It was Earth Day this week.  This annual day of action was established almost fifty years ago in 1970, when people took to the streets to protest our misuse of the planet; the neglect of our environment and the damage we have done. It has come to represent a day of global participation in promoting sustainability and the protecting of our earth.  It also requires us to acknowledge our role in the destruction – and come up with solutions for what is almost certainly the greatest challenge of our time.

As I thought about how we both mourn and celebrate our environment, it was not lost on me that we have been singing the praises of the earth for thousands of years.  There are all kinds of songs about our earth – its beauty, its value, its sacred elements.  Whether these songs are religious or secular, we celebrate our surroundings frequently.  We share this love of nature among a whole variety of belief systems, cultures and traditions.

There are many hymns about creation in any Christian hymnbook, many are very familiar.  This one was written in 1864 by Unitarian minister, Samuel Longfellow. He was the brother of the more well-known poet, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, and was loosely part of the transcendentalist movement.  He adhered to a belief that contemplating nature could lead to transcendence and that God was wholly part of all nature.  It is obvious in these words, that this element of finding God in nature was critical to understanding its worth.

God of the earth, the sky, the sea!
Maker of all above, below!
Creation lives and moves in thee,
Thy present life in all doth flow.
We give thee thanks, thy name we sing,
Almighty God, our praise we bring.

Thy love is in the sunshine’s glow,
Thy life is in the quickening air;
When lightning flashes and storm winds blow,
There is thy power, thy law is there. 
We give thee thanks, thy name we sing,
Almighty God, our praise we bring.

We feel Thy calm at evening’s hour,
Thy grandeur in the march of night;
And when Thy morning breaks in power,
We hear Thy Word, “Let there be light.” 
We give thee thanks, thy name we sing,
Almighty God, our praise we bring.

God and creation – inextricably linked.  Living and flowing, life in the air, love in the sunshine. Power as the morning breaks.  Even if one doesn’t believe in God as defined by Christianity, or other religious traditions, the idea that everything in nature is linked, is a powerful image that can serve to inform our ideas about how we treat this planet.

When I hear naysayers speak about the ever present environmental concerns we are faced with as if they are somehow less urgent than things like the acquisition of wealth, financial security and our ability to lead comfortable, easy lives, I am baffled. When I hear these people speak about environmental issues as though we have neither a stake in nor a responsibility for their occurrence, I am baffled.  We are linked.  We are culpable.  And we need to make amends.

Hymn writers and poets of all stripes saw that our earth and our souls are joined.  To sever this union is a kind of devastation.  When we do not understand how our very lives depend upon the preservation and respect of the place in which we live, we fall quickly.  Earth day began as a response to the damages caused by the Industrial Revolution.  An awakening to the reality that our desire for ease was seriously misguided.  Fifty years later, it seems we remain in that space.  It seems we have been deceived into believing that all these things we have are simply deserved.

Change is difficult.  Every day I find something in my hands that if I am honest, contributes to the destruction of this planet.  Big things, small things.  The solutions  are sometimes unpalatable.  But when I consider this from a spiritual perspective, I wonder if the concept of God is even compatible with an unwillingness to honour the earth; to do the hard work this requires; to make amends.  It is difficult to admit that I sometimes value my own comfort, wealth and  security more than I value what is both sacred and is my neighbours’ home – those near and far, current and future.

As I ponder this massive issue, I will give thanks.  For creation – our earth, our air, our water.  To be shared amongst us.  To be protected and loved.  For now, and for the future.  These are the things that provide the calm at the evening’s hour.  These are things about which we sing.

Every year I struggle with Easter.  Not the idea that a sacred sacrifice was made and that hope emerges from the aftermath of that act.  Not the desire to celebrate this hope – to celebrate that it is possible to renew and rejuvenate after the harsh realities of life bring us almost to the end of things.  Not the descriptions of love unimaginable presented at this time of the liturgical calendar and the idea that we are worth so very much.  I struggle with the language of victory.  With the notion that a battle has been won.  I struggle with using the same language we use to describe the winning of a war, or the supremacy of one group over another, or the conquest of something, as being reflective of our understanding of God.  As I consider the story of this selfless act of sacrifice, love and compassion, I find myself wondering why religious tradition has made it one of conquest, rather than one of supreme humility and compassion? Symbolic of what can be given, rather than representing what can be won.

Consequently, selecting Easter hymns has always been challenging.   I know many find these hymns inspiring, perhaps I’m in the minority on this one, but all the triumph, overthrowing, ruling, conquering, destruction, hailing and reigning, sometimes leave me feeling a bit out of sorts.  There are many Easter hymns I love, and sing or play with gusto.  Those that are full of joyful alleluias.  But there are many that sound like a battle cry, and give me pause.

That Easter day with joy was bright:
the sun shone out with fairer light,
when to their longing eyes restored,
the apostles saw their risen Lord.

O Jesus, King of gentleness,
with constant love our hearts possess.
To you our lips will ever raise
the tribute of our grateful praise.

All praise, O risen Lord, we give
To you, once dead, but now alive!
To God the Father equal praise,
and God the Holy Ghost, we raise.

This hymn is not one that we sing very often, or ever, but I like how the words describe a gentle Jesus, and a bright joy, constant love and praise that is filled with gratitude.  It is a very old hymn, the music from 1568, the words from the 4^th– 5^thcentury (translated in 1851).  It is the third part of a Latin text that describes the Apostles’ experience of the death and resurrection of Christ.  The depths of sorrow, the pain of burying their friend, and the joy of seeing his beloved face again.  And the realisation that they had been blessed.

Perhaps it is this element of being blessed by the gentleness of Christ that speaks to me much more than thinking of him as a great warrior.  It feels less like something that wants to be displayed as a trophy, for all to see and admire, than an example of how I might treat those around me.  It requires me to consider how my life can reflect this generosity and compassion, rather than encouraging a sense of superiority that must be imposed on others – because the victors in a battle always seem to want to assimilate the conquered, and while I understand the conquered in this situation is death, the Christian church has had a long tradition of extending this to include everything that is not from within itself.  Much has been destroyed in the name of this perspective – much has been lost.

To be gentle is the opposite of violence.  It is about expressing love in ways that are filled with kindness, that consider the impact of every action, that desire peace and mercy.  This gentleness is about providing constant love in our hearts.

Hope.  Renewal.   These emerge from selfless generosity.  From gentle love.  They are not the spoils of war.  They are the result of considered actions that have been consciously planned to offer what is most needed.  And they should be celebrated.  These are the things deserving of our alleluias and our joy.  On Easter, or whenever.  Not to win, but to give.

As Lent is drawing to an end and we approach Easter, I had thought about looking at one of the joyous Palm Sunday hymns for this week, but my attention seems to be drawn elsewhere.  For a few reasons – all of them relating to conversations I’ve had with four or five people over the past two weeks.  And, in my ongoing rehearsing of a group of Spirituals arranged for choir, I must say that this one seemed very relevant.  As I think about Palm Sunday, I am aware that the triumphal nature of the welcome given is quite tainted by the events to come. So, perhaps this is also fitting for the season, if not quite what I had originally considered.

Once again, these words originate with the African American slaves’ experience of being separated from their home – literally torn from their African origins, children forcibly taken from their parents and families, lives lived as captives separated from freedom.  The words are deeply mournful, the tune evokes profound sadness.

Sometimes I feel like a motherless child,
Sometimes I feel like a motherless child,
Sometimes I feel like a motherless child,
A long way from home.
A long way from home.

Sometimes I feel like I’m almost gone,
Sometimes I feel like I’m almost gone,
Sometimes I feel like I’m almost gone,
Way up in the heavenly land.
Way up in the heavenly land.

True believers, true believers,
A long way from home.
A long way from home.

There are times when we all feel abandoned and alone. When we feel that we have been betrayed, and when what should have been, simply is not.  We experience the shock of being hurt by someone or something that should have been a source of goodness or kindness or loyalty or support. When this happens, it can feel as though we are very far from a place of safety; far from our true home.  It is impossible to imagine what these slaves felt in their situation, but there is something about this profound sense of being lost and alone that resonates when we go through experiences that are filled with the pain of being rejected, betrayed and injured.

The words of this song plainly and simply express these feelings.  When we feel lost and alone, we are a long way from home.  The image of a motherless child is heartbreaking.  The idea of feeling as though we are almost gone is devastating.  I can’t imagine a state of being that takes us to a lower place.  It is not where anyone wants to reside. It is not how I wish to make anyone feel.

As I was looking into the history of this song, I found that some have observed that there is also a powerful hope within these words.  The repetition of the word “sometimes” implies that there is more to this story. A tiny shred of light infiltrating the despair.  It is not, “I am a motherless child.” It is not, “I am gone.”  We remind ourselves, and those who hear our voices, over and over that it is only sometimes that we feel this way.  And that the places of pain are not our home – they are, in fact, far from its safety.

It can be difficult to hear people’s stories of pain. It can be difficult to know what to say or how to respond; how to offer support or guidance.  I rarely know.  But I am conscious that often when people share their deepest hurts, they are hoping to find that little shred of hope that their pain is only a sometimes thing. That it doesn’t define their home, but is a place that can be left behind and healing sought.  That there is something better, no matter how far away it may be.  We cannot always provide the solutions, but often our listening ear is enough to provide the hope and care needed when a person has been cut by the sharpness of life.

So in those moments where we are motherless and almost gone, look for the souls that are willing to hear your pain.  We are here.  And in those moments where you see a motherless soul, pick them up in whatever way you can – not to provide all the answers or meet every need, but to shine a little light on the path towards home.  It may be a long way, but in the company of kindness, we start to see its safety, its beauty and its existence.

Over the past number of weeks, I have been accompanying a choir that is learning a group of Spirituals for an upcoming concert. As I played through them this week, I realized that this is one of my favourites.  It is a beautiful tune – haunting and powerful.

As many of us know, these Spirituals were originally more than just religious songs.  They were filled with hidden meanings and messages that became important ways of both communication and strength for the African American slaves that sang them. This one is no different.  What on the surface implies the spiritual act of dying and being received into Jesus’ arms in heaven, is also representative of the actual act of escaping the bonds of slavery, travelling via the Underground Railroad into freedom.  It was also used as a signal by Virginia slave Nat Turner, and probably others, to gather slaves together to discuss their plans.

Steal away, steal away,
steal away to Jesus!
Steal away, steal away home;
I ain’t got long to stay here.

My Lord, he calls me;
he calls me by the thunder.
The trumpet sounds within my soul;
I ain’t got long to stay here.

Green trees are bending;
poor sinners stand a trembling.
The trumpet sounds within my soul;
I ain’t got long to stay here

My Lord, he calls me;
he calls me by the lightning.
The trumpet sounds within my soul;
I ain’t got long to stay here.

There was a lot of listening involved in sending these secret messages.  Those for whom they were intended were acutely aware that there was something coming; something that could potentially save them; something that offered a way out of a horrific situation.  They were looking for hope – listening for instructions.  There was also a lot of wisdom and courage required for those that sent these messages.  The ability to craft their words of hope so they could be received and heard; the ability to stand in the face of danger and speak, or sing, for the benefit of others. And there was faith.  Faith that someone at the other end would actually see the trees bending and open their arms, or homes, to those stealing away.  Trusting that safety and freedom were more than idealized concepts, but were possible and real.

As I think about these words and their powerful history, several things come to mind.  The power of hope is tremendous.  To say over and over, “I ain’t got long to stay here,” in the face of seemingly immovable circumstances, is beyond impressive.  To know that despite requiring monumental acts of courage and trust, there is something beyond your view that provokes trumpets, thunder and lightning in your soul, is inspiring.   The power of hope is also a gift given. Those who made the Underground Railway possible were giving hope – in the face of real danger.  All of this hope was both secret and loud, shared and individual.  They sang, they listened, they received.

There are, no doubt, many problems in our world that seem insurmountable.  There are parts of our history that have unresolved consequences and looking at one Spiritual doesn’t change that.  But there is something to be said for understanding the beautiful example that these people provided to us.  It is possible to look for, seek out and believe in hope.  It is possible to find those among us who can help provide its view; help us clarify its existence.  It is also possible to be the hope.  To look for, seek out and believe in the realities that need it most.

We all find ourselves on different sides of this equation at various points in our lives. Sometimes we need hope, sometimes we give hope. Both can be hard.  But, either way, it is our home that we are seeking. A home is built on the knowledge that all within are safe.  I’ve often wondered if safety for the few is shallow and unstable, whereas safety for all is filled with a kind of strength that most of us deeply desire. Perhaps this is what gives us the motivation we need to accomplish what can sometimes seem impossible.

So, in even the smallest of ways, I wish for us to steal away to the place where hope resides.  Look for it when we need it and give it when we are able. Hopelessness is not a home.  We are called to something better and we can both provide the path to find it, and choose to walk towards it.  Together.