I will often have half a dozen tabs open as I look at the hymn’s usage, origin stories, the composer’s bio, alternate lyrics. Sometimes there’s a poetry page or two, and often some YouTube examples of the song. Sometimes (like yesterday) there’s an email or text conversation with the composer or a member of the hymnal commission to offer further insights.

By the time I’ve done a bit of work, I have a pretty good sense of how to proceed – how to explore my own experience of singing, my own thoughts about the musicology, poetry, theology, spirituality, and liturgy reflected in my experience. I write, then find an image (often from Pixabay but sometimes from other sources), tag it, and publish it. By that point I’ve finished my first cup of coffee and can get on with my day. And a second cup of coffee.

—

Now I tell you all this because the experience I had singing this round today does not match the subsequent research I did before I sat down, and I stared at this screen for several minutes trying to find a way to explain what happened from first sung notes to first words on the post. And I probably wrote that whole piece above as a way to avoid the inevitable.

As we have Shlomo Carlebach’s round here, it’s a gorgeous invitation to return to ourselves, to remove the masks, to get back to what we know is true about ourselves. Return to the home of your soul… gorgeous. As I sang it I felt a bit of release, comforted by this reminder.

Return again, Return again,
Return to the home of your soul.

Return to who you are,
Return to what you are,
Return to where you are
born and reborn again.

But of course it also made me wonder about Carlebach, and if there are recordings of the piece for those who are unfamiliar. So I googled, and I discovered in listening to him perform the song that the lyric has been changed; the original is “return to the land of your soul.”

Of course that makes sense; Carlebach (known as “The Singing Rabbi”) was writing and performing songs specifically for a Jewish audience, writing songs that speak about the Divine in ways that “make other rabbis uncomfortable.” And given that, “Land” makes sense, with its significance to the Jewish people and their millennia’s-long desire to be home in Israel. The idea that the returning again is to a physical place – the land of your soul – is as important as and is maybe equal to/more resonant than returning to a sense of self.

Now I can see how the original lyrics might offer some resonance with people whose lands were stolen by greedy Europeans, or with people who were taken from their lands by greedy Europeans – I can’t speak for them but I suspect a Latinx or an African American might find some connection to the original lyric. However, as a descendant of greedy Europeans, I have no right and no standing to sing Carlebach’s original “land of your soul” – it seems like an affront.

Now I wouldn’t have had any of these thoughts if I’d not followed my process. And maybe I’d have been happy to continue using this song to focus on personal spiritual growth.

But now – even with the changed lyric that makes it less obviously about physical place – I struggle. I know the hymnal commission contacted Carlebach’s estate to get approval for the lyric change, but it still feels like, well, like we whitewashed the song.

And I don’t know what to do with that. Until this morning, and through the original singing, I loved this piece and have used it.

Now, I’m not so sure.

It’s still beautiful and lush, and I’m glad it’s here. But I’m just not sure about it anymore.

By |

Among the many things I have learned in this practice is that while on one level, hymns are communal, they are in fact highly personal; a song one might love is the very one that another hates with the fire of a thousand suns. Some of my favorites have been met with derision, and some of the hymns on my nope list have been defended so strongly that I have felt like a pariah.

But then there are some pieces that are not only widely beloved but also become useful tools for pastoral care, community building, and spiritual practice – like today’s amazing piece by Sarah Dan Jones.

I asked Sarah Dan if we could chat (and maybe produce a Hymn by Hymn Extra) but her schedule wouldn’t allow for it; she did, however, share some of the background:

I wrote the song just after September 11th. (You can hear the full song here). I was so filled with despair, and I needed to channel that into some hope.  When the call came for Singing the Journey, I decided to submit the chorus as a chant.  Susan Peck helped me set it (she actually wrote the descant line).

The song has since taken on a life of its own.  It was sung at a student vigil after the Virginia Tech shootings (I know that because of an article in the Washington Post that someone brought to my attention.  The text was listed, but no attribution).. It has been sung at rallies all over the place – Phoenix GA (and before, when folks were arrested protesting Arpaio). I have given permission for its use at camps, congregations who put together their own “hymnal”, and youth groups. I have had requests from all over North America, and Europe.  I have no idea how and where it is being sung, so I have to let that go.

When folks talk to me about it (like when I sing it when visiting out), they range from parents using it to sing their kids to sleep, adults using it in meditation, hospice choirs.  Once, a man told me about how he and his husband had purchased two pigmy goats – they were in the back seat being driven to their new home and making all kinds of noises.  The men starting singing the chant and the goats calmed down (I often tell that story and note how the chant it multi-species!!).

Yes. Sometimes a song is just timeless. And while the verses of the full song are in some ways specific for its origins (although some days, it seems perfect for the moment), the chorus, which we sing, is timeless.

When I breathe in,
I’ll breathe in peace.
When I breathe out,
I’ll breathe out love.

Breathe in, Breathe out,
Breathe in, Breathe out

I will say this one thing: the rhythm of the drone (Breathe in, breathe out) is not square, and congregations are wont to square it up, which throws the other two parts off and before you know it, the whole song’s gone pear-shaped. It is really important to have strong voices hold that syncopation down and fight against the squaring off… because when it’s done right, it’s simply amazing.

What a gift this piece is – to our movement and beyond.

 

By |

This song speaks the truth in my heart.

This song allows me to cry.

This song is a balm to my soul.

Composer Jeannie Gagné wrote it to give voice to “those things which are not expressed, kept within the silence of our hearts” (as noted here) – that moment after spoken joys and sorrows, to honor the unspoken. And more than once, I have needed the quiet strength this song provides; its tender melody matching its tender lyrics.

I am worn, I am tired,
in my quiet sorrow.
Hopelessness will not let me be.
Help me.

I won’t speak of this ache
inside, light eludes me.
In the silence of my heart,
I’m praying.

I keep on, day by day,
trusting light will guide me.
Will you be with me through this time,
holding me?

You’re my hope when I fear
holding on, believing.
Deep inside I pray I’m strong.
Blessed be.

I could – and did – spend a long time with this hymn this morning. But much like the music, the moment demands not so much my words as my silent witness.

Amen. Blessed be.

By |

You could call this one “How Is This My Life?” or maybe “God Bless the Revolution.”… and you’d certainly use the hashtag #MyUnion. But I think we’ll call this one “Our Rock Stars Are Not Your Rock Stars.”

Now the rock star in question is not composer Ysaye Barnwell, although she is a rock star, and I’ll talk more about her when we get to We Are… on January 10th. No, the rock stars in question right now are feminist theologians Bev Harrison and Carter Heyward.

One of the advantages of going to Union Theological Seminary is that we had the opportunity to meet some amazing people in our field, and I had a lot of “how is this my life” moments when sitting in a living room with Harry Belafonte, or singing from the same hymnal with former Australian prime minister Kevin Rudd, or catching a glimpse of Mos Def in the hall as he heads to sit in on a class with Cornel West.

Such is the case on one beautiful, bittersweet afternoon, when Union held a memorial service for Bev Harrison, who had been a professor at Union and made major strides in the field of Christian feminist ethics. I never met her, but the stories being told at the service made me wish I had known her, because she seemed to be loving, gregarious, expansive, and always willing to challenge the status quo. In one of the reflections about her life, someone shared her words for blessing the food:

Some have food.
Some have none.
God bless the revolution.

It was a powerful experience learning about her life and her work. And then… the seminary choir, of which I was a part, got up to sing the second of two songs we had prepared for the service; I don’t remember the first, but the second was Breaths. I was honored to sing one of the lead parts with my dear friend Lindsey Turner, with the rest of the choir backing us up with the deep, pulsing rhythms that keep time and move the song along in rich harmonies.

When Lindsey and I walked to our places, we realized we were right in front of Bev’s partner, Carter Heyward. For those who don’t know, Heyward is a lesbian feminist theologian; in 1974, she was one of the Philadelphia Eleven, eleven women whose ordinations eventually paved the way for the recognition of women as priests in the Episcopal Church in 1976. Her life and her work is groundbreaking.

Yes. We were being asked to sing to Carter Heyward. This was like being asked to sing to Michelle Obama, or Madonna, or Oprah Winfrey – someone of that magnitude. In those first moments I felt a combination of terror and excitement and amazement.

Our rock stars are not your rock stars.

Of course, we pulled it together quickly, recognized our role as pastoral, and sang this song to Carter, who is now a friend on Facebook. Lindsey and I found the healing pulse of the music and breathed into the healing lyrics, evoking the ancestors, and in particular the loving presence of Bev.

This song… this beautiful song, now graces our hymnal.

Refrain:
Listen more often to things than to beings,
listen more often to things than to beings,
‘tis the Ancestor’s breath when the fire’s voice is heard,
‘tis the Ancestor’s breath in the voice of the waters.
Zah Whsshh Aahh Whsshh

Those who have died have never, never left.
The dead are not under the earth.
They are in the rustling trees,
they are in the groaning woods,
they are in the crying grass,
they are in the moaning rocks.
The dead are not under the earth.

Refrain

Those who have died have never, never left.
The dead have a pact with the living.
They are in the woman’s breast,
they are in the wailing child,
they are with us in our homes,
they are with us in this crowd.
The dead have a pact with the living.

Refrain

Now I can’t go without saying a thing or two about the piece as it appears in STJ:

Thing one: YAY! It’s an amazing song, easy to sing, written by a beloved hero of mine and many others. The lyrics, based on a piece by Senegalese poet Birago Diop, are as close to my theology of the afterlife as you can get without me having written them myself.

Thing two: Part of the magic of this song is the vocal orchestra that weaves together rhythm and harmony in a unique but utterly singable fashion; and while I applaud the attempt at a piano arrangement, the results tend to be – at least in my experience – less than the rich, rhythmic breaths Barnwell’s song evokes.

And still. I am glad it is here, in our hymnal, bringing that healing, pulsing breath of life and afterlife together.

By |

I AM SO EXCITED I could plotz!

Not only am I cracking the cover of the next hymnal this morning, I am singing one of my top ten favorite hymns, composed by the delightful Jason Shelton.

This venture into Singing the Journey will look a little bit different than our time with Singing the Living Tradition. First, our main resource shifts from Between the Lines to a Song Information page at the UUA website. Second, in a number of cases, I am friends with the composers, thanks to my activity in the UU Musicians Network. Hopefully some of them will offer additional insights. It will be interesting to look at the “teal hymnal”, still considered new by many congregations’ standards, yet even in 12 years since publication will already show the same aging that we noticed in STLT; things like our language expanding and our cultural understanding deepening.

But first and foremost, as always, this remains a spiritual practice, where I get to sing.

And OH how I love to sing this one. While written in 4/4, the rolling triplets call for a 12/8 feel, which brings energy and vibrancy to the piece. The soaring phrase in the chorus beckons the sun and our energy, which is – not surprisingly – intentional. As noted on the Song Information page,

This song was composed for and debuted at a morning worship service during the 2001 UUMN conference at the Mountain in Highlands, NC. As the story goes, it had been rainy and gray all week long, but when the time came to debut this song the sun came out and shone gloriously through the chapel windows. Ah, the power of music!

It is, for me, the perfect opening hymn more times than not, and I have to resist the urge to not overuse it.

Morning has come, arise and greet the day!
Dance with joy and sing a song of gladness!
The light of hope here shines upon each face.
May it bring faith to guide our journey home.

A new day dawns, once more the gift is giv’n.
Wonder fills this moment shared together.
The light of peace here shines upon each face.
May it bring faith to guide our journey home.

Open our eyes to see that life abounds;
open hearts to welcome it among us.
The light of love here shines upon each face.
May it bring faith to guide our journey home.

And okay, yes, it doesn’t do a lot more than set the scene for the day. I know I have gotten annoyed at songs that just sit there not doing any work, and I suppose a case could be made for this song being the same way, except then you’d have to toss out the Kalidasa reading we all love too – because “look to this day! For it is life, the very life of life” does the same amount of work as this song. Namely: ‘wake up! We’re here! Hurrah! Now open up and get ready for all that will come.’

And that’s plenty of work for a hymn to do, especially since it sits at the open door of this hymnal, welcoming us onto this journey too. I mean, they could not have chosen a better first song, right?

This hymn… yeah. It works for me on so many levels.

I just love it.

By |

Despite the gloomy morning… despite the terrible news… despite this head cold… this one makes me feel like dancing.

And not just because it’s a joyful song that people dance to, but because I’m a bit delighted by this choice as the final song of this hymnal. You see, for all the seriousness of the work to assemble a hymnal, I imagine there were moments of great wit, laughter, and joy. Of course the Hymnal Commission decided to end with this traditional Jewish song, whose literal meaning is “We have brought peace to you.”

This delights me, because while I am sure there was plenty of controversy, debate, and possibly outright fights… and while there are still a fair number of controversies, debates, and outright fights, and I am sure you knew that would be the case even as you did your very best to bring peace to us.

Well played, Hymnal Commission, well played.

Hevenu shalom aleychem,
heveno shalom aleychem,
hevenu shalom aleychem,
hevenu shalom, shalom, shalom, aleychem. (Repeat)

And so we go out of Singing the Living Tradition laughing and dancing.

By |

I was talking to friend and colleague Diana McLean yesterday about the moment I am fast approaching – the moment when I sing the last of the hymns in Singing the Living Tradition, and begin a 75-day trip through Singing the Journey. I remarked on the growth of this practice, and how it has shifted from purely my experience of singing to something of a resource.

But it’s more than that. What I realize is that in singing through this hymnal – lovingly assembled 24 years ago with a broad charge (make it more inclusive) – I have had the opportunity to see the shifts in our theologies, our congregational life, our work of justice. Twenty five years ago, the Cold War had just ended and a new, uncertain world lay ahead. The specter of the 21st century and the 50th anniversary of the Unitarian Universalist consolidation loomed in the distance. Thus, song choices to meet the moment might feel to us, well, not quite right (I think I need a good German word here because the English ones aren’t working).

But more, what I recognize is that when we hold STLT in our hands, we are holding evidence of the moral arc of the universe bending toward justice. Issues that come up for us now when we sing songs like Sit at the Welcome Table and Dear Mother-Father of Us All, and even Singing for Our Lives are evidence that we are growing, changing, becoming more and more expansive and seeking more and more justice. Sure, we have a long way to go, but wow, look how far we’ve come in such a short time.

And musically too, we’ve come far. Since STLT was published, a young UU Musicians Network has grown, encouraging new and vibrant hymns and other music; it has developed a credentialing program for music professionals; it has educated not only musicians but also clergy and lay people on the role of music in our faith. And, as I have often asserted, they have been writing our living theology. And thus, our music is shifting from being that which we inherited from our Protestant roots or the folk movement to being organically and authentically ours, reflecting who we are and who we want to be.

It’s amazing. And I don’t know that I would have gotten that had I not engaged this practice. It’s not done, of course, but it’ll be interesting to enter Singing the Journey with this in mind.

—

So… what about today’s hymn?

Not much, really. It’s a sweet recessional by Vincent Silliman, set to a tune from a Bach chorale. It’s light, but not quite as simple as one might expect. For me, a change to a different tune would make sense – I’d set it to Tom Benjamin’s Woodland (Down the Ages We Have Trod, among others). But that’s me. I think, given my discourse above, taking it off Bach and setting it on one of our own makes sense.

As we leave this friendly place,
love give light to ev’ry face;
may the kindness which we learn
light our hearts till we return.

Tomorrow, we sing the last song of this grey hymnal. Already. Finally.

—

The photo is of my well-worn hymnals, complete with bookmarks.

By |

If you are a fan of a film or tv show with highly quotable lines, you may find yourself giving the next line almost out of habit:

“Inconceivable!”
“You keep using that word. I don’t think it means what you think it means.”

“To make a long story short…”
   “TOO LATE!”

“My father hung me from a hook once..”
“Once.”

“Surely you don’t mean it.”
“I do. And stop calling me Shirley.”

“Darmok and Jilad at Tanagra.”
“Darmok and Jilad on the ocean.”

And so on.

We like things that repeat. It helps firm them up in our brains. The call and response connects us. It’s also a bit of a shibboleth, a password of sorts that lets us know we’re on the same page.

We see it all the time in Protestant liturgy:

May the Lord be with you.
     And also with you.

The Word of God.
     Thanks be to God.

Now as Unitarian Universalists, we don’t have much of this in most of our congregations. Our liturgies are much more freeform (despite many of them still modeling what Glen Thomas Rideout calls “Puritan Standard”). Yet for many of us, there are words or phrases that lead us almost instinctively to respond, perhaps most frequently (in my experience),

Please say with me the words for extinguishing our chalice.
     We extinguish this flame, but not the light of truth…

For me and many of us, there’s another trigger of ritual response:

And now the children may go to their classes.

If you’re in one of the hundreds of congregations that uses today’s hymn as a children’s recessional, what comes next are those first four notes – G, C, D, G – repeated as an intro to our lyrics:

Go now in peace. Go now in peace.
May the love of God surround you
everywhere, everywhere you may go.

You probably already started singing before I got to it, didn’t you?

Now I know many congregations use other songs as their recessional; Bloomington, IN, uses a verse of a different hymn each month. Others have pieces written for them. But for those congregations, the song is still part of a habitual call and response. We say we don’t like ritual, but we crave it. And this song, by Methodist composer Natalie Sleeth, is a major piece of our ritual.

I should say a thing you likely already know: the lyrics are “may the love of God” because that’s how Sleeth wrote it and required it be printed in order to give us permission. I’m sure members of the Hymnal Commission can tell more about the story, but the bottom line is that we’ve not been given permission by a living artist to change her lyrics to anything, including the popular “spirit of love.”

Go now in peace.

 

I don’t know what was going on at Westside UU in Seattle that day, but I love the pic of the kids under a bridge made by adults.

By |

Gentle readers, there is a chance I will let you down today.

You see, I am feeling utterly and totally uninterested in where this hymn came from, who wrote it, and why we sing it to this tune.

Which is kinda funny, because that’s exactly what my mom would have me do: activate another part of my brain and lose focus on the part that’s dwelling in sadness. It may explain why I struggled so much with my depression as a youth; where this worked for her, it didn’t always work for me, and it wasn’t until well into adulthood that I was able to name it and experience it more fully.

But the truth is, one week out from the tenth anniversary of her death, I am finding it hard this morning to do anything but mourn as I sing this hymn. Partly because it’s a hymn specifically for this purpose, but partly because there are things in here Mom has said to me, almost verbatim without really knowing the hymn, about death and mourning. I remember her complimenting the country pastor who conducted my father’s funeral, because he had talked about how the dead live on in us and our stories, which was something she believed was true. And she was so fascinated with all we were learning about space and physics. Once we watched A Brief History of Time, and she spent the rest of the weekend having those deep thought moments as she tried to wrap her head around black holes (it was something that continued to come up every now and then, because it continued to flummox her).

This hymn seems like it could have been written by her – and certainly beloved by her.

Let hope and sorrow now unite
to consecrate life’s ending.
And praise good friends now gone from sight,
though grief and loss are rending.
The story in a well-loved face,
and years and days our thoughts retrace,
are treasures worth repeating.

With faith, or doubt, or open mind
we whisper life’s great question.
The ebb and flow of space and time
surpass our small perception;
yet knowledge grows with joyful gains
and finds out wonders far more strange
than hopes of resurrection.

And here’s the truth: music has the power to do a lot of things; it helps us rejoice, consider, release, meditate, explain, laugh, and yes… mourn. I am not upset that this came along when it did – it’s probably right on time, and it has allowed me to share more about this remarkable woman who raised me.

Thanks, Universe.

—

Picture is of my mother as a young woman, probably around age 25.