There is something special about the people in our world who are givers.  I don’t mean just the people who write cheques, I mean the people who actually do things for others because they see a need.  As some of us celebrate mothers this weekend, I am reminded that my mom is one of those.  For many, many years I have observed as she has made meals for others (something I have rarely, if ever, done!), looked out for neighbours and volunteered in various capacities – spending her retirement years helping out at a Mennonite Central Committee thrift store and cuddling babies in intensive care.  She knows her skills and shares them.

This hymn is about just that.  Freely giving of what we have. Considering that our lives are best lived when we offer up whatever is our bounty and sharing generously.

Grant us, Lord, the grace of giving
With a spirit large and free,
That ourselves and all our living
We may offer unto Thee.

As I thought about this, I began to wonder about what kinds of giving are best.  And really, there is no answer.  It sometimes feels as though certain types of generosity are touted as what we should all be doing.  I’ve heard and read many sermons, articles or talks on the value of hospitality.  People have much to say about giving money. These are important.  But, if I am judged on my hospitality skills, my life will be a resounding failure.   If financial gifts are a deciding factor, people without those particular means will feel endlessly inadequate.  How does one volunteer if working two jobs to support their family, or is low on energy because they are battling a physical or mental health issue?

Giving is not about what you give.  It is about understanding what you have.

And then, sharing it.  With a spirit, large and free.

I am impressed by many things.  I am impressed by my mother’s, and many, many others’, commitment to volunteer work.  People giving of their time to do much needed work that might not otherwise get done.  I am impressed by people who make large and small donations to worthwhile organizations. Providing funds for things that are important to all of us, things that improve lives and make society a better place.  I am impressed by those who continuously invite people into their homes and share their meals.  Opening their private spaces whether they have time for the cooking and cleaning or not.

But, I am also impressed with people who take two seconds to thank me for my piano playing, week after week, making me feel as though I’ve contributed something valuable to their lives.  I am impressed by the mystery person who picks up garbage on my street.  I am impressed by my student who thought to bring me a freshly baked, still warm cookie.  I am impressed by my letter carrier who is endlessly cheerful.  I am impressed by my regular grocery store clerk who, although a bit flustered by a new computer system, did her best to make my check-out pleasant.  I am impressed by the artists in my world that work so hard to provide moments of refuge in this challenging world, often for little recognition and compensation. I am impressed by friends, near and far, who remember the smallest details and often provide things, be they words, gifts or actions, that are exactly what is needed.

The act of giving is a vast realm of possibilities. It is a way to reflect on one’s own good fortune.  We give what we have, we give what we value, we give what is needed.  Giving is not an act to be judged or ranked.  It is an act to be celebrated – in all its forms; big, small, obvious, secret, quiet and loud. Thinking about this cultivates a desire to be thankful and to consider carefully what we actually have to offer, often much more than we realize.  Giving these things freely is a celebration of the recipient, and of our own abundance.

Give with grace.  For there is no such thing as a small gift when given with a large spirit.

We all dwell on the earth.  This seems important.  Not so much for the obvious reason that we don’t, currently, have any other options, but because it is something we share.  As I’ve been thinking about these hymns over the past few years, I suppose that is something that has become precious to me.  The idea that we share a great deal.

This hymn uses a tune by Louis Bourgeois from the Genevan Psalter of 1551, and it just may be one of the best known tunes in any modern hymnal.  It is sometimes sung with different words, but these are pretty close to the original, based on Psalm 100, written by William Kethe in 1561.  People have been singing this for a really long time.  It started in Geneva, moved to England and spread from there.

All people that on earth do dwell,
sing to the Lord with cheerful voice.
Serve him with joy, his praises tell,
come now before him and rejoice!

Know that the Lord is God indeed;
he formed us all without our aid.
We are the flock he surely feeds,
the sheep who by his hand were made.

O enter then his gates with joy,
within his courts his praise proclaim!
Let thankful songs your tongues employ.
O bless and magnify his name!

Because the Lord our God is good,
his mercy is forever sure.
His faithfulness at all times stood
and shall from age to age endure.

I like this tune – it is so familiar.  In my own family and church tradition, we sang it with the words of the common English doxology, “Praise God from whom all blessings flow…” before special meals as grace.  We sang it together, in four-part harmony.  All of us. We knew it, we joined our voices.

In this version, we are reminded of the need to praise with a cheerful voice.  Reminded of the source of life, mercy and faithfulness.  It is powerful to look beyond oneself to something bigger, something shared.  Certainly we all define this differently – for some it is God, as in these words, for others it is the earth itself, in all its beauty, majesty and power.  For me, I’m not convinced these kinds of differences matter very much, but I am convinced that when we join our voices to praise that which is truly good, and that which we share, we are likely to move together.

Perhaps it is this act of sharing the earth that struck me, in the wake of last week’s Earth Day.  We all look with wonder at the same stars, whether we practice the same religion or not.  We all need clean air and water.  We live our lives celebrating in good weather, worrying in bad.  We notice our neighbour’s flooding and mourn their losses – we attempt to help; we ask ourselves what more can we do?   We share the experiences of this world, for better or worse, amongst the ages and across our borders.  No matter how much we try to divide ourselves, the earth shows us over and over that we are one.  What I do here, impacts how you are able to live there.

For some reason, this hymn spoke to me about our connectedness.  The details of our praises may vary.  The importance of knowing we are small and need to look far beyond our own spaces, is clear.  When we see only our own space, we miss not only the needs of the other, but the very definition of the Divine.  And we miss the beauty and joy to be found; to be treasured; to be protected.

All people that on earth do dwell.

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.

As we continue through the season of Lent, I am still drawn to the idea of reflection.  Taking some time to consider what is important.  What are we really willing to devote ourselves to because we have decided it is worth the effort, the time and the commitment?

These very old words are attributed to the 12^thcentury mystic, Saint Bernard of Clairvaux.  He was born into a family of nobility, but joined the Cistercian order and became a monk and scholar of significant influence in his own time, and far beyond.  It is said that Martin Luther admired him greatly as the “best monk that ever lived,” some four hundred years later.  He is thought to have founded 163 monasteries and was renowned for his religious devotion. The original poem, Jesus dulcis memoria, was a mere 42 verses – although, the most common English translation doesn’t require quite that much devotion of us anymore!

Jesus, the very thought of thee
with sweetness fills the breast;
but sweeter far thy face to see,
and in thy presence rest.

Nor voice can sing, nor heart can frame,
Nor can the mind recall
a sweeter sound than thy dear name,
O Savior of us all.

O hope of every contrite heart,
O joy of all the meek,
to those who falter thou art kind!
How good to those who seek!

But what to those who find? Ah, this
nor tongue nor pen can show;
the love of Jesus, what it is,
none but his loved ones know.

Jesus, our only joy be thou,
as thou our prize wilt be;
Jesus, be thou our glory now,
and through eternity.

These words are quite lovely.  They describe feelings of complete love, joy and commitment – of being so convinced of the goodness of the subject of the devotion, that there is a sense that real peace has been achieved.  That just the thought or name of the beloved is enough to bring us what we require, the comfort we need and the joy of glory.

Sounds perfect.  Sounds easy.  And yet, finding something that has this much inspirational power can be a lifelong battle. One that is often difficult to reconcile with reality.  For some, the attempt at devotion, particularly within a religious context, can be quite debilitating.  The notion that peace can be found if we are pious enough – it just doesn’t always work that way.  For some, the idea of religion itself is so fraught with negative and damaging experiences, that it simply isn’t a place where any peace can be found.  For some, the circumstances of life are such that this approach feels like a slap in the face, a diminishing of the realities that threaten to swamp a life.

As has so often been the case, I am once again compelled to consider that these words are directive in nature.  Yes, they were written by a Christian monk to describe the characteristics of Jesus – something that will undoubtedly be meaningful to many.  But they are also a pretty good description of a person who contributes much to those around them.  Can we become someone that provides a place of peace and rest?  Someone whose name evokes sweet memories?  Someone who uplifts those that falter or soothes a contrite soul? Someone who is devoted to bringing joy and love?

It is a tall order.  To be a person that is able to fully commit to being this kind of spirit is hard.  We live in an era of self-focus. How we define almost everything is dependent upon our abilities to achieve success as individuals.  Successes of wealth, career, education, notoriety or fame, popularity and physical attractiveness.  We rarely vote for kindness or reward those who carry the weak or the needy. We are simply disinterested in those who do not exhibit the outward evidence of achievement.

But, these words are about a different kind of achievement.  They are about something deeply personal and deeply needed.  They speak to our common desire to feel surrounded by love and safety, by joy and reassurance.  If I look around my life, I can see special people who exhibit these life giving characteristics.  People who choose to cook for a neighbour who is not well.  People who sing for the dying.  People who give rides to the elderly.  People who help a child with their homework.  People who encourage a talent.  People who check if someone is okay.  People who say thank you.  People who remember and acknowledge a meaningful day.  People who volunteer.  People who keep our world clean.  People who are willing to speak out for good.  People who share their own joy.  People who live their lives fully despite many obstacles.  People who listen.  People who try to do what is right.  People who are simply available.  People who remember.  People who are kind.

There are many ways to become a giver of someone’s comfort, safety and joy.  Ultimately the task is begun with a choice.  I suspect this choice is relatively easy but the actual task can be difficult. It takes courage to seek out the needs of others. It takes honesty and openness to understand what’s actually needed. Providing for those needs takes strength.  It is a matter of listening carefully to the voices around us.  To the words, the actions, the hidden concerns, the underlying messages.  When we choose to see these things, and choose to act, we become part of that which is a sweetness that fills a space that was formerly empty.  Providing with our selves, a place of rest, and just maybe, the prize of joy.

It is completely beyond me that anyone could be so filled with hatred that they would take a weapon into a house of worship – or anywhere – and terrorize those within.  It is horrendous.  It is unimaginable.  And it seems to be happening with increasing frequency.  I have few words that offer any comfort or comprehension.

Simple Gifts is a song written by Joseph Brackett in 1848, an elder in a Shaker community in Maine.  He wrote only one verse, although many others have since been written and all sorts of variations on the tune have been created by a number of people for a number of purposes.  This original verse, however, is what I want to consider.

‘Tis the gift to be simple, ’tis the gift to be free
‘Tis the gift to come down where we ought to be,
And when we find ourselves in the place just right,
‘Twill be in the valley of love and delight.
When true simplicity is gained,
To bow and to bend we shan’t be ashamed,
To turn, turn will be our delight,
Till by turning, turning we come ’round right.

The Shakers were a small religious sect that believed, among other things, in a communal lifestyle, pacifism and equality between the sexes. They were known as Shakers because they literally shook when they worshiped – they were very enthusiastic.  They composed thousands of songs and they danced.

The words of this song are all about the freedom these people found in their worship.  The freedom to be in a place that was just right, the freedom to move as inspired, the freedom to be filled with love and delight as they practiced what was dear to them, what they believed.

We all believe different things.  We all express our beliefs in different ways.  To me, this creates a beautiful patchwork quilt that can encircle us all with warmth and interest.  There is no threat in another’s beliefs unless we choose to invent one based on our own ignorance and arrogance.  I am weary of hearing that who I am and who you are, is so different that we must shoot at each other to survive – literally or metaphorically, because some of our bullets come in the form of words and behaviours.  It is wrong.  It is folly.  It is heartbreaking.

Let us all find that space that is just right and be free to live there – worshiping, singing and dancing.  Actually, let us do more than that.  Let us make a space for what is just right for our neighbours. Give those that are different from us what they need.  There is room for us all and when we bow and bend, we shan’t be ashamed.  It is a simple gift.

Lent is a time of reflection.  Obviously, it is specifically associated with the Christian church and its preparation for Easter, but I suspect it is not a bad idea for any of us, regardless of our individual beliefs, to regularly take some time to consider who we are, where we’ve been, and where we’re going.  We make choices every day that impact our direction. Even not making choices sends us down one path or another.  So many things influence us.  So many circumstances seem to either stand in our way or open up doors.

Thinking about how we become who we are, and why, led me to this hymn.  It was written by Kenneth Morse around 1942 – so quite a new hymn for this project! What caught my attention was the idea that something, in this case the Spirit of God, is needed to guide us, lead us and make us strong.

Move in our midst, O Spirit of God.
Go with us down from your holy hill.
Walk with us through the storm and the calm.
Spirit of God, now go with us still.

Touch now our hands to lead us aright.
Guide us forever, show us your way.
Transform our darkness into your light.
Spirit of God, still lead us today.

Strike from our feet the fetters that bind.
Lift from our lives the weight of our wrong.
Teach us to love with heart, soul, and mind.
Spirit of God, your love makes us strong.

Kindle our hearts to burn with your flame.
Raise up your banners high in this hour.
Stir us to build new worlds in your name.
Spirit of God, O send us your pow’r!

Once again, I am moved by some powerful images.  This unseen thing that walks with us through both storms and calm, strikes the fetters from our feet, teaches us to love, is transformative, and lifts the weight of what is wrong from our lives. These are the things we all seek in our journey through life – this mysterious force that can raise us up above circumstances and ensure we can live the lives we hope for.

I recently had a conversation with someone who is struggling deeply with life’s disappointments.  In trying to be of some comfort or help, I was reminded that I am extremely fortunate.  I know this, of course, but when faced with someone who appears less so, it becomes very piercing. As we carried on our conversation over a period of days, what became more and more clear to me, was that this person was simply unable to find that silent, quiet, mysterious thing that carries us through storm and calm.  And I felt as though the weight of the world’s wrongs was so heavy that it had become almost impossible to carry with only their own strength.

I had no answers to give, and no acceptable suggestions.  It is very difficult to conquer anything when we assume that there is nothing out there that can help us.  But, I know there is.  Maybe it lies in faith.  Maybe it lies in therapy.  Maybe it lies in honest reflection on our lives.  Maybe it lies in art, music, literature, nature, activity or rest. Maybe it lies in our relationships. Maybe it lies in the choices we make. Maybe it lies in places we can’t even imagine, but help does exist.

When I go back to these words, I am certain that the most critical part is the invitation for something to enter our lives and move. Move in our midst.  There is much that we have absolutely no control over.  But there is much that we do.  When we are able to separate these two realities, we are able to see above the mire we sometimes find ourselves in.  We are also able to see above our luck – and understand that there is much more out there than our own good fortune.  To see that there are options when we feel we have none, and responsibilities when we’ve received our hearts’ desires.

Our lives are joyful and sad.  This we share.  As we take time to reflect, consider which side you find yourself on at this moment. And invite that beautiful, mysterious thing in that will carry you through or encourage you to carry another. Make the choice to rise above the good and the bad – for all is fleeting.  Who we are is more than our circumstances and what we do or do not have. We are wondrous creatures.  We can live wondrous lives, despite the views we are sometimes required to take in.  We are equal in value and have treasured gifts.  We can learn from each other, be kind, share, grow and change.  Or we can be self-focused, dissatisfied, greedy, stagnant and stubborn.  To ourselves and to others.  Either way.

So, move in our midst.  Kindle, teach and guide.  I choose to accept these things from the sources I have found, from the sources that feed me.  I want to move with them – sometimes very slowly, sometimes like the wind.  I choose to accept that although my life is not what I envisioned, it is more than enough. And I am grateful.

We have entered the season of Lent.  Generally, it is considered to be the period of forty days leading up to Easter.  I found a reference to traditional Lenten practices that described them as acts of justice – prayer (justice towards God); fasting (justice towards self); and almsgiving (justice towards others).   This is interesting because we hear a lot about people giving things up for Lent, but very little about why we do so.  If I think about what justice means, I wonder if it is more about actively giving, rather than giving something up.  Ensuring all have what they deserve, rather than accepting continued scarcity.  Requiring change, rather than maintaining comfort.

The words of this hymn, originally written in 1664 by Samuel Crossman, tell the story of Christ’s experience of jeering crowds all the way to his crucifixion.  For those of us who are of Christian backgrounds, this is very familiar.  It is a story retold year after year.

My song is love unknown, my Savior’s love for me:
Love to the loveless shown that they might lovely be.
But who am I, that for my sake,
My Lord should take frail flesh, and die?

He came from heaven’s throne salvation to bestow.
But they refused, and none the longed-for Christ would know.
This is my friend, my friend indeed,
Who at my need his life did spend.

Sometimes they crowd his way and his sweet praises sing;
Resounding all the day hosannas to their king.
Then “Crucify!” is all their breath,
And for His death they thirst and cry.

Why, what has my Lord done to cause this rage and spite?
He made the lame to run, and gave the blind their sight.
What injuries! Yet these are why
The Lord most high so cruelly dies.

With angry shouts they have my dear Lord done away.
A murderer they save, the Prince of life they slay!
Yet willingly he bears the shame
That through his name all might be free.

In life, no house, no home my Lord on earth might have.
In death, no friendly tomb, but what a stranger gave.
What may I say?  Heav’n was his home,
But mine the tomb wherein he lay.

Here might I stay and sing, of him my soul adores.
Never was love, dear King, never was grief like yours.
This is my friend in whose sweet praise
I all my days could gladly spend.

What struck me about this hymn, was actually the very first line.  My song is love unknown.  I had to speak these words a few times, because they are quite something.  My song is love unknown.  In these five words, both the depth and appreciation of a loving sacrifice is expressed.  The mystery of love.  The value of the unknowable.  The need to voice the beauty of this love without fully knowing what it is, but knowing that it is worth singing about.

There is much that is unknowable about life.  There are so many ways to try to understand the unknowable – be they religious or philosophical or scientific or some combination of facts, ideas and perspectives.  There are often very few answers. There are often many questions. We struggle to find solutions.  We fail.  We try again.  We think we’ve arrived only to find cracks in our foundations, and implications of our own conclusions on others that we hadn’t considered.   But, there is something about love that, in its mysterious nature, overrides much of this. It is very difficult to treat someone unjustly once you look into their face and make a conscious decision to love them.  Whether we express this directly or from afar, it is an act of justice. And it is a powerful tool.

Choosing to love someone requires us to provide what they need.  In whatever ways we are able.  Sometimes these are small things, sometimes they are monumental.  Sometimes they require sacrifice, sometimes they require strength and courage.  Sometimes they are easy, sometimes they are incredibly difficult. The story of Christ’s life and death outlined in this hymn, is one that many hold as a meaningful example of both active and sacrificial love.  An example of someone choosing to love in a way that offered much to those who were willing to accept it; in a way that required much more than most of us will ever have to give.  I find it incredibly sad that we have taken this act of selflessness and used it to justify religious superiority and all manner of unjust acts throughout the history of the Christian Church.  I’m not convinced that either love or justice are well served by assuming some sort of inherent ownership of truth.  This kind of arrogance does not make me want to sing.

So, when I read these words or hear them expressed over this Lenten season, I want to think of those that are most different from me. Those I understand the least.  There is tremendous value in cultivating unknown love.  The love that is bigger than us – that we don’t understand, that makes no sense and that may even scare us.  The love that says, all are worthy of your song – whether we know them or not.  Even when these songs require our lives to change.  Even when we find ourselves needing to learn new languages and tunes.  Even when we must relinquish our privilege and honour another’s experiences.

For there is joy in these songs.  There is harmony in the multitude of voices – dissonant, consonant, clashing, crashing, sweet and lovely combinations. Singing because love exists.  Working together in generosity and openness.

My song of love unknown.