Nate Wilson kicked off our friendship with a bang. When he came to his first Hutchmoot the first thing he did was hand me a first edition of Till We Have Faces, which is possibly (depending on the weather) my favorite C. S. Lewis book. He didn’t know it was my favorite, which made it an even sweeter gift. Last year I headed up to Moscow, Idaho, to teach at a workshop at New St. Andrews and Nate gave me yet another most excellent gift: a first edition of That Hideous Strength, the final book of the Space Trilogy. I had only read the first two (thanks to Kevan Chandler), and couldn’t really imagine book three outshining the sweep and wildness of Perelandra.
One thing is clear: opinions abound about That Hideous Strength. I know of no other Lewis book that polarizes like this one. I’ve talked to quite a few people who never finished it, others who finished it but didn’t like it, and still others (like Nate) who claim that it’s Lewis’s finest work. Well, I just finished it. And while the book as a whole may not have blown my mind like Faces, and while it took me longer to read than any other Lewis book, its effect on me was undeniable for a number of reasons.
There’s a word that’s given me a lot of trouble in the last few years. A word that we tout a lot around here. It’s a word that’s easy to use and hard to embody, a word that means a lot of different things to a lot of different people, and a word that, thanks to Dr. Steve Guthrie, I’m just now beginning to realize represents a great deal of power. That word is chartreuse. I dare you to say it without shuddering at its import!
But seriously: the word is community. I’ve called the Rabbit Room “an experiment in community,” and at Hutchmoot we talk about carrying whatever light we encounter back into our communities. I’ve lauded the way the community of Christians here in Nashville has shaped my life and work and ministry. The Local Show is (hopefully) a way to plant community seeds. Community, community, community.
Every year I spend about six months wondering who in the world will fill the shoes of the previous year’s special guest on the Behold the Lamb of God tour. I used to stress about it for six months, but it always works out so now I just wonder. We’ve been blessed not only with the crazy talent of the yearly band and artists, but since this thing started we’ve been joined by some amazing special guests—and most of them ended up on the tour due to some pretty random occurrences. Either I bumped into someone around town or sent them a text or they came to mind while I was jogging. My son Aedan is responsible for Thad Cockrell being on the tour this year. Here’s how it went down.
Carly, the songleader at the 12 South congregation of Midtown Fellowship, does a fantastically understated job of choosing songs and leading the music. There for a while we sang a few old hymns and gospel songs that I was surprised I’d never heard. The first was called “Oh To Be Loved,” a slow and simple waltz that was comforting and sad at the same time: “He knows the names of my sorrows / he knows the names of my fears / Why should I let them bother me? / For I know he is near.” Simple, direct, and the melody suits it perfectly.
On November 10th (in a mere three weeks!) my newest album, After All These Years: A Collection, will be released into the wild, so we’re commencing with preorders.What is this collection, you ask? It’s a total of eighteen songs spanning the last fifteen years or so of music—and that track list includes four (FOUR!) new ones and eight (EIGHT!) brand-spanking-new recordings of older songs (SONGS!). The new recordings of old songs were made in two days with some great friends and great musicians who I’ve had the honor of working with over the years: Ben Shive, Andy Gullahorn, Ken Lewis, Matt Pierson, Joe Causey, and Jill Phillips. Re-recording those old songs was strange and wonderful, especially since we reimagined some of them, which sort of gave them some new clothes to wear—clothes that fit better now than they did fifteen years ago. I can’t wait for you to hear them.
Here’s the quick highlight reel of the new songs:
“After All These Years” was written right after my 40th birthday this year, as a deliberate exercise in gratitude. It felt appropriate to write a song that would be a sort of Ebenezer stone in the wilderness—a song of thanksgiving to God for his abiding love over the last four decades, and one that I would have to sing every night for the next few years. A lot has changed in my life in a short amount of time, and I’m prone to some boneheaded grumbling these days. This song (and this record, for that matter) is my way of stacking stones, a cairn on the hilltop that I’ll be able to see from the valley floor in the days and years to come.
“To All the Poets” was co-written with Gloria Gaither, and is an ode to the many poets, songwriters, and storytellers who have carried the fire and given us all words to pray when we had none of our own. (I’m looking at you, Rich Mullins and C. S. Lewis.)
“Romans 11 (Doxology)” was written right after we recorded Love & Thunder, but it never made it to an official album. I included the demo of it on Appendix A and then forgot about it, more or less. Then I met a guy named Charlie, a song leader from Michigan, who told me that he had been using it for years as the closing doxology at the retreat center where he works. When I sang it at the show that night I was overwhelmed by the sound of the congregation singing it back to me and decided to include it on this collection. Thanks, Charlie.
“Everybody’s Got a Song” was finished backstage at the Ryman Auditorium right before the Behold the Lamb of God show in 2012. It’s a love song to Nashville, my family and friends here, and to the coming Kingdom. This one features Nate Dugger on lap steel and the great Stuart Duncan on fiddle.
This link will whoosh you to the Rabbit Room Store, where you will not only be able to preview the tracks, you’ll be presented with three (THREE!) irresistible offers. 1) Preorder the download of all 20 songs for a mere $10. 2) Preorder the disc (which would only fit 18 of the songs). 3) Preorder the download of all 20 songs AND the physical copy (which includes a pretty extensive booklet featuring an essay by Mark Geil). All three of these options helps me pay the mortgage, so we Petersons give you a hearty thanks.
I hope these songs are a blessing to you and yours.
The fifth annual Hutchmoot has come to an end.
It’s hard to compare one Hutchmoot to another because each one has had such a different flavor, but this year was one of my favorite of the bunch. From Luci Shaw’s keynote (not to mention her presence with us all weekend) to Jill Phillips’s concert to the Local Show to session after session that I wish I had been able to attend, we were overwhelmed by good stories, good music, good food, and time to think deeply about beauty, calling, obedience, and the Kingdom.
Now comes the tricky part. Now comes the daily grind, the reintegration into our vocations, our churches, our families, the long work of building the Kingdom brick by brick, book by book, meal by meal, day by day. I want to offer a resounding THANK YOU to all the volunteers, session leaders, kitchen masters, trash haulers, painters, organizers, and encouragers who gave so much of themselves this weekend, and to give each of you a chance to sound off on the impact of the weekend.
What were your favorite parts? What did God teach you? In the words of Stephen Trafton at the end of Encountering Colossians, “You know you have been changed. How?”
November 11th – November 11th – Andy Gullahorn, Jill Phillips, Jeremy Casella, Buddy Greene, Randall Goodgame, Eric Peters, Arthur Alligood, Jenny & Tyler, Andrew Peterson, and ???
The Well Coffeehouse @ 7:30pm
690 Old Hickory Blvd,
Brentwood, TN 37027
$12 in advance, $15 at the door (or $5 at the door for Rabbit Room members).
Buy tickets here in the Rabbit Room Store.
He has a magnificent beard. He seems both old and young. He’s wise. I’m pretty sure he has a walking stick. He’s always traveling from here to there, there to here, appearing when you least expect him. He’s a teacher and a student. He’s an author, a singer/songwriter and a banjo player, he’s a carpenter, a hobby astronomer, and a hunter.
I’m pretty sure there’s only one person on Earth who meets all the above criteria, and his name is Michael Card. I first met Mike at an artist’s retreat hosted by a ministry in Knoxville, and, knowing his name for years and years as “the guy who wrote ‘El Shaddai’,” I was surprised that he didn’t play us a single song the whole weekend. He seemed perfectly content—eager, even—simply to teach and to talk about the Bible without throwing a guitar into the mix. Truly, his teaching was so stimulating I didn’t miss the music by the end, either. Since I didn’t grow up paying any attention to Christian music it was a long time before I heard songs like, “Come to the Table” and “Immanuel,” and when I finally did it was live, in a church jammed with people singing at the top of their lungs. Goosebumps, I tell you.
A few years ago I was in dire need of a mentor. I needed someone older and wiser, a Christian to whom I could stay accountable, someone to encourage me to read my Bible, to guide me in some kind of formal relationship. Late one night I emailed Mike and, with fear and trembling, asked him to be that mentor. He emailed back the next day saying, in effect, “No.” He went on to explain that he wasn’t interested in a mentoring relationship. “What I need is friends,” he told me. “We can get together and hang out, but not just to talk about spiritual stuff. Let’s just be friends. And in this town, the only time you really get to hang out with your friends is on the road, so why don’t you open for me for a few shows?”
I was disappointed at first (about the mentor thing, not the shows), but several years later it turns out Mike was right. I asked for a mentor and ended up with a friend—a good friend, which is a much better thing. My disappointment was a sign of my immaturity. It was as if I had emailed someone and asked if I could pitch a tent in their backyard, and they said, “Sure, you can stay. But you’re not sleeping outside—you’re going to be in the guest cottage.” Mike’s friendship, I believe, has yielded far more encouragement and edification than an accountability partner ever would have.
Several more Mike Card stories come to mind—like the time he shared the stage with Frederick Buechner and Walter Brugemann, or the time we were watching the History Channel and he read a snippet of Isaiah from a scroll they flashed on the screen, or the time he showed me his new rifle with a laser sight, or the time he asked if he could record “The Silence of God” after he had already done it. I’m so grateful to call this man my friend.
AND I’m grateful that he’s coming to North Wind Manor in two weeks to talk about his new book. Mike has written about a zillion books, but his latest four are commentaries on the Gospels, part of the Biblical Imagination Series. Think about that for a second. Can you imagine writing not one but four commentaries? On the Gospels? Most of us would feel like we had just run four Iron Man races. So congratulations, Mr. Card, and we thank you for bringing your musical/poetic gifting to bear on the Scriptures so the rest of us can see it afresh. On August 29th, at 7:00, the Gandalf of Nashville will be teaching from the Gospel of John, and I hope you’ll join us. Trust me, there’s nothing quite like seeing Mike turn into a little kid while he talks about Jesus.
Admission to the event is totally free, though we do ask that everyone bring a snack item to share (drinks are on us). Space is limited, so if you intend to come, it’s very important that you RSVP via an email to firstname.lastname@example.org. There are only 30 seats available. RSVP quickly if you want to secure a spot. We’ll include the address to the Manor when we respond to your RSVP.
This event is now full.
What: Michael Card discussing the Gospel of John
When: Friday, August 29th
Where: North Wind Manor, Nashville
Admission: FREE (but please bring a snack to share)
RSVP to: email@example.com
Madeline L’Engle’s Walking on Water was the first book I ever read that explored the role of the Christian in the arts. For me, it was a game changer. Not only did it rearrange my thinking about what I felt called to, it affirmed and distilled many of my beliefs (and opinions) about the way Christians should approach their work—not just art, but any work.
After Walking on Water I discovered more and more books about the creative life—a much richer subject than all those how-to-write books I was reading. The former is a healthy and helpful exploration of a corner of God’s kingdom (the process of subcreation), about the great mystery of the creative act and its implications for a Christian—the why of art. The other sort of books, the How to Write a Novel in Five Easy Steps sort, may be helpful to a point, but spending too much time there is getting the cart before the horse. Why books are all about the horse; How books are about the cart. You can fill your brain with practical advice, but that’s akin to loading a horseless cart with cargo. You’ll just sit there. (Good grief, I’ve gone this far, so I might as well exhaust the metaphor.) Reading L’Engle’s book was like strapping a galloping Clydesdale to my little wagon. Along the way, many of those parcels of advice rattled loose, or I cast them off once I realized their lack of usefulness, but the horse? It’s still moving.
I’m writing from the bench at the bend in the trail. When we moved to the Warren these woods were a claustrophobic tangle of thorn, privet, and bush honeysuckle (don’t be fooled by the name–bush honeysuckle is a bane). Jamie and the kids and I crouched our way under the brushy eaves, lopping branches here and there, looking for good trees, marveling at huge slabs of limestone and granite peeking out of the soil, wondering how all those old beer bottles ended up under the humus so far from the house. Eventually we cut a series of trails, the path guided by the shape of the land and the fattest trees we could find–mostly cedar and hackberry, but along the way we happily discovered a couple of young sugar maples, a beast of a shumard oak, as well as the Goliath of our woods–a massive tree that neither of the two experts I’ve brought out here could identify. “It looks like a white walnut,” one of them said, “but if it is, that’s the biggest one in Tennessee.”
The day is finally here. After years of work by a lot of different people (I’m looking at you, Pete, Kris, Christie, Carrie, Jessica, Joe, and all you Kickstarters), we’re about to set The Warden and the Wolf King loose. Some of you have already read it. (Thank you!) Others of you may be sick of us promoting it. (Sorry!) But with this many people and this much work involved, it would be silly to not try and give these books the best possible shot at making it into the hands of the masses. I have long believed that Story (with a capital “s”) is the language God wired our hearts to speak, and my hope is that this story is one that will speak to your heart, no matter what you may believe.
So, if you’re a fan of the Wingfeather Saga and you’re willing to help, here’s what you can do:
1) Come to Parnassus Books, 3900 Hillsboro Pike, Nashville, TN 37215 at 6:30 tonight for the release party! We’ll have a book signing, a costume party, snacks (bibes!), and Skye and I will be singing a Wingfeather song.
3) If you blog, please write a review about book four–or about the series as a whole.
4) If you’re J. J. Abrams, please consider making a film.
Friends, Skreeans, and Hollowsfolk!
The official release of The Warden and the Wolf King is in three weeks, and we’re throwing a costume party. On July 22nd at 6:30 PM, at Parnassus Books (one of the best bookstores in Nashville), we’re ushering into the world the conclusion of the Wingfeather Saga, and we’re pulling out all the stops. We’re loosing the thwaps. We’re—we’re—herding the toothies! In true Hollish style we’re having a rowdy time, and I’d love for you to come.
Why would you want to come to such an event, you wonder?
1) Because you’ll be able to try honeymuffins and sugarberry buns (and maybe some maggotloaf?).
2) You’ll be able to sip Hollish bibes of many fruity flavors.
3) You may want to to quote Oskar N. Reteep’s favorite books to one another.
4) There will be a COSTUME CONTEST—the winners of which will receive mind-blowing prizes. (One prize for each age group.)
5) My daughter Skye (the inspiration for Leeli Wingfeather) will be on hand to sing “My Love Has Gone Across the Sea” (from The Monster in the Hollows) with me like the Song Maiden that she is.
6) I’ll read from the new book and answer as many questions as I can.
7) Aedan and Asher Peterson will be there to autograph copies of Pembrick’s Creaturepedia, to which they both contributed vast amounts of talent.
I hope you can come celebrate with us. Beware the toothy cows.
WHAT: Wingfeather Saga Book Release Party
WHEN: July 22nd at 6:30 PM.
WHERE: Parnassus Books, 3900 Hillsboro Pike, Nashville, TN 37215 (615) 953-2243
WHY: (See above list.)
Hello, Rabbit Roomers. We’re narrowing down the list of songs to include on the “best-of” record releasing later this fall (as opposed to a “greatest hits” record, which would be very short, indeed), and I’d love to know which songs you think should be included. This is tricky because I’m torn between making sure the album is listenable (i.e., it can’t be all slow songs) and trying to choose songs that might have the deepest impact for new listeners. If you could take a few minutes and let me know a couple of your favorites from each my albums (not including Behold the Lamb), I’d appreciate it. If you aren’t familiar with the record, just skip the question. Thanks!
Click here to take the quick poll. You can leave comments here, but the poll is the easiest way for me to keep track. Gracias.
This is a moving example of what Tolkien called “sub-creation”—in essence, using your gift to speak light into the darkness. This, by the way, is hand-drawn animation. Thank you, Glen Keane, for making something beautiful. (And thank you, Brannon McAllister, for the link.)
And if you want to dig a little deeper into just how much work, thought, and attention went into the short film, watch this and be inspired.
The year was 1992. George H. W. Bush was the president. Pearl Jam, Nirvana, Metallica, Def Leppard, and Bon Jovi were some of the biggest bands in the world. Wayne’s World was cracking teenagers up and Home Improvement was making their parents chortle. I had just graduated from high school in the little town of Lake Butler, Florida, had cut off my mullet a few months before, and was steeped in hair metal and southern rock–not to mention all the bands mentioned above. I had recently discovered Marc Cohn’s songwriting, and it would be another year or so before I happened upon Rich Mullins, but at the time my guilty pleasures were still bands like Slaughter and Steelheart and Stryper. Then one night while watching The Tonight Show with Jay Leno, I saw this:
“Wait–is that a mandolin?” I thought. “And is he barefoot? And is he not trying to sing as high as possible? And none of those dudes have long hair. What could it mean?” Mixed in with all those thoughts was the dim awareness that “Walk On the Ocean” was a good, good song. It was evocative and utterly unique in my experience. Not only that, it told a kind of story (“somebody told me that this is the place where everything’s better and everything’s safe” “half an hour later we packed up our things”). But the band was called Toad the Wet Sprocket! I would have assumed this music would be super-weird and/or eclectic, a la They Might Be Giants, but this–this was different. The internet wasn’t around yet so I had no way of learning that the guys had jokingly named the band in high school after a Monty Python sketch. (The name stuck and the Brits let them keep it.)
The Rabbit Room has surprised me once again.
One of the questions I’ve gotten quite a bit about writing (and one I’ve also asked many times) is whether or not it’s a good idea to have an outline for the story. Every writer is different, but my answer is that yes, it’s good to sit down early on and map out—in the vaguest terms—the outline of the story. However, that outline is only a tool to get you started. Once the real writing starts, the story will suggest itself to you, and if you’re determined to adhere to the outline at all costs, it just might cost you the story. The story, you’ll discover sooner than later, wants to be something, and there’s a good chance that that something is better than your outline. In the words of that one .38 Special song “Hold On Loosely,” uh, “Hold on loosely, and don’t let go. If you cling too tightly, you’re gonna lose control.”
The best thing about this philosophy of songwriting and/or storytelling is that you, the writer, get the blessing of surprise along the way, of serendipity and excitement. I honestly had no idea how The Warden and the Wolf King would end until I got about twenty pages from the last chapter. It’s scary, but it’s way more interesting. Writing can be a way to discover not just what will happen to your characters, but what’s going on in your own heart, soul, and mind.
Well, the Rabbit Room—this mystifying corner of the internet, which encompasses Hutchmoot and Rabbit Room Press and used books and concerts and music and theater and conversations about Jesus—has been an act of discovery, too. We had no idea what a sweet fellowship of friends it would nurture, or that we would publish The Molehill, or spawn Dude Breakfast (our weekly Waffle House hang). We held on loosely, we didn’t let go, and voila, Pete and I are here scratching our heads in delight at what God has done.
It occurred to me this morning that it might be helpful to think through one really annoying aspect of creative work, which is that every single time you sit down to make something, even if you’ve done this for years and know the routine, it feels like you’re starting from scratch. It feels like you have absolutely nothing to offer, nothing new to say, and whatever you’ve managed to get right in the past was just a fluke, and you’re not writing a song so much as reinventing the wheel. Or building the Space Shuttle out of matchsticks. While this is true in some ways, in others it isn’t true at all. Here’s what I mean.
It’s true because the creative act is and will always be a mystery to which we are only allowed the access of clarity for fleeting moments if at all. For ninety nine percent of the time the process is frustrating and difficult and tiresome. This is to be expected. Good things take work, and in the end God isn’t interested in the thing you’re making half as much as the person he’s making out of you. Work, pain, frustration, joy, patience: these are the tools God uses (along with many other things) to shape our souls. In this sense, then, the song is writing you. Every now and then, though, the veil is lifted and the subcreator gets to see the beautiful mechanism (wheels within wheels) at work behind the curtain, and the process of songwriting makes sudden and perfect sense. “So this is how you write a song,” you think. Then, just as suddenly, the veil falls back into place, the glow is gone, and the world seems drab by comparison. Has this ever happened to you? It’s tantalizing—just enough to make you want to pick up your guitar again in defiance of your fears.
But there’s another truth at work: you’re not starting from scratch.