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.

There are times when I read through these hymn texts and I find the language we use to describe God very limiting.  In fact, I sometimes wonder why we are interested in such a small God, defined as a mere reflection of only some of us, in terms that can feel one dimensional.  In this hymn, written by William H. Burleigh in 1859, God is appealed to as a father. For those of us who have enjoyed the presence of good fathers, this is relatable and positive.  For those that have not, it is problematic.  For those of us that are seeking something beyond an earthly creature, perhaps we need a little more.  For those that wish to find themselves in the face of God – but are not fathers – we crave imagery that represents who we are, inspires what we wish to become, and reveals all that we hope to reflect.

As I looked at this hymn, I noticed that, in tiny print at the bottom of the page, alternate words were included.  For me, these are welcome and helpful.  They begin to expand this Divine being into something far greater than one human role fraught with complexity, as all human roles are.  They begin to guide my vision towards the character of God.

Lead us, O Wisdom, in the paths of peace;
Without thy guiding hand we go astray,
And doubts appall, and sorrows still increase.
Lead us, through Christ, the true and living way.

Lead us, O Teacher, in the paths of truth;
Unhelped by thee, in error’s maze we grope,
While passion stains and folly dims our youth,
And age comes on, uncheered by faith and hope.

Lead us, O Guardian, in the paths of right;
Blindly we stumble when we walk alone,
Involved in shadows of a mortal night,
Only with thee we journey safely on.

Lead us, O Shepherd, to thy heav’nly rest,
However rough and steep the pathway be,
Through joy or sorrow, as thou deemest best,
Until our lives are perfected in Thee.

This prayer is full of requests to find paths that most of us are, on some level, interested in pursuing.  Peace, truth and all that is right.  I have no doubt that we vary in our definitions of what each of these pursuits mean, but maybe the idea that we are all seeking is useful.  The line that says, “blindly we stumble when we walk alone,” is particularly meaningful.  In this context, alone means without God, but walking alone – whether in our day to day lives, or in the ways we develop and process thoughts and ideas – is a path that is filled with shadows.

What I like about the expanded words in this case, is the understanding that our search for peace and truth requires the contribution of a variety of sources, be they spiritual or earthly.  There is no single definition of what we need to achieve our state of rest, or find our place of fulfilment.  We need wisdom, we need teaching and we need to be cared for, shepherded and guided through whatever our paths come across.

Leadership can be found in many places.  In faith.  In knowledge.  In those around us, near and far.  In those we know, those we don’t.  In the thinker’s ideas and the writer’s words.  In the artist’s expressions and the gardener’s labour.  Leadership can be found amongst the highest echelons of power and the lowest states of poverty.  It can be corrupt, and it can be pure.   When we pray, hope, desire and beg for peace, let us be careful of whom we ask it.  Because the characteristics of wisdom, teacher, guardian and shepherd are not always found in the obvious places, but they are always necessary to build this particular path.  These are characteristics of strength, not self.  They are characteristics that give, rather than take.

When I go back to the idea that how we speak about the concept of God, I am conscious that to expand our language means to open up space for many more of us to be included.  These things that define those that lead us through the joys and sorrows, the rough and steep pathways, are characteristics we can all exemplify.  A bigger God requires more from us.  Perhaps that is the real challenge.  Perhaps that is what we are often resistant too. Creating these paths of peace is hard. It means moving out of the way for gifted leaders to show us new ways.  It means relinquishing status that has become meaningless in its self-serving nature.  It means understanding that peace for some is superficial if it exempts others.

So, I look for leaders.  I consider my role along the path.  I seek peace and truth and hope to avoid error’s maze.  And I say: Lead us, O Father, Mother, Daughter, Son, Child, Adult, Wisdom, Teacher, Guardian and Shepherd.  For we simply do not know where we are going.

PI had never really given much thought to this hymn. It is very familiar, but not sung that often in my circles.  It feels like an old gospel song that should be found on a movie soundtrack, the scene set in the countryside with a small congregation holding a summer service out of doors.  A simple time. Hard working people singing and looking forward to something better.  Well, it’s probably been used that way, but it’s origins aren’t quite what my imagination conjured up.

This hymn was written by Robert Lowry in 1864.  He wrote both the words and the music, not that common, it turns out, in hymnody.  The context was the American Civil War and the story goes that in a moment of rest from the heat of the battle, both literally and figuratively, Lowry began to imagine the relief cool flowing water could offer, had there been a river available.   He composed the hymn in that moment, also reflecting on a biblical passage that spoke of a river flowing from Christ’s throne – a place for all to gather.

Shall we gather at the river,
Where bright angel feet have trod;
With its crystal tide forever
Flowing by the throne of God?

Refrain:
Yes, we’ll gather at the river,
The beautiful, the beautiful river;
Gather with the saints at the river
That flows by the throne of God.

On the margin of the river,
Washing up its silver spray,
We will walk and worship ever,
All the happy golden day.

Ere we reach the shining river,
Lay we ev’ry burden down;
Grace our spirits will deliver,
And provide a robe and crown.

Soon we’ll reach the shining river,
Soon our pilgrimage will cease;
Soon our happy hearts will quiver
With the melody of peace.

These are really quite beautiful words.  The imagery of crystal tides, silver spray and the shining river are lovely.  These are visions that are filled with that magical thing we experience when we are privileged to see the beauty of nature. When we take in those moments that can never quite be described or captured by a photograph.  The sights, sounds, smells of beauty, of our earth, of a single, fleeting moment.  These experiences that we seek again and again because they are so precious.

What’s interesting to me about these words, is the idea that we gather at something beautiful because to do so offers us the opportunity to find a melody of peace.  A melody of peace.  Emerging from this wondrous river that flows from something beyond us.  Maybe you call it God, maybe you call it nature, maybe you call it science or the universe.  Or maybe you have no idea what it is, but hope for something deeper than yourself and gather for a glimpse nonetheless.  Humans have been seeking the beauty found in this river for all time.  We talk about it, we write about it, we create its potential imagery, we sing about it.

We also fight about it.  We seem unable to come to a place where this melody of peace can be sung in both harmonic consonance and dissonance with all the other voices gathered. All the other ways of seeing its beauty, of understanding its power for good.  For me, the battle is not beautiful.  The desire to be right is ugly.  The promotion of arrogant supremacy is the exact opposite of a sparkling crystal tide and the shining silver spray.  For these are characteristics found in many places; seen with many eyes; understood by many hearts.

It is a simple hymn. It probably means something different to me than it does to you, or, I suspect, it meant to its author.   But I like that we can find a connection in the belief that beauty is both healing and worth walking towards.  I like that we understand that gathering for a common good is a path to peace.  And, I like that peace can be a melody.  One we can sing together.  All voices, all languages, all rhythms, all possible notes.

Shall we gather at the river?

It is no secret that the tradition of singing is strong in my family heritage.  In fact, I was born when my parents had moved from the Canadian prairies to Detmold, Germany in order for my dad to pursue his education as a singer.  There are many musicians in my extended family. Many music teachers.  Enough to form a choir – and possibly a small orchestra. The ability to play an instrument is completely ordinary, reading music is assumed.  I am grateful for this heritage – and as we celebrate Father’s day this week, I thank my dad who in his quiet way, laid a foundation of song for me.  A foundation that I stand on to this day.

Sing praise to God who reigns above, the God of all creation,
The God of pow’r, the God of love, the God of our salvation.
With healing balm my soul is filled, and eve’ry faithless murmur stilled.
To God all praise and glory!

What in almighty pow’r was made, God’s gracious mercy keepeth.
By morning glow or evening shade, God’s watchful eye ne’er sleepeth.
Within the shelter of God’s might, lo! All is just, and all is right.
To God all praise and glory!

Our God is never far away, throughout all grief distressing,
An ever-present help and stay, our peace, and joy, and blessing.
As with a mother’s tender hand, God gently leads the chosen band.
To God all praise and glory!

Then all my gladsome way along, I sing aloud thy praises,
That all may hear the grateful song my voice unwearied raises:
Be joyful in the Lord, my heart! Both soul and body, bear your part!
To God all praise and glory!

Singing is one of the great joys in life.  Every human being on this planet has a voice. Some are small, others large.  Some are shy, others bold.  Some are less than beautiful, but filled with spirit and emotion.  Some are glorious as though coming from a higher place.   Some are merely enthusiastic.  Others have yet to be discovered.  All cultures sing in one form or another.  It is free, requires no equipment, can be done in any context and with any number of people or completely alone.  It is our birthright; it is our privilege.

What I like about this hymn, written way back in 1675 by Johann J. Schütz, is that it is an unapologetic use of song as a means of praise. The writer is stating an admiration of his God through his singing voice.  It is an important act to do so – implying that a loud voice devoted to song is an appropriate form of worship; an appropriate means of celebrating that which was, presumably, of great significance.  A voice singing, unwearied and with both soul and body.

So, why do I sing?  For lots of reasons.  It is my tradition, beginning before I was born.  It feeds my spirit like nothing else.  It is my livelihood and profession.  It allows me to connect with others – both within and as a result of the songs.  It expresses emotions that I may not otherwise be comfortable expressing.  It shows me things of beauty that open my eyes to others’ experiences – some shared, and some completely unfamiliar.

But mostly, I sing because I must.  Because I have a voice – as we all do – that wants to rise and fall; that loves to combine with other voices; that simply enjoys being part of beauty.  There are times when the beauty is obvious, and times when it is not.  Some things I sing well, others sound terrible.  But the beauty isn’t always just about what it sounds like.  Often it is about the experiences surrounding the music.  The words, the notes, the memories, the satisfying work of learning, the sharing of the harmonies, the driving in the car, the laughter at mistakes, the rewards of achieving excellence, the insight into a composer’s genius or a songwriter’s perceptiveness.

And, I sing because it is good.  It opens space to express all that is valuable to me.  To any of us.  Maybe it is about spiritual matters, or feelings or emotions.  Maybe it is about our stories, our history, our desires, our hopes, our dreams.  Maybe it is about our pain, our trauma, our expectations of a better world. It is a means, as this hymn writer knew, of saying things of the utmost importance in ways that can be ingested both easily, and with greater depth for those willing to dig. Allowing us to examine ideas in the context of beauty; giving us a chance to consider and evaluate and, importantly, to participate.

These hymn texts are important to me.  As a singer and an observer.  They tie me to the past, to the present and to the future. They allow me to see others’ ideas about so much that I both need and wish to think about.  Singing the words is a beautiful act – thinking about whether the words I sing are still relevant, is challenging.  In some I find great wisdom, in others tremendous distaste.  There is a kind of beauty in this too, unravelling our histories and understanding none of us is without error.

So, I will continue to sing.  Alone and with others.  Experiencing the magic that is the human voice.  Expressing the variety of experiences found in the limitless collection of songs that we possess.  Singing for understanding.  Singing for excellence.  Singing for fun.  Singing for beauty.  Singing for praise.  Singing because I have a voice, and it will not lay silent.

This Sunday is Pentecost in the Christian tradition. It is the day commemorating the Holy Spirit’s descent upon the Apostles, and is sometimes thought to represent the birth of the early church.  It is considered a celebration of great joy that marks the end of the Easter season.  In some traditions, the celebrations are marked with the colour red in various forms to symbolize the Spirit’s fire and to acknowledge the light provided once the recipient has been given this gift.

The author of this text, George Croly (1780-1860), was a literary man who wrote poetry, plays, novels and theological works.  He eventually became rector at St. Stephen Walbrook in London where he is described as a powerful preacher who managed to fill a previously empty church, and even caught the attention of people like Charlotte and Anne Brontë who made a special visit to hear him preach on their first trip to London.  He was also appointed as the afternoon preacher at the Foundling Hospital, although he didn’t last long there as his style was criticized as being inappropriate for the children.  I found an amusing quote by a Mrs. Hall (whoever she may have been …) describing him thus: “Dr. Croly is an almost universal poet.  He is grand and gorgeous, but rarely tender and affectionate; he builds a lofty and magnificent temple, but it is too cold and stately to be a home for the heart.”

So, here was an apparently successful, spiritually driven man who, if I read these words correctly, had doubts.  Doubts about his strength, his faith, his patience.  His need – his desire – to receive something from the Spirit to support his weaknesses and renew his energy.

Spirit of God! descend upon my heart.
Wean it from earth, through all its pulses move.
Stoop to my weakness, mighty as thou art,
And make me love Thee as I ought to love.

Hast, thou not bid me love Thee, God and King?
All, all thine own, soul, heart and strength, and mind.
I see thy cross, there teach my heart to cling.
O let me seek thee, and O let me find!

Teach me to feel that thou art always nigh.
Teach me the struggles of the soul to bear,
To check the rising doubt, the rebel sigh;
Teach me the patience of unanswered prayer.

Teach me to love thee as thine angels love,
One holy passion filling all my frame;
The baptism of the heav’n-descended dove,
My heart an altar, and thy love the flame.

I suppose renewal and seeking the presence of God is what Pentecost is all about.  This receiving of something, slightly intangible, that we can carry with us into our lives. But even if one isn’t a believer in these specifics, I suspect there is a need to find something that is the unseen support for whatever is encountered.  It is difficult to imagine facing all we need to face – good and bad – without some kind of spiritual or emotional or psychological strength. And, in fact, in those moments where these supports are depleted, most of us require assistance.

I understand that faith is critically important to many.  I understand that others are baffled by the concept.  It is a very personal thing, one that I don’t really comprehend – why some are so committed, others dismissive, others wavering, others struggling with guilt, others happily indifferent.  But, I have long felt that the Holy Spirit is the spiritual embodiment of wisdom. And, as such, offers an open door to the pursuit of whatever knowledge and guidance is available.  For me, the idea of receiving this spirit is not a simple matter of resignation, basking in the glow of some ethereal creature, it is alternately an act of discovery, an act of pursuit.

We all have doubts.  I read these words and find myself wondering if asking for things like the skill of love, faith, strength and patience is really enough.  Surely wisdom requires us to do more than ask.  It is tempting to simply request what we need and sit and wait for it to arrive.  My experience is that that rarely happens.  I’m not convinced that this is the essence of faith.  I’m not convinced that we receive everything we think we need simply by asking.

But there is something to be said for finding that thing that provides the strength with which to seek the fulfilment of our needs; the easing of our doubts.  It might be spiritual or found within our relationships.  Perhaps it is found in physical exercise, meditation or a walk in the woods.  Maybe it emerges when we listen to music, read a book or stroll through an art gallery. Whatever it is, let it descend upon your heart.  Let it open you up to the wisdom that is found all around.  Let it require you to actively live your life and seek what you need. Let it guide your steps as they then illuminate a path for others who also seek.  Let it be a holy passion filling your frame.

This week’s hymn is one I was only vaguely familiar with. The tune was written by Charles H. C. Zeuner in 1832 and I believe has been used several times with different texts. It has a strange feeling rhythmically, but as I’ve played it, there is something quite mesmerizing about its lilt.

The words were written by William M. Vories in 1908. Vories has an interesting story.  He was born in the United States, was an educator, architect and lay minister. In 1905 he moved to Japan where he opened an architectural office and eventually married a Japanese woman and became a citizen.  He founded a mission in Japan dedicated to education and businesses in the fields of architecture, medicine and medical treatment with the practice of investing profits into the local community.  It is said that he owned no property in his lifetime and spent his time contributing to those around him.   This cross-cultural and generous spirit is quite evident in these words.

Let there be light, Lord God of hosts!
Let there be wisdom on the earth!
Let broad humanity have birth!
Let there be deeds, instead of boasts!

Within our passioned hearts instill
the calm that ends all strain and strife.
Make us thy ministers of life.
Purge us from lusts that curse and kill!

Give us the peace of vision clear
to see each other’s good, our own,
To joy and suffer not alone:
the love that casteth out all fear!

Let woe and waste of warfare cease,
that useful labor yet may build
its homes with love and laughter filled!
God, give your wayward children peace!

When I read these words, I am drawn to the ideas of light and wisdom.  There is an implication of a need to open our eyes and see what we are as humanity – broadly. A need to open our minds and take in the experiences of our ancestors and those across the seas; the experiences of our neighbours and those we do not yet know; the experiences of all who are beautifully different and wonderfully the same.

These words are a prayer asking for the establishment of peace.  But they are not the words of one who is idle in this desire.  There is an understanding that it is through our deeds, our ability to see other’s and our own good, our useful labour, and our passionate hearts that homes filled with love and laughter emerge – and, ultimately, peace.  All these things together make us ministers of life. What a phrase!  A minister is simply one who attends to the needs of others. Being a minister of life is the deliberate act of contributing to the enrichment of another’s experience.  The ways in which we can do this are endless.

It is quite amazing to me that these old hymn texts still ring true so many years later.  It doesn’t matter to me that this writer had a particular religious perspective, it matters to me that he was interested in searching for the way to peace.  It is a search that many of us continue – both personally and on a more global scale.  I suspect his notion that we must be active in this search is accurate. It is not enough to ponder and discuss. Our actions contribute to the construction of the roads on which we walk, the paths that others find behind us, the ability for all to find a way forward.  What matters is how we walk through our lives.

Our lives are not about solving all the problems of this world.  But we can all be ministers of life.  Finding ways to lay our own special bricks in the foundation of peace for all.  Some of us will lay many bricks, others few. Some of the bricks have the strength needed for foundations that stand the test of time.  Others are the special decorative bricks that provide beauty and interest.  Others are the corners that keep things aligned.  Others have no bricks, but provide the mortar that holds it all together. Some design, some find the best sites on which to build, some oversee the construction, some bring water when the builders are thirsty.  Some encourage and offer gratitude.  We are actively the many pieces of this puzzle that can emerge as love, as laughter and as peace.

Ministers of life.  Together – all the wayward children.

Let there be light.
Let there be wisdom.
Let there be peace.

As I have looked at hymns over the past year (or more!), there are a few common themes that come up time and time again.  One of these is hope.  That we look for it; that we provide it; that we need it.  Our tastes in music and our views on life and spirituality may have changed over time, but there are some things that remain shared in our human experience.  This is one of them.

Thinking about these African American Spirituals is complicated.  I have a sense that we need to respect where they came from even as we welcome them into our lives and sing them to reflect our perspectives.  This one is no different.  It was written by Wallace Willis, a Choctaw Freedman, towards the end of the 19^thcentury.  A Choctaw Freedman was an Indigenous person of colour – granted freedom from slavery and citizenship in the Choctaw Nation in 1885.  It is a complicated history involving the horrific practice of slavery because some of these people were first slaves to European colonists, and later to Native American tribes who held them as captives after battles. It is difficult, from my privileged position, to fully grasp all of this.  It is hard to reconcile these practices.  Hard to understand the myriad layers of devastation arising from our Colonial past.

The song’s words were reportedly written when Willis was hard at work with a view of the Red River in Oklahoma.  Bringing to his mind the biblical story of crossing the river Jordan to something better.  Working.  Slaving. And, dreaming of freedom beyond the bonds that kept him where he was.

Swing low, sweet chariot
Coming for to carry me home
Swing low, sweet chariot
Coming for to carry me home

I looked over Jordan, and what did I see?
(Coming for to carry me home)
A band of angels coming after me
(Coming for to carry me home)

If you get there before I do
(Coming for to carry me home)
Tell all of my friends, that I’m coming there too
(Coming for to carry me home)

Whenever I consider one of these spirituals, I am astounded at the strength of those souls that wrote them.  If I look back on my own life, it would be difficult to find much of inspiration that came to my mind in moments of apparent hopelessness. In fact, at my lowest points, I don’t think I have been able to see the bands of angels coming to carry me anywhere – blinded by my own preoccupations.  I suspect I am not alone.  When we are in the midst of a struggle, it can be difficult to see beyond the mess and the pain.

But as we breathe the fresh air of Spring, we know we have been carried.  Through the winter’s cold.  Through the summer’s heat.  We don’t see the band of angels in the moment, but it is there.  Be it made up of our family, friends, therapists, pets – or our experiences, our creativity, our drive to accomplish something.  Maybe it is the tiniest flicker of a flame within that sees the smallest bit of beauty and says, that is enough.  Maybe it is our rawness that opens our eyes and shows us another’s pain, and in that moment allows us to spread our own angel wings and offer shelter and companionship.

What is hope?  Is it something we need to see?  Or, do those who have walked this earth before us, some in horrific situations beyond our comprehension, teach us that it is simply something that exists. Independent of our ability to see it or even believe it is there.  We have all, at times, looked for hope and found none.  But within the multitude of talents that others possess, there are ways across rivers that seem unnavigable.

So, as we wander along rivers both calm and turbulent, know that the band of angels walks beside us.  Sometimes we are part of that band, sometimes we are not.  Sometimes we feel these special souls, sometimes we don’t. But when we are carried to the other side, we meet them.  We greet them with gratitude and we join in, for a time, as part of this strength. Sharing what we know, what we’ve seen, where we’ve been.

Thank you, Mr. Willis.  Your vision inspires.  Your strength resonates through the ages.  Your pain is lamented.  Your story is remembered.  Your chariot flew to us and taught us about hope.

This is the time of year where I start to get weary. As a musician and teacher, it is close, but not quite the end of another busy year.  I can feel myself losing patience with, and sometimes interest in, the various projects, jobs, activities – and even people – I am involved with.  I suspect this kind of weariness is completely normal and very common.

So, we look for ways to rejuvenate.  Sometimes we just need a break.  Sometimes we need to make adjustments to find balance. Sometimes we need to look beyond the day to day and find fresh perspectives and renewed vision.  This hymn speaks, in a very simple way, about just that.  It doesn’t provide answers, it merely suggests that we seek guidance and support; asking for replenishment from a valued source.

Spirit of the living God, fall afresh on me.
Spirit of the living God, fall afresh on me.
Melt me, mold me, fill me, use me.
Sprit of the living God, fall afresh on me.

In this case, the Holy Spirit is invoked to provide this renewal.  Personally, I like the definition of the Holy Spirit as a paraclete.  This word, originally from the Greek, means advocate, helper, sometimes counsellor, and has been commonly associated with the Holy Spirit in Christianity.  There is some comfort in knowing that we have access to a helper.  Something beyond ourselves that can provided a freshness that molds and fills us; renews our usefulness.

Increasingly, it seems that we are a weary society.  We are tired of how things are.  Many people want change.  There is something exciting about this – possibilities and opportunities opening up for those previously disregarded; reparations being made to those historically denied.  But this thirst for change also brings many things that are horrifyingly frightening – a desire to return to ideals and practices of the past that served some and destroyed others.  Visions of tremendous personal benefits, with a complete lack of regard for the backs on which they are built.  It is a strange time of division.  It is a scary time when philosophies of greed and discrimination are cleverly disguised as beneficial and reparative, and even morally superior.  Our weariness is easily manipulated.  Easily swayed.

The words “melt me, mold me, fill me, use me” are interesting.  The idea that when we seek out guidance and advocacy, it has the power to do these things. It is here that I find myself asking, what am I allowing to melt and mold me? What am I being filled with? For whom will I be useful?

I believe God to be immense.  I do not believe we can fully understand what God is.  This is the mystery and wildly inspirational nature of God.  To me, God is not small enough to fit within our explanations or traditions, rituals or practices.  So, when I consider the Spirit of a living God, it is with great care that I do so. Because it requires me to open myself up to the reality that I know so little about this advocate, helper and counsellor.  I must listen carefully to those around me and across our planet to catch a glimpse of this wisdom.  To my neighbours, to scientists, to artists, to givers, to carers, to writers, to thinkers and those who possess deep spiritual understanding.

And how refreshing that can be.  There is a wealth of knowledge and wisdom and creativity and joy being expressed in every corner of this world.  It is alive.  It cannot be hidden in the shadow of the filth that we hear spoken in many quarters these days, by those mouths that should inspire rather than defile our human experience.  This beauty that is everywhere should be celebrated and upheld.  It should guide our steps.  We should seek it when we’re weary and be renewed.

Whether we believe in God or simply in the possibility of human goodness, there are many options in which we can find inspiration to carry on in our weary lives.  They are often not at the forefront of our news, social media or conversations – so we must work hard to seek them out.  Renewal emerges from the persistent consumption of what is good.  Difficult when we are weary, but refreshing when we insist.

May this spirit of renewal colour your life.  May you look for where it lies and allow it to fall upon you.