I’m not sure why I picked this hymn.  I’m nearing the end of this year long hymn project (part two…) and am actually struggling to find hymns I’m interested in.  Partly that’s weariness, and partly it’s a frustration with texts that do not inspire, some that even offend.  But if I return to my original purpose back in 2014 when I started this project, I am reminded that part of what I wanted to do was find meaning in places I thought there was none.  There is always something to be learned, something to uncover.

This is a tricky one for me, as it is said to deal with the theme of “Christian perfection.”  Well, I’m pretty sure that doesn’t exist, and I’m absolutely sure perfect Christians don’t exist, but I’ll wade in anyway.  The words were written by Charles Wesley in 1747, but it didn’t take much to discover that the first stanza is an adaptation of John Dryden’s text used in Henry Purcell’s opera, King Arthur, from 1691 (although then it was a fair isle excelling and Venus choosing her dwelling – ever so slightly different!).  The hymn is sometimes sung to Purcell’s music, but the version I am familiar with was written by John Zundell in 1870.

Love divine, all loves excelling,
Joy of heav’n to earth come down:
fix in us thy humble dwelling,
all thy faithful mercies crown:
Jesus, thou art all compassion,
pure, unbounded love thou art;
visit us with thy salvation,
enter ev’ry trembling heart.

Breathe, O breathe thy loving Spirit
into ev’ry troubled breast;
let us all in thee inherit,
let us find the promised rest:
take away the love of sinning;
Alpha and Omega be;
End of faith, as its Beginning,
set our hearts at liberty.

Come, Almighty to deliver,
let us all thy life receive;
suddenly return, and never,
nevermore thy temples leave.
Thee we would be always blessing,
serve thee as thy hosts above,
pray and praise thee without ceasing,
glory in thy perfect love.

Finish, then, thy new creation;
pure and spotless let us be:
let us see thy great salvation
perfectly restored in thee;
changed from glory into glory,
’til in heav’n we take our place,
’til we cast our crowns before thee,
lost in wonder, love, and praise.

What can I find in these words?  They are filled with the idea that we, as flawed humans, require cleansing in order to achieve restoration, liberty and salvation.  The love beyond all loves that God gives is invited to accomplish this.  Maybe this is a good thing.  I know many people who rely on this concept of God’s love to achieve who and what they wish to be.  Many people hold dearly to the idea that this powerful divine force will save them.  Save them.  It’s a formidable notion, one I continue to struggle with.  It is a focus I have difficulty relating to – and one that sometimes has requirements that seem to be exclusive and damaging to those that don’t agree and comply, or those that simply don’t succeed.  The preoccupation with salvation can be quite unloving.

If I look at the words differently, I do find some comfort. A love that is beyond all other loves, is a good thing.  The breathing of a loving spirit into our troubled souls, is a good thing.  The idea that there is a force that is defined by its lovingness is a marvel.  We live in a culture that defines success in terms of our careers and accomplishments, our wealth and possessions.  We don’t really consider our ability to express all-encompassing love as something to be held in such high regard that it surpasses all else.  When was the last time that special person you know who spends all their time and energy caring for friends and relatives received an award worthy of media coverage?  Never. When did the friend who simply held your hand in a moment of pain get a salary raise for their efforts?  Never.  When was an honorary degree bestowed upon the one that taught a child to ride a bike or drove a carload of kids to camp or fixed your flat tire or helped you move? Never.

When I start to think of the multitude acts of love that we experience each day, and throughout our lives, I am amazed.  Amazed at their power and amazed at how much we take them for granted.  In a way, these acts are our salvation – those we receive and those we give. Without them, surely we would be lost. In doing them we become fully human by sharing in the good and bad this life has to offer.  It may be that God’s example of love is a source of inspiration, but the definition of love can also be found elsewhere. It may be hard to find that inspiration, and it may require choices that involve tremendous strength and openness.  But I suspect within the concept of an excellent love lies one of the secrets to a good life.  The one we’re living in the here and now.

Love divine, all loves excelling.  What a pursuit.  Will it be my salvation?  I don’t know. But I do know a life lived with this goal will be rich in ways that can’t be predicted.  Ways that may not be obvious, easy or of our time.  Ways that will result in a view on our final days that will see a life’s beautiful landscape, painted with all the colours available, fully experienced and wonderfully lived.

Somewhere, way back in my childhood, this is the first hymn I ever learned to play on the piano.  Or, I should say, the first one I remember playing.  I think I was about 11 years old and I suppose playing it was easy enough to draw me into the world of hymns.  I have fond memories of playing it, and other hymns, with a friend of mine – we would merrily flip through the hymnbook and play whatever we could.  Sometimes, in fits of laughter, we would settle on two hymns on facing pages, and dive in for a duet of less than inspirational quality, regardless of competing time and key signatures.  Probably not what the hymn writers intended.

These are very old words.  They can be found in many Gregorian chants, the earliest record of their use in 990 at a monastery in Switzerland. The original Latin text is: Adoramus te, Christe, et benedicimus tibi: Quia per Crucem tuam redemisti mundum.  This familiar hymn version was written as part of an oratorio by Théodore Dubois in 1867 (translated into English in 1899 by Theodore Baker).

Christ, we do all adore thee,
And we do praise thee forever.
For on the holy cross hast thou
the world from sin redeemed.

This is a simple hymn.  The music is simple; the words are simple.  Perhaps this is what drew me to it as a child.  We adore and praise Christ, why?  Because of his sacrifice and resulting redemption.  End of story.  For those that adhere to this belief, there isn’t much more to add. And, many have experienced moments where the simplicity of repeated statements of this kind of childlike faith have been very moving and very meaningful.  Sometimes that’s all we need.

And yet, as always, we need to look beyond the places we lived as children.  To look for that which confounds as well as comforts, to consider other points of view.  Can this simple sentiment mean more than what it appears – can it be meaningful beyond the confines of a specific belief system?

Christ’s example of sacrificial love is powerful. His story is about providing what was needed, in all sorts of ways, to all sorts of people.  Healing, food, comfort, reassurance, and ultimately, redemption.  And, some choose to adore and praise him as a result. Regardless of how his example has been used and misused throughout church history, these behaviours are valuable and honorable and worthy.

I don’t really know what sin is, but I suspect behaving in ways that are the opposite of love defines it well.  I also suspect that the lists of sins that have been screamed at us from many a pulpit, contain more about maintaining power structures than about expressing love, and have little to do with deep, moral truths.  The standard is so much higher than what we have been told. Simply following rules is both easy to do and easy to dismiss, and a little lazy in the lack of understanding of how humans learn, grow and evolve.  Truly living in a spirit of love requires a great deal more effort, and its absence requires enormous redemption.

For me, redemption is about the process of regaining what has been lost.  When we exhibit behaviours that are less than loving, we lose something.  We lose a part of the recipient’s spirit and a part of our own. We leave a trail of destruction in our wake.  We become unadorable.

All of this leaves me wondering about both the simplicity and complexity of choosing love.  It is difficult.  There are times when we must honour ourselves by walking away from damaging situations, or must rely on others to provide for a need we cannot possibly fill.  Being a person grounded in love does not mean we are weak and accepting of whatever the world or our neighbours throw our way. But how we choose to behave matters. What we say, what we do, how we react and respond.

Adoration and praise is probably best saved for the gods. But redemption is something we all need. If we are willing to consider the greatest examples in human history, we will see that whatever was lost is always regained through actions, words, honour and commitment.  When these things are firmly grounded in a paradigm of love, rebuilding is possible, even if it is challenging and takes a lifetime.

This simple hymn reminds me that that there are powerful forces available to guide my path.  There is hate.  There is love.  The guide I choose will determine not the perfection of my experience, but the impact my path has on this world.

The original Latin includes the words, and we bless thee.  This is my wish.  That our lives and the paths we walk provide that which blesses those we encounter and those who follow.

Et benedicimus tibi.

It just so happens that I am to attend the funeral of a friend’s mother this weekend.  This hymn was on my list for this week, but seems especially appropriate as I know this family are people of faith who hold, in their grief, to the comfort offered in these words.  The idea that the rest beyond the river is real, and that their mother has found this beautiful peace.

Fanny Crosby wrote these words in 1869.  She is a well-known hymn writer, and this is a very familiar set of words.  The story goes that she became blind as an infant after receiving poor treatment of her eyes during an illness, an affliction that she felt resulted in having a fine memory and receiving a better education, one that she might not have had otherwise. Her first hymn, written at the age of eight, contained her lifelong philosophy: “O what a happy soul am I! Although I cannot see, I am resolved that in this world contented I will be.”

Jesus, keep me near the cross,
There a precious fountain;
Free to all, a healing stream,
Flows from Calv’ry’s mountain. 

Refrain:
In the cross, in the cross
Be my glory ever,
Till my ransomed soul shall find
Rest beyond the river.

Near the cross, a trembling soul,
Love and mercy found me;
There the Bright and Morning Star
Shed His beams around me.

Near the cross! O lamb of God,
Bring its scenes before me;
Help me walk from day to day
With its shadow o’er me.

Near the cross! I’ll watch and wait,
Hoping, trusting ever;
Till I reach the golden strand,
Just beyond the river.

I have mixed feelings about this hymn.  In some ways, the words are strikingly beautiful. The precious fountain, the healing stream, the starlight beaming around us, the idea of reaching the golden strand. The promise of something beyond death. Lovely.  And, I can appreciate the comfort these words bring in times of loss. But, I do struggle with the preoccupation with the afterlife in these kinds of hymns, with the waiting for something as though this life is less than an unmatchable gift.  There is a famous quote by Carl Jung that says, “If our religion is based on salvation, our chief emotions will be fear and trembling.  If our religion is based on wonder, our chief emotion will be gratitude.”

There is something mysterious about how we define our own personal spirituality.  Some of us are religious, others are not.  Some rely on inherited or chosen beliefs to resolve their fear of death. Others ignore the inevitable, seeking fountains of youth.  And, some choose to be content with the wonder that is our world, our neighbours, our creativity, our experiences, our very breath.  They choose gratitude.  Perhaps this comes from faith, from the Divine, from relationships, from knowledge – all sorts of sources.  But I think, as Fanny Crosby understood even as a child, there is some element of choice in gratitude. A willingness to look beyond our circumstances and the inevitability of death, and seek that which is wonderful.

Our lives are not perfect.  Far from it.  They are filled with all kinds of despair and disappointment, fear and uncertainty.  We require assistance – sometimes from friends and family, sometimes from professionals.  There are endless bumps along the road.  It can be incredibly difficult to find contentment in our darkest hours.  I wonder if this idea of gratitude is some kind of key to all of this.

Gratitude is simply the act of being thankful, combined with the action of returning kindness.  For me, this notion of returning the kindness is powerful.  Even when all else is dark, to return a kindness is a source of light that is unexplainable.  The smallest act can serve to provide a tiny flame that may just be enough to stave off the darkness – even if only for a moment.  I am reminded of the paintings of the Dutch Masters. Very dark canvasses filled with detail that is difficult to see but for the portions lit by candles, or a sunbeam through a window.  We don’t know what’s in the periphery, we can’t see everything, the subjects are sometimes engaged in difficult tasks, or may be poor or hungry or overworked, and yet there is a remarkable beauty in this smallest bit of illumination.

I don’t know what’s beyond the river. But I live in this world, in this life with the intention of being thankful for every breath I am able to take. Some are harder than others – that’s okay.  Sometimes we need to help someone else find their breath – that’s okay.  Sometimes our pain is so deep that we need to let someone else bring us the very air we need – that’s okay.  But this life is wonderful in all its complexity.  There are healing streams and precious fountains, and the river is beautiful – on this side and the next.

There are some people who seem to carry heavier burdens than others.  I’m not sure why.  I know we all have burdens – some big, some small, some fleeting, some constant.  I know we carry them in different ways – some of us are visibly strong, some walk in silence, some appear endlessly unlucky or lucky, some buckle under the weight, some recover, some do not.  It is mysterious, and often seems a little unfair.  While the severity of our struggles vary, there is none amongst us that escapes this life unscathed.

This hymn speaks to the need we all have to find external strength to help us carry our burdens.  The words are based on several Psalms, and were written to be used with this tune when Mendelssohn incorporated it into his oratorio, Elijah, in 1846.  The tune is much older, being used as a hymn since at least 1693.

Cast thy burden upon the Lord,
and he shall sustain thee.
He never will suffer the righteous to fall.
He is at thy right hand.
Thy mercy, Lord, is great,
and far above the heav’ns.
Let none be made ashamed,
that wait upon thee.

Simple words, and a simple concept.  Sustenance is always available to those who ask.  I particularly like the last line that implies that there is no shame in the asking, the needing or the waiting for help. How beautiful.  And how contrary to what most of us actually do and feel. Experiencing the impact of our burdens is often enough to shut us down, rather than open us up to expressing our needs and seeking help.  We do feel shame.  We live in a world where everything is judged on its obvious success, or failure.  We are very hard on ourselves and on others.

These words are meant to indicate a need to cast our burdens into the care of God.  This is meaningful to many, and I suspect even a few who are not religious, occasionally reach out privately towards something spiritual in moments of intense struggle.  But, as is often the case, I wonder if there’s another side to this.  To the understanding that we are meant to seek assistance. We were not meant to fight all our battles alone.

If that’s the case, then we are once again given tremendous responsibility towards our neighbours.  As providers of care, as askers of help.  For some this comes easily – on both sides of the equation. For others it is unbearably difficult. Not all are comfortable seeking help. Not all have somewhere to turn. Not all are suited to providing care. Not all have the resources or skills to offer what’s needed.  Not all believe help is available.

Perhaps this is why humans have always created communities.  Groups of people that have many talents, many perspectives, many skills.  Overlapping each other in hopes that none will fall through the cracks.  Not willing to allow those precious companions to fall, being at the right hand of the weary.  Perhaps.

We are not alone.  No matter how heavy the burdens become.  There aren’t always answers to our problems, but there is something to be said for walking through these painful moments with someone by your side – whether they can fix things or not.  There is no shame in asking for someone to walk with you.  There is no shame in carrying a burden.  Life is unfair.  The only shame I can see is that which emerges when we refuse to walk with those who carry these heavy loads.  Those close to us, those far.  Those familiar, those who are strangers.  Those we grow weary of; those we wish better for.

We all have gifts to offer.  Give what you have.  It may not be the solution, nor does it need to be, but sustenance is found in many places. Sustenance that allows us to carry whatever burdens we have received.