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Although the statisticians tell us we do it in ever dwindling numbers, many of us are still off to church this Sunday morning—or would be except for Coronavirus precautions observed in many places and to various degrees. I have not stepped foot in my own church, the Tree of Life Unitarian Universalist Congregation in McHenry, Illinois since mid-March of last year. But I haven’t missed a Zoom service in all of that time until today when I ironically have my second vaccine shotscheduled. A lot of other folks have Zoomed it as well. In fact our log-in attendance has actually been greater than our usual in-person services. Perhaps the pandemic will permanently change how many of us worshipand how tightly tethered we will remain to our brick and mortar temples.
Even before the emergency there was an ongoing theological debate about whether the church is the building or the congregation. Let’s split the difference and say it’s both.
The buildings in which we gatherand worship tell us a lot about the folks therein and perhaps their expectationsand hopes. Should the building be a hymn and monument to God, or should it be a humble house for the faithful? Christianity has tugged us both ways.
Here are three takes on that.
Building Aix la Chapelle Grandes from the Chroniques-de-France
The 20th Century Welch poet John Ormond considered the masons and laborers who spent their whole lives building temples that their grandchildren might not see completed.
The Cathedral Builders
They climbed on sketchy ladders towards God,
with winch and pulley hoisted hewn rock into heaven,
inhabited the sky with hammers,
defied gravity,
deified stone,
took up God’s house to meet him,
and came down to their suppers
and small beer,
every night slept, lay with their smelly wives,
quarrelled and cuffed the children,
lied, spat, sang, were happy, or unhappy,
and every day took to the ladders again,
impeded the rights of way of another summer’s swallows,
grew greyer, shakier,
became less inclined to fix a neighbour’s roof of a fine evening,
saw naves sprout arches, clerestories soar,
cursed the loud fancy glaziers for their luck,
somehow escaped the plague,
got rheumatism,
decided it was time to give it up,
to leave the spire to others,
stood in the crowd, well back from the vestments at the consecration,
envied the fat bishop his warm boots,
cocked a squint eye aloft,
and said, “I bloody did that.”
—John Ormond
The American poet E. E. Cummings was the son of noted and scholarly Unitarian minister. In his youth he rebelled against his father and his religion. Late in life he reconsidered and re-connected with Unitarianism. It was during that period he wrote this.
I am a little church (no great cathedral)
i am a little church (no great cathedral)
far from the splendor and squalor of hurrying cities
-i do not worry if briefer days grow briefest
i am not sorry when sun and rain make april
my life is the life of the reaper and the sower
my prayers are prayers of earth's own clumsily striving
(finding and losing and laughing and crying) children
whose any sadness or joy is my grief or my gladness
around me surges a miracle of unceasing
birth and glory and death and resurrection:
over my sleeping self float flaming symbols
of hope and i wake to a perfect patience of mountains
i am a little church (far from the frantic
world with its rapture and anguish) at peace with nature
-i do not worry if longer nights grow longest;
i am not sorry when silence becomes singing
winter by spring, i lift my diminutive spire to
merciful Him Whose only now is forever:
standing erect in the deathless truth of His presence
(welcoming humbly His light and proudly His darkness)
—e. e. cummings
And finally, one from the Old Man, the title poem in fact of my 2004 Skinner House collection. This is the original version, slightly longer than it appeared in the book
We Build Temples in the Heart
We have seen the great cathedrals,
stone laid upon stone,
carved and cared for
by centuries of certain hands,
seen the slender minarets
soar from dusty streets
to raise the cry of faith
to the One and Only God,
seen the placid pagodas
where gilded Buddhas squat
amid the temple bells and incense.
We have seen the tumbled temples
half buried in the sands,
choked with verdant tangles,
sunk in corralled seas,
old truths toppled and forgotten,
even seen the wattled huts,
the sweat lodge hogans,
the wheeled yurts,
the Ice Age caverns
where unwritten worship
raised its knowing voices.
But here, we build temples in our hearts
side by side we come,
as we gather—
Here the swollen belly
and aching breasts
of a well-thumbed paleo-goddess,
there the spinning prayer wheels
of lost Tibetan lamaseries;
mix the mortar of the scattered dust
of the Holy of Holies
with the sacred water
of the Ganges;
lay Moorish alabaster
on the blocks of Angkor Wat
and rough-hewn Stonehenge slabs;
plumb Doric columns
for strength of reason,
square with stern Protestant planks;
illuminate with Chartres’
jeweled windows
and the brilliant lamps of science.
Yes here, we build temples in our hearts,
side by side we come,
scavenging the ages for wisdom,
cobbling together as best we may,
the fruit of a thousand altars,
leveling with doubt,
framing with skepticism,
measuring by logic,
sinking firm foundations in the earth
as we reach for the heavens.
Here, we build temples in our hearts,
side by side we come,
a temple for each heart,
a village of temples,
none shading another,
connected by well-worn paths,
built alike on sacred ground.
—Patrick Murfin
In the typical Buddhist lovingkindness (metta) meditation, one meditates on the well-being of all. One starts within, and then widens the circle of concern outwards, first to people you love, and then to people you don’t know, and then to people who you have an issue with. Finally, one meditates on the well-being of all. Try it today.
May I be happy. May I be well. May I be safe. May I be peaceful and at ease.
May you be happy. May you be well. May you be safe. May you be peaceful and at ease.
May all beings be happy. May all beings be well. May all beings be safe. May all beings be peaceful and at ease.
The Daily Compass offers words and images to inspire spiritual reflection and encourage the creation of a more loving, inclusive and just world. Produced by The Church of the Larger Fellowship, the Unitarian Universalist Congregation with no geographical boundary. Please support the publishing of The Daily Compass by making a $10 or $25 contribution (more if you can, less if you can't)! Thank you for your support!
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This week the Vogue unveiled it cover and a fashion spread by photographer Annie Leibovitz featuring young poet Amanda Gorman. It was just the latest media coup for the 23 year old Phenom who was profiledby Lin-Manuel Miranda for Time magazine’s 100 Next list and who rose to unprecedented public acclaim for her poem The Hill We Climb at Joe Biden’s inauguration. Although that may have been her introduction to many Americans she already had many noteworthy accomplishmentsunder her chic belt. Michael Cirelli, executive director of Urban Word NYC said in some awe her “bio goes out of date every two weeks.”
The media savvy poet knows that in some circles her appearance as a fashionistawill be attacked as “selling out” her professed themes of Black pride and empowerment, feminism, and social justice. Gorman could not care less. She had been interested in fashion and design since her early teen years, self-curated the outfits she wore at readings as she climbed to fame, and had signed a modeling contract well before the inauguration, As for selling, out Gorman clearly is not in it just for the money. Shortly after the inauguration she said that she had already turned down $17 million in contract offers and endorsement deals.
Gorman, influenced by Toni Morrison, Maya Angelou, and Audre Lorde more than the hip-hop poetry slam poets of her own generation, still has become the tip of a spear of young female Black bards who are making poetry an important and influential art form again after decades of being over shadowed by other literary forms and relegated to the margins of the culture. Others in this new wave include international refugee poet Emi Mahamoud just a few years older than Gorman and several women who rose to attention as voices of the Black Lives Matter Movement. If Gorman seems less radical than some and less strident, it is only by degrees and is the logical product of her unique biography.
Gorman was born in Los Angeles on March 7, 1988 and was raised by Joan Wicks, a single mother, a 6th-grade English teacher in Watts, She had two siblings including her twin sister, Gabrielle, who is now an activistand filmmaker She has described her young self as a “weird child” who enjoyed readingand writing and was encouraged by her mother. She was brought up and remains a Black Catholic which has deeply influenced her social justice passion.
She an auditory processing disorder and is hypersensitive to sound and also had a speech impediment during childhood. Gorman had speech therapy during her childhood. Gorman told The Harvard Gazette in 2018:
I always saw it as a strength because since I was experiencing these obstacles in terms of my auditory and vocal skills, I became really good at reading and writing. I realized that at a young age when I was reciting the Marianne Deborah Williamson quote that “Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate, our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure” to my mom.
She also practiced singing Lin-Manuel Miranda’s song Aaron Burr, Sir from Hamilton because “it is jam-packed with R's. And I said, 'if I can keep up with Leslie in this track, then I am on my way to being able to say this R in a poem.”
Gorman attended New Roads, a private school in Santa Monica, and as senior, she received a Milken Family Foundation college scholarship. She studied sociology at Harvard graduating cum laude in 2020as a member of Phi Beta Kappa.
She was still in high school when she began reading her poetry in school and at community events. She became a youth delegate to the United Nations in 2013 and was inspired and empowered to hear an address by Nobel Peace Prize laureate Malala Yousafzai. The next year she was selected as the first youth poet laureate of Los Angeles. She published her first poetry book The One for Whom Food Is Not Enough in 2015.
In 2017 she was named the first National Youth Poet Laureate and read her poem In This Place (An American Lyric) for her performance at the Library of Congress. Shortly after she signed a contract to develop a children’s book which became Change Sings: A Children's Anthem which was released after her inaugural appearance.
While still at Harvard amid rising recognition she pointed out that her interests went beyond literary. She wanted to be an agent for change and several times noted that she planned to run for President of the United States in 2036. No one should discount her. After hearing her inaugural poem Hillary Clinton Tweeted her support.
In 2019, Gorman was chosen as one of The Root magazine’s “Young Futurists”, an annual list of “the 25 best and brightest young African-Americans who excel in the fields of social justice and activism, arts and culture, enterprise and corporate innovation, science and technology, and green innovation.” In 2020, Gorman presented Earthrise, an Earth Day poem focused on the climate crisis. That May she appeared in an episode of the web seriesSome Good News hosted by John Krasinski, where she virtually met Oprah Winfrey and issued a virtual commencement speech to those who could not attend graduation ceremoniesdue to the Coronavirus pandemic.
After her inauguration performance The Hill We Climb was issued a slender stand-alone book and a collection of the same title is slated for release this fall and has already appeared on Best Seller lists in pre-publication sales.
She was quickly tapped to compose and perform an original poem, titled Chorus of the Captains for Super Bowl LV’s pregame ceremonial coin tossfeaturing honorary captains who were essential workers—James Martin, a U.S. Marine veteran; Trimaine Davis, an educator; and Suzie Dorner, an ICU nurse manager. It certainly was something most football fans had never experienced and there was some blow back by white fans. Gorman was glad to break down the silos of culture which prevent people from communicating meaningfully with each other.
But even triumphs like this can’t prevent the daily insults African-Americans have to face. In March Gorman said she was racially profiled by a security guard near her New York City apartment home, and Tweeted afterwards, “He left, no apology. This is the reality of black girls: One day you’re called an icon, the next day, a threat.” She later Tweeted, “In a sense, he was right. I AM A THREAT: a threat to injustice, to inequality, to ignorance. Anyone who speaks the truth and walks with hope is an obvious and fatal danger to the powers that be. A threat and proud.”
What’s next for Gorman? Who know except that it will likely be unexpected, surprising, and entirely true to special vision.
Her inaugural poem has been so widely shared that today we will feature that 2017 Youth Poet Laureate verse.
In This Place (An American Lyric)
There’s a poem in this place—
in the footfalls in the halls
in the quiet beat of the seats.
It is here, at the curtain of day,
where America writes a lyric
you must whisper to say.
There’s a poem in this place—
in the heavy grace,
the lined face of this noble building,
collections burned and reborn twice.
There’s a poem in Boston’s Copley Square
where protest chants
tear through the air
like sheets of rain,
where love of the many
swallows hatred of the few.
There’s a poem in Charlottesville
where tiki torches string a ring of flame
tight round the wrist of night
where men so white they gleam blue—
seem like statues
where men heap that long wax burning
ever higher
where Heather Heyer
blooms forever in a meadow of resistance.
There’s a poem in the great sleeping giant
of Lake Michigan, defiantly raising
its big blue head to Milwaukee and Chicago—
a poem begun long ago, blazed into frozen soil,
strutting upward and aglow.
There’s a poem in Florida, in East Texas
where streets swell into a nexus
of rivers, cows afloat like mottled buoys in the brown,
where courage is now so common
that 23-year-old Jesus Contreras rescues people from floodwaters.
There’s a poem in Los Angeles
yawning wide as the Pacific tide
where a single mother swelters
in a windowless classroom, teaching
black and brown students in Watts
to spell out their thoughts
so her daughter might write
this poem for you.
There's a lyric in California
where thousands of students march for blocks,
undocumented and unafraid;
where my friend Rosa finds the power to blossom
in deadlock, her spirit the bedrock of her community.
She knows hope is like a stubborn
ship gripping a dock,
a truth: that you can’t stop a dreamer
or knock down a dream.
How could this not be her city
su nación
our country
our America,
our American lyric to write—
a poem by the people, the poor,
the Protestant, the Muslim, the Jew,
the native, the immigrant,
the black, the brown, the blind, the brave,
the undocumented and undeterred,
the woman, the man, the nonbinary,
the white, the trans,
the ally to all of the above
and more?
Tyrants fear the poet.
Now that we know it
we can’t blow it.
We owe it
to show it
not slow it
although it
hurts to sew it
when the world
skirts below it.
Hope—
we must bestow it
like a wick in the poet
so it can grow, lit,
bringing with it
stories to rewrite—
the story of a Texas city depleted but not defeated
a history written that need not be repeated
a nation composed but not yet completed.
There’s a poem in this place—
a poem in America
a poet in every American
who rewrites this nation, who tells
a story worthy of being told on this minnow of an earth
to breathe hope into a palimpsest of time—
a poet in every American
who sees that our poem penned
doesn’t mean our poem’s end.
There’s a place where this poem dwells—
it is here, it is now, in the yellow song of dawn’s bell
where we write an American lyric
we are just beginning to tell.
—Amanda Gorman
Just a year ago Gorman addressed the pandemic engulfing the world.
The Miracle of Morning
I thought I’d awaken to a world in mourning.
Heavy clouds crowding, a society storming.
But there’s something different on this golden morning.
Something magical in the sunlight, wide and warming.
I see a dad with a stroller taking a jog.
Across the street, a bright-eyed girl chases her dog.
A grandma on a porch fingers her rosaries.
She grins as her young neighbor brings her groceries.
While we might feel small, separate, and all alone,
Our people have never been more closely tethered.
The question isn’t if we can weather this unknown,
But how we will weather this unknown together.
So on this meaningful morn, we mourn and we mend.
Like light, we can’t be broken, even when we bend.
As one, we will defeat both despair and disease.
We stand with healthcare heroes and all employees;
With families, libraries, waiters, schools, artists;
Businesses, restaurants, and hospitals hit hardest.
We ignite not in the light, but in lack thereof,
For it is in loss that we truly learn to love.
In this chaos, we will discover clarity.
In suffering, we must find solidarity.
For it’s our grief that gives us our gratitude,
Shows us how to find hope, if we ever lose it.
So ensure that this ache wasn’t endured in vain:
Do not ignore the pain. Give it purpose. Use it.
Read children’s books, dance alone to DJ music.
Know that this distance will make our hearts grow fonder.
From these waves of woes our world will emerge stronger.
We’ll observe how the burdens braved by humankind
Are also the moments that make us humans kind;
Let each morning find us courageous, brought closer;
Heeding the light before the fight is over.
When this ends, we’ll smile sweetly, finally seeing
In testing times, we became the best of beings.
—Amanda Gorman
“As we have been blessed, so we bless one another to be a blessing. Breathe in, breathe out, this breath we share with all that breathes. Feel the love of the universe flowing through this community, into you, and out into the universe again. Let the love of all the universe—your love—flow outward, to its height, its depth, its broad extent. You are more than you know, and more beloved than you know. Take up what power is yours to create safe haven, to make of earth a heaven. Give hope to those you encounter, that they may know safety from inner and outer harm, be happy and at peace, healthy and strong, caring and joyful. Be the blessing you already are. That is enough.”
-John and Sarah Gibb Millspaugh
The Daily Compass offers words and images to inspire spiritual reflection and encourage the creation of a more loving, inclusive and just world. Produced by The Church of the Larger Fellowship, the Unitarian Universalist Congregation with no geographical boundary. Please support the publishing of The Daily Compass by making a $10 or $25 contribution (more if you can, less if you can't)! Thank you for your support!
Enter your email address to subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.
Please join us on Sunday (11 April 2021) at 11:00 AM for “Reparations: A Debt Owed” by Candice Battiste.
Our service will be livestreamed on Facebook Live here.
We are delighted to have the opportunity to welcome Candice Battiste (Northwest Louisiana lead organizer for the Power Coalition) speaking on “Reparations: A Debt Owed.”
Candice had to cancel in February to coordinate water relief efforts after the snow and ice emergency.
We are happy and grateful to welcome her back just as the city of Evanston, Illinois has passed its first reparations measure.
Our April 2021 give-away-the-plate recipient is Our Give Away the Plate recipient is Volunteers for Youth Justice. More details here.
We will have a virtual coffee hour after the service on Zoom.
And you can contribute to All Souls using this online resource.
The People’s Assembly for the 2021 Louisiana state legislative session will happen on Monday (12 April 2021) at 6:00 PM.
Join 500 citizens from across the state to preview and prepare for the upcoming state legislative session hosted by Together Louisiana.
We have pledged at least 20 people from All Souls to attend this Zoom event — we know we can do even better.
What bills have been introduced that would harm community interests?
What bills would benefit the people?
How we can organize ourselves to make a difference?
Please join us online for our family religious education class on Sunday (11 April 2021) at 1:00 PM via Zoom.
The Zoom link will be available on the All Souls Slack and on the All Souls Religious Education Facebook Group.
We are continuing our theme of peace, social justice, and the interdependent web with the story What Do You Do with an Idea?
Every great thing that happens — every bit of progress we make — starts with a big idea.
What’s your big idea?
Please join us on Sunday (11 April 2021) at 9:00 AM for our adult religious education class via Zoom.
We will resume our White Fragility book study group with Susan Caldwell and Barbara Deger (using the book by Robin DiAngelo).
We will concentrate on Chapter 2 (“Racism and White Supremacy”) paying particular attention to the questions for reflection on pages 34-36.
Many thanks to all the people (including several All Souls members) who have been helping to transport, feed, and shelter a large number of immigrants who are being released from detention centers around the state awaiting the outcome of their asylum claims with family members here in the US.
Check the All Souls Caring Connection Facebook Group or text Susan Caldwell to be connected to folks who can give you the details on how you can help.
Please join us on Saturday (10 April 2021) at 10:30 AM for our weekly meditation group with Larry Androes.
This is a sitting Buddhist meditation including a brief introduction to mindfulness meditation, 20 minutes of sitting, and followed by a weekly teaching.
The group is free and open to all.
For more information, contact Larry via email or phone using (318) 272-0014.
Please join us this Saturday (10 April 2021) from 9:00 AM to 1:00 PM for our monthly building and grounds work day.
We have been pretty good at working safely, wearing our masks, and taking care of our physical church home until we can meet together in person again.
And the time when we can come together in person again is not yet here but it’s coming closer.
The time to work on getting our house ready to welcome everyone back is now.
Safe and socially distanced tasks inside and outside (weather permitting).
Wear your mask, bring your own snacks, and join us for all or part of the time.
Hope to see you there.
Due to the impact of the COVID-19 (coronavirus) pandemic, we have begun to broadcast a livestream video of our Sunday morning worship services.
This worship video will be available live and in recorded formats.
For our livestream video of our worship services, we are using Facebook Live. One does not have to log into Facebook or have a Facebook account to view this video.
You can find the 4 April 2021 worship video here.
My fiancée is a Christian and I am a Satanist. Looking for a place we could both be comfortable.
I’m new to exploring UU, and I’m wondering, is UU considered Christian? I explored a lot of UU church websites, It seems to me that some UU church’s in my area are interfaith while others identify as Christian UU. Are there often faith differences between UU churches? Do Christian UU’s rely on the Bible?
I am not a body. I am free. For I am still as God created me.
Review of lesson #194 - I place the future in the hands of God.
Pam Grout, in her book, The Course In Miracles Experiment, in discussing this lesson, uses a quote from Stephen Levine as an epigraph, “Water is water, no matter what shape or form. The solidity of ice imagines itself to be its edges and density. Melting, it remembers; evaporating, it ascends.” Today, we are reminded to put our future in the hands of God for when our bodies melt, our energy which animates the body evaporates and ascends.
It is suggested in Alcoholic Anonymous that we make a decision in step three to turn our will over to God as we understand God. It is suggested in this step that we eschew our body and our ego and transcend with our consciousness to a higher plane.
In Unitarian Universalism, we covenant together to affirm and promote the free and responsible search for truth and meaning, a search that ultimately takes us to our Transcendent Source where we can rest in peace and joy.
Today, it is suggested that we take fifteen minutes at the beginning and end of the day, and many times in between, to turn it over: turn our will over to God. If we step back, God will lead the way.
Dear hearts –
You have read and read and read – if you read Reflections with any regularity – me write about perfectionism. That insidious, pernicious, persistent characteristic that stops so many of us in our tracks. Okun and Smith identify perfectionism as a quality of white supremacy culture. I don’t know whether I agree or not; I’m steeped in white culture that has given me countless unearned benefits, as well as things that suck. It reminds me of how cissexism is bad for cisgender men, not just for everyone else.
Okun and Smith identify perfectionism in white supremacy culture as having some of the following characteristics:
These are only some points of their list, but these are some of the ones I really identify with. Which ones in particular?
Well, there are a couple that I hadn’t identified with perfectionism before, but which are essential to the experience. Those items about reflection, learning, treating mistakes as mistakes from which we can glean knowledge. I remember having a supervisor – whom I loved – who had a sign on her door that said, “Never make the same mistake twice.” This sign – every time I saw it – worried me. I knew that I have habits that led to making similar mistakes over and over. What did she think of me? What did it mean about me as an employee? Why was I not learning?
The more familiar ones, for me at least, are the ones about being a mistake, instead of having made a mistake. Feeling as though I am a bad person, a screw-up, essentially wrong because I have made a mistake. The idea of learning from my mistakes was alien to me. I thought it was just something people said to make you feel better when you messed up.
So I’ve been working with perfectionism, even just last week in “The Joy of Inefficient Ministry.” Today, though, I share with you one of the greatest therapeutic tools ever given to me, particularly as an antidote to perfectionism. Yes, there is gentle, gentle, gentle persistence. And yes, there is persistent gentleness. Yes. Self-compassion is essential.
How does one develop self-compassion, where mistakes are concerned?
Well. My fabulous therapist of many years, Miriam, gave me an exercise that has transformed my relationship to mistakes when I remember it. It is simply called, “Ten Mistakes A Day.”
What?
Yeah, you get ten mistakes a day, free and clear, no judgment, maybe some learning, but nothing punitive, nothing mean, nothing but compassion for your human self.
And I’m not talking about accidentally knocking a cup off the counter. I’m talking about genuine mistakes. Not treating someone with the care they deserve. Doing an experiment that doesn’t work out as the result of a mistake you made along the way. Eating more than makes your body feel comfortable. Giving yourself a terrible pandemic haircut. (Oh, if you could only see me.)
You get ten before you even start questioning them or interrogating them, at least at the time.
What I learned from this exercise are a couple of things:
So give it a shot. Ten Mistakes A Day. Let me know how it works out, and I’ll keep it up too.
Blessings, and joy in our erring!
~Catharine~
156 years ago today, April 9, 1865, Robert E. Lee offered up his sword in surrenderof the Army of Northern Virginia to Ulysses S Grant, Commanding General of the United States Army. Grant gallantly refused to accept it and in fact let all officers of the Confederate force retain their side arms and personal mounts. In the popular imagination, this act was the end of the Civil War.
In fact, it just represented the collapse of the major army facing the Union’s main forces, the Armies of the Potomac and the James. Although the Confederate Government and President Jefferson Davis were on the lam, they hadn’t surrendered. One by one the other armies capitulated, the last in far-away Texas where the last soldiers fruitlessly fell on May 15.
In the mid-19th Century poetrywas still the most popular literary form in America. Everybody read it. And it seems everyone literate enough to scratch out his or her name, tried their hand at it. The events leading up to, during, and after the war were all documentedin the popular press, both North and South as much by poetry as by battlefield dispatches. Probably tens of thousands were published in newspapers and gazettes both small and large. The vast majority, of course, were dreadful—mostly breast beating and cheering for each respective side or later maudlin in grieving for loss. But some by poets famous, obscure, and anonymous paint a vivid picture of the bloody turning point of American history.
Herman Melvillewas a struggling, nay failing, literary man in 1866 when he issued a collection of poems about the war, most of which had appeared in the press. Like almost everything else he had written, Battle Pieces and Aspects of the War sold poorly and was snubbed by most critics. Melville was forced to take a patronage job as a Port of New York Customs Inspector to support his family. But the verses was far above average and taken together trace the course of the conflict. He starts before Fort Sumter with the execution of John Brown, a hero to him as for many of his New England Unitarian and Abolitionist friends.
The Portent
Hanging from the beam,
Slowly swaying (such the law),
Gaunt the shadow on your green,
Shenandoah!
The cut is on the crown
(Lo, John Brown),
And the stabs shall heal no more.
Hidden in the cap
Is the anguish none can draw;
So your future veils its face,
Shenandoah!
But the streaming beard is shown
(Weird John Brown),
The meteor of the war.
——Herman Melville
At war’s onset John Greenleaf Whittier had to make a terrible choice. Known far and wide as the Quaker Poet he had to choose between his pacifist faith and his ardent abolitionism. Abolitionism won out. For the balance of the war he would worship with the Unitarians and lend his voice to the Union. Early in the war he took reports of an act of heroism by an elderly lady in Maryland and created a poem that became a Union rallying cryand was required recitation materialfor generations of school children. Like most tales, this one had a grain of fact wound up in legend. In fact 90-year-old Barbara Frietche, who had been a personal friend of Francis Scott Key, did have a flag hung from her Fredrick, Maryland home and it was peppered by shots from angry Rebels. But the old lady was sick in bed that day and had told her maid to bring the flag in for safe keeping. The maid, also tasked with hiding the silver and other family valuables, forgot. Troops under Lee did pass within a block of her home and seeing the flag peppered it with fire. Fritche never came to the window and even if she had could probably not be heard. But it was a great yarn for getting Yankee blood to boil.
Barbara Frietche
Up from the meadows rich with corn,
Clear in the cool September morn,
The clustered spires of Frederick stand
Green-walled by the hills of Maryland.
Round about them orchards sweep,
Apple- and peach-tree fruited deep,
Fair as a garden of the Lord
To the eyes of the famished rebel horde,
On that pleasant morn of the early fall
When Lee marched over the mountain wall,—
Over the mountains winding down,
Horse and foot, into Frederick town.
Forty flags with their silver stars,
Forty flags with their crimson bars,
Flapped in the morning wind: the sun
Of noon looked down, and saw not one.
Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then,
Bowed with her fourscore years and ten;
Bravest of all in Frederick town,
She took up the flag the men hauled down;
In her attic window the staff she set,
To show that one heart was loyal yet.
Up the street came the rebel tread,
Stonewall Jackson riding ahead.
Under his slouched hat left and right
He glanced: the old flag met his sight.
“Halt!”— the dust-brown ranks stood fast.
“Fire!”— out blazed the rifle-blast.
It shivered the window, pane and sash;
It rent the banner with seam and gash.
Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff
Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf;
She leaned far out on the window-sill,
And shook it forth with a royal will.
“Shoot, if you must, this old gray head,
But spare your country’s flag,” she said.
A shade of sadness, a blush of shame,
Over the face of the leader came;
The nobler nature within him stirred
To life at that woman’s deed and word:
“Who touches a hair of yon gray head
Dies like a dog! March on!” he said.
All day long through Frederick street
Sounded the tread of marching feet:
All day long that free flag tost
Over the heads of the rebel host.
Ever its torn folds rose and fell
On the loyal winds that loved it well;
And through the hill-gaps sunset light
Shone over it with a warm good-night.
Barbara Frietchie’s work is o’er,
And the Rebel rides on his raids no more.
Honor to her! and let a tear
Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall’s bier.
Over Barbara Frietchie’s grave
Flag of Freedom and Union, wave!
Peace and order and beauty draw
Round thy symbol of light and law;
And ever the stars above look down
On thy stars below in Frederick town.
—John Greenleaf Whittier
A surprising amount of Civil War poetry was soldier written. No army in the history of the world to date was as literate as the boys in blue. If the Confederates lagged in that department, they still had plenty of young men ready to take pencil stub to scrap of paper and send it home or to the home town paper. Some of these poems are among the most poignant of the war. This one captures the long periods between great battles when boredom and chance encounters were the order of the day. And like other such poems, this one was eventually set to music and published to be sung around parlor pianos.
The Picket Guard
All quiet along the Potomac “they say,”
“Except now and then a stray Picket”
Is shot as he walks on his beat to and fro,
By a rifleman hid in the thicket.
‘Tis nothing—a private or two, now and then,
Will not count in the news of the battle;
Not an officer lost, only one of the men,
Moaning out all alone the death rattle.
All quiet along the Potomac to-night,
Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming;
Their tents in the rays of the clear autumn moon,
O'er the light of the watch fire are gleaming.
A tremulous sigh, as the gentle night-wind
Through the forest leaves softly is creeping;
While stars up above, with their glittering eyes
Keep guard, for the army is sleeping.
There’s only the sound of the lone sentry’s tread,
As he tramps from the rock to the fountain,
And thinks of the two in the low trundle bed,
Far away in the cot on the mountain.
His musket falls slack, his face dark and grim,
Grows gentle with memories tender,
As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep—
For their mother—may Heaven defend her.
The moon seems to shine just as brightly as then,
That night when the love yet unspoken,
Leaped up to his lips, when low-murmured vows
Were pledged to be ever unbroken.
Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes,
He dashes off tears that are welling,
And gathers his gun closer up to its place,
As if to keep down the heart swelling.
He passes the fountain, the blasted pine tree,
The footstep is lagging and weary;
Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light.
Toward the shade of the forest so dreary.
Hark! was it the night-wind that rustled the leaves?
Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing?
It looks like a rifle—“Ha! Mary, good bye,”
And the life blood is ebbing and plashing.
All quiet along the Potomac to-night,
No sound save the rush of the river;
While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead,
The Picket’s off duty forever.
—Anonymous song lyric
Probably soldier written..
Johnson’s New Catalogue of Songs
As the war dragged on the senseless horror of it overwhelmed the early romantic nonsense. George Henry Boker was a very successful Philadelphia businessman who dabbled with some success as a poet and playwright. The war converted the one-time Democrat into a staunch Republican and Unionist who lent his pen to the Federal cause. As ardent as he was, by war’s end he was worn down by ceaseless tragedy.
Untitled Poem
Blood, blood! The lines of every printed sheet
Through their dark arteries reek with running gore;
At hearth, at board, before the household door,
'T is the sole subject with which neighbors meet.
Girls at the feast, and children in the street,
Prattle of horrors; flash their little store
Of simple jests against the cannon's roar,
As if mere slaughter kept existence sweet.
O, heaven, I quail at the familiar way
This fool, the world, disports his jingling cap;
Murdering or dying with one grin agap!
Our very Love comes draggled from the fray,
Smiling at victory, scowling at mishap,
With gory Death companioned and at play.
—George Henry Boker
from Poems of the War (1864)
Of course the end of the war was a bitter pill for those who fought so long on the losing side. Many simply could not believe it. For years the out manned, out gunned, and out produced Confederates had whipped the Union or fought them to a standstill. But that standstill sealed their doom. In the end the inevitable tidal wave engulfed them. This soldier poem captures that moment. Sadly, in a few years, such sentiments, and the memories of all those early gloriesbecame enshrined in the holy Lost Cause and fueled the backlash that resulted in the Jim Crow laws, the disenfranchisement of Freedmen, and almost virtual return to slavery for many Southern Blacks.
Appomattox poem
I stand here on this dusty road,
My rifle by my side.
They say we must surrender
And yet I’m filled with pride.
In knowing deep within my heart,
I gave my Southland all,
Like every man who took up arms
And answered Freedoms’ call.
I’ve worn the gray most proudly
And loved our banners dear.
To give them up and walk away,
The thought brings me to tears.
The worst for our brave men.
At least we’ll all be going home,
To be with Kith and Kin.
Throughout the years that follow,
This tragic fateful day,
We’ll be proud of our fair flag
And how we wore the gray.
—Anonymous
Probably Confederate soldier written
Since Herman Melville started all of this off, we will let him have the last word on behalf of the victorious Yanks.
The Surrender At Appomattox
(April, 1865.)
As billows upon billows roll,
On victory victory breaks;
Ere yet seven days from Richmond’s fall
And crowning triumph wakes
The loud joy-gun, whose thunders run
By sea-shore, streams, and lakes.
The hope and great event agree
In the sword that Grant received from Lee.
The warring eagles fold the wing,
But not in Caesar’s sway;
Not Rome o’ercome by Roman arms we sing,
As on Pharsalia's day,
But Treason thrown, though a giant grown,
And Freedom’s larger play.
All human tribes glad token see
In the close of the wars of Grant and Lee.
—Herman Melville
In the early spring months when wild food is not yet abundant, my daughter and I keep a birdfeeder well-stocked with seed. She has learned to recognize the communications of the cardinals who nest in the trees around our neighborhood. It feels good to feed the birds–it feels like we’re in a relationship with a community of avian neighbors.
What or whom are you feeding with your being today? How does contributing to another’s well-being make you feel?
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This is a wild shot in the dark, I really don't think there are many of us here almost everyone I know has gone back to the USA.
I miss going to church a lot, and because I am UU (meaning that I can and have gone to Christian churches, mosques, ashrams etc) it's not really the same. It always feels there is something missing, know what I mean? Like I love Jesus, but when I go to church I miss Buddha. I hope you here know what I mean, it's weird explaining this to monotheist folk (what do you mean you worship more than one God?)
Anyway, no shame blame or prejudice to another (which would be against the Principles) but I want to meet and connect to other fellow UUs. I have joined the Discord which I think is a start?
May all be blessed in peace and light.
