Introducing . . . A Song

I want to introduce you to a song. Some of you will already recognize this song but I strongly suspect for many this is a first. I am providing the words of this song, the full lyrics of its three verses. I ask that you read them slowly, carefully. Reflect on the content, what is being said. When you have done that, you will be ready for my comments below. And at the very end of this blog, I am also providing a link to enable you to actually listen to this song.

OK - here goes:

Lift every voice and sing
Till earth and heaven ring,
Ring with the harmonies of Liberty;
Let our rejoicing rise
High as the listening skies,
Let it resound loud as the rolling sea.
Sing a song full of the faith that the dark past has taught us,
Sing a song full of the hope that the present has brought us,
Facing the rising sun of our new day begun
Let us march on till victory is won.

Stony the road we trod,
Bitter the chastening rod,
Felt in the days when hope unborn had died;
Yet with a steady beat,
Have not our weary feet
Come to the place for which our fathers sighed?
We have come over a way that with tears has been watered,
We have come, treading our path through the blood of the slaughtered,
Out from the gloomy past,
Till now we stand at last
Where the white gleam of our bright star is cast.

God of our weary years,
God of our silent tears,
Thou who has brought us thus far on the way;
Thou who has by Thy might Led us into the light,
Keep us forever in the path, we pray.
Lest our feet stray from the places, our God, where we met Thee,
Lest, our hearts drunk with the wine of the world, we forget Thee;
Shadowed beneath Thy hand,
May we forever stand.
True to our God,
True to our native land. 

So, what do you think?

Good song?

Strong lyrics?

Expressive of the American Dream?

Filled with the acknowledgement of God as the true Source of our strength?

Yes, I believe all that and more.

And for those who do not know this song, it's title is Lift Every Voice and Sing, originally a poem dating back to the early 1800's and eventually transformed into song.

And today it is often referred to as the Black National Anthem!

Truth be told, there is no one "Black National Anthem." Can't be. Technically, every national anthem across the great continent of Africa and across the island nations of the Caribbean would be a "Black"  national anthem.

But this song has given voice to the longings, hopes and dreams of Black citizens of the United States.

And as I contemplate the content of this song, these are rich and beautiful longings that capture the reality of history, words that make proper tribute to the Power and Presence of God.

And now this song, probably unknown, unheard, unrecognized by so many is also upsetting so many.

The National Football League has decided that, if there is a season this year, it will begin with inclusion of this song.

So, what's the problem with adding another song to the beginning of a game?

Well, some would suggest, we have only one national anthem.

True -- but --

We are many people with diverse histories, background and traditions. That's the beauty of America.

As a youngster, in a Slovak Parish and school, our public events were known to begin with the Slovak National Anthem in addition to the American.

As a student in a mostly Polish college, the same held true for singing the Polish National Anthem.

When the Toronto sports teams or those from Montreal play games on our soil, we stand, include and even sing the Canadian National Anthem and when our teams are across the boarder, they afford us the same courtesy.

Bottom line - this is a good song, a beautiful song, a song of our brothers and sisters and now they want to share it with us.

We can stand strong and tall and unified.

We can and should stand together.

And Lift Every Voice and Sing!

THE SONG

Meantime,

keep praying

and stay safe.

Closed Doors

I have decided to put this in writing with the hope that it may help some in understanding something of what is stirring in our society these days.

The story is true.

The story is part of our history as a society and as Church.

I had this story very much in mind recently when participating in a public prayer service. The service was a response to the cries these days challenging us to deal with systemic racism. The service took place on the campus of Madonna University in Livonia, Michigan. Participating in this service were representatives of the various Felician sponsored ministries on this campus as well as St. Mary's Hospital.

At the very onset of this time of prayer spokespersons stepped forth and declared whom they were standing with and for in this service.

I spoke.

My declaration stated that I was standing with and for all of those for whom the doors of our churches and even of our hearts had for too long been closed.

These were not just some nicely chosen words.

Much thought and prayer was placed into these words as I reflected on whom I wanted to publicly stand with or maybe rather on whom the Lord was calling me to stand with and for.

I know stories.

From my many years of ministry I have heard many stories, and sadly, I have heard too many stories about these closed doors.

These were the ones with whom and for whom I stood in prayer - those who experienced doors closed to them, doors that really should have been open wide.

With that background, I have decided to share one of these stories.

It is a story that goes back into the 1980's.

That's a long time ago but the story has stayed with me and is also one of the stories that has helped to form and shape me, I believe, for the better.

As I share this story, I also hope and pray that it may help to form, shape and enlighten you as well.

At the time that this story unfolded I was pastor of Precious Blood Parish in Detroit.

By then this was a small faith community, consisting of perhaps 250 or so households.

Everybody knew everybody.

And one fine Sunday, right there in the front pew, there was a definite newcomer.

She was an elderly Black woman, stately and noble in appearance, dressed to the nines in her finest Go-to-Church wear.

It would be impossible not to notice her presence.

I determined to find out more and to certainly welcome her to our community.

I expected that she would, after Mass, follow the crowd to the back of the building.

Because this was a significant sized building and because we did not need to fill it with pews right up to the back door, several rows of pews had been removed and a gathering space created. There, after Mass we had room to gather for coffee, cookies, donuts and all sorts of other goodies that folks would bring to share. When Sunday Mass was finished, all would march to the back and gather and socialize and live community.

But she did not join us.

This mystery lady from the front pew had gone out the side door.

But she was back again the following Sunday.

And this time I was sure she would catch on and join us in the back.

But again I was wrong.

Once again, she slipped out the side door.

A third week she returned yet again.

And this time I resolved that she was not going to get  away.

As the procession began to exit down the center aisle, I slipped away and headed to that side door.

And I caught her and greeted her and welcomed her and we began a conversation, one that remains with me to this day and one that inspired my words at that prayer service.

I asked if she was new to the neighborhood.

"Oh no," she replied, "I live right down the street, about half a block away. I've lived there for sixteen years."

"But we've never seen you here before," was my reply and question.

And then she explained.

Sixteen years ago she bought that house and moved into the neighborhood, locating deliberately within the shadow of the church. She loved her faith and wanted to live within walking distance of the church. She did not drive, relied on public transportation to get around. However, she would be able to walk to church whenever the Spirit moved her.

She was so happy to have found that home.

And the first Sunday after her move, she walked to the church.

She entered through the main doors, the great doors.

She was entering her church.

Only she had hardly taken two steps in when one of the ushers quickly moved toward her and stopped her.

"Excuse me," he stated.

"Excuse me, but you are in the wrong church," he explained to her.

"There is a separate church for your people," he let her know.

You do not belong here.

Wrong church!

Doors closed.

For sixteen years she lived in the shadow of the church that she loved, the church that did not want her.

For her and for so many others whose stories are of doors closed, I stood in prayer.

Doors closed - that is what systemic racism is.

And it hurts God's children.

Our sisters and brothers.

Meantime,

keep praying

and stay safe.

. . . And Home!

Sandwiches finished; wine finished; conversation waining, it was time to leave this place of refuge.

We would head back to our home for the night, those park benches sheltered under that countryside train terminal canopy.

But first we had to settle our debts.

Only our gracious host would have none of that!

He was just grateful that he was able to provide some help and some relief for us. He was grateful for our conversation.

He would accept no financial compensation.

And now he was grateful that we were leaving and he could go home.

We thanked him profusely.

Pray for me, he requested of us. That is all he wanted as repayment.

We shall, we promised.

And then we asked, "What is your name? So that we can pray for you by name."

And then he told us.

And I can still hear his answer.

You really do not have to know Italian to translate this one, believe me.

"My name," he told us, "My name is Angelo."

You know, if ever I somehow managed to find my way back to that place on the map, I suspect I just might not even find a tavern out there in the countryside!

I wonder!

My name is Angelo!

Someone to welcome us,

to greet us,

to give us food and drink,

to spend time with us,

a stranger in the middle of nowhere

with all of those blessings!

A refuge in the darkness for two wanderers!

Angelo!

We made our way back down that still dark and empty road. We came back to our "home" for the rest of the night. We settled in as comfortably as one could get on those park benches.

And we caught some sleep, as much as could be caught. Park benches are not exactly the most comfortable.

It was shortly before 5:00 in the morning when the one whom we had startled the night before returned to his desk at that terminal.

He made sure we were awake and ready.

The train to Rome was on its way.

It a few minutes it was there and stopped and staying long enough for us to board it.

We were on our way back to Rome, an adventure of a lifetime now behind us.

We got to the Termini Station around seven that morning, caught the bus, Bus 64, cannot forget that one!

A short time later we were at our final stop at the base of the Jianiculum  Hill. All that remained now was the climb back up that hill and then back to our rooms.

Of course there would be little time for any further rest or relaxation.

It was Monday and classes were resuming at 9:00.

Not sure how alert either of us might have been for classes that day. Can't even remember what classes we had that day.

Minds were still in recovery mode from a Sunday afternoon autumn trip to Orvieto.

But we were home ---finally!

Meantime,

keep praying

and stay safe.