"All Creatures of Our God and King" 1: The "Alleluia" Refrain

OK! Thank you, Adam and Sean, for your encouragement. I would be happy to publish some of the Hymn Notes appearing weekly in the church bulletin. We've been doing this only two months now, although of course I've had the idea and done similar things at other churches for many years.

On the first week of each month, the congregation receives an insert with the full lyrics. They are encouraged to take these home and memorize them.

On successive weeks, they may receive some historical background or devotional material about the hymn.

Here's the second week of "All Creatures of Our God and King," as it appeared in the bulletin in June:

The songs of God’s people were never meant to rest in the church building, but to bubble up from our hearts throughout our moments and days. We pray that the Hymns of the Month may help us reflect on the inspiration of the Holy Spirit through two millenia of congregational song, and to dwell on some of the words and tunes the Spirit inspired in our brothers and sisters before us, so that the Spirit may have opportunity again to bless God, others, and ourselves through these phrases in our own hearts in this time. As an example of how different hymns may be sung in different moments of our lives, we will sometimes sing them at different points in the Sunday morning service.

The refrain of this hymn of the month (“O praise Him, alleluia”) makes it particularly appropriate for use before and after the gospel reading.

“Alleluia” survives as a transliteration of the Hebrew “Hallelujah”, meaning “Praise Jah[weh]!” It appears numerous times in Psalms 113-118 and four times in Revelation 19, where it serves less as an injunction to praise than as a mighty summation of all the intensity of praise in heaven. This word’s continued use from the Old Testament temple worship to the New Testament’s revelation of heavenly worship, from the liturgies of first-century Christians to twenty-first-century Christians, allows us to join our voices with the company of heaven and to participate in the worship of all believers through time and space.

Please encourage one another in worship this morning, and yourselves throughout the week, by singing “Alleluia” with loudness and might.

Martin Marty 4: No Private Spirituality

The last item I want to discuss from Martin Marty's list is #8, Going Public. Marty remarked that confessing our faith in public, as illustrated by such hymns as "I Love to Tell the Story", is a very strange act in our American milieu of private spirituality.

Yet the psalms are filled with announcements that "I will speak of Thy goodness in the great congregation." The Old and New Testaments do not really credit any faith that remains private.

My husband pointed out recently that people who say they believe in Jesus but not in the church do not really believe in Jesus at all—not to the point of following His teachings beyond a vague niceness (and was Jesus actually "nice"?). Jesus reveled in symbolism and community, following the Old Testament law to the letter in His circumcision, presentation at the temple, and baptism; He went to the temple feasts with His parents; He attended the synagogue regularly, reading Scripture there publicly until the crowd decided to stone him. His first followers continued these Jewish practices, giving them a Christian twist, but not neglecting to meet together and not neglecting to carry on Jesus' commandments to use physical signs—water, bread and wine—to convey His teaching. The signs themselves were of community with the Trinity and with each other, and could not be practiced in any act of private spirituality.

Take a deep breath. Sing it out. "I will speak of Thy goodness in the great congregation; I Love to Tell the Story."

Martin Marty 3: Voices and Bodies that Rise, Fall, and Rise

The fourth point, Voice, emphasized Christianity as a material religion. Paying attention to our voices reminds us that we would not have Christianity without "a loaf of bread, a bottle of wine, and a river" (Marty was quoting someone else here).

The first time we sang the hymn "That Joyful Eastertide" (VRUETCHTEN) with text, the second time on "aw". We focused on the vibrations and resonance in our body, on our "wonderful madeness."

One of my employers said last week that he believes we will just be spirits in heaven, that Jesus' resurrected body was an illusion or something he cast off after he got through the clouds. That rather defeats the purpose of our belief, doesn't it? We long to be restored humanity, in all our spiritual and physical glory, not merely ghosts.

Fortunately, the Bible disagrees with my employer's views and holds out a different promise. Thomas put his hand in Jesus' side, and no body fell thunk to earth after the disciples stopped gazing up.

Dan Schutte 3: Hunger and Satisfaction

This Sunday a women's trio at my church is performing another of Schutte's tunes, "Pilgrim Companions", since the lectionary, as nearly as I can recall from planning this a couple months ago, has to do with Christ's being the Bread of Life (John 6) and with our walking together as imitators of God, His beloved children (Ephesians 4-5)--two themes unified in "Pilgrim Companions".

How do we capture the idea of the now and the not-yet, of Christ feeding us but not entirely satisfying us until heaven? One of the stanzas in "PC" reads, "Over and over, we hunger for someone to feed us and fill our desire; when the God of our longing has courted and captured our hearts, we will hunger no more," and the refrain closes with, "Hungry yet hopeful, sustained by the love of the Lord."

Since college years, I've latched onto that phrase, "hungry yet hopeful," as the theme of my life. My life didn't start that way. Since age nine, I had been nurtured on John Foley's version of Psalm 16, "For You Are My God" (and just why did a pack of St. Louis Jesuits have so much standing in a Reformed church?—but that is a question for another day), and its refrain, "For you are my God, you alone are my joy…". I thought God alone had to be my joy—sort of a beatific vision. But in college I began reading Psalm 16 seriously and finally noticed that immediately after the statement, "I have no good apart from thee," the psalmist follows with, "As for the saints in the land, they are the noble, in whom is all my delight" (italics added). So I began to get an inkling that God does not want us to enjoy "just" Him, but Him in His creation.

But how to enjoy God in His creation? The sadness of the world has never been far from me (many toddler portraits show a melancholy face, whereas my little brother is beaming), as the world, God's creation, including those made in His image, is continually falling short of God's intentions for it.

I read a lot of C.S. Lewis then and nearly memorized (really) his Weight of Glory essay, in which he talks frankly about our hunger for that which is not in this world, for the glory that is to come. This is still different from God alone being our joy; Lewis talks rather about our delighting in our Father's approval and stepping into the harmony and unity of creation that was meant from the beginning.

Hungry yet hopeful. You see how this develops.

When I taught for a couple years at a Christian high school, one of the kids' favorites songs was called "Hungry": "Hungry I come to you, for I know you satisfy." I sort of liked this song, but was worried that the students would get the ideas (1) that Jesus is supposed to satisfy immediately, meaning sometime in this life, and (2) that something is wrong with the kids if they don't feel "satisfied by Jesus" despite all their devotional practices. There certainly was a lot of unchristian guilt spread around that campus, possibly associated with songs like this.

I tried to talk about unrealistic expectations for satisfaction. I tried, for example, to tell the students in some chapels that if they got married, it could just increase the loneliness. My husband, The Abbott, is my best friend and a far-above-average partner in caring for me and preparing for our baby, but the loneliness I experience on a daily basis is real and unanswered by this wonderful man; I see more clearly after marriage than before that the dearest of human partners will not satisfy this ache, this hunger, for complete harmony and unity with God and His creation. I'm not sure the students understood this; I'm not sure I explained it well enough, or that because of songs like "Hungry", anyone was capable of understanding this.

The subtlety of Bernard of Clairvaux's "Jesus, Thou Joy of Loving Hearts" helps us here. Two stanzas will suffice:

Jesus, Thou Joy of loving hearts,
Thou Fount of life, Thou Light of men,
From the best bliss that earth imparts,
We turn unfilled to Thee again.

We taste Thee, O Thou living Bread,
And long to feast upon Thee still;
We drink of Thee, the Fountainhead,
And thirst our souls from Thee to fill.

The now and the not-yet. We're still hungry--yet hopeful. They didn't often sing this at the high school.

Haunted in New Mexico: Lutherans Amok

Check out our friend's most recent post. She's been attending an art conference (writers' workshop?) in New Mexico with a pack of ex-Lutherans.

Martin Marty 2: Silence and Noise

The first two points, Silence and Noise, could both be illustrated within sound.

Silence here refers to the spaces between notes--the organist's touch or the length of pause between phrases or stanzas--and to the possibility of a leader simply reading a stanza out loud in the middle of the hymn, while the congregation listens. Attention to silence helps us tune in to sound; the silence becomes part of the sound, another of its forms or shapes.

I use this method of attentiveness instinctively when shaping phrases in congregational song, based on the meaning of the text, but I noticed last night that I also use silence and softness pedagogically during piano lessons or choral lessons. A quiet smile or other facial expression in response to a performance is very effective after I've been blathering away or the student has been pounding away for a few minutes; the sudden absence of verbosity, whether verbal or musical, quickens our ears and sharpens our focus.

I recall also that one theory behind chant is that monks were allowed to make it somewhat organically, without a strict tempus, and with lots of individual variations within a choir. The subtlety of these variations was due, not crassly to lack of practice, but thoughtfully to the Holy Spirit's interpreting the text through each vessel, nudging here, lengthening there, taking a little breath, according to as each understood and as each had need. I do hope that theory of chant performance is true. Even if it is not, we can make it true in our own performances, explaining to the choir why in some cases we do not want them to keep an absolutely strict rhythm and tempo.

Silence.

Noise was delightfully illustrated through the spiritual "Let My People Go", which we were instructed to sing "in a down and dirty manner", stamping our feet on beats three and four after "Go down" and "Moses." Not all hymns and church tunes should be sung reverently; not all the Bible should be read reverently, I mean in an ethereal voice.

This reminds me that in a later post I mean to cover a hymn written by one of the participants of the conference, Adam Tice, in which "[t]he maiden Mary (not so mild) bore into death's domain true God, and yet an infant child...." Not so mild! Get down and dirty, Mary. Bear us that child.

Martin Marty 1: Churchgoers as Naked Mole Rats

During the Hymn Society's recent conference, Martin Marty brought us a look at the phenomology of hymnody—"What Is Going on When Christians Sing Hymns in Congregation?"—with each of his points accompanied by an appropriate hymn.

The points seemed a little haphazard, some of them having to do with the manner or technique of making music, some with the content of the songs, and one (#8) as the most cerebral, describing what happens in general when the private becomes public. I could have used another level of organization, dividing the points more neatly into categories.

I'll list the points first, then ponder some of my favorites in this and later posts.

Introduction: Phenomenology Defined; Location of Sacred
1. Silence
2. Noise
3. Awe
4. Voice
5. Rhythm and Harmony
6. Narrating and Listening
7. Conversing
8. Going Public
9. Unisonality and Harmony
10. Catechizing
Summary: Praising and Story

I don't recall how Marty defined phenomenology except through his example of stepping back from the congregation as a stranger to observe. I would supplement this with a concrete example, comparing this attitude of the stranger in the congregation to how you might observe a colony of naked mole rats burrowing around at the zoo, underground in a clear container like an ant farm: What are those creatures up to? How are they moving? Do they look busy or languid? What happens when one naked mole rat encounters another naked mole rat going the opposite direction in the same tunnel? How big are they making their burrows? How much noise does burrowing make? Where are the baby naked mole rats kept while the adults work? Are the babies allowed to observe, or are they confined? Does any adult oversee them? (This vision of the naked mole rats is vivid in my head, since I dreamed last week that I gave birth to one. My actual baby, due the middle of November, promises to look more human than that.)

During the introduction, Marty mentioned (as an aside?) that the discipline of acting like a stranger allows one to answer the question, "Where is this congregation locating the sacred?" Some congregations locate it in the host (the communion elements), some in the center aisle, some in icons, some in the music itself. I don't think I've seen a congregation locating it in the center aisle and I'm not sure how this would be observed, but the other places seem standard.

Dan Schutte 2: "Holy Darkness" and Songs of Suffering

During the workshop, Schutte had us all sing his "Holy Darkness", based on the writings of St. John of the Cross. The refrain begins with the lovely blessing, "Holy darkness, blessed night, heaven's answer hidden from our sight", and the first stanza is quite beautiful: "I have tried you in fires of affliction; I have taught your soul to grieve. In the barren soil of your loneliness there I will plant my seed." (Please write Oregon Catholic Press for the full score, Catalog #9906 for SATB arrangement and "assembly edition"—words and melody only.) We had sung several other songs and then politely waited for his comments, but at the end of this performance, everyone clapped. I think we were relieved that someone has written a song about depression and suffering, when all the rage right now is how happy we are and how Jesus satisfies our suburban dream.

What songs about suffering does the American church sing on a regular basis? We have the songs of Passion Week, of course. We have "A Mighty Fortress Is Our God", with its implied suffering: "Let goods and kindred go, this mortal life also. The body they may kill; God's truth abideth still…" But I don't think we have enough songs that acknowledge our suffering and allow us to hallow it. We will all suffer; we are all in big trouble if we have not been prepared with hymns that grant us strength of character to withstand it.

My favorite song of suffering is Bonhoeffer's "By Gracious Powers So Wonderfully Sheltered", especially the stanza, "And when this cup You give is filled to brimming with bitter suffering, hard to understand, we take it thankfully and without trembling, out of so good and so beloved a hand."

A few rounds of "Kyrie Eleison" never hurt either. I feel the American suburban churches are so complacent that whenever I play a "Kyrie Eleison" or "Agnus Dei" during a service, I try to make the organ wail. If somebody won't cry, then something has to cry. And perhaps it gives people a chance, however fleeting, to acknowledge there may be tears inside themselves, now or later.

Dan Schutte 1: Listening to Scripture

Despite my not having written on this blog for some months, hymn activity has hardly slowed!

I just came back from the Hymn Society National Conference in Greencastle, Indiana. Where else can you rub shoulders with great text and tune writers, have three snack breaks plus three meal breaks per day, and sing for hours every morning and afternoon?

Thursday morning, the final day of the five-day conference, I was much too groggy to introduce myself to even one new person, but I enjoyed at least listening to Dan Schutte, a composer whose works I've been singing since age nine. He gave a workshop on the Spirituality of Hymn Writing.

One of the things I appreciate most about Dan is his attentiveness to Scripture. He said that when he writes a new song, he often (always?) opens about eight translations of a scriptural text. Listening to language prompts him to develop certain metaphors for God or Christian experience which are only hinted at or bypassed in some translations, more fully expressed in others.

This philosophy of hymn writing is completely different from what I've encountered in the writings of Ruth Duck and Brian Wren, as exemplified in Wren's hymn, "Bring Many Names." Briefly, the Duck/Wren philosophies of hymn writing state that Scripture is culturally bound and therefore does not have ultimate authority in determining how we address God; rather, the Spirit releases us to find new names for God in our new age of Christian history. This puts tremendous emphasis on the individual's perception of God rather than on God's revelation of Himself.

"For All the Saints": Encore!

There are THREE MORE STANZAS in the Cyber Hymnal version of "For All the Saints" than have appeared in any hymnal I own. We'll have to consider those later.

"For All the Saints": Warfare and Light in the Bedroom

In comparing the three official supplements of the Episcopal Hymnal 1982, I've noticed that their language becomes gradually more pacifistic. No more "marching to Zion"—no, now we're just enfolded in a "warm embrace."

Now I'm about as female as they come. I wear skirts six days a week; I bake cookies (when I'm not struggling with morning sickness—four weeks to go till the end of the first trimester!); I sing lullabies for pleasure; I'm kind to animals. But! I like action movies and adventure stories and fairy tales of knights fighting dragons; like every human on the planet, I struggle against temptation, fight to control my tongue, battle inward thoughts, and occasionally have to speak sharply to make a point. The metaphor of warfare in my daily life, usually against myself, very much applies.

So we come to Ralph Vaughan Williams' setting of Bishop How's saints song. Lying in bed last week with a churning tummy, nibbling a ginger muffin and sipping water before daring to stand up, I found "For All the Saints" had fresh meaning. Thank God it was in the Episcopal Hymnal!—even if variations on the theme wouldn't show up in the supplements.

The first stanza doesn't actually set the theme so well—gratitude for the saints, but they rest only from "labours" and not from the warfare that marks the rest of the song, except for the last stanza. I wonder, however, if those first and last stanzas, the bookends that don't fit the books, have a sly way of saying, "Warfare is not really the point. Blessing, thanksgiving, and singing are the beginning and end of the story."

Through the middle six stanzas, the themes of warfare and light are interestingly intermingled.

Stanza 2: The Lord, the Captain of the "well-fought fight", is also the one true Light in the darkness.

Stanza 3: His soldiers fight as the saints of old to win a gold crown (you have to envision gold to see the light here).

Stanza 4: While we are feebly struggling, those saints are shining in glory—in the full presence of the Light that cheers us now.

Stanza 5: This one leaves out the light theme, but stealing on the ear is a "distant triumph-song" in the fiercest strife and longest war. I suddenly like that light is left out of this one stanza, because it makes the substitute, that distant strain of music, seem light-like in its place. It reminds me of a Wendell Berry poem about morning light darting into a room like a little bird through the window.

Stanza 6: As the golden evening brightens in the west (the setting sun, the end of our lives, the end of the world), the faithful warriors expect rest.

Stanza 7: And lo! before the darkness settles in, there "breaks a yet more glorious day". All of us saints rise triumphant in "bright array" while the "King of glory" (perfect Captain/King, perfect Light/glory) passes us in review.

So there you have it. The ridiculous feeble struggle of a young pregnant woman trying to get out of bed is suddenly lit by millions of saints and one strong Light. A "distant triumph-song" sounds in the darkened bedroom. No more warm embrace of blankets! The woman finishes her muffin (and the last stanza of the hymn) and decides to try to stand.

Actually, I made it to work only four minutes late.

"Praise, My Soul, the King of Heaven": A Lesson in Hymn Editing

Please do check out an article that appeared in Touchstone magazine, "No More 'Hims' of Praise". It's a little sarcastic, but proves a good lesson on why we should exercise much more care in editing hymns--or why we should keep our hands off the hymn editing altogether!

"Praise, My Soul, the King of Heaven" is the subject. The author takes us through a contemporary version of the hymn and compares it to the original, with commentary, stanza by stanza.

Time to Say Goodbye: Septuagesima and "Alleluia, Song of Gladness"

We have a guest columnist today! Nan from Holy Hauntings has been a faithful reader of this blog. When she sent me an email last month about the burying of the "Alleluia," I asked her if she would be willing to share this fascinating stuff with my readers. Has YOUR church ever held a ceremony like this?!?

Nan:

"Alleluia" or "hallelujah", meaning "Praise the Lord", is one of the few Hebrew words adopted untranslated into Christian worship. It is interesting to note that nowhere and at no time was any effort made to translate it into the vernacular, as Saint Isidore of Seville (636) mentioned in his writings. He explains this by the reverence for the hallowed traditions of the Apostolic Church.

Perhaps more than any other word, Alleluia ties us in a direct line to our Christian Fathers and Mothers. St. John mentions the Alleluia in the Revelation, Saint Jerome (420) praises the pious farmers and tradesmen who used to sing it at their toil, and the mothers taught their babies to pronounce Alleluia before any other word. Finally, the expression "Alleluia, the Lord is risen" became the general greeting of Christians in early medieval times on the Feast of the Resurrection.

But the time has come to say goodbye to the Alleluia, at least for a short time. Most people think that the last Sunday before Ash Wednesday is the official day we do this, but it historically was done weeks before, on Septuagesima Sunday (actually, the eve before). When we abandoned the Historic Lectionary, one of the great losses was this season of the "Gesima" Sundays. We also lost a reminder of why there even needs to be a Lent, Holy Week and Easter.

From Golden Legend or Lives of the Saints: "At Septuagesima beginneth the time of deviation or going out of the way, of the whole world, which began at Adam and endured unto Moses. And in this time is read the Book of Genesis. The time of Septuagesima representeth the time of deviation, that is of transgression. The Sexagesima signifieth the time of revocation. The Quinquagesima signifieth the time of remission. The Quadragesima signifieth of penance and satisfaction."

Septuagesima, Sexagesima, & Quinquagesima, words that sound strange to our modern ears, are in fact three Latin words and they indicate how far away we are from Easter—that is, 70, 60, and 50 days respectively.

Historic Ways to Say Goodbye

The "depositio" (discontinuance) of the Alleluia on the eve of Septuagesima assumed in medieval times a solemn and emotional note of saying farewell to the beloved song.
The liturgical office on the eve of Septuagesima was performed in many churches with special solemnity, and Alleluias were freely inserted in the sacred text, even to the number of twenty-eight final Alleluias in the church of Auxerre in France.

This custom also inspired some tender poems which were sung or recited during Vespers in honor of the sacred word. The best known of these hymns is Alleluia, dulce carmen (Alleluia, Song of Gladness), composed by an unknown author of the eleventh century. It was translated into English by John Mason Neale (1866) and may be found in the official hymnal of the Protestant Episcopal Church.

In some French churches the custom developed in ancient times of allowing the congregation to take part in the celebration of a quasi-liturgical farewell ceremony. The clergy abstained from any role in this popular service. Choirboys officiated in their stead at what was called "Burial of the Alleluia" performed the Saturday afternoon before Septuagesima Sunday. We find a description of it in the fifteenth-century statute book of the church of Toul:

On Saturday before Septuagesima Sunday all choir boys gather in the sacristy during the prayer of the None, to prepare for the burial of the Alleluia. After the last "Benedicamus" [i.e., at the end of the service] they march in procession, with crosses, tapers, holy water and censers; and they carry a coffin, as in a funeral. Thus they proceed through the aisle, moaning and mourning, until they reach the cloister. There they bury the coffin; they sprinkle it with holy water and incense it; whereupon they return to the sacristy by the same way [24].

Thus the Alleluia is sung for the last time and not heard again until it suddenly bursts into glory during the Mass of the Easter Vigil when the celebrant intones this sacred word after the Epistle, repeating it three times, as a jubilee, not herald, of the Resurrection of Christ

Things We've Handed Down

Fortunately we have held onto one of the treasures of the final Sunday of this season, Septuagesima: a hymn present in most hymnals today, Alleluia, Song of Gladness.

1. Alleluia dulce carmen,
Vox perennis gaudii,
Alleluia laus suavis
Est choris coelestibus,
Quam canunt Dei manentes
In domo per saecula.

2. Alleluia laeta mater
Concivis Jerusalem:
Alleluia vox tuorum
Civium gaudentium:
Exsules nos flere cogunt
Babylonis flumina.

3. Alleluia non meremur
In perenne psallere;
Alleluia vo reatus
Cogit intermittere;
Tempus instat quo peracta
Lugeamus crimina.

4. Unde laudando precamur
Te beata Trinitas,
Ut tuum nobis videre
Pascha des in aethere,
Quo tibi laeti canamus
Alleluia perpetim.


Alleluia, song of gladness,
Voice of joy that cannot die;
Alleluia is the anthem
Ever dear to choirs on high;
In the house of God abiding
Thus they sing eternally.

Alleluia thou resoundest,
True Jerusalem and free;
Alleluia, joyful mother,
All thy children sing with thee;
But by Babylon’s sad waters
Mourning exiles now are we.

Alleluia we deserve not
Here to chant forevermore;
Alleluia our transgressions
Make us for a while give o’er;
For the holy time is coming
Bidding us our sins deplore.

Therefore in our hymns we pray Thee,
Grant us, blessèd Trinity,
At the last to keep Thine Easter
In our home beyond the sky;
There to Thee forever singing
Alleluia joyfully.

Sources

The Cyber Hymnal, www.cyberhymnal.org

The Golden Legend or Lives of the Saints. Compiled by Jacobus de Voragine, Archbishop of Genoa, 1275. First edition published 1470. Englished by William Caxton, first edition 1483, edited by F.S. Ellis, Temple Classics, 1900 (reprinted 1922, 1931).

Francis X. Weiser, S.J., Handbook of Christian Feasts and Customs. Harcourt, Brace & World, New York, 1958, 9 (http://www.neiu.edu/~history/Wei.htm).

Alliteration and the Incarnation

Alliteration is a friendly gesture on an author’s part. I was greatly helped in memorizing “Like a River Glorious” by Miss Havergal, who wrote that “Peace” was “Perfect” and it “Floweth Fuller.” She proceeded to proclaim that “not a surGE of worry, not a SHade of care, not a blast of hurry, touCH the spirit there.”

She even added a gentle pun: God’s perfect peace floweth “fuller” (stanza 1), so we may trust Him “fully” (stanza 3).

Have you ever photocopied a hymn and circled or blocked its alliterations, even drawing lines between them? The pattern of circles and blocks is a sign of the author’s (or translator’s) prowess.

A good pattern also signifies respect for the Incarnation.

I’m not kidding.

Hymn writers who are in a hurry to get across an idea or to make a point, who hover on the theoretical level, don’t bother with artistic development or care for the language. There is no tenderness in how they handle words. They have not allowed language to roll over their tongue and to taste the physicality of a verb. It’s as if God were all Head and no Body.

Likewise, hymn singers who slop their consonants are too spiritual for their own good. God made us physical creatures with a physical language, spoken with tongue and breath and throat. We worship God with our whole bodies when we pronounce our beginnings and ends.

It’s no accident that “Jehovah” fit better in Miss Havergal’s chorus than “the LORD God”; the softly buzzing “v” sound in “Jehovah” is reflected in the softer “f” sound that fills stanzas and refrain. A picture of the Incarnation in a single song.

New House / New Post

Has it been that long since the last post? Well, we finished moving into our new house last weekend. As soon as the move was complete, I wrote an article I'd been promising a friend, on the general topic of Why Hymn Festivals Are a Good Idea. I think I called it "Hymn Festivals: Feasting on the Spirit."

You can view the complete article--an apology for hymns that goes deeper than "some hymns teach good theology"--here.

Getting Started in Music

In a newspaper interview a few weeks ago, the reporter asked me, "What got you started in music?"

People. Adults who sang to me.

1. My mother, who sang "Itsy-Bisty Spider" and "In My Heart There Rings a Melody."

2. Sandy Twigg, who played piano with gusto at our Christian Reformed church and had such a big smile and gave me my first piano lessons with flat black stickers of music notes as prizes for learning my pieces. Two notes, begin on middle C, alternate with D: "Here we go, to the zoo; funny monkey, how-de-do?"

3. Chris and Nancy Hansen, who started a children's choir at our next church and asked me to sing alto instead of soprano: "Just think of it like another melody."

4. Sister Eucebia, at the Catholic school where I was sent for punishment in fifth grade, who put a plastic recorder in my hands and told me I was going to learn to play it.

5. Sister Juliana, who saw the recorder in my hands and asked if I would play it next to her at the organ during weekly mass. Recorder and organ! Tooting ten-year-old and expert musician! I learned all the songs, and still know them by heart.

Last month, while directing a rehearsal for a community musical, I told one of the altos, "Just think of it like another melody." The next week, she told me this one remark had changed how she thought about singing: "You're the first person to teach me how to sing." Last night, she gave me a Mary Kay brush set in thanks. I am able to apply my eyeliner with precision because of Mr. and Mrs. Hansen.

Our hearts are full; nobody ever really leaves.

So—not WHAT got you started in music, but WHO?

Happy Valentine's Day, Like, Jesus-Style

In a comment under "At the Name of Jesus" 1, "The Leper" remarks that the sentimental 19th-century hymns penned by men and women alike are examples of the popular "Jesus Is My Boyfriend" style.

Since this is Valentine's Day, I'd like to share Bob Webber's phrase for these types of songs: "Valentines to Jesus."

Roses are red, violets are blue, God died for me, He died for you too.

Happy Valentine's Day, everyone--and you too, O Untouchable and Anonymous Leper. Why don't you run out and HUG somebody in honor of JESUS. Don't forget to ask them, "Is Jesus YOUR boyfriend, too?"

Real Life Intrudes

Quick update--I've still been THINKING about hymns but not WRITING about them! So sorry. My husband and I are buying a house and have to move in over a period of about two weeks because of my crazy rehearsal schedules. Paperwork and packing are taking over our lives right now, until March 5. But I'll try to find a few minutes here and there for shorter posts in the next couple weeks. Thank you for your patience and for your comments, that keep coming on older posts.

"At the Name of Jesus" 2: Unlike the Greeks

I'm especially interested now in the fifth stanza:

Bore it up triumphant with its human light,
Through all ranks of creatures, to the central height,
To the throne of Godhead, to the Father's breast;
Filled it with the glory of that perfect rest.

The idea that God can change is contrary to the Greek concept of unchanging perfection and to a common piety that misinterprets the passage "Jesus Christ is the same today, yesterday, and forever."

Once there was no human in the Godhead; now, for all time, there is a human in the Godhead. God has changed. He is still perfect—and we are made perfect with Him.

"At the Name of Jesus" 1: Chronological Order

The eight stanzas of "At the Name of Jesus," my #13 in the 100 Hymns Project, has a chronological and poetic order I didn't understand from the "selected stanzas" version found in most hymnals—if the hymnals keep this song at all.

The first stanza sets the theme, drawn principally from Philippians 2:5-11 and John 1: "At the Name of Jesus, every knee shall bow, every tongue confess Him King of glory now."

The second stanza echoes the Nicene Creed and is set in the relationship of the Trinity before Creation.

The third stanza tells of creation in a breathtaking echo from another ancient text, the Liturgy of St. James as set in "Let All Mortal Flesh Keep Silence."

The fourth stanza sums up the entire life of Jesus, Philippians 2-style, emphasizing again the Name of Jesus.

The fifth stanza is set after the resurrection, when Jesus takes His Name and human body up "through all ranks of creatures" to the "throne of Godhead."

The sixth stanza is our response, part one, as we fulfill the theme by naming Christ in worship.

The seventh stanza is our response, part two, as the Name is enthroned not only in heaven but in our hearts.

The eighth stanza foresees the return of that Name in glory, when not only our tongues but our hearts "confess Him King of glory now."

I would be VERY curious to know if these eight stanzas are the only original stanzas. The author seems intelligent and aware enough to have chosen eight stanzas deliberately—in which case we begin to enter overtones of the perfect-seven-plus-one—the eighth day of creation, the day of resurrection, the day of the world to come.

Order, order everywhere—and artistically satisfying references as well.