Simple Gifts : Great Hymns: One Man's Search for Grace

by Bill Henderson

• ISBN13: 9780743284738
• ISBN10: 0743284739
• Format: Hardcover
• Copyright: 2006-03-28
• Publisher: Free Press

Summary

If there is one simple phrase that lies at the heart of this moving tribute to the pleasures of singing hymns, it is this: "Only joy." Bill Henderson, a tough man with a gentle vision, found community and religious grace as a middle-aged man while lift

Table of Contents

Preface: First Songs	p. 1
The hymns of my childhood
A Brief History of Hymns	p. 17
Plain Chant
Martin Luther
Isaac Watts
Charles Wesley
William Cowper
Fanny Crosby
modern praise songs
Simple Gifts: Songs of Simplicity	p. 27
"Simple Gifts"
"He Lives"
"Imagine"
"In the Garden"
"O Holy Night"
"Joy to the World"
"Away in a Manger"
"O Little Town of Bethlehem"
"Jerusalem"
"In the Bleak Midwinter"
Amazing Grace: Songs of Wonder	p. 77
"Amazing Grace"
"Be Thou My Vision"
"How Great Thou Art"
"Just As I Am"
The Prayer of St. Francis: Songs of Love	p. 117
"Make Me a Channel of Your Peace"
"There Is a Balm in Gilead"
"Abide With Me"
Afterword: Only Joy	p. 155
"The Old Rugged Cross"
"Be Still My Soul"
"Faith of Our Fathers"
"Nearer My God to Thee"
"His Eye Is on the Sparrow"
other hymns
Acknowledgments	p. 163
Select Bibliography	p. 165
Index	p. 167
About the Author	p. 177
Table of Contents provided by Ingram. All Rights Reserved.

Excerpts

Preface First Songs I treasure some of the grand old hymns. My great joy is to sing them with people like me who hold them deep in their memories and call them forth with passion. At the nondenominational Rockbound Chapel, fastened to a granite boulder on a hill over the sea near Sedgwick, Maine, I sing songs with other summer visitors -- strangers and people I barely know. In untrained, inelegant, often too-loud or too-soft voices, we sing to each other of our pain, loneliness, and fear, topics we would hesitate to admit flat out in gatherings after services. We also sing of love, grace, trust, hope, peace -- sentiments that are left out of the usual daily patter. We sing words that matter to us. We are a mixed lot in age, sex, and occupation. We are fishermen, poets, CEOs, clerks, teachers, publishers, builders, mechanics, retirees, holiday rusticators, and others. We sing out our souls for each other. Our hymns are like hugs. We are Protestants, Catholics, and those who would prefer not to be labeled. Some of us are of troubled faith and others are more agnostic than not. Even if our pew companions don't exactly share creeds, our hymns carry all of us to those Thin Places described by the Irish, elevated states of consciousness where almost all barriers between mortals and gods vanish. Most of us Rockbound singers, like everybody else, spend portions of our days listening to music on our radios, TVs, or CD players. We are sung at. But in the tiny chapel we find our own voices. It makes no difference how well we sing, only that we do so. We raise our notes to each other and to heaven. No celebrity musician ever receives as much fan-love as we humble amateurs do, from each other, from the spirit within and around us. My friend Scott Savage, a conservative Quaker, tells me that often hymns "break out." His family's favorite is "The Holy Ghost Is Here," written in 1834 by Charles H. Surgeon. Scott writes: "At the noon prayer before lunch this hymn breaks out, or while we cut up apples for canning applesauce, or on a walk, or returning from meeting, my wife and our two children sing it together unprompted and quite sweetly, while Ned the horse finds his way home." At the Rockbound Chapel, songs don't break out in quite the same way. We raise our hands before the service and call out the page numbers of cherished songs, while Jim Lufkin, our energetic pastor, scribbles notes and prepares the agenda. After we get rolling, accompanied by a grand older lady, Alice Egland, on the piano -- she knows scores of hymns by heart -- or with the help of a visiting fiddle, flute, or even a saw player, the spirit breaks out in earnest. In an hour we might cover two dozen hymns, first and last verses, sometimes all the verses. Old, old hymns. Never anything modern. Words, mere words, flat on the page or preached dead in the air, can ruin faith and often divide congregations. Theological niceties spun by divine theorists for centuries have led to ridiculous and murderous quarrels. Are we saved by grace or works? Does God recognize full-body baptism or a sprinkle? On and on the words of dogma spin into an eternity of nonsense. As Kierkegaard put it rather bluntly: "When a lark wants to pass gas like an elephant, it has to blow up. In the same way, all scholarly theology must blow up, because it has wanted to be the supreme wisdom instead of remaining what it is, an unassuming triviality." A great preacher can almost lift mere words into the realm of song, but some don't even come close. Their verbiage leaves me annoyed, bored, betrayed, or asleep. During some sermons in various churches, I daydream that I had brought a basket of ripe fruit to lob at the pulpit. Why should I sit here politely listening? I think, gazing out the window at the blowing tree limbs, the rushing clouds, or the tombstones of the bless