Spirit of truth and love,
life-giving, holy dove,
speed forth your flight;
move on the water's face
bearing the lamp of grace,
and in earth's darkest place
let there be light!
This is the third stanza of the hymn "God, Whose Almighty Word," written in 1813 by John Marriott, an English minister. According to the author's page at Hymnary.org, it was first published in The Friendly Visitor under the title "Missionary Hymn." Reading the words from a 19th century British perspective, "earth's darkest place" might be -- well, probably not anywhere in England or Europe. But while a 21st century Christian might notice the imperialist layer to the text, its metaphors and images -- spirit moving on the water from Genesis 1, light brought to darkness from John 1 -- give it depth and meaning beyond a prayer for missionaries sent to "civilize" distant lands. It's good hymn writing. The rhymes are tidy, the syntax straightforward, the meter simple but interesting.
What caught me up when we sang this in church last Sunday was the imagery. A mixed-metaphor alarm went off in my mind: first a dove, then a lamp, and then an image of a bird flying above the waters carrying a lantern in its beak. It seemed improbable. Wouldn't the lamp be far too heavy for the bird to manage, for it even to get off the ground, much less soar over waters far from land?
The congregation and organist moved on to stanza four as I continued to think about stanza three and that lantern over the dark waters. And what came to mind was rescuers hurrying down to the shore in the dark of night to aid mariners run aground in a storm.
Where did that come from? Twice in the last few weeks I was up on Washington Island, in Lake Michigan, off the tip of Door County, where the passage between the mainland and the Island is known as Death's Door. It's an old name, originating with Native Americans and early French navigators who dubbed it Port des Morts. The currents are tricky, as are the winds, a danger to which many a shipwreck below the surface can testify. (Read more here and here.) Nowadays sturdy car ferries travel back and forth from the mainland to the Island, so that "Crossing Death's Door" has become more t-shirt slogan than a reality.
But back in the day, there were shipwrecks. While on the Island we had the opportunity to tour a tall ship, the Schooner Madeline, a replica of a vessel that carried cargo through the Great Lakes in the 19th century, the sort of ship that might have run aground in Washington Harbor or anywhere along the coast of Door County. I've read stories of cargo washed ashore, of sailors in lifeboats, sailors brought to land, and rescue attempts, people with lanterns appearing in the dark coming down to the shore. People helping desperate people, bringing light and hope.
Back to that image in the hymn. (By now on Sunday, a lector was reading the Old Testament lesson.) That dove is not flying over distant waters or vast oceans on the other side of the world, I thought. And the dark and dangerous waters are not those of the sea or a Great Lake. The dark, dangerous waters are around us, among us, between us, in the turmoil of election season. Waves of fear and condescension, divisiveness, even cruelty, buoy us up and pull us down.
We need light and vision to see past this. But oh, that lantern of grace wavers? It's a heavy load for the Spirit of truth and love. It needs a place to land — a big ship, or in the hands and hearts of those who come to help.
Grant grace, O Lord. Let it land and shine steady in us, your people.
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| Bow of Louisiana, ashore. Sank in Washington Harbor (north end of Washington Island, Wisconsin, in 1913. |
