MAKE ME A BLESSING

 A monthly feature on a hymn of the faith.

His parents gave him an Old Testament name, “Ira,” meaning “watchful” in Hebrew. It was also the name carried by three of King David's warriors around 1000 B.C.. Though little more is known of them other than their tribes, no doubt these vigorous men could be labeled “blessings” to their earthly leader in that tumultuous time in Hebrew history. (1) People don't always match the character conveyed by their names, but the legacy of Ira B. Wilson (1880-1950) includes a mighty little song, “Make Me a Blessing.”

Wilson's biography isn't flashy. He was born in 1880 in Bedford, a little town in Iowa. His sister taught him to play violin and organ. Around 1902 he began studies at Moody Bible Institute in Chicago. While there, he wrote a poem about being a blessing; his roommate George Shuler reportedly added the music. Their piece was rejected by a music publisher. Later, however, someone made 1,000 copies of it. One came to the attention of George Dibble, a singer and music director for the International Sunday School convention in Cleveland, Ohio. Soon after its convention introduction, it became widely sung.

Wilson worked in Christian music publishing throughout his life, with other original pieces reaching print. Some were published under a pseudonym. He also directed a volunteer choir. Little is known about his personal life other than that his first wife probably died and he remarried. He died in his 70^th year and is buried at Forest Lawn in the Los Angeles area.

Though it seems odd, in later years Wilson didn't remember writing the lyrics. He denied authorship to his death, even though his college-years-hymn lyrics went on to be sung by millions of Christians throughout the world.

So, a take-away from the meaning of his name, “Ira,” meaning “watchful”? Perhaps a reminder that no matter our gifts (even a simple childhood acquaintance with violin and organ), being a “watchful” learner under the umbrella of gifted musicians and publishers can be part of God's plan for ministry. If the words and tune to “Make me a blessing” are easily recalled, remember that in God's economy there are no “little people.” His plan involves a whole range of abilities. David had his warriors, but Christian music also had its back-of-the-battle-line folks. Like Ira Wilson.

Enjoy singing this classic hymn again:

BingVideos

1. “Ira,” a Jairite and “chief ruler about David” (2 Samuel 20:26); “Ira a Tekoite, one of David's thirty “mighty warriors (2 Samuel 23:26, 1 Chronicles 11:28, 27:9); “Ira the Ithrite,” one of David's “valiant men” (2 Samuel 23:38, 1 Chronicles 11:40)

RESTING, RESTING....

China: Hudson Taylor claimed it for Christ

An inspiring story about a hymn of the faith.

Sometimes in doing research for these blogs, I come across stories that cause me to push back from my desk and whisper, “God, You are awesome.” That happened recently when I decided to look up the story behind an old hymn, “Jesus, I Am Resting, Resting.” Like many hymns swirling in my gray matter, it had “come back” to me as I work through the emotions of losing a spouse.

I don't have all the pieces to the background of the hymn, “Jesus, I am Resting, Resting,” but here's how it goes. About 1876, a 31-year-old Irish poet, Jean Sophia Pigott, penned some verses about trusting and resting in Jesus. An English pastor added music to it. Jean Pigott would die in 1882, and her survivors would include her brothers, missionaries to China under Hudson Taylor's ministry.

Somehow, sometime, a brother had apparently shared his sister's poem-turned-hymn with Taylor. A few years later, in 1901, the Chinese “Boxer Rebellion” erupted. Many of its participants were skilled in Chinese martial arts—also called “Chinese Boxing.” Eventually, the combatants turned against foreigners, including Christian missionaries. Jean's brothers Thomas and William were among more than 75 missionaries slain during the Chinese rebellions.

Greatly burdened by the unspeakable loss of his workers, Taylor reportedly found regular comfort from Jean Pigott's hymn when he sat down at his little organ to sing and worship.

Jean had written other poems, many compiled into a book titled “A Royal Service.” She died in Ireland at age 37—nearly two decades ahead of her missionary-brothers.

Learning the background of this gentle hymn—how it met a spiritual need years later following a crushing loss—helped me appreciate all the more God's planning and presence in leading and comforting His children.

Here's a You-tube sing-along to remind you of the hymn:

Bing Videos

RE-TUNING

My piano hadn't been tuned in decades. When a local tuner opened the top to access strings and go to work, I cringed to hear how “off” it was. I've since learned that the pressure put on a piano's 218 strings is enormous—from 3400 pounds for my size piano, to the twenty tons in a concert grand.

I am not a great pianist. With small hands that barely reached an octave, I quit lessons in about sixth or seventh grade, when I began violin. I retained enough piano skills to play for worship services at a couple small churches I attended.

But “piano” is still a part of my heart. Thus I paid attention in reading about piano technology in Edith Schaeffer's Music: A Tribute to the Gift of Creativity (Grand Rapids: Baker, 1986). She wrote about visiting a warehouse where pianos (built for concert use) were professionally tuned. New pianos, she related, need “breaking in” and the wood treated as the strings are tuned. Depending on their construction, high-end pianos have a brilliance that will equip them for artists playing complex classical pieces by composers like Brahms, Tchaikovsky and Rachmaninoff. We're talking the Cadillacs and Mercedes of the piano world. But they are tuned, each string, one sensitive twist of a tuning pin, at a time.

As for mine, just regular “playing.” And for me, now, hymns and the arrangements I played when attending a church that still used preludes and offertories. Alas, my meager skills mean I “gulp!” when I open the music book to a piece that has a key signature denoting lots of sharps or flats. Let's just say that low-ability keyboard musicians (I'm in that category) prefer the simpler key signatures, not A-sharp minor, which keeps your fingers touching the black keys and your brain processing “go up, go up.”

So, is there a lesson from the “black keys' of the piano—those notes known as “sharps” or “flats” and that separate beginners from aspiring artists? Maybe it's this: that spiritual maturity is like progressing in music skills. When God forces us into the finger-twisting melodies of more difficult life experiences (the “black keys”), He has a beautiful melody in mind.

And there's another lesson from this piano-tuning image. Mrs. Schaeffer put it this way in her book:

Even as pianos need constant tuning and regulating—not only when young and raw, but all through their careers of being used for brilliant concerts—so people who are being used as “instruments of righteousness”--or, in other words, living creative, fruitful lives—need constant refreshing, “tuning.” (p. 191).

I've played on out-of-tune pianos. It is a painful experience! Though never comfortable or sought, God's sessions of “tuning” me spiritually—of twisting each “just-off” behavior or faith string to His perfection—is really the only way to go.

P.S. In 1997, while a student at Multnomah Bible College in Portland, I had the privilege of hearing Mrs. Schaeffer speak. I'd previously bought and absorbed her book Hidden Art, discovering how everyday efforts could be platforms to glorify the Creator. That day she autographed it for me. She passed away in Switzerland (where she and Francis had established “L'Abri”) in 2013 at the age of 98.

GRUMPY GRUMP....

My son's cat, "Rosebud," my grumpy model

If you have cruised through life without a grumpy moment, well, what planet did you come from? In my current “Gramma” role I am reminded that the grumpies are a common childhood malady (known to persist in adulthood). Aha, there's a verse for that. Actually, lots of verses. Exodus is riddled with rumbles and grumbles. (What, you're tired of manna? Only thing on the menu. You want to arrive at the Promised Land tomorrow? Sorry, won't happen.) Grr, grr, grr, grr, grr..... And a few hundred years later, after Jesus came and lived out the grumble-free life, one of His disciples repeated the lesson: “Don't grumble against each other, brothers, or you will be judged” (James 5:9). The word translated “grumble” is from a Hebrew word for “groan.”

You know the word, and the attitude. “It's all about ME: my agenda, my preference, my vision for MY happiness, I shouldn't have emotional pain. Everybody should cater to me.” Sorry, but that attitude isn't God-endorsed.

The answer, I think, was expressed well by author-speaker Nancy Leigh Wolgemuth in her book Choosing Forgiveness (Moody, 2006). It's a tough-love book to challenge folks who want the world to revolve around them. Her discussion starts with this reality about pain being an inevitable part of life:

Everyone will get hurt.

Jesus' take on it: “In this world you will have trouble” (John 16:33).

Paul's re-take on it (to Timothy): “Indeed, all who desire to live a godly life in Christ Jesus will be persecuted” (2 Timothy 3:12).

Everybody, she observed, endures some sort of life-pain, some worse than others. “We will all encounter situations,” she said, “that provide fertile ground for resentment and unforgiveness to take root and bloom in our hearts.” But don't stop at that; instead, embrace this principle:

The outcome of our lives is not determined by what happens to us but by how we respond to what happens to us. (Choosing Forgiveness, p. 41)

Take note of three key words: how we respond. Those who blame their unhappiness on life's unwanted circumstances or difficult relationships will slog through their years as unhappy “victims,” a mindset that will never allow them to know real, Christ-based hope or freedom.

Grumpy-grump? Or, “Thank you, Jesus,” “I trust You, Jesus,” “Help me, Jesus”? Authentically partnering with Him, and seeking His transformation of our character, will help win the war against the Grumps.

"DESCEND...."

 

Acts 2:3 describes the coming
of the Holy Spirit on the disciples
as "tongues like of fire."

A monthly feature on a hymn of the faith.

Our secular world happily embraces Christmas and Easter as times for decorated trees and gifts, eggs and chocolates in a basket, and family, work and community parties and feasts. At church, add in nativity or passion plays and special hymns. But after Easter, a significant spiritual milestone—the coming of the Holy Spirit--seems to slip by quietly. We know it as Pentecost, coming fifty days after Easter (this year on May 19) and marking when Christ returned to Heaven and the Holy Spirit came upon the waiting, praying disciples.

 But....there is a hymn for it. A brilliant 19^th century writer and minister named George Croly filled that gap with his hymn known as “Spirit of God, Descend Upon My Heart.” Its music was written by an Anglican choirmaster and organist, Frederick Atkinson.

 Born in 1780, and son of a doctor, Croly was ordained after his education at Trinity College in Dublin, At about age 30 he moved to London where he gained a reputation as a writer and literary critic, writing for journals and penning books on secular and religious topics. His poetry and prose were described as “vigorous and eloquent.” Of his half-dozen hymns, “Spirit of God, Descend upon my Heart” would become his best known, found in more than 300 hymnals. Many can recite its opening verse:

Spirit of God, descend upon my heart;

Wean it from earth, through all its pulses move.

Stoop to my weakness, mighty as thou art,

And make me love Thee as I ought to love.

 He had one unforeseen problem in gaining an Anglican appointment. A Roman Catholic man had the same name. Eventually, a distant relative of his wife (a “Lord Brougham”) helped clear his reputation as Anglican, and Croly was assigned in 1835 to revive a struggling church in the slums of London, St. Stephen Walbrook. Under his dramatic, mostly extemporaneous preaching, the almost-deserted church began to grow, with many commuting (in those horse-and-buggy days) from outside the neighborhood  to hear him.

 Croly had married a woman who contributed to a literary magazine he worked for. They would have five sons and a daughter. But one son died at 23 in a battle in India. His wife would die when he was 71, and his nine-year-old daughter just a few months later. Four sons would survive.

 In 1860, at age 80, he was still ministering at St. Stephen's when one November day he went on a walk, collapsed and died. He was buried at St. Stephens. The classic church building still is used: History - St Stephen Walbrook London

 Here is one internet video of Croly's “Spirit of God,” with printed words and choral background:

Bing Videos

 

NESTED

My son-in-law was helping trim up a fir tree when he came upon an abandoned bird nest. How small, how meticulously put together with twigs and mud. What a builder, probably a swallow (known as a restless bird, always flitting about) or a sparrow (symbolizing utter loneliness in Psalm 102:7). Both birds (common to us!) also flew in and out of the Bible's tabernacle and the temple

Even the sparrow has found a home, and the swallow a nest for herself, where she may have her young—a place near your altar, O LORD Almighty, my King and my God.(Psalm 84:3)

Remembering this verse, I thought of how this home, where I've lived for nearly 42 years, became the “nest” for two little ones who grew up to be responsible, loving adults. Especially through their dad's final illness, and my new journey without him, I have appreciated their love and support.

But that little nest said more to me. Though no longer needed in my yard's fir tree, it was a “history” of where the bird parents raised their family, teaching those hungry hatchlings over and over, over and over. Showed them how to fly, find food, and make their own way in the world. Released them from the nest. How much a picture of human parenting! (Well, I didn't teach my kids to fly but driver's ed was equally scary!)

Swedish hymn-writer Carolina Sandell Berg noted these things in lyrics for her tender, enduring hymn:

Children of the heavenly Father safely in His bosom gather

Nestling bird nor star in heaven such a refuge e'er was given.

One phrase in Psalm 84:3 always makes me pause: “a place near your altar, O LORD Almighty.” Both the ancient tabernacle and temple, given their size and construction, couldn't keep out the birds. Thus many nested in places they deemed safe. Probably their chosen “safe place” was atop a wall or in a niche—not on a hot altar where sacrifices were burned. But who's to say the birds didn't fly down at night to inspect things—even altars--when all was calm and the ashes cool?

And could that also be a picture of human home life at night? When my son and daughter were younger, we tucked them into bed with stories and prayer. Yes, the “family altar” of seeking God. How touching to hear them pray for their own needs, other family members and their friends. Under-girding their prayers: the trust in the Lord Almighty, their King, their God. Now they do the same with their children.

“Nested” near HIS altar. Our King and our God. There's no better place to be.

EYES, EARS, MOUTH

Guess which "eye-glasses"
the grandkids like to wear!

When my children and grandchildren were babies, I'd ask them to point to their eyes, nose, mouth, ears, and a few other parts, ending with the laughable “belly button.” It was so fun to watch them name their body parts and smile over that accomplishment! Probably every mom (or dad) has done that—and that might include the author of a hymn of “spiritual senses”-- “Open My Eyes, That I May See.”

Her name was Clara Scott (born 1841 in Illinois to a farmer's family) and she received her music training at the newly opened Chicago Music Institute. She married a man in the crockery business, and they had two daughters, Medora and Mary, living near Chicago. She was known in the late 1800s as a music teacher, composer, hymn-writer, and the first woman to publish a volume of anthems, titled The Royal Anthem Book (1892).

In mid-life, her husband became an invalid. So when she wanted to attend a funeral in DuBuque, Iowa, he stayed home. While traveling by horse and buggy, with two friends aboard with her, the buggy's hold-back strap broke, spooking the horse. It raced forward, hitting the buggy against a stone wall. Clara and one friend were thrown out, dying instantly. The other passenger had severe injuries. Clara was only 56. Music writers, teachers, professors, publishers and friends attended her funeral, which included a quartet of friends singing two of her compositions.

As for “Open My Eyes That I May See,” it's still found in many hymnals. Written to a 6/8 meter, it has a gentle, lullaby rhythm as it relates how parts of the body (eyes, hands, ears and mouth) can be used for God's glory. The only “not visible” body part in the hymn is the heart:

Open my heart, and let me prepare

Love with Thy children thus to share....

Open my heart, illumine me, Spirit divine.

The lyrics naming “body parts” may bring to mind scriptures like these:

“O Lord, open my lips, and my mouth will declare your praise.” (Psalm 51:15)

“One thing I do know. I was blind but now I see.” (The blind man who was healed, John 9:25)

“He who has ears to hear, let him hear.” (Matthew 11:15)

“Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.” (Matthew 5:8)

And this scripture also carries on the pairing of the physical and spiritual:

Let the words of my mouth, and the meditation of my heart, be acceptable in thy sight, O LORD, my strength and my redeemer.” (Psalm 19:14)

To recall this hymn to mind, enjoy this YouTube version:

Open My Eyes That I May See | Lyric Video - YouTube