Tears at the Battle Hymn

When Julia Ward Howe sat down to refashion a much beloved Union battle hymn the troops called "John Brown's Body," she created new lyrics and a bold new score that, almost magically, became as deeply imprinted on the America's soul as anything in our songbook. In just one sitting, Miss Howe created a national classic so familiar that all any of us have to hear is that opening drum roll to know what's a' coming.  

Now John Brown's body may well be 'a molderin' in the grave, but John Brown's soul is still there in that hymn; so I suspect that 150-some years after Ms. Howe put down the quill, "Mine Eyes Have Seen the Glory" isn't sung as lustily in the American South as it is here, above Mason-Dixon. But you'd have to bury yourself deep in the rebel cause not to get stirred by those rolling "Glory, glory, hallelujahs." Once some choir belts out the opening bars of "The Battle Hymn," most of us don't have to think to get teary. Me either.

But that old hymn is dangerous. It is. It pairs patriotism with Christianity, creates a deadly potion that would have made Franklin and Jefferson sneer. "His truth is marching on?" That old hymn isn't talking about Wankan Tanka or the prophet Muhammad. It's talking about John Brown and his God, Jehovah. History makes horrifyingly clear that twining my sense of justice with the Creator of heaven and earth's is risky business. 

I know that and I believe it. The truth is, however, I'd rather not be a skeptic. I'd rather not throw a wet blanket over the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. But when they start into "In the beauty of the lily, Christ was born across the sea. . ." I raise an eyebrow. I do. I'm an academic. I get paid to think.

So a couple days ago, I knew very well what I was doing. I let a mass choir belt out that old war song, and I did so with deliberate intent because I wanted the listeners, old folks at the home, to love what they heard, even if I didn't. Besides, not a one of them is going off to war.

On You Tube I stumbled across Miss Howe's beloved classic sung by a mass choir at a local college, a dozen local high school choirs creating an assembly so huge and wide they filled the bleachers of a college gym, hundreds of them, plus a little orchestra in accompaniment. 

What you need to know here is the few gathered in the home that afternoon were residents who eventually leave Prairie Ridge Home only on a gurney, some of them still alive, many not. Maybe half of the crowd had little clue as to where they were. Some were slumped in their chairs already when they were wheeled in. There was more than a little Alzheimer's, too. 

That's why I put "The Battle Hymn" up on the big screen, why we turned out the lights, cranked up the volume, and why I told those old folks that if they looked closely they might just spot a grandchild or two. "These are your kids," I told them. 

Then I clicked the mouse. I found the video on You Tube where some proud parent had put it up after taking it on his or her phone. It was no professional production, but it was loud and powerful, and it was--good Lord, a'mighty--"Mine Eyes Have Seen the Glory." That opening drum roll got their attention. 

I don't think I have to tell you there were tears. You darn right there were tears. I don't think I could have played anything up on that screen or said anything at all that would have been more thrilling to those old folks, most of them in final days that are only rarely blessed with thrills. Yes, there were tears.

This retired professor didn't lecture them on the dangers of faith and patriotism, didn't remind them how the Founders created a wall between church and state. I didn't say a thing. I just clicked the mouse, and let those kids on the bleachers sing their hearts out for their great-grandparents, some of whom couldn't see much, many of whom had to strain to hear.

But there were tears, and I'm not repentant in the least. I let Ms. Howe's old powerhouse do its finest work, and it did. Trust me. They loved it. They adored it. There were tears.

Would have been nice if Julia Ward Howe could have seen it. Or those kids up on those bleachers. Would have been nice for all of you to be a witness to goosebumps on old folks. Yes, there were tears--who cares where they came from? 

They were precious. Glory, glory, hallelujah.