One of my music friends at church has played an instrumental version of Enya's Pilgrim at services; I liked the music, so we decided to collaborate, and I wrote new words for the music.

Most recently, we performed it for the prelude of our (currently virtual) church service, trading recordings back and forth to combine her keyboarding and our vocals.

These are my notes to go along with it:


Pilgrim, as you wander, what are you searching for?
What answers are you seeking upon the distant shore?
You wonder, is God listening, and does he hear your prayer?
And sometimes you wonder if he is even there...

We are all like pilgrims, looking for the light--
We journey on together, and hope we're doing right.   
But while we've been seeking, God's been there all along;
And if we would just listen, we'd hear his loving song

If we could live in love, and with the Spirit's fire,
We would find all that we desire...

Pilgrim, cease your wandering; there's nothing you must find;
Endless are your journeys, but they're all in your mind.
You'll come to discover, for all the paths you've trod:
He has already found you; you're never lost to God.


.................

I thought the title could be rather fitting for our church, so I decided to see if I could create new words for the music to make it more of a church song.

There are so many ways one could take a theme of pilgrimage... this one happened to work out in this way, the idea of searching for God even though we don't actually need to go anywhere to do so.  I think it's probably easy to believe we need to make some sort of effort to find him, when in reality he hasn't gone anywhere.  Being in his presence is so much easier than we think it is; we don't need to do anything to "earn" it, or his love.  Really, all we need to do is show up... right where we are.  Where we are, he is.  The last line of the song bears repeating: He has already found you; you're never lost to God.

Our pilgrim in the song— us— is uncertain about where and how to find God, about whether he is out there, looking high and low and far and near... when in truth if we just hold still and listen, we will see he's always been there waiting.

This is a good message for now, when so many of us are cut off from each other or indeed other people at all.  During Holy Week, I saw so many people who were broken up or distressed about not being able to attend church.  Part of me wondered if some of them were afraid to meet God alone... and some maybe didn't know they could.  It's true that Jesus said that "where two or three are gathered in my name, I am there among them" (Matt. 18:20).  But, I've never believed that means he is present only when we are in groups; exactly ten chapters later, he reminds the disciples, "And remember, I am with you always, to the end of the age." (Matt. 28:20) 

A pastor I know posted an article on Facebook a while back about whether closing churches during the pandemic shows a lack of faith.  This was my reply to his post: I might argue that the closing of a church IS an act of faith.  Faith that God is here, everywhere, with us, even though we're not in church (it's not the only place to find him.  It's just *a* place we chose to consecrete.  Yet every place can be sacred if we choose for it to be).  Faith that church will still be there when we come back.  Faith that we'll all be together again.  Lack of faith would actually be fearing to close those doors, because we don't believe they'll ever open again.


We're apart right now, unable to gather in one space for worship.  That won't last forever.  Even if it did, we would be no more distant from God than we have ever been.  He doesn't keep to only one place.  My God isn't that limited.  He is in every place and in every thing, with every person.  We don't need to search for him— he's already there.  And we can worship him anywhere and everywhere we find him.  And we can do it by ourselves, yet together with everyone across the world, in every time zone, raising all of our voices in prayer and praise.  And we can do it by being his light in the world, bringing his love to others... even if we do it behind masks from six feet away, or through the phone, or over the computer screen.

We may be apart from church, but we're not apart from God.

God is not in church.  God is in us.

This is often a theme with me on Ash Wednesday-- remembering that dust features prominently in aspects of both my faith and my fascination with astronomy.  Remembering that the universe "recycles," that the matter we are made of comes from the same place as that of stars and comets and galaxies.  "You are of dust, and to dust you shall return."

This tells us not only that we will one day become dust, but also that we have already been there.  As the poem says, as we feel awed by and tiny next to the vast wonders of the universe, we should recall that the stars are our siblings.  As we remember the humility of repentance, we should also remember that we are children of God.  Repent and rejoice!

.......................

At church tonight, before the benediction, the pastor encouraged us to try to remember the meaning of the ashes-- impermanence and repentence-- and then, as we washed them off in water later, to recall baptism.  But I thought of it in a slightly different way.

The ashes remind us that we will not live forever, that "to dust you shall return."  Our Buddhist friends would approve (as would the band Kansas, and Bill and Tedhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R0czxSi53jI).  But I will also remember that the water washes the ashes away, of the impermanence of even this.  Even our reminder of death will, in the end, not remain.  All is truly transient.  "Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning."

The tale goes that a king asked his wise men to create for him a ring that would make him happy when he was sad, and sad when he was happy.  They gave him a ring inscribed with, "this too shall pass."  And so will all things, from the briefest life of a microbe to the entire universe.  Our lives will end... but, so will our mortality, in God and faith.

So, maybe she and I are thinking of the same thing after all... in baptism, water washes away our sin... our death.  We will not live forever, but we also will not die forever.  Through the quiet and darkness of Lent, carry this light with you.

Pass on the light...

I was on the end of the choir tonight-- as I usually am-- and I lit my candle from that of the pastor (who had, in turn, taken her flame from the Christ candle), and then held it out to the singer next to me.  I watched the glow travel slowly down the row, one person sharing with the next, each face illuminated in turn.

That is what this season means.  I have spoken of it before-- the coming of light, in so many ways and traditions.  A good time to celebrate Jesus' birth since we're not observing at the proper time, this time of year when our friends in the Pagan traditions are also celebrating light and hoping for its return in the months to come.  So are those of us who love astronomy, for whom the longest darkness of the year that heralds the slow return to light is a matter of science, not religion (but holding no less wonder for all that).

And have I spoken of this before, that we are God's hands and feet and voices in the world, the answer to "why doesn't God do something"-- because we are called.  Tonight's passing of the light was an apt metaphor for the real passing of the light, of peace and love and knowledge and justice and camaraderie and all of those other things that we would term as "light," from one person to the next, pushing the darkness further and further back.  We give strength and hope and inspiration and impetus to each other, and this way we help each other spread the light, because none of us can do it alone.

It's true that once God said, "let there be light," and light just was.  Now Jesus says to us, "let there be light," and has shown us the way to create it: 'You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind.' This is the greatest and first commandment.  And a second is like it: "You shall love your neighbor as yourself.'  On these two commandments hang all the law and the prophets.*   Now it's up to us.  I hope we all find a way to take his light, and make it our own light, and share it, this season and the next; Christmas and Easter and summer and next Christmas and always.

Merry Christmas to you; may we all, one by one, light the whole world, the way tonight we lit the whole church with our candles.  Let there be peace on earth, and let it begin with me (and you!).


The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.
John 1:6 (NIV)



*Matthew 22:37-40 (NRSV)

Good Friday

This is the day the Lord has made. Let us rejoice and be glad in it.

But today is not a day of rejoicing. It's a day to reflect upon the cross. It's the day when we see what Lent has been leading up to. A day of mourning, of meditation. Many people use the word “reflection.”

It's no surprise to us. We do it every year. We know what is coming. We know all of what is coming. For me, this means I also sometimes have a hard time being somber on Good Friday, because I know what happens in three days' time.  Don't we all? We temper our sorrow at Jesus' sacrifice with the knowledge that it is not over, that he will come again, soon. As I dressed in black for church this morning, I had to stop myself from thinking ahead to three days from now, when I will get ready while singing Christ The Lord Is Risen Today (with the “Easter Hymn” tune), one of my favorite Easter songs (and not just for the descants!), or Handel's amazing Hallelujah (which I believe should be sung as loudly and as often as possible).

It has dawned a beautiful day here in Bangkok. We're in the throes of the hot season, which actually isn't so bad this year. Accuweather tells me it's going to get up to only 34C (about 93F) today, though apparently the “Real Feel” will be 45C (113F), owing in part to the 63% humidity that's forecast. Still, it is sunny and lovely out there-- doesn't seem fit for Good Friday at all, a day when most of the Gospels' writers tell us the land went dark at noon.

It also so happens that this year, Good Friday falls during the Thai festival of Songkran, the Thai New Year celebration. Songkran is anything but melancholy! Occurring in the hottest part of Thailand's year, the festival these days has become a giant water fight, the whole country over, for the three days that Songkran lasts (and even longer in some areas). At its best, it is a time of visiting family, honoring elders and asking for their blessing, going to the temple to make merit, and, of course, getting yourself and everyone around you as wet as possible! People in bright Hawaiian shirts roam the streets armed with water guns or spray bottles or buckets, gleefully dousing friends and passersby (if you don't want to get wet, even from crossfire, stay home or drive/take a taxi to your destination!). Everywhere, people are smiling and laughing and enjoying themselves.

I'll decline to go out and join in the fun today, since it's Good Friday (I went yesterday, the first day of the festival). But it's infectious. Yet another reason being sad is difficult today.

I'm not entirely sure I feel bad about that. Today I remember that Jesus died, and how he died, and why. Today we contemplate what wondrous love is this, that caused the Lord of bliss to bear the heavy cross for my soul... (this is another of my very favorite Holy Week hymns). But unlike the disciples and Jesus' family and friends, we have the benefit of hindsight, of knowing and not being able to forget what comes next. We know that the song ends: ...and when from death I'm free, I'll sing and joyful be! And through eternity I'll sing on... We know that Christ has died, Christ has risen, Christ will come again. Though it seems hopeless now, though darkness has come over the land, through our tears and sorrow we anticipate the light.

So today, on Good Friday, mourn. Reflect. Keep silence. But don't despair if you can't quite forget what is coming on Sunday. I don't think we're meant to. Living every day in his grace, I think we're meant to remember the whole story. Today, may you recall Jesus' sacrifice. But may you also, just as importantly, keep his joy.

 

 

 

*Photo is the stained-glass window at the front of Christ Church Bangkok* 

Little Lamb, who made thee ?

Dost thou know who made thee?

Gave thee life and bid thee feed,

By the stream and o'er the mead?

Gave thee clothing of delight,

Softest clothing, woolly bright?

Gave thee such a tender voice,

Making all the vales rejoice?

Little Lamb, who made thee?

Dost thou know who made thee?

Little Lamb, I'll tell thee;

Little Lamb, I'll tell thee!

He is called by thy name,

For he calls himself a Lamb.

He is meek and he is mild;

He became a little child.

I a child and thou a lamb:

We are called by his name.

Little Lamb, God bless thee. 

Little Lamb, God bless thee.

 --William Blake

John Tavener's haunting setting, sung by the Tenebrae Choir:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h-mSmEfLmZc

Joy comes with the morning...

I was thinking today about how joy comes in so many flavors. I was thinking about it in terms of music, but I’ll branch out more here.

For example, I love some of the worship music that comes from Africa. It’s different than I’ve found in my American upbringing, which tends to fringe on either church music of the “frozen chosen” variety (with anything more exuberant looked upon with suspicion {it’s different!!!} or, at best, fond tolerance as a novelty {“aw, look at this music from another culture”}), or the songs of the more charismatic churches, which just don’t have the same natural, easy elation that seems to flow from this music.

Yet this music is no greater than “western” music for its infectious ability to make one want to shout and dance. I can’t help but sing at the top of my voice: “… and he shall reign forever and ever, hallelujah!” My heart is full of conviction when “to God and to the Lamb, I will sing … and when from death I’m free, I’ll sing and joyful be, and through eternity I’ll sing on…” There is bright truth in “waking or sleeping, thy presence my light.”  I find simple honesty in Runrig's Every River: "All the ways of my life, I'd rather be with you: there's no way without you."  Pure light is in the "Alleluia" section of Morten Lauridsen's setting of the O Magnum Mysterium text.  And there is awe and gravity in every note of Eric Whitacre’s Alleluia, 10-plus minutes of that single word of glory.

 I sing the Handel Hallelujah at Christmas and Easter—and whenever else someone finds an excuse, as if one is needed—with as many voices as possible. I sing the Whitacre Alleluia across the lake when I’m standing alone on the shore—alone except for my God and his world and the birds that fly or float soundlessly through the music.

And this is all joy, from the exultation that would require the smile to be surgically removed from one’s face as one cries his praise to the heavens, to the deep conviction that barely dares speak his name above a whisper.

Years ago, I sang at church. I don’t remember what I sang. But I do remember that after the service, the associate pastor—someone I was not well-acquainted with as he was relatively new to our congregation and I spent most of my year away at college—made sure to approach me. He took my hand and quietly gave me a piece of advice that I still consider one of the best I’ve had: “Always continue in the joy of your Lord.” And I looked back at him, and smiled as we understood each other, and said the only thing I needed to say: “I will.”

I don’t know what he saw in my music. I don’t recall it being something especially earth-shattering, as songs go. But there must have been something heart-felt in it that shone through, and I’m glad.  My high school drama teacher once told our class, "acting is believing."  And I believe singing is believing, too.  You have to believe what you sing, from your heart, and make your audience believe it too.  When I sing O Mio Babbino Caro, I'm an angsty teenager with a great boyfriend and a "mean" father.  When I sing The Bard of Armagh, I'm an old Irish musician with fond memories of his life.  When I sing Sarah McLachlan's Angel, I'm someone laid low by life.  And when I sing Lennon's Imagine, I want everyone to believe that there must be a better way.


At that same church, I once sang Still, Still, Still for Christmas.  Afterward, one of the members came up to me and said, "that was beautiful.  The way you smiled on that last verse..."  And that, I believe, was what made all the difference: I didn't just sing the words.  I embodied them.  Joy, joy, joy; my heart is filled with joy.  The God of love has left his throne, made this humble world his own...


I sang  the solo version of Lauridsen's O Magnum Mysterium at church for Epiphany last year.  It doesn't hold a candle to the choral version, but it's still beautiful.  Unfortunately, my voice is not at its best in the morning, the bane of a church-singer's existence.  Having trouble with the long phrases, I almost dropped the piece in favor of something easier.  But after a bit more warm-up, I flip-flopped on our director again and said, "Let's do it."  I needed to do it.  I can tell you it wasn't perfect.  I didn't always quite get through the phrases.  My intonation may not have been 100% spot-on, if I was vocally tired.  But I sang the alleluias all the way up to the rafters, and I hope they echoed in everyone else's hearts as much as they did mine, because that's why I was there-- not for musical perfection, but for joy and for singing his praises.


And this is what I want to be: one who finds a way to make other people feel my joy and make it their own.  Hey, all of you out there-- you be transformed, too.  Look, I'll show you how.


I'm often a victim of the "Smile Police," who think everyone should be smiling all the time, and if they're not, they must be in the depths of despair.  I realized one day that besides being annoying, these people make me sad... because clearly they only know one kind of joy .  They have obviously never experienced the sort that simply makes one sit and contemplate the feeling that something inside oneself has grown larger than the sky, deep solemn joy that feels too momentous and has too much gravity for a mere grin, a deep inner light.


I hope we'll all find a way to feel his light and his joy... today, tomorrow, forever and ever.  With the sound of trumpets and cymbals and a thousand voices, and on our own, quietly, across a lake where we and he are the only ones present.  I hope you, too, know joy in all its forms.  What more do we need?  Sing alleluia.  :)

Today I was listening to Ola Gjeilo's absolutely amazing setting of the O Magnum Mysterium text (because I am lucky enough to be singing it in choir for Christmas!). 

O magnum mysterium et admirabile sacramentum,

ut animalia viderent Dominum natum jacentem in praesepio!

Beata Virgo, cujus viscera meruerunt portare Dominum Christum!

Alleluia!

O great mystery and wonderful sacrament,

that animals should see the new-born Lord lying in a manger!

Blessed is the Virgin whose womb was worthy to bear Christ the Lord!

Alleluia!

I was thinking about the text, and how I like it because, as an animal lover, I appreciate the reminder that mere barn animals were elevated to the status of being among the first to lay eyes on the son of God.  After further thought, I realized that was just the beginning of a long trend.  Through Jesus, God showed us his many love affairs with the underdog.

He was born in a stable, perhaps among piles of excrement, surrounded by animals.  He associated with people like tax collectors and prostitutes-- everyone society loved to hate.  He touched and healed the sick.  He said, "let the little children come to me."  He died with common criminals, even promising one of them a place in heaven.  And women were the first to see him risen.

Sometimes I wonder if there is a more-outside-the-box view of Jesus' role as savior, as the one who "takes away the sins of the world," as he who, if we believe in him, gives us everlasting life.  It isn't merely by being that he brings us light, but by being who he was, and doing what he did, and saying what he said.  He showed the world a new way of living, in love.  What if we all followed that, to the letter?  Wouldn't we all be saved, in the most visceral and physical and literal way, by our love and caring for each other?  Wouldn't we be without sin, without hate and greed and pride?  Wouldn't we be fit for heaven and its eternity indeed if we embodied love?

He always led by example.  If there was no one who was beneath God-- if he proved that to us, unequivocally, from the moment of his birth until his death and beyond-- how dare we believe there is anyone beneath us?  How can we look down our noses at the kind of people he made a point to embrace and love?

Food for thought.



Choral settings of the text:

Ola Gjeilo (Phoenix Chorale, and Sofia Vokalensemble):
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Rp63c81go2U

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9Femr6-OMEM

Morten Lauridsen (Nordic Chamber Choir):
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nn5ken3RJBo

Others to follow-- this text has been set by many, from Palestrina to Victoria and many more.  Eventually I'll have recordings of the most popular once I can assess them for the ones I like best.

The text on Wikipedia:  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/O_Magnum_Mysterium

On ChoralWiki/Choral Public Domain Library (including free scores): http://www2.cpdl.org/wiki/index.php/O_magnum_mysterium

I was recently on a trip to Philadelphia.  While there, I encountered many more street people than I usually experience in metro Detroit.

I am never sure what to do in these situations.  The advice is so varied.  Some say to walk on past-- these people can go to the missions or soup kitchens if they're hungry and there are plenty of social programs out there that you can support.  Some say don't give them change, just go find them some food and bring it back.  Others say don't even do that, because of course all the want is drug money and they'll throw your food back in your face (I have my suspicions about the type of people who say that, but...).  And Hester Lynch Piozzi said of the writer Samuel Johnson:

He loved the poor as I never yet saw anyone else do, with an earnest desire to make them happy. 'What signifies,' says someone, 'giving halfpence to common beggars? they only lay it out in gin or tobacco.' "And why should they be denied such sweeteners of their existence" (says Johnson)? "It is surely very savage to refuse them every possible avenue to pleasure, reckoned too coarse for our own acceptance.  Life is a pill which none of us can bear to swallow without gilding; yet for the poor we delight in stripping it still barer, and are not ashamed to show even visible displeasure, if ever the bitter taste is taken from their mouths."


And it troubled me, me who professes to follow a man who said, "if you love me, feed my sheep" and "when I was hungry, you gave me something to eat, and when I was thirsty, you gave me something to drink ... what you do to the least of these, you do to me."  Every day I passed many people who asked for my help, and I felt paralyzed because I didn't know what to do.  Should I give them money (though I had little cash on me)?  Ask them if I could go get them something to eat, or just do so?  Ask them what they might need?  I didn't have cash on hand, but I could go to a food place nearby and use my card.

"I'm sorry, I don't have any cash," as I said over and over, rang hollow in my ears.  This was not the charge he gave me.  This did not follow one of my favorite prayers: Lord, make me an instrument of thy peace ... where there is despair, [let me sow] hope; where there is darkness, light ... grant that I may not so much seek ... to be loved, as to love.  For it is in giving that we receive...

One of my weaknesses is that if I am not sure what to do about something, or am not sure if what I have the instinct to do is the right thing, I end up doing nothing.  Later I often regret that I did not do it (although I admit that sometimes when I do  act, I sometimes end up looking foolish and regret it as well).

I thought about it a lot when I got home.  I prayed about it.  And finally, it came into my head suddenly and easily: act first in love.  Of course.  Do not worry about if it is the right thing... simply do it.  If it is possible, do it.  Whatever I want to do that comes from my heart, that comes from him, that seems the kind and loving thing to do... do it.

I hope I can remember next time.


Lord, make me an instrument of Thy peace;
Where there is hatred, let me sow love;
Where there is injury, pardon;
Where there is error, the truth;
Where there is doubt, the faith;
Where there is despair, hope;
Where there is darkness, light;
And where there is sadness, joy.

O Divine Master,
Grant that I may not so much seek
To be consoled, as to console;
To be understood, as to understand;
To be loved as to love.

For it is in giving that we receive;
It is in pardoning that we are pardoned;
And it is in dying that we are born to eternal life. Amen.
(Attr. St. Francis of Assisi)


Love thyself last. Look near, behold thy duty
To those who walk beside thee down life’s road;
Make glad their days by little acts of beauty,
And help them bear the burden of earth’s load.

Love thyself last. Look far and find the stranger,
Who staggers ‘neath his sin and his despair;
Go lend a hand, and lead him out of danger,
To heights where he may see the world is fair.

Love thyself last. The vastnesses above thee
Are filled with Spirit Forces, strong and pure.
And fervently, these faithful friends shall love thee:
Keep thou thy watch o’er others, and endure.

Love thyself last; and oh, such joy shall thrill thee,
As never yet to selfish souls was given.
Whate’er thy lot, a perfect peace will fill thee,
And earth shall seem the ante-room of Heaven.

Love thyself last, and thou shall grow in spirit
To see, to hear, to know, and understand.
The message of the stars, lo, thou shall hear it,
And all God’s joys shall be at thy command
(Ella Wheeler Wilcox)


If I can stop one heart from breaking,
I shall not live in vain;
If I can ease one life the aching,
Or cool one pain,
Or help one fainting robin
Unto his nest again,
I shall not live in vain. 
 (Emily Dickinson)


 

The tree of life?

 

This tree is from a sort of nature preserve where I used to live.  I can't tell you why I get such a sense of power from it.  It's sort of in the center of a little clearing, which helps to sort of showcase it.

I feel such a deep sense of peace just looking at this picture of it.  I hope you do too.  (Make sure you click to get the full-sized version.)

Reminder (Ash Wednesday)

You are dust

of light, and life,

of days past and forgotten worlds,

of the stars and of all you see and don’t see;

you are formed of these things and they are formed of you.

We all are one voice;

we sing of one history, one present, one future:

all are one and the same

and the Lord is the light of us all.

Through time we were compiled

of the dust of ages,

all that ever was or ever will be,

made in his image,

and we dream of light,

and eternity is in our eyes.

You are of this dust,

and to this dust you shall return--

Alleluia!

 



The Law of the Conservation of Mass says that matter is neither created nor destroyed.  This means that from the time there was anything, anything that is, existed.  The matter that comprises you was there, and that of every rock, tree, animal, star, comet, cloud of gas... all present.  Some day you will die, and "to dust you will return."  And that is not the end.  Some day this matter will become something else-- another living being, or star, or comet.  And this process goes on until the end of time.  What do you suppose your matter once was?  What do you suppose it will be again some day?

Our reminder on this day is, you are dust, and to dust you will return.  It is meant to humble us.  It is also uplifting: you are a part of all he has made, from the tiniest quark to the most massive galaxies; from the darkest black hole to the brightest star, and everything in between.  We are nothing, and we are everything.  The stars are our family.  And God created us all.  We are the children of the creator of all that is, seen and unseen, known and unknown.  We are made of the dust that has existed for all time.  When we know this, is there anything we can't believe that we can do or be?  Alleluia, indeed.  :)

I Will Rise

There's a peace I've come to know,
Though my heart and flesh may fail;
There's an anchor for my soul--
I can say "It is well."

Jesus has overcome,
And the grave is overwhelmed!
The victory is won;
He is risen from the dead!


And I will rise when He calls my name--
No more sorrow, no more pain.
I will rise on eagles' wings,
Before my God, fall on my knees,
And rise...
I will rise!


There's a day that's drawing near,
When this darkness breaks to light,
And the shadows disappear,
And my faith shall be my eyes.

Jesus has overcome,
And the grave is overwhelmed!
The victory is won;
He is risen from the dead!


And I will rise when He calls my name--
No more sorrow, no more pain.
I will rise on eagles' wings,
Before my God fall on my knees,
And rise...
I will rise!


And I hear the voice of many angels sing:
"Worthy is the Lamb!"
And I hear the cry of every longing heart:
"Worthy is the Lamb!"



And I will rise when He calls my name--
No more sorrow, no more pain.
I will rise on eagles' wings,
Before my God fall on my knees,
And rise...
I will rise!


(Chris Tomlin,Jesse Reeves, Matt Maher, Louie Giglio)

Two versions (choir version arranged by Craig Courtney and Lynda Hasseler):
First

Second