According to longstanding custom in the shape-note singing community, the annual Illinois Sacred Harp Convention is held the Saturday before the third Sunday of September. In 2001 that came out to Sept. 15 — the Saturday after the World Trade Center was destroyed by terrorists and everything changed. .
Our singing that year was held at Lincoln’s New Salem State Historical Site, the reconstructed village in the place where Abraham Lincoln spent his youth. On the way out from Springfield, a 20-mile drive, I had the car radio on that morning. The destruction of 9/11 was a fresh and open wound, and I listened compulsively for news updates.
When it came my turn to lead a song, I chose the early American folk hymn known to Sacred Harpers as Bellevue 72b (the “b” means it’s the second tune on page 72, at the bottom of the page). More commonly known by its first line as “How Firm a Foundation,” it’s considered a bit of a chestnut, and I don’t usually call it. But it seemed appropriate to the occasion: “How firm a foundation, ye saints of the Lord, / Is laid for your faith in His excellent word […].” The second verse:
“Fear not, I am with thee; Oh be not dismayed!
I, I am thy God, and will still give thee aid;
I’ll strengthen thee, help thee, and cause thee to stand,
Upheld by my righteous, omnipotent hand.”
Did I say appropriate? It was perfect. Perfect for the occasion.
I’ve always been kind of a history nerd, and I knew “How Firm a Foundation” was a favorite of Andrew Jackson’s. It was sung at Theodore Roosevelt’s and Robert E. Lee’s funerals, and according to the HymnCharts website, “[i]t was especially popular with men [sic] who felt the weight of the world on their shoulders,” including soldiers on both sides in the Civil War.
Anyway, we were all feeling the weight of the world on our shoulders after 9/11, and something compelled me to call a folk hymn deeply rooted in American history.
“How Firm a Foundation” is on my mind again. I’ve been learning to play the harmonica, or mouth harp, and I’m starting with the old folk hymns I play on the dulcimer. It’s a logical first step since both instruments are diatonic, and I have a dulcimer tab arrangement in D in Nina Zanetti’s Glories Immortal that I can play on my new “low D” harp. So I can use it for ear training.
There’s something else, too. The weight of the world has been pretty heavy on my shoulders lately. As the Israel’s war on Gaza grinds on, I’m reminded of 1968, when Lyndon B. Johnson was turfed out of office by antiwar protests. And 1980, when the Islamic Republic of Iran effectively threw the election to Jimmy Carter’s opponent. Now it seems to be President Biden’s turn to get dragged down by an insoluble overseas crisis, if Michael Moore is right (and he usually is).
It looks like a hard rain’s about to fall, to quote another song that’s rooted in American history. The times may call for a Bob Dylan or a Michael Moore. But there’s also a Jesuit spiritual practice called lectio divina that helps me pull my thoughts and feelings together.
OK, OK. Technically it’s Benedictine, and its roots go back to St. Gregory of Nyssa and the fourth-century Fathers and Mothers of the church. But I use a simplified version I got from Jesuit author James Martin titled “Read, Think, Pray, Act: ‘Lectio Divina’ in Four Easy Steps.” (It’s no longer available online, but I saved the gist of it HERE.)
Traditionally, lectio is used for a contemplative, prayerful reading of scripture, especially the gospels. But I see no reason why I can’t use Fr. Martin’s steps to engage with a 19th-century folk hymn. The four steps work for me.
Read. “At the most basic level,” Martin explains, “you ask: What is going on in this Bible passage? Sometimes a Bible commentary is helpful to enable you to better understand the context.” Since I’m interpreting a hymn, I consulted HymnCharts.
The author of the text is unknown, but it first appeared in John Rippon’s Selection of Hymns from the Best Authors in 1787. Rippon was an English Baptist minister, and his Selection was wildly popular on both sides of the Atlantic. The melody appears in several American shape-note tunebooks, and was first paired with Rippon’s text in the Sacred Harp in 1844. According to Calvin University’s authoritative website Hymnary.org, has appeared in 2,001 hymnals over the years.
The overall message is one of assurance. How firm a foundation is God’s most excellent word. The passages I remembered when I called the hymn at the Illinois Singing Convention in 2001 offer comfort and assurance. O be not dismayed […] I’ll strengthen thee, help thee, and cause thee to stand. In a suggested “bulletin blurb” for congregational church leaders, Hymnary.org says the hymn “over two centuries has assured believers of the faithfulness of Christ and the certainty of hope.”
Further notes for worship leaders and church musicians by Laura de Jong of Hymnary.org suggest the accompaniment to “regal and stately American folk tune […] should support the message of the text, the steadfastness and faithfulness of our God.” But there’s something else, too. It comes up, for me, in the third verse (I’m quoting here from the online Sacred Harp maintained in Bremen, Germany):
When through the deep waters I call thee to go,
The rivers of sorrow shall not overflow;
For I will be with thee, thy troubles to bless […}
This hymn isn’t just about assurance and pretty little sheep in sunlit pastures. There’s something here about calling, too. Vocation. What are we called to do? What deep waters am I being asked to wade into? The last verse continues in this vein:
The soul that on Jesus hath leaned for repose,
I will not, I will not desert to His foes.
The soul, though all hell should endeavor to shake,
I’ll never, no never, no never forsake.
I’m not sure how others interpret it, but when I’m singing, my thoughts shift from God’s steadfastness my own. I may be called where all hell endeavors to shake (I wonder what they’re going to be), but I’ll never, no never, no never forsake.
Think. “What is God saying to me through the text?” asks Fr. Martin. One thing I noticed when I was going to Sacred Harp singings around the country: I believed every word of a very orthodox 18th-century text by Isaac Watts or John Rippon (who hoped his Selection would be a sequel to Watts), but only as long as I was singing them.
That’s enough, however. It’s commonly understood among Sacred Harp singers that you can get a valid spiritual experience out of singing the Harp without necessarily subscribing to the theology behind the lyrics. At national singing conventions in Chicago, from time to time I’d notice a singer or two wearing side curls and a yarmulke.
So when I sing for God to strengthen me, help me, and cause me to stand, upheld by God’s righteous, omnipotent hand, I’m not necessarily subscribing to the theological concept of a personal God. At least not in any way a believer would necessarily recognize.
My God is essentially the God of Einstein and Spinoza, but, yes, I’ll turn to God for protection. I may frame it in my mind as trusting in a cosmic drive within all sentient beings to self-actualize (a mishmash of half-remembered Maslow and Carl Rogers), but I pray like a the kid in Judy Blume’s Are You There God, It’s Me, Margaret (I’ve blogged about it HERE and HERE). Somehow it all fits in with my mix-and-match spirituality.
Something else I halfway remember, from a long-ago 12-step recovery meeting. Someone else around the tables asked, “is the universe friendly?” and attributed the question to Einstein. The question stayed with me. (I just Googled it and found this in Goodreads: “The most important decision we make is whether we believe we live in a friendly or hostile universe.” I’m going with friendly.
So, out of gratitude for living in a friendly universe, I want to say thanks. To pay it forward. Not because I want to go to heaven someday. That’s another question for another day. But because I think — I believe — I do better when I’m in tune with the cosmic principle Einstein alluded to when he said he “believe[d] in Spinoza’s God who reveals himself in the orderly harmony of what exists.” (But Einstein went on to add, “not in a God who concerns himself with fates and actions of human beings.”) Consequently when I pray, I pray for guidance.
In the same vein, the 11th step of AA suggests “praying only for knowledge of [God’s] will for us and the power to carry that out.” And that’s good enough for me. (Usually.)
Prayer. Fr. Martin suggests, “What do I want to say to God about the text?” The part that stands out to me on this reading of “How Firm a Foundation” is the subtext about steadfastness and vocation. I’ve been reading about vocations lately, anyway.
Elias Chacour, retired archbishop of Haifa and Galilee in the Melkite Greek Catholic Church, recalls a moment when his father and brothers had been abducted by Israeli soldiers when was 10 years old. During this ordeal, which lasted several months, his mother would pray for their safety, as if “talking to a deeply respected Friend — One who cared for us.” One night she added: “Allow us to be Your servants here in Gish [the village in Galilee to which they had fled during the Nakba of 1948]. Let our hands be Your hands to comfort the suffering. Let our lips bring the Peace of Your Spirit.”
The next day, young Chacour climbed a hill and looked toward the Mount of Beatitudes, which lay some distance to the south of Gish. He recalled his prayer like this:
“Mother has Your comfort. I can see that. But can’t You just speak a word and make all this trouble go away? Do you want us to be Your lips and hands and feet — as Mother prays — to bring peace again? If that’s true, You can use my hands and feet. Even my tongue, ” I added, remembering my usually fiery words.
I didn’t know it then, but this was to be one of the most important prayers of my life. And a first, small step committing me to a long journey.
Chacour dates his vocation, his sense of calling, to that moment. His father and brothers came back soon thereafter, and he found a place in a residential school — and orphanage — in Haifa. From there he went on to study in Nazareth, and in France, to found schools and work for peace among Jews, Christians and Muslims in Israel and the occupied territories.
I like Chacour’s prayer. It reminds me of bright yellow T-shirts licensed by the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America; they have space for a parish name on the back, and this legend on the front: “God’s Work. Our Hands.” (I’ve blogged about them HERE.) It fits my agnostic concept of God, too. Spinoza’s God, or Einstein’s, needs our hands, too.
So my prayer is simple, speaking to God as to a trusted friend (like the 10-year-old Elias Charcour or Judy Blume’s Margaret): Hey, God, what do you want me to do? Where do you want to use me?
Act. “What do I want to do, based on my prayer?” asks Fr. Martin. “Finally,” he answers, “you act.” And this is where lectio always gets a little bit embarrassing for me. You see, I’ve always talked a better game than I’ve played. But, for now, I’m content to sit with it a while.
“Prayer should move us to action, even if it simply makes us want to be more compassionate and faithful,” adds Martin. But that doesn’t let me off the hook. No, I’ll never, no, never, desert to the foe. In the meantime, I do a little. I think I can claim I’m at least a keyboard warrior for the people of occupied Palestine, sharing content from sources as diverse as Al Jazeera, the Times or Israel and British, French and German news media that our celebrity-obsessed press in the US doesn’t always get around to.
I’m reading up on the complicated, terribly fraught history of Israel-Palestine, too, and I’m connecting what I learn with the memories I have from touring the Holy Land with Debi in 2012. We facilitate an online faith formation book study group our parish, and we’re putting together a module on an initiative called Sumud: for Justice in Palestine and Israel, a joint venture of ELCA and the Evangelical Lutheran Church in Jordan and the Holy Land. (Sumud is an Arabic word meaning “steadfastness.”) Our tour in 2012 was arranged through an earlier version of the program called Peace, Not Walls, which took us to churches and NGOs in the occupied territories along with the holy sites. It was truly life-changing.
So publicizing Sumud and the ELCJHL, especially in a time of existential crisis for the Palestinian people, is a small way of saying thanks and paying forward. But my question stands: It’s an unholy mess out there, God. What can I do to help?
Links and Citations
72b, BELLEVUE, Sacred Harp Bremen https://sacredharpbremen.org/72b-bellevue/.
Alcoholics Anonymous, The Twelve Steps https://www.aa.org/the-twelve-steps.
Taylor Brantley, “The Story Behind: How Firm a Foundation,” HymnCharts, ed. Don Chapman https://www.hymncharts.com/2023/08/27/the-story-behind-how-firm-a-foundation/.
Elias Chacour, Blood Brothers: The Dramatic Story of a Palestinian Christian orking for Peace in Israel, with David Hazard (Rev ed., Grand Rapids: BakerBooks, 2022): 61, 74.
Bob Dylan, “A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall,” 1963 https://www.bobdylan.com/songs/hard-rains-gonna-fall/.
Albert Einstein, quote: “The most important decision we make is whether we believe we live in a friendly or hostile universe,” Goodreads https://www.goodreads.com/quotes/429690-the-most-important-decision-we-make-is-whether-we-believe#:~:text=The%20most%20important%20decision%20we%20make%20is%20whether%20we%20believe,a%20friendly%20or%20hostile%20universe..
“The Firm Foundation,” Hymnary.org, Calvin University, Grand Rapids, Michigan https://hymnary.org/text/how_firm_a_foundation_ye_saints_of.
“Michael Moore: Voter disapproval of Biden’s handling of Israel-Hamas war could cost him the election,” CNN, April 30. 2024 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k9iw38qV5bI.
“Religious and philosophical views of Albert Einstein,” Wikipedia https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Religious_and_philosophical_views_of_Albert_Einstein.
“Sumud: For Justice in Palestine and Israel,” Evangelical Lutheran Church in America https://www.elca.org/sumud.
Nina Zanetti, Glories Immortal: A Collection of Hymns from America’s Past [dulcimer tablature] http://www.ninazanetti.com/products.html.
[Uplinked May 1, 2012]
Ordinary Time 
Nice.
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