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This morning I am grateful for Google’s proximate search capabilities.

You see, I typed in the title of today’s hymn, a sweet traditional Jewish round, and it corrected me in that totally not shaming way Google has, by sending me results with ‘chaverim’ instead of the more phonetic ‘havayreem’.

It also presented me with a variety of YouTube videos of the song so that I could sing it in a round with other voices.

Shalom, havayreem!
Shalom, havayreem!
Shalom, shalom!
L’hitraot, l’hitraot,
shalom, shalom.

Finally, Google helped me with translations. At its basic, the lyrics translate as “Peace friend,
’till we meet again!” However, there is a version sung by children that extends the language into this English translation:

Goodbye, my friends!
Be safe, my friends!
Have peace, have peace!

‘Til we meet again,
‘Til we meet again,
Have peace, have peace.

What a delightful benediction or postlude this is. So warm and loving. What a blessing.

Thanks, Google.

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In my last year of seminary, I and five of my most creative friends co-created and produced a Broadway revue that told the story of the book of Exodus.

We began our work with Biblical preparation led by Old Testament scholar David M. Carr: not just reading and exegeting the text but also examining the history of interpretation of the text. We learned how passages from Exodus were used to forward an idea, connect a current struggle to an old one, and in the case of the US Civil War, used by both sides to suggest God was on their side. Reading about interpretation helped us in our own, as we found ourselves wanting to explore the text’s relationship with violence, oppression, and women. As a result, we created a show that humanized the Egyptians, leaned into the stories of Miriam and Pharaoh’s daughter, and reacted with compassion at the moments of violence.

This came to mind this morning as I explored this song online, and found almost nothing about the song itself but plenty about the verses from which it is formed.

And ev’ry one ‘neath a vine and fig tree
shall live in peace and unafraid. (Repeat)

And into plowshares turn their swords;
nations shall learn war no more. (Repeat)

The texts, from prophets Micah and Isaiah, put together like this are very anti-war. Yet what I have discovered  at the site Teaching American History is that the first verse especially (Micah 4:4) was such a favorite of George Washington that it not only became – in his use – a representation of what the colonies should experience after the Revolution, but also a call to arms, a ‘let’s get this thing over with so we can go back to our farms.’ It was quoted to give depth to the more defiant ‘don’t tread on me’ – a feeling of hope, of being free not just to go back to one’s land but to be free from an oppressive government. The passage was not so much an ant-war sentiment as a ‘let’s fight, let’s win, and then let’s go home’ sentiment. And it was such a popular image, it appeared in art and even embroidered samples (such as our image today).

Adding on the Isaiah text for this song from the Jewish tradition does distill the let’s fight sentiment, although it acknowledges war in the present even as we hope for no war in the future.

Interesting.

I don’t know that I thought much about this one before today, and while I find it full of anti-war sentiment, it also feels very full of sadness, as the peace being longed for is hard-won and may never come. It doesn’t rally me but rather feels like a song of lament. Maybe this is me in my present context – realizing how long we have been at war, realizing that in American history, we’ve been at war or in conflict nearly the entire time, realizing how much violence we have normalized within and beyond our borders. For us, to sit under the vine and fig tree unafraid is a pipe dream akin to Psalm 137 – living  in terrible circumstances, remembering not with hope but with tears.

Sorry to bring you all down today – this is where my thoughts are as we continue to fight the wars of oppression at home without much recognition of how worn and inured to the violence we have become. My heart is so heavy with the weight of sorrow I can’t remember any other way. And while I can sing this song, I can’t imagine it ever coming to pass.

This song is my lament today.

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The embroidered image, Chairback-Vine and Fig Tree, is from the Deerfield Society of Blue and White Needlework.

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Programming Note: I’ve added a lovely piece from Mary Grigolia about her song I Know This Rose Will Open, from an email exchange we had, about the origins and meaning of that song. After you read this, go to that entry and check it out!

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There are days in this practice when the little chalice next to a name at the bottom of the page sends me down a rabbit hole. Like today, where I saw a chalice next to the name Edvard Grieg, the Norwegian composer who arranged this folk melody for hymn singing.

Grieg was a Unitarian?

A few bio sites revealed few clues, although one references his leaving the Lutheran ministry after a series of tragedies and a sense of his musical creativity being strangled. But it took our own resource, the Dictionary of Unitarian and Universalist Biographies, to unearth the Unitarian connection:

Charles Harding, vice-president of the Birmingham [England] Festival, and his wife, Ada, members of the Unitarian Old Meeting Church in Birmingham, introduced Grieg to other Unitarians there, including members of the Kenrick family. Shortly before he died Grieg wrote, “During a visit to England in 1888 I was attracted to Unitarian views, and in the nineteen years that have passed since then I have held to them. All the sectarian forms of religion that I have been exposed to since have not succeeded in making any impression on me.”

Like most Unitarians of his time Grieg believed in God, the goodness of God, and the power of Jesus as an example—”Christ was filled by God as no one else known to me, living or dead, in the family of man.” He disbelieved in original sin. “Why should innocent people suffer for the sins of their forefathers?” he asked. “I think that the moral pain of the soul, which results from our bad deeds, as well as from the good we neglected to do, makes a Hell as effective as I can possibly imagine.”

In 1889 the Griegs were impressed by the ex-Anglican Stopford Brooke, who preached at Unitarian pulpits in London. “What a man! [his wife] Nina says, and it is true,” Edvard wrote. “A big, splendid, sparkling personality full of fire and power. We talked about this and that: about Unitarianism and socialism . . . and I daresay he felt just as I do.” Grieg thought some Unitarians were “some of the noblest people I know.” Like them he believed in separation of church and state and in a tolerant attitude towards others—”for what we don’t know, we don’t know.”

Grieg’s religious attitude is reflected in the independence of musical thought that led him, as Liszt advised, to “hold to your course.” Broad in musical appreciation as well as in religious scope, he admired the music of composers, such as Brahms, whose styles were quite different from his own, and valued the musical inheritance from peasant culture, considering it not primitive, but advanced. He stood against conservatism in both religion and musical culture. Sickly from his youth, brooding on the passing of his baby daughter and of his parents, Grieg worked out his peace with death through his Unitarian faith, by connecting himself with the Norwegian people and their mountainous landscape, by putting his faith in nature as a whole, and through the life-affirming exuberance of his music.

I had no idea. I’ve always loved his music – beyond the all-too-familiar “Morning Mood” from Peer Gynt – and into some of his other settings. Until today I had not heard this song, Den Store Hvide Flok, and it does not disappoint.

Nor do the lyrics, the first verse of the poem “Auguries of Innocence” by English poet William Blake:

To see the world in a grain of sand,
and a heaven in a wildflower,
hold infinity in the palm of your hand,
and eternity in an hour.

Gorgeous.

It’s a song I’d use as an introit, or as a sung response to the right sermon. In fact, I can think back to a dozen services where this would have been perfect…. and I may have to write another one just to use it.

Simply gorgeous.

 

Image found at Deviant Art, by user Devil-Grades.

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First – apologies for the delay this morning. A great ministers’ retreat also meant late nights and early mornings and I decided turning off my alarm was a smart move.

Second – I don’t have much for you today. I could blame it on the grogginess of a long sleep, but really, there’s not much to say. ‘Jubilate deo’ means ‘make a joyful noise to God’  (or rejoice, or praise) and our round based on the first verse of Psalm 100, “Make a joyful noise unto the Lord, all ye lands.”

I suppose I could talk at length about Michael Praetorius, a 16th century German composer, but there’s nothing much saying “ooo” to me right now, other than the reason why a German man born Schultz is called Praetorius: apparently ‘schultze’ means mayor, which in Latin is ‘praetor’ and for some reason, it was common to Latinize names.

Anyway, this is a fine round, although it’s not a favorite and never a go-to. In case you don’t know it. I’ve posted a YouTube of a Lutheran children’s choir singing it – it’s quite good.

Jubilate Deo.
Jubilate Deo.
Alleluia!

And here are the Lutheran kids:

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The pic has nothing to do with the song. It’s just a pretty fall scene, similar to some I have been seeing the last few weeks.

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As frequent readers know. there are many days … sometimes weeks… in this practice when the hymn is so opposed to the events/mood/weather of the day that it seems almost ridiculous. Christmas in May… morning songs after the election… happy spring in a snowstorm…

Today is most assuredly NOT one of those days.

Our round, a traditional Hebrew folk round based on Psalm 133:1, names my mood and the experience here, as we enter the final few hours of our UUMA chapter retreat. The NRSV translates the verse as “How very good and pleasant it is when kindred live together in unity!”

And so, when someone asked what today’s hymn was, and I started singing, everyone in the room at that moment sang along with me. And it felt warm and loving and good, but most of all, it felt true. I’m so impressed with the joy, grace, and connection I’ve been experiencing with this new (to me) group of colleagues, and I’m feeling so at home among them. I know some of it’s a bit about being back in upstate New York, but a lot of it’s about being with these people. It is so good to have spent the last couple of days dwelling together with them.

Hineh mah tov umah nayim.
Shevel aheem gam yahad.
Hineh mah tov umah nayim.
Shevel aheem gam yahad.
Hineh mahtov shevet aheem gam yahad.
Hineh mahtov shevet aheem gam yahad.

How good it is and how pleasant
for people to dwell together.
How good it is and how pleasant
for people to dwell together.
Good and pleasant, people in peace together.
Good and pleasant, people in peace together.

The English verse doesn’t scan well for me, but the truth is, I never use it. There’s something just wonderful about singing this ancient psalm in its original language together.

Anyway – I need to spend more time with my colleagues. Enjoy your day, because I know I am!

 

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I’m sitting with colleagues at White Eagle Conference Center near Hamilton, NY, with 22 colleagues retreating together. What strikes me about moments like this is how apart from time yet completely in the stream of time we are at these things – in the midst of programming last night, I learned a young neighbor died. I don’t have a ministerial responsibility there, but I do have responsibility as a neighbor.

And then comes along this song – which I sang with the amazing Lynn Gardner and Wendy Bartel last night – a prayer of deepening that, along with these friends, holds me in loving arms.

Voice still and small, deep inside all,
I hear you call, singing.
In storm and rain, sorrow and pain,
still we’ll remain singing.
Calming my  fears, quenching my tears,
through all the years, singing.

Our hymn was written by John Corrado, who was our lyricist way back in the first week. I should note that the original lyric used the phrase “in dark and rain”; our hymnal commission wisely changed it to “in storm and rain” – which I think works better anyway.

This hymn speaks deeply to me right now, as I process the news from a distance. I don’t have a ministerial responsibility, but I do have responsibility as a neighbor. It’s hard, but a song like this, which holds complexity so beautifully, offers solace and comfort.

Grateful for this place, grateful for this space, grateful for these friends and colleagues, grateful for this song.

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As the Gish gallop of terrible politics, violence, natural disasters, and a shocking lack of compassion continues to fill our news feeds, we turn now to this canon by Methodist composer Natalie Sleeth.

Whose lyrics, when translated from the Latin, mean “let us be joyful today.”

Joy is hard to find some days – harder than hope, I think. But…and I’m just musing a bit here… I think joy is part of what’s at the heart of compassion. I am not sure I can explain it well right now; it’s an idea that’s just occurred to me as I started singing this song. But there’s something to it… something to joy, and hope, and relief that’s all woven together.

Anyway…things to think about as we sing this joyful song in the midst of these hard days.

Gaudeamus, gaudeamus, gaudeamus hodie.
Gaudeamus, gaudeamus hodie.

Gaudeamus,
gaudeamus hodie.

Gaudeamus, gaudeamus,
gaudeamus hodie, hodie.

And if after singing it you still need some help to touch joy, watch these kids sing the song (I should note that while some of the kids are nearly emotionless, others more than make up for it and it’s fun to watch them):

Gaudeamus hodie – Natalie Sleeth from Music@BelPres on Vimeo.

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Yesterday, as we closed the New York State Convention of Universalists/Hudson Mohawk Cluster gathering, my colleague Sam Trumbore called for us to sing something together. “What shall we sing?” he asked, looking at me because he knows I do this.

And embarrassingly, my mind went blank. Fortunately, someone else piped up with a song (Come Sing a Song with Me) which went fine, especially when someone jumped up to play it on piano. But I realized I was standing there with a bunch of doxologies and entrance songs in my head, but I couldn’t come up with a closing.

Truth is, today’s song is what popped into my head, truly the opposite of what we needed in that moment. What we needed was a joyful exit… (we got a rather sentimental one, but that’s okay). What this is could be best described as an invitation to deepening.  This is one of my favorite rounds; its deep, rich, minor tones evoke the mystery as much as the words do.

Gathered here in the mystery of the hour.
Gathered here in one strong body.
Gathered here in the struggle and the power.
Spirit, draw near.

We’ve encountered lyrics by liturgist and dancer Phillip A. Porter before, namely in When Darkness Nears; his words there and here evoke a depth that for me feels important, rooted, very first chakra.

And yes, even though I’ve sung it a thousand times, I love it.

 

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I have sung this a thousand times since childhood, around the campfire, at vigils, even once at an evening memorial service. It’s as familiar as my own skin.

Yet when I think of it, I don’t think of the vigil or the campfire or the memorial service. I think of M*A*S*H.

In particular, the episode “Dear Sis” – where Father Mulcahy writes a letter to his sister, ‘the Sister’, about how ineffective he feels as pastor to this rag tag flock of medical personnel stuck half a world away in a war they don’t understand. He talks about watching the doctors and nurses saving lives, helping the injured, making a difference, yet all he can do is offer last rites and perhaps a bit of comfort.

Yet what he doesn’t realize – until the end – that small gestures of kindness and his simple presence among these busy, overworked, scared people bring them comfort, connection, a sense of their humanity, and most of all, moments of peace.

At the end of the episode, Hawkeye raises a glass to the priest and encourages the group to sing this song. “‘Dona Nobis Pacem.’ I can translate it for you,” he jokes. “No need,” replies Father Mulcahy, a sly smile on his face. And then they begin singing.

Dona nobis pacem, pacem;
dona nobis pacem.

The image of these people, wearing fatigues and showing fatigue, trying to capture a moment of Christmas spirit, and asking for peace…well, it knocks me out every time. The care these people show for their chaplain and each other speaks volumes of the work this simple priest accomplishes by his very presence among them.

You may find a million better versions, but I think you’d be hard pressed to find a more emotionally powerful one.

Give us peace, indeed.

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Next on the Countdown, it’s the original one hit wonder. (I’m apparently channeling the late Casey Kasem right now… a throwback to my misspent youth.)

While a working organist, composer, and teacher most of his life, German musician Johann Pachelbel produced more than 200 pieces throughout his lifetime, earning himself a place as one of the most important composers of the middle Baroque  era. But as prolific and popular as he was, he only ever hit the charts with his Canon in D.

Here’s a version on original instruments:

Our chaconne, based on the Canon in D, uses the word “alleluia” for vocalizing. It is a rather lovely way to honor the hit in voice. It’s laid out in a way that should make sense for leading a congregation, but it would require some teaching and strong leading. I’d start it with the choir, and then get them to help the rest of the congregation.

Alleluia, alleluia. Alleluia, alleluia.
Aleluia, alleluia, alleluia, alleluia,
alleluia, alleluia, alleluia, alleluia.
Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia, alleluia.

That is, if you’re not sick to death of the piece.

I admit to having loved it a lot, so much so that I bought an album called Pachelbel’s Greatest Hit, which features 14 different versions, by artists ranging from Arthur Fiedler to Isao Tomita.  And then I got sick of it. Not as sick as comedian Rob Paravonian, but pretty sick of it. I leave you with the hysterical rant from Paravonian, because we all need something to laugh about now and then:

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Image is the cover of the CD, drawn by cartoonist Patrick McDonnell, who draws the popular comic Mutts.