August Journal, Twelfth Sunday after Trinity

As I recently read these words in Abraham Lincoln’s first inaugural address, March 4, 1861, I was struck by the phrase “mystic chords of memory.” Our memory of America, what it means to be an American, the history of America, our life together in this great nation, will bind us in harmony, a mystic harmony, a part of a greater song we sing, many becoming one:

“We are not enemies, but friends. We must not be enemies. Though passion may have strained, it must not break our bonds of affection. The mystic chords of memory, stretching from every battle-field, and patriot grave, to every living heart and hearthstone, all over this broad land, will yet swell the chorus of the Union, when again touched, as surely they will be, by the better angels of our nature.” (Lincoln’s First Inaugural Address, March 4, 1861)

We have seen discord before and will again. That is the nature of freedom. After all, the Civil War broke out shortly after President Lincoln made this speech.

That being said, the silencing of speech today is a dark trend that silences freedom. The silencing of elections and election challenges invites distrust in government. The silencing of instruction in Civics and American History in high school and college allows false histories to grow like cancer among our people, and is a death knell for democracy. The silencing of the rule of law is perhaps the most egregious, for political opponents are tried in show trials and imprisoned at the whim of the powerful.

And so we pray for our country. We pray for the better angels of our nature to touch the mystic chords of memory, if there is any common history left, and will swell the chords of the Union, the United States of America.

We pray for those who are persecuted for speaking out and pray that more will speak out in spite of the fearsome retributions threatened.

We pray that our many races and ethnicities from all over the world will re-unite and sing together, in harmony, as we seek peace in our cities and schools and communities.

And so as we sang together, many voices becoming one, in our chapel this morning, I thought of the mystic chords of memory, how we sing those harmonies that form a family from folks of varying backgrounds, varying ages, varying talents. We sang a particularly poignant hymn, #299, 1940 Hymnal, written by Percy Dearmer in 1933, a priest who has penned many. I did not recall these words (with my failing memory), but the hymn gives thanks for all those who have given us so much, all those we must not forget in these troubled times:

“Sing praise to God, who spoke through man/ In differing times and manners,/ For those great seers who’ve led the van,/ Truth writ upon their banners;/ For those who once blazed out the way,/ For those who still lead on today,/ To God be thanks and glory.”

And the final verse:

“For all the poets who have wrought/ Through music, words, and vision/ To tell the beauty of God’s thought/ By art’s sublime precision,/ Who bring our highest dreams to shape/ And help the soul in her escape,/ To God be thanks and glory.”

And so I gave thanks for Father Dearmer, a poet to be sure.

Without these mystic chords of memory, what do we have that will bring the truth to light in our present times? I am grateful that as of this writing we still can celebrate and sing these chords together, organ pounding, incense swirling, birthing one from many.

Thanks be to God.