I’ve got a busy day today, so let me start by sharing a little light verse.
You live a few days then you die And sometimes you ask yourself why. What could bring relief? The next season’s release. Go watch and the time will fly by.
They’re calling to all of the sheep To occupy Ivy League Street Don’t think of the issues Just bring down your tissues And cry, yell, scream, chant, and repeat.
Scotland: From the land of the free and the home of the brave comes this tale of Black Agnes, who held Castle Dunbar against the English for several months in 1338, saying among other things”
‘Of Scotland’s King I haud my house, He pays me meat and fee, And I will keep my gude auld house, While my house will keep me.’
A New Review: John Wilson imagines a Christian review periodical and what it’s pushback would sound like: “We’re beset on every hand by attacks on our core convictions, by enemies of our faith, and you are whining about book reviews?”
Of publishers it may be said that like the English as a race they are incapable of philosophy. They deal in particulars and adhere easily to Sydney Smith’s dictum that one should take short views, hope for the best, and trust God.
William Jovanovich, Now, Barabbas
Photo: John Margolies Roadside America photograph archive (1972-2008), Library of Congress, Prints and Photographs Division
Last Saturday I ventured outside my comfort zone to make the perilous drive to downtown Minneapolis (one of the still unburned parts), to hear a lecture. The lecture was delivered at the Mindekirken, the Norwegian Memorial Church (there’s one in Chicago too), where they hold a Norwegian language service every Sunday. You’d think I’d go there all the time, but they’re not really my kind of Lutherans. However, they offer cultural and language programs too, and I lectured myself there once, at one of their regular lunchtime events.
One reason I don’t go there more often is that it’s an awful place to drive to. The conservative Center Of the American Experiment, based here in Minnesota, has documented the fact that our city planners have it as an explicit goal to make driving around here as inconvenient as possible – so we peasants will be compelled to use buses and the wonderful light rail they’re forcing us to pay for. I don’t think I’ve ever driven to the Mindekirken without getting turned around in some way – even with GPS.
Anyway, I arrived at last, only a few minutes late. I came in during the introduction, so I didn’t miss any of the lecture.
The lecturer was my online friend, Pastor Thomas E. Jacobson, who has recently had a book released. It boasts the surprising title, Pain In the Belly: The Haugean Witness In American Lutheranism. I’ve written about the Norwegian lay evangelist Hans Nielsen Hauge many times before in this space – just do a search in the box up above if you’re curious. We Haugeans (I still identify as a Haugean) have been called a sect, but we never separated from Lutheranism or denied its basic tenets. In Norway, the Haugeans in any parish tended to pool their money to build a “bedehus,” a prayer house. There, after having attended regular services in their local Lutheran churches, they could gather among themselves and hold “edification meetings” and other social and educational functions. Many bedehuser still exist in Norway, and continue to be used for something like their original purpose.
I haven’t read Tom’s book yet, but I thought I’d give it a plug here anyway. It focuses on the influence of the Haugeans on Lutheranism in the USA. The title comes from a comment made by a Haugean leader when the old Hauge Synod at last agreed to join a church merger. When told that a theologian in one of the more conservative groups entering new church body had said that he rejoiced that the Haugeans would now be “swallowed up” in mainstream Lutheranism, this man said he expected to cause them “a pain in the belly.”
Sadly (in my view), in the long run the new church body and its successors turned out to have a pretty iron digestion.
In any case, we sang a hymn that Hans Nielsen Hauge wrote in 1799, “With God in Grace I’m Dwelling.” He wrote it during one of his imprisonments for illegal lay preaching. I looked for a video of somebody singing it, but as far as I can tell nobody has ever been bold enough to perform the hymn and leave a permanent record. So I’ll just transcribe a couple verses here. A common tune used for it is “Passion Chorale,” the one we use for “O Sacred Head, Now Wounded.”
With God in grace I’m dwelling, What harm can come to me From worldly pow’rs compelling My way thus closed to be? Though they in chains may bind me Inside this prison cell, Yet Christmas here can find me; Within my heart ʼtis well.
Our God has promised surely To free each seeking soul, Who walks in spirit purely With truth as way and goal. Whose heart the world’s deceiving Can never lead astray, Who, constantly believing, Will walk the Kingdom’s way.
God grant us now His power, And help us by His might To follow truth this hour, All guided by His light; And may we work together As one in mutual love, Forsaking self and gather At last in heav’n above.
The hymns this month have focused on Our Lord’s Table. Today’s song was written for an 1866 hymnal by the great English preacher Charles Spurgeon (1834-1892). The tune shared here is not one you would find in a hymnal. It’s a 2009 arrangement by Greg Kay.
“Now as they were eating, Jesus took bread, and after blessing it broke it and gave it to the disciples, and said, ‘Take, eat; this is my body’” (Matthew 26:26 ESV).
1 Amidst us our Beloved stands, and bids us view His pierced hands; points to the wounded feet and side, blest emblems of the Crucified.
2 What food luxurious loads the board, when, at His table, sits the Lord! The cup how rich, the bread how sweet, when Jesus deigns the guests to meet!
3 If now, with eyes defiled and dim, we see the signs, but see not Him; O may His love the scales displace, and bid us see Him face to face!
4 Our former transports we recount, when with Him in the holy mount: these cause our souls to thirst anew His marred but lovely face to view.
Point: Few people buy books that aren’t celebrity aligned. Britney Spears’s autobiography, released October 24, 2023, is currently #1 in Kindle, #10 in hardcover on Amazon. Aside of these, publishing houses stay afloat through backlist sales: Bibles, coloring books, and Don Quixote.
“Someone from a prestige big 5 imprint whose books are often award-contenders and bestsellers once told me any book that sold less than 25,000 in print was a failure for them. OTOH, when I was in an MFA program—where many of the professors wrote experimental literary novels and such—I was told anything more than 5,000 sales was a success. Some small press editors might be happy with 1,000 sales.”
Topping Amazon’s fiction list for most sold this week are The Women, by Kristin Hannah (12 weeks on the list) and The Covenant of Water, by Abraham Verghese (33 weeks).
As booklovers, we may want many more people to join us in reading, sharing, and enjoying the written or recorded word, but I don’t think the sky is falling yet.
Poetry: On April 26, 1336, a great poet climbed into the Alps just for the thrill of it, which people didn’t do in those days. Petrarch climbed to the top of Mont Ventoux (which is much higher today because of inflation) and read from Augustine’s Confessions, “Where I fixed my eyes first, it was written: ‘And men go to admire the high mountains, the vast floods of the sea, the huge streams of the rivers, the circumference of the ocean and the revolutions of the stars – and desert themselves.’ . . .”
Music: Ted Gioia writes western music isn’t what we think it is. “Just stop and think for a moment about the importance of Venice in the history of music. Everything from madrigals to operas found their home in that bustling port city—a key connecting point between West and East in the modern imagination.”
Today’s hymn, “Let Thy Blood in Mercy Poured,” comes from the Greek tradition, and maybe if I could type Greek, I could search for the title on Greek pages. But the sources I’ve seen give no date for that version of the hymn, only that is came into English via Glasgow native and Free Church minister John Brownlie (1857-1925). The tune is much older, written by Lutheran cantor at Berlin’s St. Nicholas Church, Johann Crüger (1598-1662).
“I appeal to you therefore, brothers, by the mercies of God, to present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God, which is your spiritual worship” (Romans 12:1 ESV).
1 Let thy blood in mercy poured, let thy gracious body broken, be to me, O gracious Lord, of thy boundless love the token.
Refrain: Thou didst give thyself for me, now I give myself to thee.
2 Thou didst die that I might live; blessed Lord, thou cam’st to save me; all that love of God could give Jesus by his sorrows gave me. [Refrain]
3 By the thorns that crowned thy brow, by the spear wound and the nailing, by the pain and death, I now claim, O Christ, thy love unfailing. [Refrain]
4 Wilt thou own the gift I bring? All my penitence I give thee; thou art my exalted King, of thy matchless love forgive me. [Refrain]
Here’s a devotional hymn from German poet Johann Franck (1618-1677), translated into English by scholar Catherine Winkworth (1827-1878).
I will greatly rejoice in the LORD; my soul shall exult in my God, for he has clothed me with the garments of salvation; he has covered me with the robe of righteousness, as a bridegroom decks himself like a priest with a beautiful headdress, and as a bride adorns herself with her jewels. (Isaiah 61:10 ESV)
1 Deck thyself, my soul, with gladness, leave the gloomy haunts of sadness; come into the daylight’s splendour, there with joy thy praises render unto him whose grace unbounded hath this wondrous banquet founded: high o’er all the heavens he reigneth, yet to dwell with thee he deigneth.
2 Now I sink before thee lowly, filled with joy most deep and holy, as with trembling awe and wonder on thy mighty works I ponder: how, by mystery surrounded, depth no mortal ever sounded, none may dare to pierce unbidden secrets that with thee are hidden.
3 Sun, who all my life dost brighten, light, who dost my soul enlighten, joy, the sweetest heart e’er knoweth, fount, whence all my being floweth, at thy feet I cry, my Maker, let me be a fit partaker of this blessed food from heaven, for our good, thy glory, given.
4 Jesus, Bread of Life, I pray thee, let me gladly here obey thee; never to my hurt invited, be thy love with love requited: from this banquet let me measure, Lord, how vast and deep its treasure; through the gifts thou here dost give me, as thy guest in heaven receive me.
Lars talked about rousing Easter music last week, so I thought I’d find one for today. “Up From the Grave He Arose” was written by American preacher and hymn writer Robert Lowry (1826-1899). It’s one of those stirring kind of songs that calls up images of evangelistic rallies or brass bands on the sidewalk.
“God raised him up, loosing the pangs of death, because it was not possible for him to be held by it.” (Acts 2:24 ESV)
1 Low in the grave he lay, Jesus my Savior, waiting the coming day, Jesus my Lord!
Refrain: Up from the grave he arose; with a mighty triumph o’er his foes; he arose a victor from the dark domain, and he lives forever, with his saints to reign. He arose! He arose! Hallelujah! Christ arose!
2 Vainly they watch his bed, Jesus my Savior, vainly they seal the dead, Jesus my Lord! [Refrain]
3 Death cannot keep its prey, Jesus my Savior; he tore the bars away, Jesus my Lord! [Refrain]
Above, the King’s College Choir with what I must confess is the only Easter hymn I really like. And it’s not one that’s commonly sung in the churches of my own religious body.
And even this one, lovely as it (it shares a melody with the Christmas hymn, “Sing We Now of Christmas”), doesn’t entirely satisfy me. What Easter merits is a good, rousing, triumphal hymn, something on the lines of “A Mighty Fortress” or “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing!” We do have triumphal Easter hymns – there’s “Up From the Grave He Arose!” and “Christ the Lord Is Risen Today!” But personally I find them kind of clunky. They don’t sing well, to my mind. I want one I can throw my head back and bellow, as I used to do at Christmas, before my singing voice gave out.
I should probably write a text myself, and see if somebody can come up with a melody.
Better yet would be if somebody wrote a rousing melody and I could put words to it.
It’s been 2,000 years. Somebody should have taken care of this by now.
Want a writing update? I’m not writing at all right now, in the strictest sense of the term. I’ve got my beta readers reading The Baldur Game, and I’m using the time for the necessary procedural stage of forgetting everything about it. So I can come back to it with my mental palate cleansed.
Therefore, I have turned to the business of book narration. Some generous friends have given me a decent microphone and other equipment, and I’ve carved out a makeshift studio space in my bedroom. I’m playing with the system – especially the Audacity recording software. I have a certain level of technophobia, not unusual, I suppose, in people of a certain age. Right now I’m just doing drills. Self-assigned exercises. The plan is that, once I’ve got The Baldur Game published, I can devote a chunk of time to getting The Year of the Warrior recorded, so I can release it on Audible. I was always considered a good copy reader when I was in radio. Maybe audio books will be my ticket to the big time.
Our Easter hymn is “The Strife Is O’er, the Battle Done,” written by an anonymous Jesuit in the late 17th century and translated into English by the Curate of Ticehurst, East Sussex, Franis Pott in 1861.
“He will swallow up death forever; and the Lord GOD will wipe away tears from all faces, and the reproach of his people he will take away from all the earth, for the LORD has spoken.” (Isaiah 25:8 ESV)
Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia!
1 The strife is o’er, the battle done; the victory of life is won; the song of triumph has begun. Alleluia!
2 The powers of death have done their worst, but Christ their legions has dispersed. Let shouts of holy joy outburst. Alleluia!
3 The three sad days are quickly sped; he rises glorious from the dead. All glory to our risen Head. Alleluia!
4 He closed the yawning gates of hell; the bars from heaven’s high portals fell. Let hymns of praise his triumph tell. Alleluia!
5 Lord, by the stripes which wounded thee, from death’s dread sting thy servants free, that we may live and sing to thee. Alleluia!
Our Palm Sunday hymn this year is “O Love, How Deep, How Broad, How High!” attributed to the great German scholar Thomas à Kempis (1380-1471). Originally in Latin, Benjamin Webb (1819-1885) was the first to translate it into English as a hymn. The tune is a traditional ballad from the 15th century known as Deo Gracias or the Agincourt Hymn.
“It will be counted to us who believe in him who raised from the dead Jesus our Lord, who was delivered up for our trespasses and raised for our justification.” (Romans 4:24–25 ESV)
1 Oh, love, how deep, how broad, how high, Beyond all thought and fantasy, That God, the Son of God, should take Our mortal form for mortals’ sake!
2 He sent no angel to our race, Of higher or of lower place, But wore the robe of human frame, And to this world himself he came.
3 For us baptized, for us he bore His holy fast and hungered sore; For us temptation sharp he knew; For us the tempter overthrew.
4 For us he prayed; for us he taught; For us his daily works he wrought, By words and signs and actions thus Still seeking not himself but us.
5 For us by wickedness betrayed, For us, in crown of thorns arrayed, He bore the shameful cross and death; For us he gave his dying breath.
6 For us he rose from death again; For us he went on high to reign; For us he sent his Spirit here To guide, to strengthen, and to cheer.
7 All glory to our Lord and God For love so deep, so high, so broad; The Trinity whom we adore Forever and forevermore.