My new friend (and art patron), Kim Watkins, wrote a while back and asked for this recipe, said she was intending to serve it for dinner when her in-laws came for a visit. I do love to hear who these recipes get served to, what words they might use to describe what they taste, and how many times they lick their fingers — I take joy in those little pieces of everyday extraordinaryness, the vision of someone’s mess-faced children bellied-up to the supper table, smearing their chubby fingers across an earthen plate to sop up that last spicy, treacly goodness.

Since I had this written up I thought it might be sharing time again. Here’s the best semblance of August 7th’s tomato jam recipe I can come up with — I had it in mind for weeks (months?) theoretically, but totally concocted it on the fly.

In a large heavy saucepan over medium heat, sweat in 2 tbsp olive oil until translucent…

1 large yellow onion, chopped
1 red bell pepper, chopped
2 garlic cloves, minced
throw in some kosher salt (a teaspoon, perhaps), 2 sprigs of fresh thyme and 1 of rosemary

add to that….
2 28-ounce cans petite diced tomatoes (Hunt’s is my favorite)
2-3 tbsp brown sugar
1 cup chopped kalamata olives
the zest and juice of 1 orange
1/2 tsp cardamom
1 tsp. cinnamon

Now this is important: let the mixture simmer over mediumish heat for a good while. Let it reduce, linger, loiter, cook down, get all sticky and jammy….the consistency should be similar to something you’d want to smear on your morning toast. Once this delicious perfection has been reached, fish out the herb stems, taste and season with more kosher salt and black pepper if needed.

So as anyone who attended Hutchmoot knows and can attest, it’s quite good served with the Moroccan chicken. It could also be tossed with some hot, fresh pasta, crumbled goat cheese and fresh lemon zest for a belly-warming quick supper. Perhaps you’d like it piled onto some slabs of crusty artisan bread, toasted or grilled, then topped with some shards of ricotta salata or parmesan and fresh basil torn over the top. Or maybe you just want to sit on the couch with the pan, a spoon and a glass of pinot noir. Let me know which scenario you end up choosing.

Instead of just cherry-picking one for the next go-round, are there any recipe requests while I’m at it?

I know you laughed the day you first were told
that you would have a son who would
shine like a star above the desert.
I know you stepped into that story like a
dancer to a song. I know you leapt inside
to hear your husband tell it.
I know you did.
I know you did and I know why.

I know you’re waiting like that first year
and the next and the next and the next
with nothing more to hold than just a promise.
I know you hide ‘cause you’re embarrassed.
I know you cry because it hurts. I know you laugh
because you’re angry when you’re honest.
I know you do.
I know you do and I know why.

So you, here in this land between
the ocean and the verdant green,
you lie there like a barren stream
of dust, except for tears.
Your husband says the earth, it groans.
He feels it in his failing bones.
But this is not for you alone,
so Sarah, in a year

I know you’ll wake before the morning
in a haze of sleepy peace. I know you’ll
slip into that room beside the kitchen.
I know you’ll reach into that woven willow bed
beside the fire. I know you’ll laugh,
I know you’ll laugh and kiss his cheek
I know you will.
I know you will and I know why.

This is the conclusion of a series of posts about money, art, commerce, and the Kingdom. It’s not so much about money, but a closing thought about the artist’s calling.

The Great Nashville Flood of 2010 was devastating. People died. Homes were lost. We watched our neighborhood street turn into a muddy river. On one of our walks down the hill from the Warren to see the flood’s progress we spotted a family of field mice who had been forced to higher ground. Then we saw two or three moles. We and a few neighbors gathered them up and moved them to safety.

Later, in the woods, we found a drowned baby rabbit, soaked through and pitiful. Their warren had flooded and it was too small and fragile to escape in time. I imagine its mother pulled it out with the others and this was the unlucky one. I have a thing for rabbits, you see, so it gave me pause. A few minutes later I heard my son Aedan screaming through the woods. I ran. Our dog, a huge Great Pyrenees named Moondog, had found another baby rabbit, this one still alive. Before Aedan could stop him, Moondog’s instincts kicked in and he attacked. Rabbits scream like humans. Aedan saw it all–and heard it all–as Moondog bit and shook the rabbit till its back broke. When I found Aedan he was weeping in the mud with the little bloody rabbit cradled in his hands. It was awful.

Later, while the rain battered Tennessee, Aedan sat on the couch and wept. He punched the cushion and cried, “I’m sorry. I feel terrible and stupid that I’m crying over a little rabbit when there are people dying all over the world. It was just a rabbit!” I was astonished, as I often am by my children. I held him and told him to cry all he wanted. “You’re mourning the same thing,” I said. “Death is death.” He wasn’t just grieving the little animal, but the Curse itself. The rabbit in the dog’s jaws only signified the presence of the serpent in the garden of his boyhood. He was grieving the slow dusk of his own death as manhood’s shadow gathered in the east. The world, the rabbit screamed, is broken. That truth intrudes and slays the days of youth. Nature, in the words of Tennyson, is “red in tooth and claw.”

So we grieve and we rejoice, like breathing in and breathing out. The little things matter, and the big things matter, and hearts far and near need hope.

Art, if it can be ascribed value, is most valuable when its beauty (and the beauty of the truth it tells) bewilders, confounds, defies evil itself; it does so by making what has been unmade; it subverts the spirit of the age; it mends the heart by whispering mysteries the mind alone can’t fathom; it fulfills its highest calling when into all the clamor of Hell it tells the unbearable, beautiful, truth that Christ has died, Christ is risen, and Christ will come again. None of these songs and stories matter if the beauty they’re adding to isn’t the kind of beauty that redeems and reclaims.

That doesn’t mean every song and every story has to be a sermon. Not at all! But the very existence of great stories and stirring music and good art is a sermon itself. That anyone at all in the world would set their sad heart and tired hands to the work of wreaking beauty out of chaos is a monument to Grace. It reminds us of light and high beauty, and it laments the world’s great sorrow. It gives the heart language to rejoice and language to mourn.

Creation groans like a woman in labor? Even so. And we know every birth is a tight-wound cord of fear and joy, pain and pleasure, striving and surcease. Let those who can, tell that story. Let those in Christ whose hands paint worlds, whose tongues limn loveliness, whose ears hear astral strains–let them make, and make, and make. And let the made things adorn the dark and proclaim the coming Kingdom till the King himself is come.

I so appreciate all the discussion. Your comments have been moving and encouraging and have pushed me to think deeper about these things. Here’s the recap:

First: wealth is a burden. Poverty is a burden. As one of my Bible college professors Twila Sias (hey, Twila!) pointed out in last week’s comments, Proverbs 30:7-9 sums it up beautifully. In the words of good ol’ overlooked Agur:

“Two things I ask of you, O LORD; do not refuse me before I die: Keep falsehood and lies far from me; give me neither poverty nor riches, but give me only my daily bread. Otherwise, I may have too much and disown you and say, ‘Who is the LORD ?’ Or I may become poor and steal, and so dishonor the name of my God.”

The beautiful Jill Phillips song “Daily Bread” was inspired by this very verse. (What’s that you ask? Is that song available in the Rabbit Room store on her album Nobody’s Got it All Together? Yes. Yes it is.) It’s a good way to remind yourself that to be stuck somewhere between relative wealth and relative poverty is a fine place to be, which is hard to believe when you’re stuck in the comfortable, entertaining, enjoyable, discontented mire of American culture.

Second: better what you can. One comment in particular from EmJ brought up the buzz word “sustainability”. I think he (or she?) is right that it’s a little faddish, but it’s not such a bad idea. Writers like Wendell Berry and Michael Pollan are refreshingly wise when it comes to the environment and local economy, and there are worse things in the world than practicing what those guys preach about food and land and community.

I’m going to make an analogy here, so bear with me for a paragraph or so. The much-debated documentary film Food, Inc. was fascinating. It was also disturbing. And whatever you may think of the film’s bias, the end is brilliant. After all the information is presented, the screen fades to black and we see a collage of practical ideas for how to change things. They didn’t just expose a gigantic problem; they also gave us a hundred small, attainable solutions. The big one for me was this: we cast a vote three times a day. Three times a day we choose what aspect of the food economy we’re going to support. We can either buy junk and fill the pockets of the corporations–or we can try to buy from local farmers, or grow our own vegetables, or at least purchase responsibly grown food. It’s going to cost a little more, sure. But if enough people make tiny changes, the corporations will feel it where it counts, and big changes will follow. The corporations won’t collapse, but they will follow the money; if it becomes more profitable for them to produce responsibly grown food, they’ll do it. I think that’s a sound theory.

What if we applied the same theory to music and the arts? What if we chose the artisan equivalent of locally grown food?

Whenever a new U2 album comes out we’re probably going to get it from iTunes (or Amazon or wherever), just like we’re probably going to get our spaghetti noodles at the grocery store. But if a local farmer (artist) is nourishing you by doing good work and working hard at it, then it’s worth it to go through the trouble to head to the farmer’s market (the artist’s website or–the Rabbit Room Store!) and cast your vote with your money. A little at a time, help the people whose art is helping you. If you’re reading this, you’re probably reading it on a computer. That means you aren’t starving. (If you’re starving and you own a computer, something’s very wrong.) That means you have–and this is a phrase that troubles me–disposable income. It means you have enough money to occasionally buy a book or album, and every time you buy one you’re casting a vote. So as often as you can, vote for the artists tilling their field and sowing seeds that bear (hopefully) lasting fruit. That’s all. Easy, right?

Having said all that, I thought I’d make some practical suggestions. Food for thought. Ideas to chew on. (See how well this food analogy works?) Feel free to print these out and tattoo them on your ankle like all the hip kids are doing. I propose the following:

1. Buy the record, don’t steal it. This should go without saying, but I’ll say it anyway. If you like someone’s music, buy it. It costs a lot of money and time and heartache to make that album you love. Lots of artists are using things like Noisetrade to get their music out there for free, and that’s great. But there’s still an exchange happening–Noisetrade asks for your email address so the artist can communicate with you about their shows, new records, etc.–so whether it’s with your email address or your dollar bills, buy the music. You’ll be glad you did. I’ve downloaded free albums before, and you know what? I still haven’t listened to them. They’re sitting there on my hard drive gathering cyberdust because they were free. There was nothing at stake. On the other hand, I bought the new album by the Weepies last week and have listened four or five times already–partly because I’m a fan, of course, but also because it cost me something to acquire the songs. Whenever I do a concert for people who have bought tickets, it’s a more intense show than when I do them for free. The audience has something invested (even if it’s only $3); they’ve come with some expectation so the exchange carries more weight.

2. Go to concerts. You may think of yourself as a person who doesn’t like live shows. Maybe you don’t like the noise. Maybe it’s the crowds. Well, if you’re at a Square Peg Alliance show, chances are it won’t be loud and there won’t be a crowd. Har. Seriously, it may feel funny to choose a sit-down concert over a movie, but try it. Go to the websites of your favorite artists and see if they’re coming to a town near you. They’ll be glad you showed up, I guarantee it. Most of the time the tickets are about what you’d pay for a movie, only in this case your money won’t be lining Jerry Bruckheimer’s silken pockets–it’ll go to diapers or the new transmission or the mixing engineer for the new album.

There’s a local theater company here in Nashville called Blackbird Theater Company. Jamie and I went to an original production called Twilight of the Gods, a philosophical, literate murder mystery. It was really, really good. Tickets were $15 each. If we had gone to a movie we’d have paid ten more dollars, total. I think ten bucks is a bargain for the set design, the beautiful theater, and the twenty actors playing their hearts out on the stage not ten feet away.

Most of us who play music pay the bills by touring. CD sales are helpful, but touring is where the rubber meets the road. We need you to come to the shows. We like to play our songs for other members of the human race. We like meeting you. We love the crackle of spiritual electricity when our songs and your stories intersect. Bring your friends. Concerts–event bad ones–are usually more memorable than movies.  Plus, it pays the mortgage.

3. Choose individuals over avatars. Choose humans over screens. Know people by more than their screen names. Someone asked Wendell Berry what he thought of online community and his answer was exactly what I would have wanted Berry to say: “You’re not in community with someone until you’ve pulled their cow out of a ditch or spanked their child.” Hilarious. When the Rabbit Room left the cyber-world and took on flesh at Hutchmoot 2010, we caught a glimpse of this. Things were bettter, messier, more meaningful. They were more like real life and less like this pseudo-life we call social media (i.e., Facebook, Twitter, MySpace, and, yes, the Rabbit Room). I’m not saying social media is all bad, but we must remember it isn’t a replacement for flesh and blood interaction with the crown of God’s creation. Social media can be a good means to the end of true community.

Everybody who plays music ought to have a website. They ought to have a Facebook page. It’s a great tool for interaction with listeners. But we need to defy the seduction of the screen and remember that when online communities become a destination unto themselves and have stopped being a way to something better–a way to incarnational connection with other humans–we be become disembodied, unmoored, lost in a world of ideas and theorems detached from the terrible mystery of flesh and blood, without senses, without the awkward mutual interaction of heart, mind and physical expression, without the ineffable language of human souls in proximity. (If you didn’t notice, I just described pornography.) Pull your eyes from the computer and the television screen, go outside and touch the bark of a tree. Dig in the garden. Muster the courage to accept the invitation to the cookout instead of staying home and updating your Facebook status. Try this: look someone in the eye. It’s scary, isn’t it? Scary because we’re not used to it, scary because the eyes are the windows to the soul and we’re as afraid of seeing as being seen. Facebook is a giant auditorium full of people hiding under the pews. Take heart and climb out.

4. Book a show. This is the one most of you will shake your head at. Concerts are planned by promoters with slick shades and limos, right? People often ask on Facebook and via email, “When are you coming to [insert state or country]?” The answer now and always will be, “I’ll be there as soon as someone like you is crazy enough to bring us in.” We don’t choose where we play. You choose us. We can’t open the phone book and call every church in every city and invite ourselves over. It would be a tremendous waste of time. I know because I’ve tried. We all have. Mike Petrucco and Sharon Frazier are just folks with jobs who like our music and made the call. It’s a ton of work (as I’m sure they’d attest), but I think they’d also tell you it’s rewarding. You may be surprised at how attainable it is, and how fun it can be.

5. Become a patron. Eric Peters was the first one in our community to try this idea. He needed money to make Chrome, so he set a goal: he needed, say, 200 people to donate $50. That’s $10,000. For that $50 everybody got a few copies of the album, their name in the credits, and most importantly the blessing of helping an artist create something beautiful and meaningful that would go on to bless many. The beauty is multiplied; the blessing is compounded. You, dear patron, can add to the beauty (thank you for that fine phrase, Sara Groves) by midwifing projects you believe in. A.S. Peterson did it with his novel The Fiddler’s Gun, and will soon be raising support for the sequel Fiddler’s Green. Randall Goodgame is about to head into the studio to record a Slugs & Bugs Christmas album (which I’ll help with as much as I can), and Ben Shive is about to record another album of mind-blowing songs. None of these people is rich, and all these people are doing beautiful work. You can help us tell our stories and shed light with our gifts. I mention all these upcoming projects because I know most of you aren’t loaded either, so you may need to choose just one. You can’t throw money at us willy nilly. But it looks like one of the ways the Rabbit Room is going to support local “farmers” is by helping artists and authors raise money by way of patronage, so I wanted to warn you: artist patronage is on the horizon.

Two more quick things.

6. If you have deep pockets, dig deep. If you’re wealthy and have a heart for authors and artists who are doing Kingdom work by telling the Story, let us know. Email us at info@rabbitroom.com. We have dreams too big for our current budget. I often drive past this subdivision of enormous houses in Brentwood and think, “If just one of those people caught the Rabbit Room’s vision there’s so much we could do.” If we need to set up a non-profit to make that easier, we’ll do it (and have been thinking about that for a while). If we need to come over and present our vision we’ll shave, shower, and bring laser pointers and Powerpoint. You may not make any money, but you’ll be a part of something that shines.

7. Finally, don’t give a cent to the artists before you’ve given to your church. We don’t want your money until you’ve tithed and given to those called to the far reaches of the world. I hope you don’t think we’re begging for money. Sure, it can be hard, but that’s fine. It’s part of the deal. As stressful as the artist’s life can be, none of the folks in our little community have missed a meal or a mortgage payment (though I know many of us have come really close). All I’m saying is, if you have enough money to go to movies, pay for cable, own a cell phone, and buy albums, then consider the artists who have blessed you, encouraged you, or have been a small part of your journey with Christ–and choose to spend some of your entertainment budget there. A little goes a long way. Trust me.

But as much as I believe in the importance of songs, books, and works of art that tell the truth and tell it well, we must remember the fatherless and the widow, the disenfranchised and abused and enslaved. We should support our churches and pastors and their families. We should support missionaries and IJM or Compassion International or World Vision or Blood:Water Mission–something, for Heaven’s sake. Do that first.

Tomorrow is part four of a three-part series that is actually five parts long if you include the 2.5 part. Oh! Six if you include Ron Block’s George MacDonald addendum. Either way, I have a quick story to tell you in closing. Thanks for reading.

Robert Duvall, Bill Murray, Sissy Spacek, and the Great Depression? What could go wrong? Before leaving your hermit cabin in the woods to see the film “Get Low,” maybe you should watch the One Minute Review.

One Minute Review: Get Low from Thomas McKenzie on Vimeo.

Do I want to see a small, old school European thriller starring George Clooney? Yes, please! Did this film live up to my fairly high expectations? Watch the One Minute Review and find out.

One Minute Review: The American from Thomas McKenzie on Vimeo.

Thank you all for your thoughts. I’m a people-pleaser, so it’s always hard for me to throw out ideas like these for public scrutiny. I know better than any of you just how deeply wrong I can be about things, which leaves me with two options: I can keep quiet for fear of wrongness, or I can write out my thinking in the hopes of gaining a better understanding.

A few of you bristled at some of my comments about Rich Mullins’s singleness. My point wasn’t that marriage is necessarily better, nor was it that single people have no responsibilities. Obviously, if you’re in Christ your responsibility first and foremost is to God, and his will should be sought in any decision. I thought that went without saying. But a married man or woman with children has a far different set of responsibilities than a single person. There are lots of options available to a single person that aren’t available to married folks, and vice versa. For Rich, identifying with the poor and living a somewhat vagabond lifestyle was an option he took as a single man (under God, of course) that he wouldn’t have been able to take as a married man with children. In fact, had he chosen to marry and have children and still live in his truck and go barefoot and smelly, he would have been a picture of selfishness–though I suppose there’s a slim chance he might have married a woman who was similarly called, and they might have lived in a van down by the river with their smelly barefoot children. I’m being silly. It occurs to me now that I’ve met lots of families blessed with the astounding courage to live on the mission field or in inner cities, which is probably what someone like Rich would have done. Still, that’s a picture of living simply, not in poverty. Living out of a truck (literally) would no longer be an option, at least with children in the picture.

If you’re single and you’re still bristling, I’m sorry. But I’m not sure how anyone can argue that a single person’s responsibilities are the same as someone’s who is married with children. They’re just not. And my point was that a single person, as Paul said, has options a married person doesn’t. Like choosing poverty.

As for the part about Rich’s theoretical wife wanting a few nice things now and then, I totally get your point. My list was a list of material things, as if that’s all women are interested in. That wasn’t my intention at all. That list came to mind because just that morning Jamie overslept and was late for school (she teaches music at a homeschool co-op), which meant a classroom of kids waited for her for twenty minutes. She hates being late for anything, and it was a bad way to begin an already busy week. I bought her a bouquet of flowers (aww), and I was thinking how thankful I was that we have the means to do that once in a while. And, by the way, the flowers made her happy.

Not only that, but when we moved to the Warren we downsized considerably and one of the things Jamie sacrificed was a big, open kitchen for a tiny one. She’s gifted at hospitality, at making things beautiful and serving neighbors and friends, and I want so much to be able to add on a nice kitchen for her. We can’t do it anytime soon, but Lord knows I want to. NOT because she’s materialistic, but because a fine kitchen would be a tool she’d put to good use in Kingdom work. This scenario is something Rich Mullins never had to consider. That was my point. It’s not that women demand nice things and men don’t. A woman has to give up just as much to get married (just ask my wife, who was crazy enough to marry a songwriter). Her responsibilities change just as a man’s do. And one of the things they both give up is a certain amount of freedom.

That probably just invited more frostiness, but there you go.

A few of you also expressed frustration and/or despair at my nuts and bolts list of the demands of making a career of music (or coffee mug peddling). Many people don’t realize all that goes into making a record, so I thought it would be helpful to lay it out broadly in light of the patronage and tier options we sometimes offer here. I wanted to illustrate why it’s sometimes necessary to get creative with how we sell our CDs (i.e., Tier 7 for $200). I don’t mean to cause you despair–if you’re gifted at songwriting, then write songs. Don’t worry about how much it costs to record an album. The point is doing good work and shedding light.

But if you’re a family man (or woman) who’s thinking of laying it all on the line to come to Nashville you should know what you’re getting into. It’s not easy. Heck, it’s not easy for twenty-year-olds fresh out of college! But moving to Nashville (or wherever) to pursue a dream is a fine thing, especially if your wife, children, and church are supporting your decision. I’ve often said that if you have two options before you, choose the one you’re most afraid of. Defy the fear with faith. Even if you fail miserably–and you probably will–God can gather up the bits and make it beautiful. But don’t be foolish–seek counsel. Seek it from your family, from your pastors, elders, mentors. Seek it from the Holy Spirit.

Finally, don’t let me tell you what to do. I don’t know your situation like you do, or like the people walking with you. I can only speak from my limited perspective. Sure, I may have accrued a little bit of insight into this process, things you may not have considered yet, but I’m only one voice of many.

When I was still in college I traveled to Nashville for two reasons. First, I wanted to see Rich Mullins play at the Ryman Auditorium. I had never seen him live, so it was worth the trip from Orlando. Second, I wanted to attend GMA, the Gospel Music Association’s yearly convention, which is now defunct (oh, how times have changed). If I was going to make a go at this music career I figured a week at GMA would give me a good handle on what I was getting into. I was a sophomore in college, was newly married, and was itching to quit school and move to Nashville.

Reed Arvin, Rich Mullins’s producer, spoke at one of the sessions and changed my life. He had written a book called The Wind in the Wheat, a cautionary tale about a young man from a Kansas farm named Andrew Miracle. Andrew had a Gift. So he moves to Nashville and is gobbled up and spit out by the Evil Music Industry, losing his focus and his innocence in the process. It’s not a very well-written book (though Reed went on to write a few really good detective thrillers a la John Grisham, and he also provided me some great one-on-one advice while I was writing On the Edge of the Dark Sea of Darkness), but I read it and it did its work on me. It was hard to ignore that the main character’s name was Andrew. And that he was from a small town. And that he felt a strong call on his life to write and sing his songs. And that he wanted to move to Nashville. Reed had written the book just for me, it seemed.

So at the session Reed talked about how important it is for us to stay rooted. Stay where you are. Your community needs you, he said. Your church needs you. If God gave you a gift, you don’t need to live in a certain city or have the validation of a record label to use that gift. Just shed light. Up and moving to Nashville isn’t the answer for everybody, and Music City is chock-full of people who probably shouldn’t be seeking a career in music. Nashville isn’t El Dorado, the lost city of gold records.

Now that I live here I see all kinds of benefits to living in a community like this one, with or without the music industry. I love this city. The industry is vastly different now than it was when Reed wrote the book, but it was exactly what I needed at that time. I drove twelve hours home with a full head and a full heart. I chose to stay put. I chose to finish school. I chose to stick around and play church camps and Sunday night concerts and all-nighters for the junior high youth group and even to work for a year as a youth minister. I played wherever and whenever I could, and walked through the doors that God seemed to open. Only after years of that did I graduate college and move with Jamie to Nashville. Those years were important, formative years for me. So thanks, Reed.

Now that I’ve lived here for thirteen years and have been playing music professionally off-and-on for eighteen years (man, that makes me feel old), I can tell you that none of the good things in my career were forced. The times I really pushed hard for something to happen usually ended in, well, nothing much at all. The happy surprises have borne the most fruit. The slow, patient, prayerful tilling of soil has brought the finest harvest, a harvest only recognizable in hindsight. That doesn’t mean I didn’t work at things. I did, and still do. But I have learned that it’s best to be patient. I’ve learned not to put too much stake in the music business equivalent of a get-rich-quick scheme.

After writing all day on Saturday, I laid awake until three or four in the morning with a whirl of descending character arcs and plot resolutions spinning through my head. When I woke at seven the next morning my brain still hadn’t stopped. So I got up, got dressed, shirked church and sat in the coffee shop writing. At about 3pm on Sunday, I wrote the final sentence of Fiddler’s Green.

An ending is a strange and delicate thing. In storytelling terms its importance is equaled only by its opposite: the beginning. The bits in the middle tend to be easier to shape because they’re open ended and the writer can, in some measure, both pre- and re- form them throughout the narrative.

Beginnings are all promise and adventure, a setting out toward lands unknown. They signify a contract between the writer and reader in which the writer suggests a journey and, tendering a currency of time and attention, the reader buys a ticket hoping to gain safe passage through the writer’s mind in hope of entertainment, or escape, or revelation.

But endings? Endings are final. After the last period, there’s nothing more to be said. All communication with the reader ceases. An ending might leave the reader angry or dissatisfied or, in the best cases, it can leave them moved to tears, or joy, or laughter. But laugh or cry, ending is a serious business.

Think about your favorite book. There’s a good chance that when you recall it, you recall the feeling you had in its moment of ending.

“It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to, than I have ever known.” -Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities

“Yes, it is the dawn that has come. The titihoya wakes from sleep, and goes about its work of forlorn crying. The sun tips with light the mountains of Ingeli and East Griqualand. The great valley of the Umzimkulu is still in darkness, but the light will come there. Ndotsheni is still in darkness, but the light will come there also. For it is the dawn that has come, as it has come for a thousand centuries, never failing. But when that dawn will come, of our emancipation, from the fear of bondage and the bondage of fear, why, that is a secret.” -Alan Paton, Cry, The Beloved Country

“Some natural tears they dropp’d, but wip’d them soon;
The world was all before them, where to choose
Their place of rest, and Providence their guide
They, hand in hand, with wand’ring steps and slow,
Through Eden took their solitary way.” -John Milton, Paradise Lost

“Her eyes filled with tears that did not fall, but she said quietly, ‘I could die in peace, I think, if the world was beautiful. To know it’s being ruined is hard.’ […] She held out her hand to me. She gave me the smile that I had never seen and will not see again in this world, and it covered me all over with light.” -Wendell Berry, (book censored to prevent spoiler)

“So Lyra and her daemon turned away from the world they were born in, and looked toward the sun, and walked into the sky.” Phillip Pullman, The Golden Compass

“And Julian’s soul is laughing now, as booming and boisterous as the thunder. And the Lord’s embrace is his golden rope. . .” -Walt Wangerin, Jr., Saint Julian

See what I mean? Each of those brief excerpts evoke their writers’ tales entirely. They stir up a swirl of emotions and I get misty-eyed and want to hold the book in my hand and smell it and smile. Each of these great endings has something in common: they convey not only a sense of resolution, but of continuance; they each imply, however subtly, that the story in some form goes on, or that we as readers, having spent our little time within the tale, are now drawn away, back to our own world, left to wonder at the mysteries still afoot in that other. This idea, that an ending can, or possibly should, imply a continuation or a new beginning, is important, I think. When done properly, it grants the book a sort of immortality because in the mind of the reader, the story has not ended but instead, continues into the distance. Certainly there are great books that end with finality but I wonder if they have the same endurance. To end well is a dire responsibility, it seems.

In discussions of writing, people frequently ask if I have an ending in mind when I begin a story or if, instead, I simply begin writing and allow the story to unfold naturally and lead me to the destination of its choosing. Of course there are as many approaches to the process as there are writers. When some begin they have no ending in mind, only a vague direction. Others script their story down to the smallest scene before they write a word of prose. Still others write non-linearly, penning scenes and passages in whatever order they come along, only later finding a way to put them together into a cogent whole. None of these methods are wrong. But I can tell you that for me, I need an ending before I begin. I need a target to shoot at. A scene to earn.

I’ve known the ending of Fiddler’s Green for nearly a decade now. It was in my mind almost as soon as Fin Button’s character took shape and I don’t think it’s unfair to say that I wrote the books for the purpose of writing the ending, two novels for the sake of a couple of paragraphs. That might sound crazy but writers have rarely laid claim to an excess of sanity. I think every storyteller knows what I’m talking about. You have an image in your mind, or a scene, and it’s something beautiful and wondrous and the need to communicate that bright moment is what sets us in motion. We know we can’t simply tell people about it because out of context it’s meaningless and silly; so we create entire worlds to explain our dreams and visions, to make sense of them if we can.

I jotted down the ending to Fiddler’s Green several years ago and in the course of writing the books, I’ve gone back to peek at it often. It was like a treasure map that reminded me where I was going. Year after year, word after word, I followed it and after hundreds of thousands of steps, I arrived at the longed-for destination. But on arrival, I found out that it was surprisingly hard to stick the shovel in the ground and dig up the treasure I’d been chasing. So for a few months, I just stared at the spot on the ground, the big black X marking the spot. I walked around it and scratched my beard and I kicked the dirt awhile and I looked at it suspiciously from the corner of a narrowed eye. And then I took a deep breath and I sat down on a Sunday morning and dug.

I’m not a parent so I don’t know what it’s like to experience the birth of a child or to see that child strike out into the world to make his own way. But I wonder if that sort of triumphal advent isn’t, in some way, akin to finishing a book. It’s an emotional business I can tell you. You live with a set of characters and their struggles for so long that when the time comes and you tell them goodbye, the experience is truly a kind of grief.

I’m sure there are a few dozen people in Nashville chuckling and telling their friends about the guy they saw crying in the corner of the coffee shop on Sunday. The weight and finality of Fin’s last scene came down on me with such force that my chest was tight with it and my breath short. When the writing was done, I went home and paced my room for an hour with tears in my eyes trying to understand the strange emotional storm that ending the story had stirred. I still don’t fully understand it.

Don’t read this to mean that the ending is sad; I won’t spoil that revelation for you. The emotional impact didn’t come from the nature of the ending, you see. I’d known that all along. The impact came from the finality of it, the realization that I no longer needed the map, that I was no longer searching for the means to explain a decade-long dream. The contract entered into so long ago had been satisfied. The beginning had found its fulfillment in the end. It’s something of a holy communion, isn’t it? To create. To love one’s creation. To lead that creation through trial and grief and, at last, to come through the grand adventure and say, “It is finished.” Oh, what a holy image we bear. The creation creates and so by labor and great mystery, glimpses the endless love of the Creator.

So it’s done now. And I’m happy with it. Though the ultimate judgment lies with you, the reader, I think I’ve served the story well. I think Fin and her ragged cast have been honored and now that the writing is complete, I find that I’m humbled and incredibly grateful to have been entrusted with the gift of telling their stories. The book will be out December 7th, 2010. I hope you enjoy it. I hope you find that, in the end, it’s a story worth telling.

There was the memorable material known informally as Andyland (the Andrew Peterson Message Board). I finally met Allison and Gaines at the Counting Stars concert. They are a young couple with whom I’ve felt a special spiritual bond watching their family grow in the cyber world. How odd that this was my first real meeting of these delightfully kind and sincere young people, and yet I have long felt the compulsion to pray for them routinely.

Then there was Chad, another long time Andyland friend. I first remember e-mailing Chad when he posted something that resonated on an early version of Andyland. Chad was serving in the military, and has been open about the battle he fights with cancer. He’s stayed in touch, despite much relocation. I was so thankful that he found me at the show.

When I met Ron, lovingly referred to as Ronzilla due to his extra large stature, he reminded me that we became acquainted before both of his children were born, about ten years ago. Our cyber relationship was built on a mutual respect for straight talk, music talk, sports, and conservative politics. The relationship survived the infamous Amy Grant disagreement, a hot message board thread that seemed important at the time. Now I’d have to concentrate to remember what prompted such spirited debate.  I wonder if I may have carried things a little too far in that long-play thread when I began using footnotes.

Then there was Rick and Melinda from Georgia, a beautiful couple and parents to Gabriel, 3 and Liliane, 1. I met Rick and Melinda at a concert in Cedar Falls, Iowa (or was it Cedar Rapids). Rick works for an airline and is blessed with the benefit of special airline privileges (read, free tickets), which they have used liberally to follow Andrew Peterson to shows all over the country.

I saw Sharon again, a kind lady from Ohio that I first met via message board conversations. Later we put names with faces at an early Andrew Peterson Behold the Lamb of God presentation at Belcourt Theatre in Nashville. Around a dozen of our giddy group shared dinner and conversation at a nearby restaurant. Sharon has promoted Square Peg concerts for years and is usually on the cutting edge of great indie music discoveries.

Chris and Lyndsay Slaten made it after all, after a near cancellation. I’ve known Lyndsay–who can convey more enthusiasm in a message board post than pretty much anybody alive–for ages. They are fellow lovers of books, music, and film and Chris is an indie recording artist. I’ve long enjoyed the simplicity and beauty of his record Under Green Canopies. In my enthusiasm to say hello, I woke their newborn baby; that may have been my worst Hutchmoot moment.

I caught a glimpse of Christiana and Heather. We exchanged hellos but little more; one of the weekend’s sad realities was being unwittingly swept from one conversation to another, without time to marinate in any one exchange.

Then there was dear Brandy C., who introduced me to her Nashville friend, Mandy C. the editor for LifeWay Christian Resources. I enjoyed referring to them collectively as Brandy/Mandy through the weekend. I well remember when Brandy unexpectedly lost her step-father Dennis. She was transparent about her pain and the resulting struggles and questions.

While attending college, Brandy apparently thought I had some kind of writing credentials and sometimes sent samples, asking for critiques. Now she could serve as my mentor as she crafts good work as a writer for Compassion International. By the way, Brandy authors one of the best food blogs around.

And how about those Travis Prinzi and S.D. Smith dudes? Did you have the sense that their entire lives had prepared them for what they said at Hutchmoot? Could they have been any more informed and articulate? When Andrew Peterson ask Travis about the characters in fantasy literature that most embodied a particular characteristic, his off-the-cuff answer was like a scholarly laundry list, as if he had been researching that particular question for years. In fact, I suppose he has.

Other beautifully familiar swatches of quilt material came from those I first met at an Andrew Peterson or Square Peg concert. It was a joy bumping into my old, young friend Ben B., who introduced me to his lovely and articulate wife, Ashley. Our initial meeting came when my son and I road tripped to an Andrew Peterson/Eric Peters concert at a church in Kansas City, so many moons ago. Ben B. was a student at the time. He brought his sisters, which was bound to impress a family man like me. I vividly recall Ben discussing the music of Andrew Peterson, how it touched him to the core, and often made him weep. Bingo. Instant friendship. Since then, I run into Ben routinely at area Square Peg concerts.

Ben Y. was there. I’ve noticed Ben Y. at several shows, but was particularly moved when he once accompanied Randall Goodgame on the cello, with little rehearsal time, lending another dimension to Randy’s songs. Recently, I noticed a YouTube video of Ben Y. doing a spectacular  Jason Gray cover. I have talented friends.

My friend Laura is another wonderful sister that I first met at a Behold the Lamb of God show that she promoted in Elkhorn, Nebraska. She brought her husband Tom, the C.S. Lewis buff. She is a strong, supportive advocate for meaningful music and puts her money and time where her mouth is. Laura is a sterling silver example of a woman that uses her God-given gifts to His glory. It was great to see people like the Bens, Laura, and Ashley, who are part of my literal community in Nebraska, be so moved by the concept of Hutchmoot, that they flew or drove half-way across the country to attend.

The patchwork quilt was also crafted by my supremely talented Rabbit Room colleagues, some of whom I had not met until our planning and prayer meeting prior to registration. The substance and depth of these passionate men and women of the Lord humbled me, though I didn’t share as many moments with them as I would have liked; our goal was to use the needle and thread of Christ’s love to stitch everyone into a human work of art, to His glory, not to inhabit Rabbit Room cliques.

There was Andrew Peterson offering a kind or encouraging word, despite his own worry and fatigue.

And Jason Gray, who long ago and far away participated in a message board for Christian acoustic artists and fans that I moderated. He was present with humor, insight, and compassion.

Evie’s work in the kitchen–assisted by her servant’s heart crew–were Babette’s Feast moments.

Ron Block conversed with relaxed confidence and humility, as one who is assured that he is in Christ.  Ron’s Square Peg Concert moment was stunning. More importantly, his shoe-leather theology made me want to be more like him and Him.

Jonathan Rogers wove tales in the story-telling voice of an old sage. I want Jonathan to be my neighbor.

I shared a meal and conversation with Randall Goodgame, learning about his trip to Africa, and the gift from God that he brought home, his son. I awkwardly posed some nerdish questions about Randy’s songwriting process. Let’s be clear; Hutchmoot without nerdish moments would not be Hutchmoot.

I enjoyed a few snippets of conversation with my old buddy, Eric Peters. Like many of the Hutchmoot artists, here’s a man who lives with the knowledge that if the market were just, his records would sell more units than Michael W. Smith and Steven Curtis Chapman combined. Nevertheless, he persists with passion.

And the solid rock was everywhere, otherwise known as Pete Peterson, who organized and by sheer force of will held together the world of Hutchmoot.

Then there were the three clergy Musketeers, Thomas McKenzie, Russ Ramsey, and Matt Conner, who rode in with casual dignity, loving us with grace. These honorable men were always at-the-ready with kindness, compassion, and prayer. They offered sage, literate wisdom when the rest of us were at a loss for words.

Sarah Clarkson, Chris Wall, Janna Barber, Kate Hinson, and those that I’ve failed to mention by name, you were part of the majestic beauty of Hutchoot. Your words were thoughtful and true. Your hearts were beautiful and transparent.

Brannon McAllister is the designer and creative consultant from Brooklyn, NY, responsible for so much of the visual beauty on Andrew Peterson’s most recent records. The long conversation I had with Brannon was typical of those that randomly sprouted in the rooms of Hutchmoot, like wildflowers on sunlit mountainsides. The free form dialogue was as comfortable as the Church of the Redeemer couch on which we sat. Now the name Brannon McAllister will not be just a talented name in liner notes. When I think of Brannon McAllister, thanks to Hutchmoot, I’ll also think, “Nice guy.”

There was Aaron R. who shared a personal/spiritual realization that had come to him at Hutchmoot, which provided peace of mind and an attitude of service. Aaron is a Rabbit Room buddy, our resident comedian. But woven into all that lighthearted humor burns an earnest heart of passion to be a man of God.

I had a flesh and blood meeting with Aaron, his wife Lindi–who was so helpful in Evie’s kitchen–and their children, when they passed through Omaha on their way to a family reunion in Iowa, just several weeks ago. It was a massive blessing to renew that friendship at Hutchmoot.

The late night, post concert kitchen conversations with Rabbit Room buddy, Tony and his wife Cherie, my new friend Tom M., Russ Ramsey, and so many others, were as meaningful as our Rabbit Room exchanges, with a little added warmth, like the insulating layer of that hand-made quilt.

Finally, there were you, my new friends: Walt, Tenika, Anne, Breann, Phillip, Tom, John, Jennifer, Whit, and the rest of you whose names are inextricably linked to Hutchmoot. There was an art major from Grand Island, Nebraska and a songwriter from North Carolina. I wish there was a published list of Hutchmoot names, so I could better recall the beauty that is Hutchmoot. I met so many of you, whose names escape me in this stream of consciousness narrative.  Still, as swatches were tied together, I noticed you. Timing and circumstance didn’t provide enough time to learn more about you and your journey, but I wanted to.

In some locales, quilts are called comforters and the threads that link swatches together are called ties. When a quilt is hand-made, the ties more effectively hold the material together than those quilts that are commercially produced; all the better to withstand washings and the rough and tumble of life.

As the beauty of our respective lives are integrated into the fabric of our local communities, may we be mindful that despite its beauty, this quilt of community should not be the kind of art used exclusively for display. May it live and breath authentically as living art, reaching hearts that are weary and broken, loving uncommonly, like The Great Comforter. Blessed be the ties that bind.

How to Lose Money. So these mugs. Oh, the mugs. We thought it would be fun to find a place to commission some handmade Rabbit Room mugs, partly to support the specific potter, partly to give ye faithful Rabbit Roomers a beautiful, somewhat meaningful souvenir, and partly (how foolish we were!) to help the Rabbit Room make some money.

*Note: if this is totally boring for you, skip down to where it says, “Now, forget about the mugs.”

Brannon McAllister suggested a potter (potteress?) in Greenville, South Carolina named Katie Coston, so I sent her an email and got the wheel spinning. She charged about $16 for each mug. That sounded like a lot until I thought about all the equipment she had to have bought, and the expertise (they were really beautiful pieces) and the clay and finish and other supplies, and the time it took her to spin each lump of clay into something beautiful, and the lettering, and the firing, then the shipping and packing supplies–and suddenly $16 didn’t seem like all that much. So I ordered a dozen or so (which came out to $192); with shipping the total came to a little over $200. If you subtract from that Katie’s hours, equipment, and supplies, I’m sure that didn’t leave her much. When Jamie goes to the grocery store for our family the bill can come to quite a bit more than Katie’s gross, so our order for mugs probably didn’t even buy her and her family a week’s worth of food. Hmm.

We re-sold the mugs in the Rabbit Room for the same price, but the shipping kicked it up into the twenties. Add to that the packaging, the time it took Pete to put together the orders and drive them to the post office, then consider the fact that, no matter how well we packed the mugs, with every batch of mugs we’ve ordered, the good ol’ USPS pulverized at least one shipment. Sometimes more than that. Then we have to either apologize and refund someone’s money (because we’re out of mugs) or we apologize and ship another, eating that cost. It’s stressful just typing this out.

(I should mention that the first two orders of mugs were handmade by Katie before she moved to England. After that we went with another guy in Wisconsin who provides handmade mugs with the bonus feature of the Rabbit Room logo. These new ones are a little stouter, a little less expensive, and the logo looks grand.)

With all the broken shipments we decided we’d better start insuring the packages. Well, that costs extra, and we discovered to our shock and awe that it didn’t do any good. It seemed like someone went postal on the boxes in order to make the USPS pay. But the USPS insurance claim system is cumbersome and hardly worth the trouble. If you bought a mug, I hope this doesn’t make you feel bad. It brought us joy to bring these fine little pieces of art into the world and to get them to you. But we’ve lost a decent chunk of money on them. The only folks who made money were Katie and Stoneworks, who made very little in the scheme of things (and the USPS, now that I think about it. They may have come out on top). Still, I’m glad to have my mug, and I bet you’re glad for yours too. (If you didn’t get a mug, I’m sorry to say we won’t be ordering them until next year’s Hutchmoot, where we can sell them and safely bypass the post office.)

Whew. Did you get all that? I know it was tedious, but I wanted to give you a behind-the-scenes picture of what one can go through to a) support an artisan and b) to sell a unique and beautiful product. Was it worth it? If you ask Pete on a bad day, after stressing over all the shipping fiascos, no. When he sees you guys tweeting pictures of your unbroken and coffee-filled mugs, he’d say yes. Maybe.

Now forget about the mugs. Imagine what it’s like to make an album. It’s a lot like making a mug. A $25,000 mug. That may seem like a lot of cash, and it’s definitely possible to make an album for less–but it’s also definitely possible to make an album for more. In the old days (as in, ten years ago) $25,000 would have been a teeny tiny budget. But here’s the breakdown, in case you ever wondered why some of us strangely insist on selling CDs instead of giving them away.

You need a producer. A guy who’s smarter than you. For example, well let’s see…how about Ben Shive! Ben has a wife, four children, and a mortgage payment. He’s also really, really good at what he does. He could also make steadier money teaching college or playing piano in the corner at an Italian restaurant. But he believes in the work he’s doing and has carved out a good career making albums. He’s picky. He typically only produces projects he believes in because he knows he’ll spend weeks upon weeks with the songs and the artist–and because he wants to be a part of work that he values either for its artistic, spiritual, or relational merit. If you want a grownup to spend eight to fourteen hours a day for two months working on your album, you need to pay him. Right? Right.

You need great musicians. This one doesn’t bear much explanation, but you should know that if you want a great player on your record you’ll usually need to pay him. He or she will be someone who’s had years and years of experience and will bring nuances to your songs you would never find on your own. They’ll make you sound better than you are. (This is definitely true of my records.) But these guys have families and mortgages and grocery bills too. So you need to pay them.

You need a mixing engineer. Some guy with thousands of dollars of gear and a studio will tweak the tracks and set levels and turn knobs you never knew existed, all to make the song sound as beautiful as it can. Again, it takes years of experience to be proficient at this. And an engineer might be able to mix a song a day. So there’s another full-time job for a week or so. (Oh, and the producer is usually (and hopefully) still involved in this part of the process, so there’s his time, too.)

You have to master the record. Mastering is the icing on top. It’s the final layer of sonic sweetness, and it’s when the songs are put in the proper order and burned to the final, glowing disc of ones and zeroes representing all your weeks of labor.

Now you’re finished, right? Wrong.

Now you have to hire an artist or designer. Someone needs to package the record and come up with a cover and lay out all the lyrics and thank yous and credits. After they come up with a (hopefully) mind-blowing cover and design they need to submit all that information to the printer.

Oh, and you might need a photographer. This one goes before the artist/designer, in case you want to use pictures for the packaging. Me, I avoid this at all costs. (Take the Clear to Venus cover, for example. The one record with my face on the cover sold the fewest copies. Coincidence? I think not.)

Then you need to print it. Usually folks print the CDs 1,000 at a time to get the best price break. So think about it. After all the above, then you still need to come up with $1,500-$2,000 to actually print the thing up! Unless you’re hip and you only sell it on iTunes and Amazon (or the Rabbit Room) digitally.

Now imagine you have no record deal. You’re an independent artist. You book your own shows. You answer the emails, make the calls, manage your website, post Facebook status updates so people know you’re interesting and witty, and you’ve somehow managed to carve out enough time in your diaper-changing, utility bill-paying, yard-mowing, church-attending, self-doubting life to actually WRITE SONGS.

Then what? Then, my songwriting friend, you have to come up with $15,000-$25,000 to record them (refer to above list), with the fool’s hope that you’ll sell enough to pay off the debt, or the financiers, or the grandparents so you don’t lose your shirt and your house. The artist’s life is not for the faint of heart, or the fiscally sage. It is an extravagant gamble. A leap of faith.

Please understand–I’m not complaining. And I’m not complaining on anyone’s behalf. I’m grateful to still be doing this. I’m grateful that I have enough listeners to have a label to help offset that record-making cost. I’m grateful for a wife whose astonishing, audacious belief in my gifting has convinced me to keep at this for the last fifteen years. Lord knows I’ve been tempted to throw in the towel. I’m grateful for you, whose emails and purchases and attendance at my concerts have given me the chance to write, record, and tour. I do not take it for granted. I still get weepy if I think about it.

But if you keep up with the Square Peg Alliance and the world of independent music you know I’m the least among my peers. There are so many writers whose songs are carrying the fire. I played a show in Chattanooga last weekend with Eric Peters and a band called Concerning Lions (who were really good). The concert was raising money for a group of counselors committed to making their services available to the poorest of the poor. One of them told how he plays Eric Peters’s song “Tomorrow” for many of his clients, and it helped them to voice their own fears and doubts and sorrows. I was so proud of Eric. And it reminded me (as if I needed reminding) how vital songs like his are in all this darkness.

The music business, and now the book publishing business, is morphing even as I type this. By the time you finish reading this post there will be a zillion new bands, new websites, new ideas for the Future of Music. The times they are a-changin’. I don’t know if you’ve ever thought of it like this before, but every independent artist you know is an entrepreneur. Many of us aren’t independently wealthy, don’t have benefactors, and have never written a hit song like “Awesome God” or “Sing Your Praise to the Lord” to provide so much money we have to cap our income and give the rest away. Most of us have at some point gotten royalty statements in the mail from ASCAP (who handles radio royalties) that said, “We’re sorry, but we don’t send checks for less than $10.”

The music industry is vastly different now from what it was even a decade ago. Record labels have had to change tactics, the advent of the internet and digital recording has democratized record-making and distribution, and an artist’s level of success seems to be in direct proportion to how much time he or she spends on social media. There’s a great temptation to spend most of your time promoting your work rather than improving it. We have become better typists than players; my computer keys are worn to the nub, but my fretboard is good as new. I’m not saying Facebook and Twitter and blogging are necessarily bad (forbid it that I should point out the speck in your eye when there’s a blog in mine), but that our need to sell CDs and book concerts and remind the world that we’re still here–still writing songs, still doing our best to create truthful, beautiful, excellent works–can seriously intrude on the time we could spend (and ought to spend) practicing, studying, honing our craft.

Again, this isn’t a complaint. I confess I have complained before, but this isn’t one of those times. I know full well there’s sex-trafficking, slave trade, genocide, war, and starvation all over this broken, beautiful planet. The Kingdom, God’s will done on earth, stabs into the wide blackness like a bright sword in the hands of missionaries, doctors, pastors, and Christians who die for love every day. Michael Card told me there’s more persecution in the church now than ever before. There are brothers and sisters in dank prisons right now. I don’t know why the Lord tarries. But until he comes, it is my job, in the words of George MacDonald, “to better what I can.” Look around you. See the sorrow and weariness in the world, in your own community and church, under your own roof–in your own heart, for Heaven’s sake–and better what you can. Let Christ lead you; he’ll show you how. If you’re wealthy, keep your job and fling the money at those who are bringing water to the thirsty. If you’re not wealthy, better what you can. Work your field. Tend your family like a garden. Write a song about your story. Write a story. Better yet, live a story. Make something beautiful, and make something beautiful of your life. There’s so much in the world that’s falling apart, so put something together. Find a way. If you’re called to write songs and that means getting creative with how you sell your product so that people with means can help you carry on, then so be it.

Many of us in Nashville were drawn here because of a fire in our bones to create. When I hear Andy Gullahorn sing a healing song for a rapt audience I am convinced that while there are some in the Body called to teach, and to preach, and to carry the Gospel to the earth’s edge, others of us are called to craft melodies and lyrics and carry the Gospel to the heart’s hollow. Whether a medical missionary is mending flesh or Gully is comforting a lonesome soul with a song, the medicine is the same. We carry to the world the presence of Jesus in us and through us who are in him and for him.

However we can, we better what we can.

Next: MONEY, Part Three

“‘Jesus buying and selling?” said Wingfold to himself. ‘And why not? Did Jesus make chairs and tables, or boats perhaps, which the people of Nazareth wanted, without any admixture of trade in the matter? Was there no transaction? No passing of money between hands? Did they not pay his father for them? Was his Father’s way of keeping things going in the world too vile for the hands of him whose being was delight in the will of that Father? No; there must be a way of handling money that is noble as the handling of the sword in the hands of the patriot. Neither the mean man who loves it nor the faithless man who despises it knows how to handle it. The former is one who allows his dog to become a nuisance; the latter one who kicks him from his sight. The noble man is he who so truly does the work given him to do that the inherent nobility of that work is manifest. And the trader who trades nobly is nobler surely than the high-born who, if he carried the principles of his daily life into trade, would be as pitiful a sneak as any he that bows and scrapes falsely behind that altar of lies, his counter.’

From another chapter called “Divine Service”:

“‘Mr. Drew, your shop is the temple of your service where the Lord Christ, the only image of the Father, is, or ought to be, throned; your counter is, or ought to be, his altar; and everything thereon laid, with intent of doing as well as you can for your neighbor, in the name of the man Christ Jesus, is a true sacrifice offered to him, a service done to the eternal creating Love of the universe.’

‘I say not,’ Polwarth went on, ‘that so doing you will grow a rich man, but I say that by so doing you will be saved from growing too rich, and that you will be a fellow worker with God for the salvation of his world.’

‘I must live; I cannot give my goods away!’ murmured Mr. Drew thinkingly, as one that sought enlightenment.

‘That would be to go direct against the order of his world,’ said Polwarth. ‘No. A harder task is yours, Mr. Drew - to make your business a gain to you, and at the same time to be not only what is commonly counted just, but interested in, and careful of, and caring for your neighbour, as a servant of the God of bounty who giveth to all men liberally. Your calling is to do your best for your neighbour that you reasonably can.’

‘But who is to fix what is reasonable?’ asked Drew.

‘The man himself, thinking in the presence of Jesus Christ. There is a holy moderation which is of God.’

‘There won’t be many fortunes - great fortunes - made after that rule, Mr. Polwarth.’

‘Very few.’

‘Then do you say that no great fortunes have been righteously made?’

‘If righteously means after the fashion of Jesus Christ — But I will not judge: that is for the God-enlightened conscience of the man himself to do, not for his neighbour’s. Why should I be judged by another man’s conscience? But you see, Mr. Drew - and this is what I was driving at - you have it in your power to serve God through the needs of his children all the working day, from morning to night, so long as there is a customer in your shop…Purely ideal or not, one thing is certain: it will never be reached by one who is so indifferent to it as to believe it impossible. Whether it may be reached in this world or not, that is a question of no consequence; whether a man has begun to reach after it is of the utmost awfulness of import. And should it be ideal, which I doubt, what else than the ideal have the followers of the ideal man to do with?’

‘Can a man reach anything ideal before he has God dwelling in him, filling every cranny of his soul?’ asked the curate with shining eyes.

‘Nothing, I do most solemnly believe,’ answered Polwarth. ‘It weighs on me heavily sometimes,’ he resumed, after a pause, ‘to think how far all but a few are from being able even to entertain the idea of the indwelling in them of the original power of their life. True, God is in every man, else how could he live the life he does live? But that life God keeps alive for the hour when he shall inform the will, the aspiration, the imagination of the man. When the man throws wide his door tot he Father of his spirit, when his individual being is thus supplemented - to use a poor, miserable word - with the individuality that originated it, then is the man a whole, healthy, complete existence. Then indeed, and then only, will he do no wrong, think no wrong, love perfectly, and be right merry. Then will he scarce think of praying, because God is in every thought and enters anew with every sensation. Then he will forgive and endure, and pour out his soul for the beloved, who yet grope their way in doubt and passion. Then every man will be dear and precious to him, even the worst; for in him also lies an unknown yearning after the same peace wherein he rests and loves.’

He sat down suddenly, and a deep silence filled the room.”