There are times in all of our lives where we just need to take a moment and find some calm.  Times when we need to allow ourselves to find peace – even if momentary – in amongst the stresses and challenges of our lives. Times when we give ourselves permission to spend time nurturing our souls so we can regain even a tiny bit of strength to carry on.  Because, life can be hard, and facing all it entails can be draining and debilitating.  For some this is about meditation or prayer. For some it is about exercise or going for a walk.  For some it is about taking a nap or listening to music.  Whatever it is, these times are necessary tools of rejuvenation.

The words of this hymn were written around 1845 by William Walford.  He was an uneducated wood carver who happened to be blind.  Apparently, he was a deeply religious man who spent a great deal of time memorizing Bible passages and eventually became the minister of a rural church in England. He wrote poetry, but relied on others to write it down as he could not.  This one was relayed to an acquaintance and, sometime later, was published by The New York Observer.  It was subsequently set to music by William Bradbury and has remained a popular hymn ever since.

Sweet hour of prayer, sweet hour of prayer, 
that calls me from a world of care, 
and bids me at my Father’s throne 
make all my wants and wishes known. 
In seasons of distress and grief, 
my soul has often found relief, 
and oft escaped the tempter’s snare,
by thy return, sweet hour of prayer! 

Sweet hour of prayer, sweet hour of prayer,
the joys I feel, the bliss I share, 
of those whose anxious spirits burn 
with strong desires for thy return! 
With such I hasten to the place 
where God my Savior shows his face, 
and gladly take my station there, 
and wait for thee, sweet hour of prayer! 

Sweet hour of prayer, sweet hour of prayer, 
thy wings shall my petition bear 
to him whose truth and faithfulness 
engage the waiting soul to bless. 
And since he bids me seek his face, 
believe his word, and trust his grace, 
I’ll cast on him my every care, 
and wait for thee, sweet hour of prayer!

I’m pretty sure I’ve never spent an hour in prayer or meditation.  In fact, the times I feel closest to that kind of communing with my own spirit and my own understanding of the Divine are usually when singing. Sometimes this communion is found when I experience some kind of beauty – be it natural or human made.  I have known many who take this kind of time to consider their concerns and joys – I remember hearing that my grandmother would get up at around 4:00 a.m. every day to pray for a long list of people, myself included.   I know these words speak to this kind of prayer.

There are a few words in this hymn that strike me.  First, the idea that we are anxious spirits.  The second is that we are souls waiting to be blessed.  There is something powerful in the combination of these two ideas.  Yes, we are anxious and yet we can be blessed. I’ve been thinking about this a fair amount recently.  The notion that our anxiety may well be permanent, but this doesn’t rule out our capacity to find blessings in this life.  There are a multitude of reasons for our anxiety – some with solutions, others without.  There are long lists of justifiable reasons to be dissatisfied, frustrated, disappointed and unhappy.   Is it possible to find peace in a mere moment of calm?  I think maybe it is.

When we take time to breathe only for ourselves, we can access our essence.  That part of us that came before the circumstances, the illnesses, the stresses, the pain.  It is not easy to find this place.  There are so many layers between reality and this deepness.  I suspect my grandmother’s daily practice of prayer didn’t come naturally but was a skill developed over many years – and there were probably days she could have used more sleep instead.  I suspect there are times in our lives when laying aside our struggles is a monumental task, sometimes impossible without assistance.  This hour of prayer practice is one that requires immense commitment.  But, perhaps it is worth it.

Spending time rejuvenating one’s soul is a valuable act.  It allows us to live.  How we choose to do this is very personal and will vary for each of us.  In this hymn, the sweet hour of prayer results in wings that bear our petitions.  What an idea. The act of taking this time to be calm within ourselves, can result in something that then carries us forward. Not with solutions, or even answers, but with wings that help us bear the weight.  It is a beautiful image.  It is the flight of the heavy ladened made a tiny bit less burdened.  Take an hour, a few minutes, a moment to find these wings.  And then, fly.

It is a rare person that makes it through this life without moments, long or short, of deep pain.  Times that challenge, bend and sometimes break us.   Days (weeks, months, years) that take every bit of energy we have to move forward.  Sometimes this pain is circumstantial.  Sometimes it is about health – physical or mental.  Sometimes we are able to share it with others, sometimes we are not.

As I was thinking about the reality of the presence of pain in our lives, I was drawn to the section of my hymnal that is intended for use at funerals.  In these special hymns, there are words – and melodies – that are meant to comfort us; to help us walk through our most difficult of moments.  These hymns are, understandably, often about reassuring those that grieve.  Reminding them that their loved ones have moved on to a place of beauty.  Moved on to a place where their pain is finished, where they are reunited with those that have gone before, and are able to meet their God with joy.  Comforting, indeed.

This particular hymn was written in 1864 by Richard Torry.  I understand that we all have different views on spirituality and what it means for this life, and the next, should we believe that there is something beyond the now. But these words convey the message that as we pass from this world, we follow a beautiful stream to a place of freedom from pain, and comfort for our weary souls.  And, I suppose, regardless of what we believe, there is an idea that somehow in death, we are welcomed home.

Oh, have you not heard of the beautiful stream
That flows through the promised land?
Its waters gleam bright in the heavenly light,
And ripple o’er golden sand.

Its fountains are deep and its waters are pure,
And sweet to the weary soul.
It flows from the throne of Jehovah alone,
O come where its bright waves roll.

This beautiful stream is the river of life,
It flows for all nations free.
A balm for each wound in its waters is found;
O sinner, it flows for thee.

Oh, will you not drink of this beautiful stream,
And dwell on its peaceful shore?
The Spirit says: Come, all ye weary ones, home,
And wander in sin no more.

As always, I am left thinking that there is much more to these words for those of us still wandering amidst the realities of life. There is something to be said about these beautiful streams that carry us through our living pain. Sometimes they run into each other, follow the same path, merge, diverge; these streams that are everywhere.

The streams we are given.  Our parents, grandparents, mentors, teachers, aunts and uncles, sisters and brothers, families. These people that flow through our lives and offer wisdom and knowledge. That prepare us for what’s ahead.  That give us tools to swim.

The streams we seek.  Our doctors and nurses, our therapists, our counsellors. Our ministers, rabbis and imams.  These people that provide what we need to be healthy. The ones that are trained to offer life preservers when the waters are rough and we are unable to swim.

The streams we stumble across by accident.  Our friends, our colleagues, our neighbours. These people that support us and help us grow.  The ones that walk with us as we become who we wish to be.  The ones that share burdens – great and small.  The ones that say good morning.  The ones that say good night.

The streams we discover.  The places and experiences we treasure.  The beauty of nature.  The fullness of music.  The energy of activity.  The freshness of the air.   The exquisite depth of a painting.  The skill of the talented.

The streams we choose.  Those nearest to us.  Our mates. Our partners.  Our closest of friends. Our dearest companions.  These special souls that understand our pain.  That carry our pain with us.  That remind us of all the streams we have access to, even when we can’t see them for ourselves.  The ones that sit with us when we are dying because their love is great and their generosity allows them to put aside their own sadness in order to walk us through that final stream.

For all these small and large rivers of water that flow, I am grateful.  For myself, and, as I look out upon others’ lives.  And, in the refrain of this hymn, I hope we can find some understanding of how we are all connected.  These streams may not be easy to navigate, as we seek to find them or to be them, but they are a means of finding our home.  And they offer ways to provide safe spaces in which to feel, carry and recover from our pain.

O seek that beautiful stream,
O seek that beautiful stream.
Its waters, so free, are flowing for thee,
O seek that beautiful stream.

There are some words that, due to overuse and misuse, make me cringe.  Awesome (are you really in awe of your specialty coffee beverage?).  Amazing (are you really amazed by your specialty coffee beverage?).  And, well, blessing (have you really been blessed by your specialty coffee beverage?). Blessing, blessed and blessings, are not words I use often in my day to day life, although I may have used them on occasion over the years of these hymn commentaries.  There is nothing intrinsically wrong with any of these words, but I do find it difficult to reconcile the superficial way in which they’ve become part of our lexicon.

And yet, I can’t help feeling that I have experienced some real blessings this past week.  It has been a week of hearing from friends, relatives and even strangers that something I said, or did, or wrote, was in some way helpful or meaningful. The blessing is not that I had the wherewithal to do anything, but that there are people in this world who take the time to express gratitude for seemingly small things that have touched their lives.  These people are blessings because they require us to acknowledge that how we choose to live is much more significant than we can fully realize.

It all reminded me of this hymn.  Written in 1757 by Robert Robinson, a minister who was originally apprenticed to be a hairdresser (perhaps more like indentured, as, from the sounds of things, he was quite poor).  He wrote many hymns and apparently ended up with a congregation of over a thousand.  This particular hymn is about divine grace.

Come, thou Fount of every blessing,
tune my heart to sing thy grace.
Streams of mercy, never ceasing,
call for songs of loudest praise.
Teach me some melodious sonnet,
sung by flaming tongues above.
Praise the mount I’m fixed upon it,
mount of God’s redeeming love.

Here I raise my Ebenezer,
hither by thy help I’m come,
and I hope, by thy good pleasure,
safely to arrive at home.
Jesus sought me when a stranger,
wand’ring from the fold of God.
He, to rescue me from danger,
interposed his precious blood.

Oh, to grace how great a debtor
daily I’m constrained to be!
Let that grace now, like a fetter,
bind my wand’ring heart to thee.
Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it,
prone to leave the God I love.
Here’s my heart, O take and seal it,
seal it for thy courts above. 

I suppose there are many definitions of what divine grace is, but one that struck me was that the divine within us influences how we behave; how we act, react and interact with those around us. This is not just a Christian concept; many religions and spiritual practices incorporate similar ideas into their understanding of how we are connected. Because we take on whatever we believe, it emerges.  Good or bad.  This is powerful.  We simply do not know in any moment which bits of who we’ve decided to be are floating from us into the world.

I suppose it is easy to say that we decide to be one way or another, and much more difficult to actually adhere to any decision, but I wonder if we have more influence than most of us believe.   Perhaps not to influence outcomes or circumstances, but to view this world with lenses crafted by our beliefs. And, consequently, to walk through it with a particular kind of vision.

The words of this hymn are quite expressive.  We’re asking to be taught a melodious sonnet, tune our hearts to sing, safely arrive home, be rescued from danger.  All these blessings being sourced with our divine. We raise our Ebenezer – the stone of help – and keep our eyes fixed upon it, fettered to it, because we are prone to wander.  What a lesson.  Whatever we attach ourselves to, whatever we keep in our view will determine who we are, what we do, how we react and what we send out into the world around us.

So, as I reflect on the blessings I received from others this week, I am reminded that who I choose to be is important. Something about my choices resulted in kind words returned to me.  I am conscious of how I look at this world, at my life.  And how my vision, how I choose to view this world and my place in it, influences my actions.  I am grateful for those who made choices to send blessings so I might be both encouraged and reminded of my own accountability.  I welcome the blessings.  I look for them. And in doing so, it is in deep streams of mercy that I find myself.  It is there that I choose to sing.

Epiphany.  The twelfth day after Christmas.   The day our decorations should come down, or, according to some traditions, we will have bad luck all year!  The day that Jesus was visited by the Magi (how they arrived so quickly, I do not know). The day we look for a prize in our galette des rois (if you haven’t had one, find one!).  The day the divinity of Christ is revealed – his appearance, his manifestation, his baptism, his light.

How brightly beams the Morning Star!
What sudden radiance from afar
Doth glad us with its shining,
Brightness of God that breaks our night
And fills the darken’d souls with light
Who long for truth were pining!
Thy Word, Jesu, only feeds us,
Rightly leads us, Life bestowing;
Praise, oh praise such love o’erflowing.

This old hymn was written by Philipp Nicolai, a German Lutheran minister, in 1599. Nicolai faced a number of challenges in his life, including religious persecution – he was forced to hide and carry on his preaching in secret house churches on many occasions.  When he was the pastor in Westphalia, 1300 of his parishioners died of the plague within a six-month period.  Hard to imagine.  He wrote to comfort his community in what must have been desperately sad and confusing times.

The idea of epiphany is one that gets tossed around quite commonly. I suspect we generally think of it as the feeling of suddenly understanding something.  Suddenly making a discovery, having one’s eyes opened, experiencing the proverbial lightbulb moment. What I wonder about, however, is why we think these moments will be, or need to be, a surprise.  Are we looking for these priceless bits of illumination in our lives?  Or are we just waiting for them to arrive?  Are we actively seeking out that which lights our way, our understanding, our world?

When I think about what fills my soul with light, the list is long.  Much of it comes from others – and I am grateful for what I have received; grateful for the generosity others have shared of their own epiphanies.  But, to really find a place in the kind of light and revelation that can shape my life and the world I live in, I must also look for the insights.  Longing for truth is meaningless without active searching; active thinking.

I recently had a conversation about the pace of our 21^st century world.  Everything is so very fast.  We want instant results.  We want instant information.  We want instant change.  We are not terribly concerned with accuracy, or truth.  We don’t seem to even know what they are anymore – are they about journalistic integrity?  Popular culture?  Technological capabilities?  Who knows.  But the speed at which we are bombarded with information purporting to represent these ideals is dazzling.  The perception that we regularly achieve incredible insight has become commonplace.  We sit and take in epiphanies as though they are entertainment, to be consumed and then tossed away in favour of the next one.

And yet, radiance is in short supply.

As I read the last verses of this hymn, I was, once again, struck by the call to action.

Come, heav’nly Bridegroom, Light divine,
And deep within our hearts now shine.
There light a flame undying!
In your one body let us be
As living branches of a tree,
Your life our lives supplying.
Now, through daily earth’s deep sadness
may perplex us and distress us,
yet with heav’nly joy you bless us.

Oh, let the harps break forth with sound!
Our joy be all with music crowned,
Our voices richly blending!
For Christ goes with us all the way,
Today, tomorrow, every day!
His love is never-ending!
Sing out! Ring out! Jubilation! Exultation!
Tell the story! Great is He, the King of Glory!

We can be living branches of our communities.  Whatever those communities might be, they are able to supply life in the midst of sadness.  They bless us with joy and growth – and provide space in which to gain insight.  When we work together with richly blending voices, we can actively achieve what is needed.

As we long for truth in the darkness of a world that is speeding towards many unknowns, let us choose to seek light that provides what is needed, what is right. Let us pursue knowledge, revelation, understanding, insight, truth. Let us remember that all are meaningless if they do not influence our choices; all are difficult to find if we do not choose to look; all are suspect if taken from a buffet as though free and easy.

Search for your morning star – there are many.  Allow it to inspire, guide and comfort.  And then, sing out with jubilation for what you have learned. Break forth with sound, exulting in the joy that can come from a life lived with purpose.