What are you looking for?

by Chloe Wilcox After visiting Hutchmoot in person in Tennessee, I wanted nothing more than to bring all my friends with me to experience the joy of that gathering, but, given how challenging it can be to get a ticket to Hutchmoot, that may not ever happen. On the other hand, there is always more room for someone to host a Housemoot in their own home with many of the same Hutchmoot speakers. Hosting Housemoot is a rich, joyful “second best” that really isn’t much of a “second” because it is just so good. This will be my fifth year hosting a virtual Rabbity conference at home, and I've developed rhythms and systems that work well for my space and the beautiful group of people excited to join me each year.  I like inviting people to my home rather than trying to find a larger venue. We're comfy and relaxed here, and while it's a small house, it feels a bit hobbity in a way that makes people feel comfortable kicking off their shoes, curling up in an armchair, and making themselves at home. My husband and I haul our big T.V. up from the basement to stream the sessions. I typically have anywhere between five and twelve friends joining me, coming and going through the weekend. When I start planning, I send out a Google doc with all the sessions listed, and ask friends to mark the top three they want to watch. I've realized that planning a full schedule that runs from Friday to Sunday evening works best for my people. However, not everyone is able to come for all of it, so if there is a session that someone really wants to see, we prioritize that talk for when they're able to be here. I type up the proposed schedule and tape it on the wall, and I tell people that my job is just to be the keeper of the schedule so that they have a measure of predictability, but if they need to go for a walk or hide in the library to get some introvert time, they are completely welcome to do so. I try to remind people of something I heard at Hutchmoot: “We have a schedule, but we don’t necessarily a schedule for you.” I have learned to schedule plenty of “white space” for our weekend. I keep space of at least a half hour between talks to allow time for discussion to grow naturally. By keeping some breathing room in the schedule, I allowed for both predictability and spontaneity. And even though meals are just in the next room and nobody needs to go very far, I like to allow at least an hour and a half for eating. Again, the conversations are usually so good that we want plenty of time for that to happen!   I love that the Rabbit Room provides wonderful recipes, but I want to enjoy the 'Moot as well and not spend too much of my time cooking for people, so we do guided potlucks through the weekend. This has worked really well for years, and we have had some wonderful meals that are easy for each individual to adapt to their needs, whether allergies or dietary preferences, like a low-carb or vegetarian diet. There are always snacks on the table—I start it with some good chocolate and mandarin oranges, then friends usually add cheese, crackers, nuts, and all sorts of lovely things. We typically eat all weekend while watching or discussing the different sessions. I keep ice water, carafes of coffee and hot water, and tea bags out at all times. My husband makes sure there is always coffee! I've also learned that, if I keep art supplies on our kitchen table, friends will write quotes or illustrate something they heard about and I can tape them up on the wall next to the schedule as a growing collage of our weekend. I told my friends that my piano was our personal art gallery, and to please bring their work so that we can see it and enjoy the talent within the group.  As the years have gone, I've realized that we really, really like keeping Friday and Saturday evenings for "concerts." I’m choosing to save all of the Artistic Interludes for those times. I have found it is a lovely way to end the day because our brains are full and tired and we just needed to be cared for by the beauty of good music.   Having a virtual Moot to share has been a joyful, soul-nourishing way for me to love the people around me. Some previous attendees started asking months ago for the dates for this year’s Moot, so that they could plan well and make sure they could attend the whole thing! It’s becoming a cherished yearly gathering for our little community.

Editor's Note: Part of  Mark Meynell's 5&1 series on classical music . Taking a different theme for each post, the 5&1 series offers five short pieces followed by one more substantial work. The playlist choices are occasionally not found on YouTube, so alternatives are provided here. The 23-year old poet John Keats described the fall, or as we say in these parts, the autumn, as a "season of mists and mellow fruitfulness" in his masterpiece To Autumn . His wander through the countryside south-west of London inspired him; the poem bursts with nature's harvest-time profligacy and appeals to all five senses. But there is an inherent melancholy: nothing lasts, as the leaves turn, temperatures drop and nights lengthen. The fourth and final verse opens: "Where are the songs of spring? Ay, Where are they? / Think not of them, thou hast thy music too..." Of course, by telling us not to think of spring's songs we can't help but do so. He insists, however, that autumn has its own—the sound of 'mourning' gnats, bleating lambs and birds chirping in gardens. This is the true symphony of autumn. Then, as if in sympathetic step with the season itself, Keats would die of tuberculosis in Rome only 18 months after writing the poem. But the season's bitter-sweet abundance, colors and pathos have inspired musicians for centuries, with the result that there is more than enough to choose from this month. 1. Prelude and Song: See My Many Colour'd Field (from The Fairy-Queen, 1692) Henry Purcell (1659-1695, English) Roderick Williams (baritone) , Gabrieli Consort, Paul McCreesh (cond.) Purcell was a musical genius, his death a tragic loss at only 35. He created this semi-staged operatic drama not from Edmund Spenser's epic of the same name (known to Rabbit Room regulars from Rebecca Reynolds' mammoth undertaking ) but Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream . Instead of setting the play to music, he composed 'masques' for each act. These were very popular in the seventeenth century and involved ornate if mannered music, song and dance. So here, in the 4th Act, the classical sun-god, Phoebus (often identified with Apollo) introduces the four seasons, each of whom has a moment in the spotlight. Autumn is clearly quite pleased about the varieties of color and fruit he brings. 2. 'Otoño porteño' (Autumn in Buenos Aires, 1969) Astor Pantaléon Piazzola (1921-1992, Argentinian) Jonathan Morton (violin & cond.) , Scottish Ensemble The season remains unchanged, but we have flown 7000 miles to the other side of the world: Argentina. Piazzola was a performer (of the concertina-like bandoneon ), musical arranger and composer in his own right, renowned for transforming the traditional tango almost beyond recognition. His Four Seasons of Buenos Aires is a case in point: despite owing some inspiration from Vivaldi, each is a tango and is scored for a cabaret band. But of course, because he lived in a different hemisphere, he gives a nod or two to Vivaldi's Winter, but includes it in his Summer! In Autumn, there is a riot of activity, color and intrigue. If you're new to Piazzola, I suspect you will never never have encountered anything quite like it before; it is certainly hard to categorise. But you will hopefully find its joie de vivre is irresistible. 3. Approach of Autumn (from Adam Zero: a one-act ballet, 1946) Sir Arthur Bliss (1891-1975, English) English Northern Philharmonia, David Lloyd-Jones (cond.) Back into the northern hemisphere and to England again, but a generation before Piazzola. Arthur Bliss was a Londoner with an American father and English mother. He served in the First World War with distinction and spent some time in the States until the war broke out once more. The rest of his life was spent in Britain and he was prolific, in all forms of music, not least for the stage. Adam Zero was a one-act ballet premiered in April 1946 in a bombed out London. It all gets quite 'meta', retelling the cycle of human life by means of a company of dancers creating a ballet. Adam is the principle dancer who experiences the seasons of life, only to be replaced at the end by his understudy before he dies. Autumn, as you'd expect, comes towards the end. The music evokes the mists and murk of shortening days, but the season is obviously functioning metaphorically: hence the undercurrent of foreboding at what will inevitably come to us all. 4. The Fall of the Leaf: Theme and Variations (1963) Imogen Holst (1907-1984, English) Steven Isserlis (cello) We've not had much solo instrumental stuff on the 5&1 playlists so far, apart from keyboard music. So this may come as something of a challenge, but please give it a go. Bach was the great master of works for unaccompanied instruments, and there are moments in this that hint at his legacy. Imogen Holst was the only child of Gustav Holst, of The Planets fame which we have already encountered , and a musical all-rounder. She composed this for her friend Pamela Hind O'Malley, describing it as a set of 'three short studies for solo cello on a sixteenth-century tune'. In the variations, we can at times hear the wind prising autumnal leaves free from their branches. But the key is the central movement, tinged with an aching sadness. Despite having 5 distinct sections, the whole lasts only around 9 minutes, and while strings tend to play only one line, there are all kinds of ways to add, or hint at, harmonies. This is a beautiful evocation of the season composed with astonishing economy. 5. Autumn Ola Gjeilo (1978- , Norwegian) The Choir of Royal Holloway, Rupert Gough (cond.) It's about time we had some more singing. Ola Gjeilo has become highly-regarded in choral music circles far beyond his native Norway. Based now in Manhattan, Gjeilo particularly excels in writing for voice and for solo piano, relishing gorgeously scrunchy chords and atmospheric wistfulness. But then, if you lived close to the Arctic Circle, the thought of Autumn carries particular poignancy, if not heaviness. Yes, the season brings great beauty, but the further north you go, the shorter the season becomes and you are led inexorably towards permanent night. The text here is a poem Gjeilo commissioned from his frequent collaborator, the American poet Charles Anthony Silvestri. To prompt him, he sent images of Vestmarka, a Norwegian national park close to where he grew up and in which he would go on long treks. It's a beautiful setting of a poem that even has the faintest of echoes of Keats. Autumn Gardens Einojuhani Rautavaara (1928-2016, Finnish) Helsinki Philharmonic, Vladimir Ashkenazy (cond.) It's no surprise that other Scandinavians treasure the autumn while it lasts. Rautavaara was a Finnish composer whose music was profoundly influenced by his environment; we've met him before in his Cantus Arcticus , right back in the very first 5&1 playlist of nature-inspired music . In this 3-movement work for orchestra, his lens is focused on a garden, which becomes a microcosm for the season's impact. Poetico : there are still traces of summer's beauty as this first movement opens. It is crafted around a theme he used in an opera to set the words ' like a butterfly in the garden of black autumn' . The music gradually gets denser before drifting without a break into... Tranquillo : as it's title suggests, this is calmer and more atmospheric, perhaps suggesting the fading light of the high north. Giocoso e Leggiero ('Playful and light'): those are not words traditionally associated with this time of year, but the composer seems to be making a determined effort to enjoy the moment. Shimmering strings suggest floating leaves and dappled sunlight, leading to a resounding conclusion, in what is perhaps a solemn dance to see off the last of the summer. However, rather than trying to trace some kind of narrative or 'program' for the whole piece, allow yourself to be swept up in its arctic atmosphere. Mark Meynell is the Director (Europe and Caribbean) of Langham Preaching. He was ordained in the Church of England in 1997 serving in several places including 9 years at All Souls Church, Langham Place, London, (during which he also served as a part-time government chaplain). Prior to that, he taught at a small seminary in Kampala, Uganda, for four years. Since 2019, he has helped to bring Hutchmoot to the UK and in 2022 completed a Doctor of Ministry (at Covenant Theological Seminary, St Louis) researching the place of the arts in cultural apologetics. Mark and his wife, Rachel, have two grown-up children, and they live in Maidenhead, Berkshire.

by Chris & Jenna Badeker I recently attended a music industry seminar in Nashville where a presenter said, “Artists are now living in the age of the slash.” They went on to say that for the vast majority of working artists, adding skills to our repertoire and titles to our resume has become a necessity. A way of life. Singer-songwriters are becoming producers/podcast hosts. Podcast hosts are becoming videographers/audio engineers. This isn’t to say there aren’t exceptions; monoliths of singular talent still walk among us. However, fewer of us can reliably count on having a voice or song that is “too good to ignore” to be the basis for a sustainable career in the arts. In an era defined by insatiable appetites for new content, shrinking attention spans, and a general devaluation (monetarily speaking) of music, many artists have been forced to get a little more creative and a lot more flexible. My husband, Chris, and I are independent musicians who perform in the band Wild Harbors. Upon arriving in Nashville we felt immense pressure to make good on our decision to leave our full-time jobs and pursue a career in music. In trying to do so, we spent time with some amazing artists, received wise and gracious counsel, and began the slow and arduous process of assimilating who we were to match a perceived ideal. Sure, we were writing and performing original music, but in every other sense of the term, we were a “cover band”. We dressed like The Civil Wars, posed like Johhnyswim, and belted out songs like The Swell Season. We held ourselves up against the industry’s standards of success, tried in vain to replicate them, and felt crushed when nothing we did seemed to move the needle.  The well-intentioned process of trying to look, sound, and act like “real” artists left us feeling like anything but. We had watched our favorite singer-songwriters find meaningful connections with their audiences through self-expression and vulnerability, yet somehow the lesson we took from it was, “If I could be like that, people would like me”. The problem with posturing for acceptance is that when something you do finds success, it reinforces the idea that the only reason the work connected was because people associated it with something other than you. To put it another way, we had painted ourselves into a corner where our failures felt deeply personal and our success felt unearned and insincere. We couldn’t have told you, but we were burning out and we weren’t sure why. Around the same time, some of our close friends began lovingly pestering Chris to sign up for the social media platform, TikTok. When Chris finally relented and created an account for our band, things started to gradually shift. Being new to the platform, it truly felt like stepping into the Wild West. There was no brand to manage, no expectation of what to post, and best of all, no audience! Left with a completely blank slate, Chris started doing something he hadn’t done in a long time. TikTok is primarily a video-sharing platform, so Chris began filming anything that popped into his head and posting it. It was silly and slapdash and a way to try out any idea we wanted with relative anonymity.  Best of all, making these videos felt like an act of remembrance. In the first years of our relationship, we would visit roadside oddities and film goofy travel guide videos highlighting their various quirks and charm. By making new videos, we weren’t putting on a new hat so much as we were finding an old one and dusting it off. Before long, the notebook for “Video Ideas” became just as big as the notebook for “Song Ideas”.  Like any ongoing creative endeavor, recurring themes started to emerge and the scope and vision for our videos became clearer. Where we had once made silly videos about everything and anything, we now made silly videos about how it felt to be independent musicians trying to navigate the ups and downs of a creative life. We no longer needed to sit down and brainstorm funny ideas. As it turns out, there’s plenty to laugh about in the day to day life of a musician, so we gave ourselves permission to laugh about it. As we grew more confident in their purpose and value, we started sharing them outside of the relative obscurity of our TikTok account. I’m sure for a lot of our friends, it looked like two musicians had decided on a whim to start acting. In reality, it’s more accurate to say that we decided to stop acting. We stopped acting like serious artists. We stopped acting like professional musicians. We started being ourselves. In sharing her own story with me, my friend Leslie E. Thompson wrote, “I’ve finally, FINALLY, lost the desire to adapt my God-given personality to fit an aesthetic or construct and instead embrace it.”  How can I put it better than that?  What if living in “The Age of the Slash” isn’t a mandate to wear all the hats and do all the things? What if it’s an invitation to pick up the parts of our God-given personality that we jettisoned in our hurry to launch faster and climb higher? Who decided that knowing how to cook a Classic French Omelette isn’t a useful skill when writing a novel? Why shouldn’t crochet hooks, when skillfully employed by the poet, be just as helpful to the process as a pen? When children say things like “I’m going to be a Writer / Veterinarian / Painter / Singer / Fashion Designer when I grow up” it’s not because they don’t understand how the world works, it’s because they haven’t unlearned how creativity works.  Outside of self-imposed categories like “Actor”, “Singer”, “Podcast Host”, or “Illustrator”, I believe our brains are all too happy to lump the sum of our creative endeavors, no matter the discipline or medium, into a big bucket labeled “Play”. In this bucket, there’s no untangling which words belong in a song and which belong in a children’s picture book. There’s no walls keeping our ideas for a comic strip out of our ideas for a board game. If you’ve ever eaten baked beans, cole slaw, and potato salad on a plate with no dividers, that should give you a pretty good idea. Time spent playing with anything in this bucket creates unfelt, often unseeable, ripples throughout everything else in the bucket. The more time I spend writing throwaway jokes and corny one-liners, the less I tend to second-guess my intuition when writing a lyric for a chorus. The less I second-guess my lyrics, the less tentative I am when using watercolors. As it turns out, embracing the idea of having an ever-expanding job title has meant paying a lot less attention to what those titles are and paying more attention to the kinds of work that feel satisfying, meaningful, and valuable to us, our band, and our community. It’s hard work to look at yourself and find candid answers to honest questions. Questions like, “What parts of who God made me to be might be longing to find a home in my art? , “Which aspects of my God-given personality have I abandoned out of fear of being rejected or humiliated?”, or “Who might be waiting, unknowingly, for me to make the kind of art that can only be made through embracing the entirety of my being with sober self-confidence, reckless abandon, and a generous spirit?”  Wild Harbors is currently running a Kickstarter campaign  to fund the release of their new music, the continued production of their videos, and the recording of a new album. Pledging today will move the band one step closer to their goal of being an artistic presence that continues to draw bigger, more encompassing circles around terms like “Songwriter”, “Artist”, and “Band”.

by Noah Guthrie Our tuxedo cat, Gretl, has many quirks. She still suckles her fur at the age of seven, stretches herself across the stairs right as you go down, and casually walks away from you after meowing for attention. She also enjoys Christmas hymns. When the winter holidays come and my family sings around a wreath of pink and purple Advent candles, Gretl will often pad toward us to listen. She’ll flick her black, white-tipped tail as though it were a needle weaving our voices together. This habit of Gretl’s may be one of the reasons my younger sisters sometimes gush, “She’s a Christian cat!” Their words are playful, but they suggest a serious question. What does Christ mean for non-human creatures? If we’re to go a step further, we may also wonder: how does the Bible shape our understanding of the more-than-human world as a whole, with its soils, waters, and interlocking landscapes? Like many of those involved with the Rabbit Room, I’m a creative writer, and I also work for a faith-based environmental nonprofit called A Rocha USA . Whatever the Bible says about nature, I believe it impacts both aspects of my work: art and conservation. In light of that, my hope for this post is to offer an overview of the biblical basis for environmental advocacy, starting with creation, progressing to the Israelite land ethic, then concluding with the cosmic scope of Jesus’ salvation. Creation and its Caretakers Luckily, we don’t have to go far in the Bible to figure out God’s views on nature. At the very start of the Torah, we find that nature is God’s creation (Gen. 1:1), that it’s diverse and overflowing with life (Gen. 1:21, 1:25), and that it’s good, good, good, and very good (Gen. 1:4, 1:10, 1:12, 1:31). In Genesis, nature’s value doesn’t hinge on its usefulness to human beings. Well before humans even come into existence (which happens on the “sixth day” of the narrative), God sees all of creation—plants, animals, terrains, and astral bodies—as “good.” Moreover, God blesses the birds and sea creatures independently of humans (Gen. 1:22), and he makes a covenant with all the creatures that emerge from Noah’s ark (Gen. 9:8-11). This indicates that all sorts of non-human species, whether in land, sky, or sea, are recipients of God’s blessings and covenant faithfulness. While God does distinguish humans as bearers of the imago dei  (Gen. 1:26-7), much of the Genesis creation account establishes the commonalities between human and non-human creatures. As David Clough observes in the first volume of his theological treatise On Animals , the Hebrew in these passages refers to both humans and non-humans as nephesh hayyah , or “living creatures” (Clough 31). God shapes all of these creatures from dust and divine breath (Gen. 1:30, 2:7, 2:19), and Genesis describes all of them as eating, reproducing, and bearing God’s approval as “good” creations.  In short, Genesis doesn’t depict nature as a mere tool for human ends—or worse, a temporary, carnal “test” posed to humanity before they can escape to a world of pure spirit. Instead, it describes nature as a tapestry of lands, species, and energies that are each good in and of themselves. Moreover, humans are created as one member of a family of dust-and-spirit creatures, nephesh hayyah , and they receive the responsibility to “work and keep” the land where God has placed them (Gen. 2:15). Since they’re made in the image of servant-king (Gen. 1.27; cf. John 13:13-14), we may infer that God intends humanity to emulate Jesus’ sacrificial love in their “dominion” over the earth’s creatures (Gen. 1:28). Just as Adam and Eve’s sin results in the “cursing” of the ground (Gen. 3:17-18), many environmental issues start with humanity’s failure to obey that ancient call to lovingly “work and keep” the land. During my recent internship with A Rocha USA, I’ve seen how human action has “cursed” the Indian River Lagoon in Florida, where seagrass withers and oyster reefs collapse, and where vulnerable species like the butterfly ray and horseshoe crab swim in polluted waters. I’ve also seen meadows clotted with invasive King Ranch bluestem, and Texan forests tarred with the shadows of invasive glossy privet. A massive glossy privet (Ligustrum lucidum) growing in the Stenis Tract of Austin, Texas. This species takes over Texan ecosystems and shades out native plants. As part of my habitat restoration work, I was tasked with killing these glossy privets, knowing all the while that this was a tree that God created good, and which God desired to “be fruitful and multiply” in its native habitat of East Asia. Now that humans have brought this species to the U.S., though, it’s strangled so many biotic communities. (You can read more about A Rocha USA’s work in Florida  and Texas  using the embedded StoryMap links.) The Israelite Land Ethic When we read further in the Torah, Eve and Adam’s responsibility to care for the soil becomes part of the covenant between God and the people of Israel. In Stewards of Eden , Sandra L. Richter explains that the Israelite land ethic “emerged from their understanding that Canaan was a land grant … If the nation will keep Yahweh’s commandments, they will keep the land” (Richter 15-16; cf. Deut. 5:31-33). Conversely, if Israel disobeyed God’s commands, the land would “vomit” them out (Lev. 18:26-28). That’s why it’s so significant that the ethical treatment of creatures and landscapes is woven into Israelite law. Among its commands are those to allow livestock to rest on the Sabbath (Deut. 5:13-14), to give the land itself a Sabbath year (Lev. 25:2-5), and to spare mother birds (Deut. 22:6-7). Richter interprets the latter to be an instance of pars pro toto , being just “one expression of a larger principle” that Israel should protect their ecosystem’s ability to sustain life (Richter 53). Though there are some human benefits to these laws (for instance, letting farmland lie fallow preserves its fertility), the adamant “good,” “good,” and “very good” of Genesis challenges us to consider that, to some degree, these laws exist due to God’s love for the animals and soils themselves. During an earlier conservation internship in 2018, I saw this biblical land ethic put into practice at the Brooksdale Environmental Centre , one of A Rocha Canada’s programs in British Columbia. Brooksdale is a tiny village of cream-and-cocoa-hued homes bordered by Douglas firs. While the Tatalu River flows through a wetland on one side, an organic farm burgeons on the other. The wetland is home to three-spined sticklebacks, frogs, and the endangered Salish sucker with its bronze glow, and the farm is home to all manner of vegetables. Carrots flourish their fronds, eggplants polish their violet glaze, jalapeños coil like gymnasts on the stalk, and the golden husks of squashes swell from the soil, echoing the ancient promises of a land flowing with honey. The organic farm of the Brooksdale Environmental Centre is in Surrey, British Columbia. By planting native maples and removing invasive sunfish, by leading children on hikes through the firs, by studying local birds, bats, and frogs, and by raising their crops in a way that nourishes the life of the soil, Brooksdale practices a philosophy that echoes the Bible: if we’re to live long in this land, we need to tend to it with compassion and prudence. The Salvation of the Cosmos To be fair, there are few Christians who would seriously suggest that God’s creation isn’t “good,” or that humans don’t have some obligation to care for it, or at least steward it wisely. The real hangup is the question of who Jesus came to save. Sure, he might have a liking for the lilies of the field, but his true mission is to save humans and take them to heaven, right? Paul’s epistles, however, call to question the idea that Jesus’ only goal is to save humanity. In Colossians, Paul describes Jesus not only as the force that sustains all that exists (Col. 1:16-17), but also as the means by which God “reconcile[s] to himself all things, whether on earth or in heaven, making peace by the blood of his cross” (Col. 1:20). Though theologians debate about the exact meaning of “all things” in this context, the Greek term that Paul uses, ta panta , is usually all-encompassing, and the chapter’s earlier references to creation imply that Jesus’ act of reconciliation occurs on a cosmic scale. Elsewhere, Paul describes the reconciliation of “all things” in heaven and earth as part of Christ’s preordained salvific plan (Eph. 1:7-10). He also teaches that all of creation is “groaning” in anticipation of divine rescue, and that “creation itself will be set free from its bondage to corruption and obtain the freedom of the glory of the children of God” (Rom. 8:19-23). The same passage makes a distinction between Paul’s human audience and the groaning “creation” (Rom. 8:23), so it seems unlikely that “creation” (or ktisis , in Greek) refers to the broken creatureliness of humanity. The more likely interpretation is that this is Paul’s response to the “cursed ground” of Genesis 3:17—that someday, the sufferings that humans have inflicted on God’s world will come to an end. Such a cosmic view of salvation is startling. The famed theologian John Wesley was so inspired by this passage from Romans that he exclaimed, “Nothing is more sure, than that as ‘the Lord is loving to every man,’ so ‘his mercy is over all his works;’ all that have sense, all that are capable of pleasure or pain, of happiness or misery” (Wesley, “ The General Deliverance ”). Indeed, if Paul is really saying that all that exists will be liberated and reconciled to God, then Christ’s mission is to rescue all that breathes. What would this liberated creation look like? When our present ecosystems are filled with agony and death—when they require death, in fact, to keep functioning—it’s hard to imagine what kind of changes would enable all species to coexist without suffering. Debra Rienstra, in her book Refugia Faith , responds to this question by asserting, “There be plenty of dragons beyond the edges of our theological and scriptural maps” (Rienstra 173). I can’t help but agree: whatever it means for God to “make all things new” (Rev. 21:5), it’s beyond our imagination. As mysterious as these promises may be, they do hint that Jesus’ kingdom—once it arrives in fullness—will look less like clouds and winged ghosts, and more like a community of healed creatures in restored landscapes. It may look like the cerulean swathes of bluebonnets that A Rocha restored in Central Texas. It may look like an Indian River Lagoon rife with oyster-beds, swarming with horseshoe crabs, and lush with seagrass. It may look like the hardy soils of Brooksdale, which don’t wash away in the rain, but overflow with squash, celeriac, kale, and aubergine. It may even look like a small tuxedo cat, bobbing her tail to the tune of the old hymn: “No more let sins and sorrows grow, nor thorns infest the ground; He comes to make His blessings flow far as the curse is found…” This is Christ's vision for the universe, and this is the work that we—as members of Christ's body—are called to enter into, nurturing and restoring all creatures. The Stenis Tract of Austin, Texas, overrun with invasive King Ranch bluestem. The Stenis Tract, 11 months after A Rocha’s invasives removal and wildflower planting. Noah Guthrie works as the Nashville Conservation Coordinator for A Rocha USA, supporting their communications team and bolstering their new Churches of Restoration program. The latter project empowers Nashville congregations to advocate for local and global ecosystems, both within their churches and in the broader community. For any who feel led to support Noah in his role, you can find his fundraising page at arocha.us/guthrie . If you’ve enjoyed this article or other content coming out of the Rabbit Room, you can help support the work by clicking here. Our weekly newsletter is the best way to learn about new books, staff recommendations, upcoming events, lectures, and more. Sign up here.

by Jen Rose Yokel Every piece of art holds a piece of the artist. We bring our whole selves to the creation of it, laboring, pondering, and curating before offering it to an audience. At best, our creations can become sacred ground—deeply personal and meaningfully connective because they have something true to say. The audience’s job is to bear witness and possibly let themselves be changed. So maybe that’s why it’s taken me so long to finally get words around Interloper , Zane Vickery’s new full-length album. Music that sticks with me the most has always been born of honest wrestling. With soul-deep songwriting and a massive sound, this 77-minute epic does just that. It’s a furious, tender exploration of what it means to brush up against death and live to pick up the pieces.  In October 2022, Vickery suffered a head-on car crash that left the other driver dead and left him with months of physical, mental, and spiritual healing ahead. Not every song is about that event, but it serves as a throughline for all the questions about suffering, and it sets the stage for the spiritual unraveling that can accompany trauma. As the early single “Whatever Light We Have” lands on an ominous image–“I think I see headlights on my side of the road”—the personal reckoning begins. ( Listen to Matt Conner talk with Zane about this very song on the Rabbit Room’s Deepest Cut podcast. ) This is an album of dualities. Hope and forgiveness push back against despair and rage. Some of the album’s standout moments can be the most brutal to listen to. I am struck every time, by the rawness of “The Grateful and Grieving,” as he imagines the final hours of the driver who died in the accident. It’s a hard look at the aftermath of a miracle, when the suffering of recovery and survivor’s guilt becomes almost too great to bear, knowing you are “living to die again.” It’s about the acceptance that comes in the end and asking, “What will I do with the time I’ve been given?”  Then there’s “Honest,” a song that exposes and exorcizes the wounds left in a broken father/son relationship. “Not even a phone call and I very nearly died/I can’t let you go, I’ve tried.” Even more striking is the empathy woven into these songs, where would-be villains are imagined as broken humans with their own traumas. Forgiveness is an antidote to rage—for the driver, for his father, even for himself. It’s not all darkness though. Ultimately, this is an album about healing, and the album’s hinge point comes in “The Weight.” Longtime listeners will recognize this as a reworked version of Breezewood’s  opener, “Weighted,” but in light of the surrounding songs, these lines take on a whole new depth of meaning: Give me hope, round a corner or behind some doorOh, I’ve been so disappointed before… is my grief something to comprehend?I’m sick of making mistakes, look me in the eye and make me sureThat it’s all worth the weight.   And still, even when it gets heavy, this album is musically such a fun listen, especially if you have a soft spot for late 90s and 2000s rock (like me). Once the second half gets going, it’s riffs in “YDWMA” and heavy post-hardcore in “Big Things Coming,” and even a playful 80s pop vibe to the heartfelt love song “Hydrangea” (complete with sax solo).  Thoughtfully produced throwback sounds lend an extra measure of joy to such heavy material. After all, sometimes the best thing we can do is turn up loud guitars and scream back at the darkness. There’s a lot more to say about Interloper . It’s one of those records that continues to deepen with every listen, and really is best experienced from start to finish, all at once. Come for the soaring choruses and nostalgic sounds. Stay to bear witness to suffering and healing, and perhaps find yourself and a little healing too. In more ways than one, it’s a gift this album exists in the world. You can stream Interloper wherever you listen to music. Also, don’t miss Matt Connor’s conversation with Zane Vickery on The Rabbit Room’s new podcast series, The Deepest Cut. Jen Rose Yokel is a poet, writer, and spiritual director. Her words have appeared at The Rabbit Room , She Reads Truth , and other publications, and she is the author of two poetry collections. She is also the co-founder of The Poetry Pub , an online community for poets. Originally from Central Florida, she now makes her home in Fall River, Massachusetts with her poet/professor husband Chris, their rescue dog, and an assortment of books and houseplants. Her latest book, Beneath the Flood , is available now from Bandersnatch Books. You can find her on Substack at Alongside Journal or on Instagram @jroseyokel .

“...the artist must begin in love and create out of that…” - E. Lily Yu Don’t look for the Table of Contents when you pick up E. Lily Yu’s new book Break, Blow, Burn, & Make: A Writer’s Thoughts on Creation because you will not find one. I read this book about a week ago, truth be told, in one sitting. Throughout that day, I realized how much I usually reference the Table of Contents in every book I read. Not in novels, of course, but (more) truth be told, I read considerably more non-fiction than fiction, and I have a habit (I’ll blame my dad for this one) of referencing the Contents again and again as I read to figure out where I am, where I’m going, and the general shape of the author’s intent.   I’m a poet and an Arts Pastor at a city church in Boston, and I try to read as much as I can in the realm of faith and art. I love the work I get to do, and I’ve been shaped by Annie Dillard, Mako Fujimura, Malcolm Guite, Mary Oliver, Jeremy Begbie, Anne Lamott, Andy Crouch, Madeleine L’Engle, Austin Kleon, Julia Cameron, David Taylor, Sarah Arthur—the list is long. In fact, I’m slowly, slowly attempting to write a creativity-unblocking book, myself, inspired by The Artist’s Way, but baptized. So when I see a new book appear on the scene, I am both elated and sheesh, to tell an embarrassing truth—I get a little sting in my chest imagining that this, THIS, is probably the book I want to write, should have written by now, and it’s likely to be way better than anything I’m capable of writing.  So, I ordered Yu’s book, texted some friends to say I finally found the book that I failed to write and waited for its arrival in the mail. When I got it in my hands, I was first struck by its beauty. Whitney J. Hicks did the jacket design, according to the back flap, and it’s inviting—the design is a simple organic twig of leaves interwoven with the title. The phrase connected to something in my mind, but I couldn’t quite place it. Yu eventually discloses that her title comes from Donne’s poem “Batter my heart three-person’d God”: Batter my heart, three-person'd God, for you As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend; That I may rise and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend Your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new. I, like an usurp'd town to another due, Labor to admit you, but oh, to no end; Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend, But is captiv'd, and proves weak or untrue. Yet dearly I love you, and would be lov'd fain, But am betroth'd unto your enemy; Divorce me, untie or break that knot again, Take me to you, imprison me, for I, Except you enthrall me, never shall be free, Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me. A poem that never fails to make me squirm. I’ve been a follower of this Three Person’d God since my earliest years, but I haven’t prayed this way yet. I am rather enjoying the knocking, breathing, shining, and seeking to mend—that’s as dramatic as I want the Holy Spirit to be in my life. Yu’s title is bold, and her book is bold.  E. Lily Yu has won some prestigious awards as a novelist, and this new book is her first foray into nonfiction. By reading every word of the Acknowledgments (another habit I think I got from my dad), I learned that she wrote this book after being encouraged to do so by her Substack subscribers. Imagine that! I’m glad they did, and we should all be thankful to the two paid subscribers she particularly mentions: Susan Gossman and Misha Stone. So the book is new, beautifully designed, has a bold and poetic title, and she’s apparently a good writer (on Substack, no less!) . Now you are in the exact same place I was when I cracked it open.  The journey inside the pages is a delight—fresh, clear, energizing, convicting, practical, and winsome. It’s made up of three equal parts (a nod to Donne?), accompanied by three simple drawings that begin with a leaf, advance to a branch, and culminate in a full-leafed tree.  The first section is a diagnosis and an invitation. Her diagnosis is literary, cultural, and religious. She grieves the unmet hunger that is so present in many peoples’ souls—whether they’re scrolling social media, reading a new novel or a book review, or listening to a sermon at church—a hunger that she claims is rarely addressed, let alone satisfied with true bread.  She doesn’t exceed the limits of her expertise by attempting to comment on every single sphere of life, or diagnosing worldwide problems. Rather, she mostly writes about this hunger, as she senses it, in the literary world, while still making reasonable connections with our broader society and with the Christian church in particular. She explicitly names this hunger in herself as the very reason she wrote the book. What is this hunger?  Your imagination probably needs a good bath before you can hear the answer to that, and her first few pages offer it, but I’ll tell you anyway since this is a book review. The thing we are all hungering for is Love. But before you start imagining pink hearts, hand-in-hand walks on the beach, candlelit dinner, or whatever, let this wash over you: Yu writes: By love I mean what Erich Fromm meant, a practice and discipline of giving of one’s own aliveness to another … I mean generous and disinterested agape rather than passionate eros or fond philia. I mean the love that created the universe, that brings order to chaos and meaning to suffering and causes growth in its proper time. (pg. 8) “Giving of one’s own aliveness”—while of course, this is the way we’re meant to live as followers of Jesus (the ultimate giver of His aliveness), Yu is writing about the craft of writing. This kind of love needs to be the flame that ignites our writing. It’s the kind of writing she says is now terribly hard to find, the kind that she herself attempts to write, and the kind of writers she invites her readers to become. More than once, my eyes swam with tears, and as I put my finger in the book to keep my place, I folded it shut and quietly prayed, “Yes, Lord, let my own writing be fueled by this Love. Let me give of my aliveness in my poems.”  She writes of bread, and she writes of fire. “To inspire human beings with grace, love, and wisdom—to plant a pale spark in another person’s spirit, and breathe upon it, that the soul might quicken to flame—this is and has always been the unspoken, unwritten duty of writers, artists, and God.” (pg. 18) The first section ends with a long and wonderfully winding chapter titled “Reading Badly, Reading Well,” where Yu offers an invitation into the kind of reading (and therefore living) that joins mature love to wisdom. The way she addressed the work of the Reader was especially fresh to me. The whole second part of the book is devoted to the craft of writing, but she begins with all kinds of charges to Readers, and I am taking each one to heart.  Part two is a breakdown of writer’s craft, from understanding the writing life as a vocation to the call for courage and solitude, and much more. I won’t pretend to be your Table of Contents here; you’ll have to read it to uncover what comes before and after such a sentence as, “The artist dies to self, burns, and becomes transparent not out of self-hatred but out of love, so that something greater than the self might come into being.” (pg. 86) Yu says the most about being a Christian who is a writer in part three. From my perspective, this book is surprisingly hospitable to Christians and non-Christians. The way she interacts with novels and with our cultural moment is compelling no matter your faith, and yet, for a long-time Christian like myself, her way of naming and prodding me towards obedience was clarifying and convicting.  Her heroes and heroines are summoned, George MacDonald perhaps most of all. She offers up ways to pray before creative work, and she devotes a chapter to getting outside. Literally. She doesn’t resort to “Touch grass,” but God bless her for writing this much-needed reminder, “If we returned our attention to nature, we would realize that life can never be unvarying happiness under a cloudless sky. It is instead a sifting of sediments, a cracking open, a melting, a solidifying, a structuring.” (pg. 205) This book has no Table of Contents, and it reads like a novel in some ways—when you begin, you must submit to the story, entrust yourself to the author’s leading, and the rewards are manifold. She ends the book with a hopeful image from a George MacDonald story, urging writers and readers in a way that I can only call pastoral: “To live as if this story is true, despite our doubts, in spite of the active and encircling darkness and the falsity and cruelty in the world—to believe that every human being is beloved of the Creator, and formed to do a beautiful work that no one else can do, if only she will let that love transform her utterly and set her hands to the task is to fly through darkness toward a flame.” (pg. 216) May it be so. Oh, and I’m still planning to write my book. Anna A. Friedrich is a poet and Arts Pastor in Boston, Massachusetts. You can find more of her work at annaafriedrich.substack.com If you’ve enjoyed this article or other content coming out of the Rabbit Room, you can help support the work by clicking here. Our weekly newsletter is the best way to learn about new books, staff recommendations, upcoming events, lectures, and more. Sign up here.

“You’re welcome.” “I’M WELCOME? For—for—for what?” “You were an okay chef when you started with me. And you left an excellent chef. So, you’re welcome.” “You gave me ulcers, and panic attacks. And nightmares. You know that, right? You understand that?” “Yeah. I gave you confidence, and leadership, and ability … You wanted to be great. You wanted to be excellent … You concentrated, and you got focused, and you got great. You got excellent.” This dialogue is an excerpt from a Season Three episode of The Bear, between chefs Carmen “Carmy” Berzatto (Jeremy Allen White) and his former mentor-tormentor David Fields (Joel McHale). This brief encounter doesn’t end with reconciliation and there is no clear resolution. It’s one of the most unsatisfying scenes in the series. In allowing it to be so, I believe The Bear  gives us a uniquely realistic approach to our own trauma and how God repurposes it in ways that often leave us with more questions than answers.  The critically acclaimed FX/Hulu show centers around Carmy as he learns to process his mental state in the aftermath of his older brother’s suicide. His older brother, Mikey (Jon Bernthal), was the owner-proprietor of The Original Beef of Chicagoland. The restaurant was a sloppy over-the-counter establishment specializing in Italian hot beef sandwiches, served with an even sloppier side of customer service. The employees are crass and undisciplined and their customers loved it. The Original Beef was a beloved staple of the community even as it was poorly managed to the brink of closure. Carmy, a rising star in the culinary world, comes home to Chicago to manage the restaurant, and its rag-tag crew, after Mikey’s death. In the first two seasons, he partners with a chef de cuisine, Sydney Adamu (Ayo Edebiri) and together they transform The Original Beef into a fine-dining establishment called The Bear. His employees undergo a massive transformation of their own. They learn communication skills, coping methods, and lean into the craft of their work. Their progression in the midst of their own personal dysfunctions is a highlight of the show—and one of the main reasons the second season has been nominated for a record 23 Emmys. They all progress and grow—except Carmy. He’s stuck in old patterns and well-worn paths that have habitually led to depression, doubt, and self-sabotage.  The duality between the restaurant’s outward-facing front-of-house service and the chaos behind the scenes in the kitchen runs parallel to the truncated compartmentalization that exists in Carmy’s own life. To the public, he is the owner of a successful restaurant. He’s one of the brightest new talents in the country. Yet his inner life is a discombobulated mess. He combats his panic attacks by chain-smoking cigarettes and torpedoes any and all meaningful relationships before they can blossom into real joy.  Through three seasons, we discover that much of his inner chaos is caffeinated into overdrive by a traumatic relationship he had with the aforementioned David Fields—whose method of training was based on intense fear and degradation which, according to Fields, produced the desired result.  As I watched their conversation play out—Fields wearing a smug demeanor that was equal parts sociopathic and sadistic—I was transplanted to my own experience as a young Korean American pastor, working as a subordinate under people who might have had the same approach as Fields when it came to training their underlings.  In many ways, Korean immigrant theology is akin to a theology of suffering. The older generations believe, whether they admit it or not, that any pastor worth their salt must endure suffering. If they haven’t, then suffering must be manufactured. Not unlike the ascetic Desert Fathers, Korean pastors and elders are renowned for their ability to withstand turmoil and hardships, some of it self-inflicted. There is a Korean word, cham-uh , which roughly translates to “suppress, bite your tongue, to endure and bear, ” and it might as well be the unofficial slogan of our orthopraxy. I wrote about this superhuman ability  to endure, especially focusing on its beauty and its necessity for survival—as cham-uh  has helped three consecutive generations of Koreans endure and thrive in the midst of extreme persecution, slavery, and war. But The Bear  has prompted me to revisit some of my unsavory experiences as a Korean American pastor.  My first pastoral experience was wrought with hardships for which my only path was to cham-uh . It was a difficult ministry for me and my wife. More than the physical toil it took on my body, it was the mental and emotional burden that was overwhelming. Without getting into specifics, the ministry expectations for me as an assistant pastor were to run a marathon as if it were a sprint. I wrestle with this scene from The Bear , specifically Fields’ justification of his treatment of Carmy. “You were an okay chef when you started with me. And you left an excellent chef. So, you’re welcome.” I left my first ministry dejected, feeling like I’ve failed, and worse yet, feeling unsure of my calling because I’ve abandoned my cultural orthopraxy. But I’m also certain it has shaped me into a better pastor. The overarching question I keep asking myself now is, “Was Fields right?”  I loathe this question because I fear it might be true. I believe I’m functionally  a better leader and pastor because of my trauma, not in spite of it. At least when it comes to the front of the house. My spiritual food service is in order. I am prepared for a wide assortment of workplace hazards. My congregation eats meals that have been forged in the fire and the public face of my restaurant projects health and vitality. And in the end, I keep going. I know I can endure. I can cham-uh  well past the point of exhaustion, even delirium. But it comes at an expense. The hidden and compartmentalized kitchen of my psyche is a jumbled mess. Chaos, doubt, self-sabotage. I go weeks at a time where I do not sleep more than three hours a night but then crash in bed for the next few days. I overeat one night, then have panic attacks the next. I bite off skin from the ends of my fingers on one hand, while grabbing bandages for the impending blood with the other.  Like Carmy, my issues go well beyond a previous working environment. But also like Carmy, it has been caffeinated into overdrive because of it. So as I finished watching this latest season of The Bear , it’s unclear which aspects of my training were vital for my pastoral growth and which have been unnecessarily damaging. The show offers no simple conclusions. Perhaps it will be addressed in Season Four but my guess is that the two are inseparable. Trauma and triumph. There is no clear delineation. It’s a bittersweet pairing that attracts as it repulses—like a home-cooked meal that reminds someone of their childhood years spent in an orphanage.  In the meantime, we are given a bit of gospel reprieve in the form of another dialogue from the same episode. In this scene, Chef Luca (Will Poulter) and Chef Sydney are sitting around a table at a dinner party, eating a dish with peas in it. Luca looks at the dish. It’s one that he made a thousand times as an apprentice. After the first few bites, he tells Sydney, “I shucked, probably, ten million of these peas. Day in, day out, like robots.” “It’s kind of like a trauma-dish then?” “Yeah. Big time trauma-dish. The messed up thing is I currently make a dessert version [at my own restaurant]. Sweet pea panna cotta.” “You, kind of, repurposed your trauma then.” “That’s all we can do, right?” There is an unassuming dollop of biblical wisdom in those scripted words. The psalmist writes of God turning “wailing into dancing”   (Psalm 30:11) and I see it play out in real life in the processes that constitute a repurposing. I imagine Chef Luca in his test kitchen, shucking peas while conceptualizing a new dish. Poking and prodding, tweaking and testing. Exploring flavors and evaluating how they sit on the palette. Eventually, after many test runs, the dish comes out as he likes it, and it is in this entire process—from conceptualizing to plating—that he finds a bit of reprieve. Sweet pea panna cotta for the soul.  If we allow ourselves to be attuned to it, our Creator God gives us opportunities to go through a similar process while engaging in a variety of activities—art, music, writing, therapy, counsel, meditation, and prayer. We poke and prod. We revisit our pain. We allow ideas to fester and ferment. We explore a variety of word pairings, brush strokes, and harmonies. We test flavor combinations as they sit on the palette of our hearts. And somewhere along the way, God gives us increasing moments of respite. Wailing is transformed into dancing—or at least a slight rhythmic shuffling of our feet. Perhaps a clap or two.  Personally, the process of writing this piece has been like starting a new restaurant. I’ve been envisioning it as an open-kitchen concept. The intent of this space is to seek equal transparency between the back-of-the-house and the front. This restaurant undergoes construction with the hopes that opening up the kitchen will not only help me in my own repurposing, but to invite others to see how the dish gets made. And maybe somewhere throughout this entire process, we might find reprieve. A repurposing of cham-uh . Maybe that’s all we can do. Daniel Jung is a graduate of Calvin Theological Seminary and a teaching elder in the Korean Northwest Presbytery. He lives in Northern California, where he serves as an associate pastor at  Home of Christ in Cupertino . In his spare time, Daniel loves the 49ers, good coffee, and writing media reviews for Think Christian. You can find more of his work  here . If you’ve enjoyed this article or other content coming out of the Rabbit Room, you can help support the work by clicking here. Our weekly newsletter is the best way to learn about new books, staff recommendations, upcoming events, lectures, and more. Sign up here.

by Carolyn Arends As a musician, I know that arrangements matter. I remember reading an interview with the guitarist from the Canadian group Blue Rodeo in which he explained that the band’s signature song, “Try,” had once been a lackluster rocker. Their record company had passed on the song, but the band experimented with the tempo. When they slowed “Try” down, it became a soulful ballad—and an obvious hit. The right arrangement made all the difference. Every musician learns (sometimes the hard way) that making good choices about which notes are played—and how loud and long they are played—is the difference between cacophony and harmony. It’s not just in music that arrangements matter. Event planners, travel agents, florists, and funeral directors will all tell you that making good arrangements is their stock-in-trade. I wonder, what might it take to have a well-arranged life? I’ve been asking that question intermittently, but with increasing urgency since I came across author Dallas Willard’s definition of what it means to be a disciple of Jesus in The Spirit of the Disciplines : “The disciple is one who, intent upon becoming Christlike . . . systematically and progressively rearranges his affairs to that end.” I am interested in becoming more like Christ. I suspect that such a transformation might be the only way to make music out of the cacophony of my thoughts, feelings, and behaviors. But how do I “systematically and progressively rearrange my affairs” to that end? An Invitation to the Disciplines Years ago, on a long concert tour, I noticed that our bass player, Dave, was reading a book called Celebration of Discipline . I found the title irritating. Dave was already notoriously more self-disciplined than your average musician. He ate raw vegetables while the rest of us devoured pizza. He went for morning jogs as we slept. His tour bus bunk was always unnaturally tidy. So when I saw Dave reading Celebration of Discipline , I recoiled in a disgust fueled by self-recrimination. Of course Dave would “celebrate discipline.” He probably ironed his underwear. After Dave finished the book, he began gently insisting that I read it. When I finally acquiesced, I discovered that Richard Foster’s famous treatise on the classic spiritual disciplines had something to say not only to neat freaks like Dave but also to messes like me. “Willpower will never succeed in dealing with the deeply ingrained habits of sin,” I read in the introductory chapter. That rang true. There were small but insidious habits of my heart—petty pride, stubborn self-reliance, almost unconscious strains of selfishness—that seemed hopelessly entrenched. “The demand is for an inside job,” I read, “and only God can work from the inside.” In the Book of Romans, the apostle Paul refers to righteousness as a gift from God 35 times, emphasizing repeatedly that no one can achieve a justified and rightly ordered life on her own. Not What I Expected So far,  Celebration of Discipline  was reassuring. I shouldn’t expect my willpower to be sufficient. ( Amen .) I should understand that inner transformation is purely a gift of God. ( Amen, again .) But just when I was beginning to relax, Foster’s argument took an interesting turn: “We do not need to be hung on the horns of the dilemma of either human works or idleness. God has given us the Disciplines of the spiritual life as a means of receiving his grace. The Disciplines allow us to place ourselves before God so he can transform us.” Reading those words, a picture came to my mind. I could see a pool at the bottom of a waterfall that I knew represented the blessings God has for me—peace, love, acceptance, wholeness, and the fullness of his presence. There was no fence around the water. I could jump in any time I wanted. But I was running distractedly around the shoreline—sweaty, parched, and complaining about my need for refreshment. It occurred to me that maybe the spiritual disciplines were simply ways I could wade into the pool and stand beneath the waterfall. If the disciplines could become habits that would help me rearrange my affairs to be more open and receptive to God, then, yes—they were worth celebrating. So I read Foster’s catalog of classic spiritual practices: meditation, prayer, fasting, study, simplicity, solitude, submission, service, confession, worship, guidance, and celebration. Some of them were strange and new; others were old friends.I found myself thinking about a season, back in high school, after my first serious boyfriend and I had broken up. My youth pastor’s wife, Pam, sent me a card, and at the bottom she wrote Psalm 37:4: “Delight yourself in the LORD, and he will give you the desires of your heart.” There was little doubt about the desires of my heart, so I considered Psalm 37:4 a contract. All I had to do was delight in God, and he’d give me back my boyfriend. I wasn’t exactly sure what sort of “taking delight” in the Lord would meet my end of the bargain. So I picked up a copy of Our Daily Bread  in my church’s foyer and began reading it at breakfast and right before bed. Pam had also given me the devotional classic The Practice of the Presence of God , and I decided I’d try to be like the book’s author, a 17th-century monk named Brother Lawrence, by practicing God’s presence all day long. “I’m walking to my locker now,” I’d whisper to Jesus between classes. “I’m going to science class.” Two strange things happened. First, I started to genuinely delight in God—to look forward to our set-aside times together and to have a sense that he was with me throughout the day. Second, the more I delighted in God, the more the desires of my heart changed. After a while, I didn’t want my boyfriend back. God had literally given my heart new desires. An inner transformation had taken place, and I was learning to want the things God wanted for me. The disciplines I had almost inadvertently practiced in that season—prayer, study, meditation, guidance—had indeed been means of grace. Years later, sitting on a tour bus reading Celebration of Discipline , I began to remember that spiritual practices were meant to be not chores but invitations—opportunities to “progressively and systematically rearrange” the habits of my life in order to delight in God—and to increasingly learn how much God delights in me. A Well-Ordered Life When I get up tomorrow morning, there will be a moment when I choose whether to start my day with the disciplines of silence and prayer or whether I simply hit the ground running. Either way, God will still love me. He’ll still be near. Yet I know from experience that I am likely to encounter a day I begin with prayer much differently than a day I don’t. The events of a day initiated in my own strength seem to come at me frantically—as bullets to dodge in the hopes of surviving until dinner. When I begin the day in divine conversation, those events seem graced with potential and freighted with God’s involvement. The notes are the same, but the song has changed. The right arrangement makes all the difference. Revisiting Celebration I’ve been thinking about my first encounters with Celebration of Discipline lately because it is one of the books we’ll be reading this year in the Renovaré Book Club (alongside Worth Celebrating , a new book documenting the originals of Celebration of Discipline and the movement it sparked, The Narrow Way by Rich Villodas , and the devotional classic Abandonment to Divine Providence by Jean Pierre de Caussade.) We begin September 23rd, and we’d love to have you join us. You can learn more at renovare.org/bookclub – and Rabbit Room readers can use the code RABBITFIVE to get $5 off. Adapted from “Transforming Habits,” originally published in Christianity Today . Carolyn Arends is a Vancouver-based musician, author, speaker, and director of education for Renovaré, a far-reaching organization that resources and encourages spiritual renewal. Her passions include human creativity, spiritual formation, and the beautiful sport of hockey. Learn more about Carolyn at her website , more about Renovaré at renovare.org , and more about Carolyn's new video series with the Henri Nouwen Society (A Beautiful Adventure: The Gift of the Arts in Spiritual Formation) here .

by Matt Wheeler The Rabbit Room community is brimming with people of faith who have fascinating stories and who are doing generative, creative work. The subject of this conversation, North Carolina-based singer-songwriter Hope Newman Kemp, and the backstory that culminates in her new album Facing Eden  are compelling examples of this, and we’re pleased to spotlight her and this project. In this dialogue, you’ll be introduced to her long path to this redemptive work, the heart behind her jazz-infused style, and her encouragement to those seeking to craft an artist identity by the intense work in merging the two strong calls of creativity and domesticity. Matt Wheeler: I want to ask about your new album project, Facing Eden , but first, for context: what has your journey been like up to this point, and what role has music played? Hope Newman Kemp : I grew up making music in a home immersed in Jesus Folk culture during the soul-sonic 70’s. At 20, I married a cute non-musician future Army dentist, and children came right after–requiring every ounce of creative collateral I could muster.  I am a piano-driven songwriter, singer, and psalmist, so church worship service was a natural fit while also moving around the world and homeschooling.  In 1998 and 2005, I self-produced 2 CDs of original songs that were not great, some of them not even good, but the creative collaboration proved exhilarating. In 2007, I joined Elon University’s Recording Arts program for a live analog recording of Christmas music called “Unto Us.” Then, in 2017, I wrote and recorded “Hoping for Real: Songs Inspired by The Velveteen Rabbit” (produced by Ben Hardesty of The Last Bison), which we developed into a musical reading show.  During the pandemic, I contributed vocals as part of a quartet with UNC jazz studies professors for an album called “Carolina Bluebird Jazz Project.” What looked like productive artistry on paper felt more like a futile (and very expensive) jumping up and down in one spot.  Meanwhile, our family began expanding to include grandchildren and our home, an intergenerational hub. I told myself, “You can figure this out after the kids are grown!”; a vision I should not have adopted.   Because when that day arrived, I discovered “No Room for Older Women” the prevailing banner anywhere I sought to enter. After 35 years, I had mastered domesticity yet had not blazed trails for making music with other artists or ministries. One might say, “Ok, but now you have the good life: happy marriage, established home, a bit of artistic expression–so what’s the problem exactly?” The problem was a paralyzation in creative forward motion I did not expect.  As a final blow, church worship music began culturally shifting in ways I could not affect, which made it necessary to remove myself from that sphere. This disabled me completely. MW: Sounds like you were stymied - feeling the pull to use your giftings in music in God’s service, but not sure where to point them or where to start. Not sure where “your deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger meet”, as Frederick Buechner put it. How did that start to change? HNK : My stymied state was strangling immediate relationships: my marriage, my friendships, and my own inner life also began to suffer.  By divine intervention, I met renowned artist Babbie Mason, and she became my private songwriting coach for a year.  However, with her, I also learned I had been writing the kind of song meant for a Sunday morning church singer—a path I wholly did not want. Inadvertently, I was painting my own artistic output into a corner! In ridiculous irony, the Lord was giving songs, but I found it too painful to work them out. Then, a few years ago, I met Melanie Waldman at a songwriter’s workshop. She introduced me to The Rabbit Room and the Jesus-loving artists there.  The Lord also separately directed me to Stephen Roach (Makers and Mystics), Rachel Wilhem (United Adoration), and Michael Minkoff (Renew the Arts) as counselors.  Sitting in new, trusted company and learning of their artistic laments, was a reorientation that helped me repent of self-pity and see myself as an artist loved by God, created for good works–particularly while amid artistic desolation.  Even so, I was not making fast progress out of my whirlpool. This was my state when Jeremy Casella and I met.  MW: Jeremy Casella - who I understand produced your new album “Facing Eden.” How did that collaboration come together, and what did he have in mind for the project? HNK : At that point, I had grown so cynical about my artistic identity that I let Jeremy’s message sit for two solid months before replying. He stated that he felt impressed by the Holy Spirit to reach out.   He didn’t know, but that’s the part that caught my attention.  Eventually, I tossed two songs to him that didn’t fit inside the same collection in my mind, but Jeremy heard things he was excited about. He is well-respected, his Nashville relationships are stellar, and he wanted to share them with me. This resonated profoundly. Historically, I’ve had to pursue artistic collaborations–they don’t usually come my way. I finally accepted that this was an invitation from the Lord Jesus Himself via Jeremy Casella.   MW: And the project that emerged from this collaboration is called “Facing Eden.” What is the significance of that title? HNK :   One of my literary character heroes is “Sarah Smith of Golders Green” in C.S. Lewis’s The Great Divorce .  The image I have of her is the one I want for myself: A woman so enamored with the God of Love that she walks face-forward into the barren place as if it is her road sign. She does not consult her fruitful footsteps for compass; rather attention is focused ahead on Love Himself.  Behind her flows the fantastical continuance of nature in seraphim, dancing nymphs, butterflies, waterfalls– as if enfolded in the train of her robes.  I adopted this elevation and commissioned Sarah Haddox (Sincerely Sarah Studios) to produce the portrait (cover art designed by Nicole Anosen, 28 Lions).  She visualizes the variety of song genres as strands of multi-colored hair, picturing what Jeremy has synergized: 11 different songs on one album—love songs, Gospel, jazz, bluesy folk, and a nod to my Jesus People roots (featuring Phil Keaggy, so he’s present in the roots AND fruits!)  The idea for the name, FACING EDEN, is two-fold: what happened there needs to be faced: we—the image bearers of the Creator—were once housed inside but now are exiled to the field. Even so, the misty outline of Eden is always present behind the person/the task/the work before us as the way to bring about that reunion of “on Earth as it is in Heaven.”   I’m in the youth of my old age. The window is Now. So, two songs evolved into three, then an EP, and then “Let’s finish this out into an album!”—something my cheerleading husband also said. In the end, I made this album for me. It is an added delight to share it with the world. MW: The lead single, “Keep on Going,” is especially upbeat and, well, hopeful. What is the story behind that song? HNK:  The phrase “Keep on Going” is a line Pete Peterson sent to me in response to a message.  The song was written while driving home from a Hutchmoot conference. I visualized myself standing on a cliff overlooking a vast cavern where another me was scrambling to find the secret door out of it. I called, “I see you! Keep on going!”   The song doesn’t follow a traditional songwriting structure. It moves along verse after verse after verse, drawing inspiration from the many good works in the lives of the people I had just met. Jeremy produced the song to resound its origin story: the chorus revs up to a near-chaotic constitution of voices and instruments while simply fading away (keeps on going). The other songs on the album were written during long prayer walks around our 100-acre property. MW: What advice would you give to a person in a similar season of life who is looking to venture into a new or renewed, creative pursuit?  HNK:  I get it. I get that the “recipes” don’t fit when you reach a certain stage in life. Reality is real.  But DON’T do as I did and sit ruminating: DO instead ask the Lord to help you find wise counselors to help you see what you might be missing. I’ve lived this contention long enough to have finally learned: The talent He has placed within you—along with the whole of your history—is purposed for His glory and your good. It is His investment as a ready means (for you first!) to enter His presence.  Can you accept its existence could be for no other reason than to keep you hidden in Him? His Spirit has whispered this question to me, releasing greater happiness for my primary work as Overseer of People and Place, like Sarah Smith of Golders Green. Like Jesus.  Your artist identity in Jesus is worth the fight it feels like it’s in. So: Ask Him for vision, then walk in the Light you've been given.   And keep on going! A troubadour, poet with a guitar, & stage banter-conversationalist, Matt Wheeler lives in Lancaster County, PA with his wife & teenage son. He specializes in songs based on classic works of literature - his 2021 album "Wonder of It All", featuring songs & stories based on books including "The Horse & His Boy" & "Watership Down" is an example. His new album, "A Hard History of Love" is inspired by a series of Wendell Berry's short stories & released in September 2023. You can read and listen to more of his work at  www.mattwheeleronline.com . If you’ve enjoyed this article or other content coming out of the Rabbit Room, you can help support the work by clicking here. Our weekly newsletter is the best way to learn about new books, staff recommendations, upcoming events, lectures, and more. Sign up here.

by Cindy Anderson My first-grade teacher taught us our lessons outside whenever possible. My fourth-grade teacher constantly did hands-on science experiments and read books to us. And my eighth-grade teacher read the words of William Wordsworth, Robert Frost, and Maya Angelou aloud to us. My school librarian introduced me to Wrinkle in Time , and to this day, Madeleine L’Engle is still one of my favorite writers. She also helped me track down the rest of the Narnia books after I read The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe and showed me the shelves with Beverly Cleary, J.R.R. Tolkien, and L.M. Montgomery. How could I ever begin to thank someone for such introductions? Today’s book list celebrates the educators, librarians, and book enthusiasts in our lives: the people who point us to beauty, creativity, and great ideas. If you are an educator, librarian, bookshop owner, writer, illustrator, editor, or publisher of beautiful books, a parent or grandparent who reads to their children, or someone who supports local or small online bookstores, these books are about you.  Books by Horseback by Emma Carlson Berne During the Great Depression, Book Women braved the mountainous terrain of rural Kentucky to bring books to children and families. The Pack Horse Library initiative served over 300 libraries and more than 100,000 people. The lovely illustrations in this book enhance the story of what a day would have looked like for one of these librarians. (Recommended for ages 4-8) Planting Stories by Anika Aldamuy Denise This is an inspiring biography of Pure Belpre, a storyteller, librarian, and puppeteer who arrived in America in 1921, carrying the stories and folklore of her Puerto Rican homeland with her. After being hired by her neighborhood library as a bilingual assistant, she began planting the seeds of her stories and became a champion of bilingual literature. The illustrations are lovely, and the story is rhythmic, with Spanish words scattered throughout the pages.  (Recommended for ages 4-8) The Oldest Student: How Mary Walker Learned to Read by Rita L. Hubbard Mary Walker was born into slavery and always dreamed of freedom and learning to read. At the age of 15, she was given her freedom. At age 20, she was a wife and a mother. By age 68, she had worked several jobs, and at age 116, she learned how to read, write, add, and subtract. She was eventually certified as the oldest student in the United States.  (Recommended for ages 5-9) Madeline Finn and the Library Dog by Lisa Papp Madeline wants to be a better reader, but it’s not easy. Fortunately, she finds help when she meets Bonnie, the library dog. Madeline’s courage grows as Bonnie patiently listens to her read-aloud. This is an encouraging and sweet story for anyone who loves books (or dogs).  (Recommended for ages 3-8) Library Lion by Michelle Knudsen Miss Merriweather, the lead librarian, wants everyone to follow the rules, but what are the rules about a lion in the library? After learning some library etiquette, the lion eventually becomes a regular fixture, helping whenever possible. He dusts the shelves with his tail, becomes a comfortable backrest for the children in story hour, and becomes a dependable friend. The charming illustrations are a perfect match for this sweet story.  (Recommended for ages 3-7) Waiting for the Biblioburro by Monica Brown Ana and the other children in her village have little access to books. All that changes when Luis Soriano arrives with his traveling library resting on the backs of two burros. The text has Spanish words scattered throughout, and the illustrations match the story perfectly. This book is based on a true story and reminds its readers of the importance of reading and education.  (Recommended for ages 4-8) The Art of Miss Chew by Patricia Polacco Patricia Polacco is a brilliant picture book writer and illustrator. The Art of Miss Chew  is a heartwarming tribute to the teacher she credits with setting her on her course as an artist. As a child, Patricia struggled with reading, but with the help of some fantastic teachers, she grew as a reader, writer, and illustrator. Her books are ideal for slightly older children as they often cover difficult subjects and are lengthy for a picture book.  (Recommended for ages 5-10) The Dot by Peter H. Reynolds The gentle words of Vashti’s teacher give her the courage to express herself as an artist. Beginning with a simple dot on a blank page, she discovers her own creativity and finds confidence in her ability to express herself. Simple text and fun illustrations make this little book a sweet and encouraging story.  (Recommended for ages 3-7) We are in a Book by Mo Williams I have recommended the Elephant and Piggie series before, but since this title perfectly fits this category, I decided to mention it again. We Are in a Book  is a clever and funny story about what happens when Gerald and Piggie realize they are in a book and are being read. It is a great read-aloud story. (Recommended for ages 3-7) Just Read! by Lori Degman This vibrant and cheerfully illustrated picture book encourages young readers to read anywhere and everywhere. Full of creativity and imagination, this book is a delight for readers of all ages.  (Recommended for ages 4-8)

by Ruth Naomi Floyd "Sing a song full of the faith that the dark past has taught us,   Sing a song full of the hope that the present has brought us…" From Lift Every Voice and Sing  Lyrics by James Weldon Johnson   and Music composed by John Rosamond Johnson  My paternal great-grandmother, Hattie, lived to be 109 years old. Her husband, Thomas, my great-grandfather, lived to the age of 99. Thomas and Hattie were married for over 75 years. When we were children, my two sisters and I would spend one week at my great-grandparents’ home during the summer. Hattie kept a meticulously clean house and an incredible garden. She grew watermelon,  collard greens, turnip greens, fruits, and herbs. She taught me to churn butter and ice cream, cook, “keep” house, and beautifully dress a table. One afternoon, I was running the sweeper in the living room. Hattie was in the kitchen, mopping the floor. As I was singing, I experimented with the low end of my voice, and suddenly, I heard the mop hit the floor. Hattie ran upstairs; it was the fastest I ever saw her run. Her daughter, my great Aunt Ella, who was in her eighties, went upstairs to check on Hattie. When Ella came downstairs, I asked her if Hattie was okay. Ella told me that Hattie felt something in my voice that reminded her of her mother’s singing voice. Hattie’s mother was an enslaved African in America.   The echo of Hattie’s mother’s voice dwelled within my voice. It saddened me that this echo startled  Hattie and made her lament. I could never know how she felt. When Hattie came downstairs, she smiled at me and gave me a slice of one of her amazing cakes. We sat silently at the kitchen table as I  ate my cake. My sisters were outside playing, so it was a special moment for us. I would like to believe that Hattie’s lament turned to joy. The soul of her mother’s singing voice continues to sound in her great-granddaughter’s voice. This gift of echoed sound is powerful, and I am deeply grateful.  The song Hattie heard me sing while running the sweeper was the great African American Spiritual Wade in the Water .  Refrain   Wade in the water   Wade in the water, children   Wade in the water  God's gonna trouble the water.  See that man all dressed in white,   God’s gonna trouble the water   The leader looks like the Israelite   God’s gonna trouble the water.  See that band all dressed in red,   God's gonna trouble the water  Looks like the band that Moses led   God's gonna trouble the water. If you don’t believe I’ve been redeemed,   God's gonna trouble the water   Just follow me down to Jordan’s stream   God's gonna trouble the water.      No more shall they in bondage toil,   God's gonna trouble the water   Let them come out with Egypt's spoil   God's gonna trouble the water.   I don’t know if Hattie’s mother sang Wade in the Water , but we sang it at Hattie’s church during  Sunday services. Wade in the Water is among the best-known and beloved African American Spirituals. The lyrics to Wade in the Water first appeared in the 1901 New Jubilee Songs as sung by the Fisk Jubilee Singers. It was co-published by Frederick J. Work and his brother, John Wesley Jr., an educator at the historically black college Fisk University in Nashville, Tennessee.   African American Spirituals contain expressions for the fight for freedom, biblical stories and imagery, and messages about the daily life of enslaved Africans in America. The biblical themes in many African American Spirituals are evident. These themes inspired compositions like Didn’t My  Lord Deliver Daniel, Go Down Moses, Joshua Fit the Battle of Jericho, Steal Away, Every Time I Feel the Spirit,  Go Tell it on the Mountain, Crucifixion, and many more.  Like many African American Spirituals, Wade in the Water contains coded messages that were used as alerts and warnings to guide and assist the enslaved fugitives to freedom. The lyrics of the songs remain the same, but the message is sometimes determined by the meter of the music. When the enslaved Africans sang the meter mournfully slow, it represented the journey from life to death,  from earth to heaven. When they sang the song up-tempo, it was a signal song for the escaping enslaved Africans to get in the water to avoid the slave catchers by losing the scent of the bloodhounds. Enslaved Africans were hunted across the country, and these alert songs helped them avoid recapture and reach freedom. Wade in the Water is one of the African American Spirituals from the Underground Railroad, a network of secret routes and safe houses, such as homes, barns,  churches, and businesses. These places helped enslaved Africans escape the American South and reach free states and Canada.   To create is to protest all that is wrong in the world. The enslaved Africans composed and sang in resistance to the sin of American slavery. For the most part, enslaved people were not allowed to meet with two other enslaved people without white supervision, yet somehow, Black life was able to remain a secret to white America. The enslaved Africans would meet in the invisible church. The clandestine church was hidden in the bush harbors, the woods, and other secret places. There were no set dates, times, or appointments. Songs created by the enslaved Africans convened the invisible church. Although the invisible church was illegal, worship services provided much-needed relief from the white gaze. They also offered a place to engage and practice a theology rooted in Imago  Dei, the truth that all humans were created in God's image.  In certain places in the American South, the African drum was considered a dangerous communication tool, so the enslaved Africans bravely played rhythmic patterns on their bodies and shared them with their voices to communicate messages. They could not openly say the things they desired and needed to communicate, but they certainly could sing them.  Hattie sang African American Spirituals, her mother sang them, her children sang them, her grandchildren sang them, and her great-grandchildren and their children's children continue to sing them. This shared musical tradition connects generations, reminding us of our history, faith,  strength, beauty, and resilience. The singing of the enslaved Africans rang out in resistance to the carnage, damage, sorrow, oppression, and horror of American slavery.   There was beauty amid the wreckage. There was beauty in Hattie's mother's voice, a voice that sang its way to freedom. This beauty echoes in my own voice and even in my daughter’s voice. There are gifts of beauty that rise from the ashes that surround this path we call life. We, too, can lift our voices in songs of lament, protest, resistance, hope, love, rage, joy, and, most certainly, worship.  And, when it is time for us to wade in the water to the other side, we can sing our way to our promised and heavenly home.  Ruth Naomi Floyd is a vocalist, composer, flutist, educator, independent historical researcher, photographer, and justice worker.  Photograph: “Echo” © Ruth Naomi Floyd Images  To hear Ruth explore more of the history of African American Spirituals, watch her lecture during Housemoot , the web conference offering over 15 hours of new lectures, recipes, and artistic offerings that will launch the same weekend as Hutchmoot (October 10-13, 2024) and continue through December 1, 2024.

If you are a poetry lover and have not signed up for the Rabbit Room poetry newsletter , now is the time. It has been a rich, busy year on the newsletter. We have published over 100 new poems. We have launched an interview series featuring conversations with well-known poets of faith . We have built up our archive of classic poetry that can act as an introduction to poetry for the poetry-curious. And we have invited several established poets to take over the newsletter for a few weeks as we take a deeper look into our poetry, most recently Angela Alaimo O'Donnell's Flannery O'Connor poems. If that sounds inspiring, encouraging, and refreshing, sign up here. We have chosen ten of our favorite poems from the year to share with you as a sample of the regular fare on the newsletter. Enjoy! Paying Attention by Andrew Peterson Pay attention to the little things. Pay attention to the big things too, Because both are easy enough to miss, And are one and the same more often than not. Pay attention to the eerie silence When the air conditioner cycles off And the only sound is the creak of the house. Pay attention to the clank and rumble Of the freight train as it wobbles by. Pay attention to birds—the ones that tweet, The ones that honk, and the ones That lie dead in the road. Notice them. Notice the level of the creek before the rain And after. Remember that the water Rushing around your ankles was a cloud Not so long ago, a cloud that began Somewhere in Alaska, perhaps, and before that, A dark, frigid, and silent subterranean sea. Then notice the minnows pecking at your toes. Pay attention to the turns your life has taken To bring you to the place you now stand. Most blessings sprout not from the plans We make, but from the soil of their sad ruin. Watch their slow, unstoppable unraveling, Their disassembly, the final shudder, and Their collapse, and the dustcloud that follows. Pay attention then to the way your heart Breathes a sigh of relief when the work That was never yours anyway is lifted From your tired hands. Pay attention, When you clean up the mess, to the treasure That the wreck unearthed, and give thanks For your folly and God’s favor. Andrew Peterson is a singer-songwriter, author, a lover of literature, an inveterate anglophile, and the founder of the Rabbit Room. Elijah asks, "What have I done to you?" by Anna A Friedrich Far off, I knew your once-white robe from local lore— rusted red, since Carmel. Now you come?  A storm of a man, barreling down towards me—plough in hand —in father’s field. Twelve yoke of oxen leaning, heave, mastery— impossible, but I am apprenticed in making each move known through hand and hide and will. Two fields away, I knew you would not turn, and true, you fixed your gaze— ( eyes like Yahweh ) on the rope that led from beast to beast to me. They say the flames that fell—the flames that felled Baal, by your own tongue— stained you, your clothes. Burnt? No, each thread caught up, undone, remade, in heaven’s answer. You wear the story everywhere you go. Here your stride slows just enough for that same cloak to fall on me, unbidden. Anna A. Friedrich is a poet and Arts Pastor in Boston, Massachusetts. Her first full-length poetry collection is forthcoming from Wipf and Stock. You can subscribe to her poem-a-Wednesday Substack at annaafriedrich.substack.com .   Boxing by Zack Eswine This bell, my alarm, sounds. This morning, my corner of the ring, begins. This day, my opponent, war cries in the center, of this taunting crowd motioning for me, with gloves raised. This life, roped in, a bucket for my spit. This clock, my referee, grates upon my ears and shouts, “its time.” It’s only round one. But already I’m thinking about it, feeling it. Maybe, just this once, I’ll take a dive, no bribes necessary, we just count to ten. This spectacle would end, and we could all go home. Zack Eswine (Rev. Ph.D.), serves as lead pastor of Riverside Church in Webster Groves, Missouri. Zack's books include Recovering Eden: The Gospel According to Ecclesiastes and The Imperfect Pastor and he writes poems and stories at The Good Dark. Zack and his wife Jessica co-founded Sage Christianity ( sagechristianity.com ) to create hospitable spaces for bringing honest questions into conversation with the wisdom of Jesus. Pangs by Kirk Jordan "For we know that the whole creation groaneth and travaileth in pain together until now." (Romans 8:22 KJV) It’s the sound of flailing. Ten-thousand beetles on their backs, stuck to the tar of Route 66, shells splitting like popcorn. It's the sound of a braking, thick thud and swerve, the doe in the ditch, but not done for. It’s the sound of popping umbrellas, vulture kings with fingered wings cupping a hot thermal stench. It’s the sound of breaking strands, the twang of a spastic web, moth in the mouth of a powdered orb-weaver. It's the curdling anguish of ten thousand wolves, the howl of a Syrian wife. It’s the dead plinky plink at the end of the scale, the clink of porcelain on glass, beak upon bone. It’s a low steady moan -- A groan in the wind in the trees, in our ears in the atoms, in our backs It’s a long pregnant pause, the push of creation jammed in the pelvis, waiting waiting waiting. Kirk Jordan is a photographer for the Arkansas Department of Parks, Heritage, and Tourism--.where he mines light, and revels in the glories of the Natural State. He is dad to three grown daughters, and resides with his nurse-educator wife, Dr. Kerry Jordan, and her elderly parents in Conway AR. Psalm of Pressing by Sarah Crowley Chestnut Then, the given line was a word I did not resist. Then, the tambour of the line was liquid amber. Then, I understood hesitation is only itself. Then, I sat in the September grass and said: “So be it.” Then, each line was a table, a bowl, a cup, a spoon. Then, both moon and meal were simply the way forward. Then, I stopped fretting over paths and pasts. Then, the voice that drives and rides my breath was unburied. Then, I simply replied. Then, the fraught edge of myself was hemmed. Then, I was gathered like a foraged meal. Then, I was fed. Then, I was clothed. Then, I slept and slept. Then, I heard the Lord in the given line. Then, I wept, you are blessed, you are blessed. Sarah Crowley Chestnut lives and works at L’Abri Fellowship in Southborough, Massachusetts with her husband and two children. She keeps a small vegetable garden, a sourdough starter, and a messy desk. Sarah’s poetry has appeared in CRUX, Red Rock Literary Journal, LETTERS, Christian Century, and elsewhere. After Bells, After Drums by Mischa Willett after Marvin Bell It’s faith that’s easy: praying, reading, fasting, loving, feasting are hard. It’s faith that falls like fog around us, everywhere softening the edges, filling our bodies with the cool, wet, web of existence and extra-sensory presence that is. It’s faith, not ethics, that stretches the ankle strap of a sandal, opens the hand to offer a benediction, coaxes the dough to rise. And it’s faith, just faith, that makes you stand straight in a city that hunches along its river, its concrete spine, because the column of air that supports you is a gift and an orientation, a heaven inside. It isn’t doubt when suffering seizes the hilltop of your heart or when the fireplace of ashes misses the heat that made it—when in the traffic you simply can’t hear a thing or the way is unclear—none of that is doubt. It’s faith, when you come to it, that asks of us everything, that empties and empties until we are full, that fills the gnaw in the gut, dispels the cloud of mind, that runs out the money-changers in the forecourt, that names. It’s faith, not duty, that takes the self off the altar of worship, leaving both open to occupation. Mischa Willett (Ph.D.) is the author of two books of poetry, including The Elegy Beta (2020) and Phases (2017) as well as of essays, translations, and reviews that appear in both popular and academic journals. A specialist in nineteenth-century aesthetics, he teaches English at Seattle Pacific University . Expectation by Sarah Spradlin The earth in birthing is broken twice: once to bury seeds she is torn open to make room for what is barely breathing then again to multiply, she is disrupted by emerging seeds disturbing the empty air to prepare the way for a flood of feasting. I measure the distance between the breakings and the reapings through many radiant and dark hours: even as I watch the sun callus the earth against resurrection, beneath the surface she is yielding— seeds soften and swell, then break out of darkness into life. The first breaking is inevitable; the second is a miracle made no less remarkable by patient expectation. Some seeds never reach the surface a sorrow borne by soil and sower alone yet, devoting ourselves to what may be lost is perhaps the bravest thing we do and I am still surprised at the violence of love alive, willing even to receive death so that something might take root and rise. Sarah is a farmer and storyteller raised in Georgia. Now, she lives in Central America where she's worked in cross-cultural ministry since 2020, which pretty much boils down to planting things, talking to people, and writing poetry on long bus rides. Her poetry has been published on Story Embers, Kingdom Pen, and Ekstasis, and you can read more of her work on her Instagram, @sarah.spradlin. Current Events by Jen Rose Yokel So maybe it’s true. Maybe the world burns. But in other news, I stopped for coffee on a foggy day, then went to the chiropractor to get my spine realigned. Later we replaced the broken-hinged toilet seat (“I bet you didn’t plan to spend your Tuesday between the wall and a toilet bowl,” I joke, holding pliers to bolt.) After that, we make quesadillas, watch a show, turn in by ten, reading by burning lamplight. Maybe the world burns too, and nothing is guaranteed. but still, it is so good to be here. Jen Rose Yokel is a poet, writer, and spiritual director. Her words have appeared at The Rabbit Room , She Reads Truth , and other publications, and she is the author of two poetry collections. She is also the co-founder of The Poetry Pub , an online community for poets. Originally from Central Florida, she now makes her home in Fall River, Massachusetts with her poet/professor husband Chris, their rescue dog, and an assortment of books and houseplants. Her latest book, Beneath the Flood , is available now from Bandersnatch Books. You can find her on Substack at Alongside Journal or on Instagram @jroseyokel . Life Without Internet by Liz Snell We didn’t know what to call these birds that swerved along the last light of the summer equinox. At first we thought them bats but bats dance erratic and these flew deft-winged, dove by sight, not sound. They were blunt-tailed, not forked like swallows, who also love the dusk. We searched our separate lexicons, fell silent in the lack. The old sun slipped behind the hackled hills, red scattered on the sea. Pipe smoke crocheted around the stars. We would wait ‘til one arrived who knew their name. Liz Snell lives on Vancouver Island, British Columbia. She studied writing at the University of Victoria and is now studying psychology. She works with adults with disabilities and in her spare time gardens, hikes, knits, and makes awful puns. Mannequin by Heather Cadenhead My sister and I played beneath the circular racks, listening to the swish, swish of clothes hangers gliding across metal rods. My mother pulled out a pencil skirt to examine the pattern. Then, I spotted her: a mannequin, draped in 1980s fashions. My mouth gaped at her soulless face. Be still, girls, my mother hissed. I stretched a palm to feel her silk dress. She wobbled, no longer a form but a sound: an ocean wave, collapsing onto itself, again and again – the roar of fiberglass shattering against tile. The fashionista lay, unrecognizable, in jagged, uncountable pieces. I peered into her vacant eyes, now mingled with broken shards. My mother gasped; an employee shuffled over with a broom. My cheeks burned scarlet. I’ve killed her. The writing of Heather Cadenhead has been featured in  Wild + Free, Relief: A Journal of Art and Faith, Literary Mama,  and other publications. She publishes  a monthly newsletter  about mothering her non-speaking son through the lens of the Christian gospel. If you’ve enjoyed this article or other content coming out of the Rabbit Room, you can help support the work by clicking here. Our weekly newsletter is the best way to learn about new books, staff recommendations, upcoming events, lectures, and more. Sign up here.

by Andy Patton A few years ago, I attended a conference on Christian hospitality and was shocked by things that, in retrospect, shouldn’t have surprised me. Being a male, I was part of a tiny minority at the conference. The lectures were full of good advice—practical, theoretical, and theological—but it was mostly limited to the domestic sphere. How clean does the house need to be? How can we use the material arrangements of the house to communicate welcome? How far should you stretch yourself toward hospitality amid a busy life? What is the optimal mix of strangers and friends at a gathering? How do you get the word out if you want to host more? What do you do with interpersonal tensions at a meeting? These are essential questions, and you won’t hear me slight or minimize them. [By the way, pick up Christine Pohl’s wonderful book   Making Room  if those important questions are also your questions.  It tackles those and more and is a great jumping-off point for further exploration into Christian hospitality.] However, I did have the terrible sense that all the answers offered that weekend had taken as a starting point too much of the consensus of modern Western individualism and materialism in which we all live and move and have our being. Into this strangely isolated, atomized, privatized, secularized, commodified condition, hospitality was offered as another religious pastime, a good deed in a list of characteristics of the pious life. Somehow, hospitality has been reduced to entertaining, but it should be so much more than that. The Way Things Look Is Still Important This isn’t to say candles and flowers on the table aren’t important. They are. When people come into our spaces, they should feel welcome. That welcome is communicated in a hundred different ways that show that their needs, interests, personalities, and personhood have been taken into account. That means you clean (if you can). You offer tea and coffee. You make eye contact and ask people questions. You listen. You observe. You react to what you notice. You do all the “kindergarten skills” that tell people, “You have my attention and my interest and I want you to be comfortable.” The word should be filled with large and grand meanings that go back to the very nature of what it means to be a human in God’s reality. The pursuit of hospitality must be a fundamental commitment for the Christian. Inside that commitment is a key that can unlock the shackles of materialistic assumptions that often keep the modern follower of Christ bound in a prison they can neither see nor feel. Hospitality is the Most Basic Human Calling The story of hospitality starts at the very beginning—in Genesis. On the first page of the Bible, God calls humanity to “be fruitful and multiply, fill the earth and subdue it.” This doesn’t mean we are to dominate the earth or one another but to have dominion over creation like a good gardener, stewarding it toward fruitfulness. That is part of what it means to be made in the image of God, whose commitment to the people and things that he has made infinitely exceeds our own. This calling stands over all  places and all times that have been given to each person . What people feel, hear, and experience when they come into your places and step inside your time is an expression of this basic calling to embody the image of God. From there, the theme of hospitality runs straight through the Bible to the last page, when God opens the doors to his holy city and never shuts them again. Between Genesis and Revelation, the highest moments of the Bible's heroes are marked by their welcome to strangers, enemies, the weak, and the afflicted. Throughout the story, God consistently welcomes his wayward people back, founding and re-founding a place where they can live in peace and promising a time when he will finally set aside the troubles plaguing his creation once and for all. Jesus as the True Host However, the clearest example of the high-water mark of biblical hospitality is the life of Jesus. Some might say, “Wait. How could Jesus be hospitable? He didn’t have a home?” On one hand, I can sympathize with this objection. After all, though all things were created through Him, and for Him, Jesus was homeless. During the days of his ministry, the Son of Man had no place to lay his head. On the other hand, that objection is another case of the hospitality-as-entertaining model rearing its head since almost all of Jesus’ interactions with people can be described in terms of hospitality. If one looks at Jesus' life and doesn’t see hospitality reflected there, the problem isn’t with Jesus but with our notions of hospitality. Yes, Jesus fed people extravagantly on several occasions, but his hospitality wasn’t limited to food, drink, and a smile. Rather, all God’s work to conform his people to his likeness can be seen as hospitality. As Ben Keyes said in his wonderful lecture,   Image Bearers of a Hospitable God , “Holiness is something we are given when we receive the hospitality of God.” Jesus’ stories were full of characters enacting hospitality as a way of life. Think of the hero of the Parable of the Good Samaritan, a story designed to challenge and shock his hearers into silent reflection on the misbegotten thinking they had accepted as normal. Think of the parable of the Lost Sheep. The good shepherd leaves the herd (who are comfortable and safe) and goes out wandering for the lost one (who needs extraordinary love) and brings it home .  Think of the banquet host who wants his table to be full so deeply that he goes into the highways and the byways to bring everyone who will come. What does the father in the story of the Prodigal Son do when his wayward child comes home? He runs to his son, embraces, honors, and feasts with him. Think of the Unjust Steward. Or the Lost Coin. Or the Mustard Seed. Jesus’ stories are glimpses into the world he was trying to create. Not only did his stories point toward the reality of profound hospitality, but his presence also did. Around Jesus, bodies were made whole, the thinking of his hearers was untwisted, the storming creation was calmed, demons fled, and even death obediently ran backward. To be near Jesus was to see the world being made new. It is as if his presence was a beachhead of the kingdom of God, and all his words and actions made that Other Kingdom radiate out from himself, pushing back the effects of the fall and making all sad things come untrue. Finally, the host had come and was putting the house in order. At times, his hospitality even involved force. Mark tells us that, moments before he gave the rich young ruler a seemingly impossible task, “he looked at him and loved him.” Jesus knew the young man would walk away when faced with selling all his possessions. That is why he said it. Jesus put the man to a decision that cut all his self-aggrandizing daydreams of righteousness to ribbons. It was a very welcoming thing to do. Christ’s love has steel in it. Hospitality is Openness to the Intrusions of Love Just as hospitality isn’t entertaining, it isn't even always hosting. Hospitality is the readiness to welcome the intrusions and interruptions that love demands. That kind of love is profligate with time. It gives away time as though it were a precious resource that one has in such abundance that it has become common.  There is even a sense that an open-handedness to interruptions is the enactment of openness to God himself. We all have plans for our moments, and our days and interruptions cut across them, altering those plans or sometimes scattering them across the floor like blocks from a tumbled tower. Some of those interruptions are important. Some of them are ordained by God. So, hospitality to interruptions can be seen as an opportunity to join the Lord in something unforeseen.  Those practicing such hospitality can learn to cultivate an attitude that says, “Lord, I do not know what you have for me today, but I am your creature. My time is not my own, and I want to be open to what you will show me.” Those gifted in this aspect of love can offer those around them the sense that they are wholly present, that their conversation partners are utterly valued, and are the only object of their attention while their time together lasts.  Hospitality Isn’t an Optional Add-on for the Kingdom of God Just as in the life of Jesus, hospitality happens wherever you happen to be. It happens on the street, in the office, at stoplights, and at AA meetings. It isn’t limited to the walls of a house and a date on the calendar. You extend it to your kids at bedtime and to your spouse during a moment of clarity in the midst of a nasty fight. It happens when you barbecue in your front yard instead of your backyard so that you can say hello to people who walk by simply because that is what it means to be a city on a hill and salt to a needy world. Because of this, hospitality isn’t an optional add-on for the kingdom of God. It isn’t just for those with a flare for cooking. You do not need a bigger house to do more of it. It isn’t women’s work. It isn’t a lifestyle accessory to take up when you have it all together. It isn’t an outreach program. It isn’t just a small piece of a pious Christian life. Hospitality is the yeast that permeates the whole.  So next time you read 1 Peter and come across the command to “show hospitality to one another without grumbling,” try to stretch your imagination of what that could look like beyond inviting your friends over for another get-together. Better yet, interpret it in light of the vast and boundless verse immediately preceding it: “Love one another earnestly, for love covers a multitude of sins.” Andy Patton is the creator of the Darkling Psalter , a collection of creative renditions of the Psalms paired with new poems. He writes about biblical theology at Pattern Bible and co-edits a newsletter of cultural resources at Three Things . He holds an M.A. in theology from Trinity Evangelical Divinity School. He works for the Rabbit Room and is a former staff member at L'Abri Fellowship in England. If you’ve enjoyed this article or other content coming out of the Rabbit Room, you can help support the work by clicking here. Our weekly newsletter is the best way to learn about new books, staff recommendations, upcoming events, lectures, and more. Sign up here.

Editor's Note: Part of  Mark Meynell's 5&1 series on classical music . Taking a different theme for each post, the 5&1 series offers five short pieces followed by one more substantial work. The playlist choices are occasionally not found on YouTube, so alternatives are provided here. by Mark Meynell From a sports perspective, this has been Spain's year. On the very same day (14th July), Carlos Alcaraz successfully defended his first Wimbledon singles title, and Spain won the soccer UEFA Cup for an astonishing fourth time. So let's indulge in aural armchair adventures once again. Having dipped our toes in the sound worlds of Latin America and France in the summertime , let's enjoy a brief immersion into some of the cultural treasures of the Iberian Peninsula. 1. Asturias: No 1, Prélude Isaac Albéniz (1860-1909, Spanish) Romain Nosbaum (piano) Our first entry was not given its title by the composer (he called it Prelude), nor does it have anything to do with The Principality of Asturias (one of the seventeen semi-autonomous regions in modern Spain, which lies on the country's northern, Atlantic coast)! Furthermore, the Spanish composer Isaac Albéniz did compose a suite for piano to depict several parts of the country, but this piece was not one of them. Still, it has often been included in the suite and given the name Asturias in order to fit in. Whatever its origins, it was written to evoke the flamenco guitar style on the piano. It opens with a riveting example of pianistic dexterity: machine-guy like repetitions requiring both hands to work feverishly on a single note. Interestingly, it has been frequently arranged for guitar, despite being too complex for completely faithful transcription. It feels wildly dramatic and gives the perfect musical thrill to get us going. 2. Rapsodie Espagnole: 2. Malagueña (1907) Maurice Ravel  (1875-1937, French) Boston Symphony Orchestra, Seiji Ozawa (cond.) Maurice Ravel has been heralded as one of France's greatest composers, but he was born close to the Spanish border to a French father and Basque mother brought up in Madrid. As a result, he was deeply conscious of his Spanish and Basque heritage, and this was expressed in various compositions. Perhaps his best known work outside the classical world is his Bolero (of hypnotically repeated theme-fame, guaranteed to drive the mildest of temperaments into the abyss). But his true Iberian colors are on display in his Rapsodie Espagnole, one of his earliest pieces for orchestra, composed in 4 sections. A Malagueña was a Flamenco dance associated with the city of Malaga. This movement is highly evocative of the southern region (albeit in quite an idealized way) and is full of vitality and joyful excitement. I just love it. 3. Concierto de Aranjuez: I. Allegro con spiritu (1939) Joaquín Rodrigo Vidre (1901-1997, Spanish) Pepe Romero (guitar) , FM-Classic Radio Symphony Orchestra, Luciano Di Martino (cond.) If there was one instrument that embodied the spirit of Spain it must surely be the guitar. Rodrigo is perhaps not so widely-known outside his native Spain, but I wouldn't be at all surprised if some of the big tunes from his guitar concerto, or the Concierto de Aranjuez to give its formal title, were not familiar in some way. Aranjuez is the location of King Philip II's glorious palace and gardens, later improved by Ferdinand IV in the eighteenth century, and so is one of the country's great treasures. Yet Rodrigo had been almost blind since he was three and composed in Braille. Somehow, he is able brilliantly to evoke the breathtaking sights and sounds of the place, capturing both its grandeur and charm in his utterly beguiling music. He composed it in Paris in 1939 as the likelihood of the outbreak of war grew ever greater, but it seems to evoke a more idyllic, romanticized Spanish past. The challenge for any performance is to sustain the (unplugged) solo guitar's audibility over a full orchestra, but Rodrigo's writing allows it to soar. The overall effect is sublime. 4. Cançó de Bressol de la Mar Arianna Savall (1972- , Swiss-Catalan) Arianna Savall, Petter Udland Johansen & Hirundo Maris Catalonia is the region around Barcelona and like the Basque region further to its west, it has long asserted its own unique historical and political identity through its unique language and culture. Arianna Savall is the daughter of renowned Catalan Baroque musician, Jordi Savall, but she has made a reputation as a great musician (as harpist, singer, composer) in her own right. For the last fifteen years, she has co-led a medieval/baroque fusion ensemble with her Norwegian partner Petter Udland Johansen called Hirundo Maris (meaning sea swallow ). This is a gorgeous contemporary song whose Catalan lyrics and music were both written by Savall. She sings a lullaby to an unnamed prisoner, whose cell perhaps overlooks the sea, to distract him from his predicament. She comforts him with the beauties and serenity of the moonlit ocean, to encourage dreams of a different reality. Every time I hear it, the sheer gorgeousness of Savall's effortless upward leap when the word Dorm (sleep) is repeated makes my heart skip a beat. 5. Carmen, Act II: Votre toast, je peux vous le rendre... Toréador, en garde! Georges Bizet (1838-1875, French) Thomas Hampson (baritone) , Orchestre National du Capitole de Toulouse, Michel Plasson (cond.) Crowds gather for a bull-fight, macho toreadors strut their stuff, beautiful señoritas swoon over rival infatuations—so far so clichéd! It's all there in Georges Bizet's 2nd and final opera, Carmen . Yet all is not as it seems. Bizet, like Ravel, was French, but unlike Ravel, he had no family connection to Spain, which is perhaps why Spaniards dismiss the opera as a French caricature rather than a fair representation. Indeed, he himself felt the opera was a complete failure and died only months after its premiere from a heart attack, aged just 37. He had no sense it would become one of the most frequently performed operas in musical history, not to mention the various adaptations, movies and spinoffs (such as the musical Carmen Jones ). The plot was deemed scandalous at the time, since it revolved around José, a naive soldier seduced by the fiery femme fatale Carmen. In true melodramatic fashion, Jose later kills her in a jealous rage when she goes off with the glamorous toreador Escamillo. In this track, we hear Escamillo seriously burnishing his machismo credentials and Jose discovers what he's really up against. Noches in los Jardines de España Manuel de Falla (1876-1946, Spanish) Javier Perianes (piano) , BBC Symphony Orchestra, Josep Pons (cond.) I. En el Generalife. Allegretto tranquillo e misterioso II. Danza Lejana. Allegretto giusto III. En los Jardines de la Sierra de Cordoba. Vivo Those unfamiliar with Spanish history are often unaware of its mediaeval Islamic past, a time when much of the country was ruled by Arab dynasties. That legacy is still felt in Spain, both in terms of the linguistic residue in Spanish as well as their architectural masterpieces, such as Granada's Alhambra Palace or the city of Córdoba, south-east of Granada. Manuel de Falla was a near contemporary of Isaac Albéniz, born in the deep south in Cadiz but later grew up and was educated in Madrid. The lure of Paris was strong, however, and like so many of his fellow-countrymen, he was drawn by its creative energy and stayed for seven years. He returned home shortly after the First World War began in 1914 and completed this suite for piano and orchestra soon after. His aim was to evoke the exoticism and beauty of Arabic Spain, drawing on typical rhythms and harmonies from the south. The Generalife scented gardens are those of the Alhambra and its Islamic origins are suggested by repeated musical patterns which resemble the geometric designs so common in Islamic buildings. The second movement throws us into the world of traditional dance, while the third whisks us away to Córdoba. Having a piano soloist combined with orchestra might suggest de Falla was writing a concerto; however he is aiming to craft 'symphonic impressions' with his instruments, and when we listen with eyes closed, it is not hard to be transported both in place and in time. From the opening bars, there is an air of mystery and foreignness, but I for one cannot help but be lured in to soak it all up. Mark Meynell is the Director (Europe and Caribbean) of Langham Preaching. He was ordained in the Church of England in 1997 serving in several places including 9 years at All Souls Church, Langham Place, London, (during which he also served as a part-time government chaplain). Prior to that, he taught at a small seminary in Kampala, Uganda, for four years. Since 2019, he has helped to bring Hutchmoot to the UK and in 2022 completed a Doctor of Ministry (at Covenant Theological Seminary, St Louis) researching the place of the arts in cultural apologetics. Mark and his wife, Rachel, have two grown-up children, and they live in Maidenhead, Berkshire. If you’ve enjoyed this article or other content coming out of the Rabbit Room, you can help support the work by clicking here. Our weekly newsletter is the best way to learn about new books, staff recommendations, upcoming events, lectures, and more. Sign up here.

by the Rabbit Room An event series aimed at the intersection of music, food, and hospitality, hosted by The Orchardist and sponsored by The Rabbit Room. The best music invites the listener to stay awhile, be nourished, and be known. Favorite songs are like gracious hosts inviting us into their familiar space, giving us room to breathe and remember who we are. Music has a peculiar way of restoring tenderness within us, setting us up to receive healing like nothing else can. The story of The Orchardist has been one of becoming more and more deeply acquainted with the hospitality of music, both as host and guest. Most recently, our mission of making music to feed and be fed has led us to its most practical conceivable embodiment: Supper & Songs . Beginning April 6th 2018, The Rabbit Room is partnering with The Orchardist to organize cozy events in Nashville every other month. Each event will be hosted by a unique location—some homes and some venues—include a delicious meal, and feature a guest artist whose music has given us hope. With Supper & Songs, we hope to provide a regular occasion for nourishment in our local community in as many dimensions as possible. We hope for friends to be made, stories to be shared, songs to be sung. If you are interested in supporting Supper & Songs, there are several ways you can lend a hand: First, consider liking and following its Facebook and Instagram pages. Second, check out this year’s subscription options for supporting Supper & Songs or buy a ticket to the first show . Third, consider purchasing one of The Orchardist’s pre-sale packages here . All proceeds go towards making Supper & Songs happen, and they’ll only be available in the month of March.

by Andrew Peterson Hey, folks! As of today you can pre-order the Deluxe Edition 2 CD set of Resurrection Letters, Vol. 1 (which includes Prologue ). And because the Rabbit Room is awesome, if you pre-order here you’ll get a special, exclusive 60 page eBook called Resurrection Letters: Annotated Edition.  Sixty pages of what, you ask? It includes all the lyrics, along with footnotes and scripture references, for all the songs from all three Resurrection Letters records. The idea is that you can listen to the albums while following along with the lyrics and reading all the scriptures that undergird the songs. The eBook was designed by our friend Ned Bustard, who did the artwork and design for  Every Moment Holy , and it looks lovely. Thanks, Ned! I’m also excited to finally share the music video we made for “Is He Worthy?” (directed by Max Hsu). Max (who took the cover photo for The Burning Edge of Dawn ) and his film crew worked for days to make this deceptively simple video a one-camera-shot deal. We had members of the Nashville Youth Choir (who also sang on the record), a group of string players, and an audience of good people who answered our casting call a few weeks back, all running around like crazy for hours while I just sort of sat there at the piano. I was lip-synching and playing as serenely as possible while I tried to ignore the director yelling for lights to be turned up or down, the shuffling of feet while the congregation rushed in from the wings, the setting up of chairs while string players got into position just before the camera swung around—and the cameraman lithely moving through it all, aiming the lens and focusing on just the right things at just the right time. It took several hours and about ten takes with the whole gang before we finally nailed it, and what you see is the final take. I have to say, there’s one moment where the camera moves in close to the piano, blacking everything out, just in case we needed to splice two of the takes together, but in the end we didn’t need to. What you see is one continuous take . Pretty awesome, methinks. Many thanks to Max and the crew, as well as all the extras, for hanging in there for hours until we got it right. As fun as it was to make the video, though, the real hope is that it draws attention to the song, which is meant to draw attention to Jesus. We have sheet music available for “Is He Worthy?” (as well as the rest of the songs) in the Rabbit Room store in case you want to use this song during Easter (and I hope you do!). I can’t wait for you guys to hear the record when it releases on Good Friday. You can now pre-order  Resurrection Letters: Volume I  here. All pre-orders include an instant download of “Is He Worthy?” as well as the annotated PDF booklet. And while you’re at it, check out the sheet music here.

by Jonny Jimison Click through for this week’s Getting Ethan comics. Follow Getting Ethan on  Patreon , Instagram , Facebook , and Twitter ! And check out The Dragon Lord Saga in the Rabbit Room Store.

by Sandra McCracken [Editor’s note: Throughout Lent, Sandra McCracken is sharing weekly writings, each of which is tied to a song from her new EP,  Songs from the Valley, available at her website . Below you will find the sixth of these writings, to be read alongside her song, “Parrot In Portugal,” which you can listen to here .] A couple of years ago, I visited Portugal on a trip with A Rocha International. We gathered together near the coast for eight days. This group of scientists, environmentalists and Christians from all around the world helped me to tune my senses to pay attention to the world around me, considering what it looks like to participate in the restoration of people and place. In my hotel room in Lisbon, the night before my flight home, I sat with my guitar across my knees and the windows open to the courtyard. I heard some expressive birds calling outside and couldn’t imagine what creatures might be making those songs. Later that afternoon, I was walking with a friend from the A Rocha team on the city streets and we saw them. There overhead was a flock of bright green parrots chatting to each other in the trees. These were the birds I had heard making these intelligent sounds outside my window! I asked my friend about them, and he told me that they had been domesticated pets years ago, that had been released or had escaped back into wild. After a few decades of adaptation, these birds not only had learned to survive in this new, urban environment, but they even learned to flourish. As I heard the story, I found myself cheering them on, celebrating their joyful sounds and pondering the question of identity. Personality alone is not a full picture of who we truly are. Sandra McCracken At different times, we may be placed in different roles; daughter, son, student, wife, husband, sister, friend, teacher or parent. Sometimes we change our address. We start new relationships. We change careers. In our ever-evolving relational changes, we get to know ourselves from different vantage points. When our environment changes, we might notice new behaviors and we learn new ways to get our needs met. Our personality takes shape as we figure out how to survive in a new place. In all these externals of our habits and affections we get to know our personality, but personality alone is not a full picture of who we truly are. Psalm 139 begins with these words: “You have searched me, Lord, and you know me. You know when I sit and when I rise; you perceive my thoughts from afar. You discern my going out and my lying down; you are familiar with all my ways.” While the coordinates of our geography may change our habits, we each have been given a particular song that God has written on our hearts. Sandra McCracken God has made each of us like the parrots in Portugal. We have each been born into a particular habitat; some in freedom, some in captivity. We have each been brought through life circumstances and have had to pass through many changes that are beyond our control. While the coordinates of our geography may change our habits, we each have been given a particular song that God has written on our hearts. As we reckon with our true identity, we have the opportunity to come closer to understanding what it means to be loved and known by God not just because of where we live or how we behave, but because of who we are. In the desert or out at sea, in the city or out in forest solitude, God’s provision may take a myriad of different forms. God provides for us in all situations. We are known, heard, called and celebrated for who we are in every changing circumstance of our lives. Sandra McCracken Missing my kids and eager to get home to Tennessee, I came back to my hotel room that night in Lisbon and wrote ‘Parrot In Portugal.’ In it, the emotion of Psalm 139 is coupled with the melody of the parrots outside, resonating the assurance that we are known, heard, called and celebrated for who we are in every changing circumstance of our lives. “Oh I hear you, I hear you in the trees, in the trees…You can fly or you can stay, I’m holding out for you, my love.” Just a few weeks ago while I was visiting Fuller Seminary near Los Angeles, I visited Huntington Gardens with some friends. As we were ducking into one of the museum buildings, I looked up and saw, to my surprise, another flock of wild, bright green parrots. I delighted to see them again; another family of the same species, halfway around the world. This second wild-parrot sighting was the same week that Songs From The Valley came out, a full-circle reminder that God delights in us the way I delight in those parrots. “Sing out your song, dressed like the meadow at dawn.” You. Are. Loved. Invitation to Prayer: Make a list of some of the most shaping roles you have been assigned in your present and in your past (daughter, son, friend, student, parent, etc). Ask God to show you a glimpse of your true self beneath those relational roles and responsibilities. Pray through Psalm 139, asking for God to meet you in the questions.  Ask him to help you to sing your own song. Ask him to pour out an assurance of his love upon you here as we lean in toward the week of Easter. Click here to listen to “Parrot In Portugal” from Sandra’s new album, Songs From The Valley .

by Matt Wheeler A generation before Wendell Berry, there lived a man who loved the land. Not only the ground, the soil, the terrain - the entirety of the living creatures that called it home. To him, working toward a harmonious balance among these and the people who dwelt there was the best way to steward the gift of life. He saw humankind as important members of this community, but not its only members. That man: Aldo Leopold. An Iowa native born in the late 19th century, Aldo Leopold was a Yale-educated naturalist, forester, and professor who, in the late 1940s, served as an advisor on conservation for the United Nations. In 1935, he and his family bought and restored a worn-out farm in one of Wisconsin’s “sand counties”, a region shaped by a former glacial lake and with notoriously poor soil. The winsome prose in Leopold’s seminal work, A Sand County Almanac and Sketches Here and There,  shows this genuine affection. What comes through is an author with a sense of wonder at the mundane details, inspiring the same in readers.  The result reads like journal entries by a trusted mentor. Leopold’s work evokes the Rich Mullins proclamation that “ there’s so much beauty around us for just two eyes to see, but everywhere I go, I’m looking. ” The book has become a foundational text in conservation thought, though a reader need not identify as an avid conservationist to appreciate the book—this is simply great literature. Leopold provides readers ample evidence to grasp for the “why” of nature conversation before introducing them to the “what” and the “how”.  The author has a knack for impactful and direct statements. To wit, read his opening words in the foreword, to set up this work: “ There are some who can live without wild things, and some who cannot. These essays are the delights and dilemmas of one who cannot. ” After he explains the structure of the book, he gives his thesis: “ That land is a community is the basic concept of ecology, but that land is to be loved and respected is an extension of ethics. That land yields a cultural harvest is a fact long known, but latterly often forgotten. These essays attempt to weld these three concepts. ” The first section, “A Sand County Almanac,” is a series of short essays organized by month, a January-through-December chronicle of one year at the farm. Leopold kicks off “January Thaw” with these words: “ Each year, after the midwinter blizzards, there comes a night of thaw when the tinkle of dripping water is heard in the land. It brings strange stirrings, not only to creatures abed for the night, but to some who have been asleep for the winter. The hibernating skunk, curled up in his deep den, uncurls himself and ventures forth to prowl the wet world, dragging his belly in the snow. His track marks one of the earliest datable events in that cycle of beginnings and ceasings which we call a year. ” Leopold is a noticer, and he invites his readers to join him in his noticing. He plays out in his mind what has transpired based on the tracks he sees in the snow—the tunnelings of a meadow mouse, the sweeping of the wings of an owl on the hunt, the lumberings of the skunk. The singular February entry, “Good Oak,” is my personal favorite passage in the book, and the portion I would give to a potential reader. The author starts off by suggesting that we should remember that, as food at its origin doesn’t come from a grocery store, neither does heat from a furnace. His prescription: that the reader should do as he has done and “ should lay a split of good oak on the andirons, preferably where there is no furnace, and let it warm his shins while a February blizzard tosses the trees outside. ” Leopold tells of the origin of the aforementioned wood, from a lightning-struck tree that dates back to the end of The Civil War. What follows is a discourse on par with Robert Farrar Capon's ode to the noble onion in his masterwork, The Supper of the Lamb . As “ fragrant little chips spewed from the saw cut, and accumulated in the snow before each kneeling sawyer, ” a memoir of the tree itself and the history of the land around it unfolded, backward through time as the team cuts through, like in 1874, when “ the first factory made barbed wire was stapled to oak trees; I hope no such artifacts are buried in the oak and under saw! ” The fullness of the poetry and history woven together in these eleven pages defy easy summary, as Capon’s “onion” piece also does—it must be experienced for oneself. Later, the early-rising Leopold tells us of his habit of arriving early to behold the birds’ dawn chorus: “ At 3:30 am, with such dignity as I can muster of a July morning, I step from my cabin door, bearing in either hand my emblems of sovereignty, a coffee pot and notebook. I seat myself on a bench, facing the white wake of the morning star. I set the pot beside me. I extract a cup from my shirt front, hoping none will notice its informal mode of transport. I get out my watch, pour coffee, and lay notebook on knee. This is the cue for the proclamation to begin. ” In a short vignette titled “Draba”, we take a careful look at a small and little-noticed flower, among the smallest that bloom, often missed by all but those who kneel in the mud - and there find it in abundance. He writes,  " Some botanist once gave it a Latin name, and then forgot it. Altogether, it is of no importance - just a small creature that does a small job quickly and well. " Leopold waxes poetic about the migration of the “ feathered navies ” of geese; the theatrical and, in season, daily “ sky dance ” of the woodcock; the extraordinary chickadee with #65290 emblazoned on his band and the winters he weathered; and his love of pine trees—of which his family planted over 3,000 a year, according to The Aldo Leopold Foundation—among much else. The almanac section is heartfelt, intriguing, and simply beautiful.  The second portion, “Sketches Here and There”, contains portraits of Leopold’s travels across North America, spread over forty years. This rich and varied section features reflections ripe with wit and wonder. For this section, I think it best to highlight a few outstanding points in Leopold’s own words: On the short-sightedness we as humans often exhibit: “ He has not learned to think like a mountain. Hence we have dustbowls, and rivers washing the future into the sea…We all strive for safety, prosperity, comfort, long life, and dullness…Perhaps this is behind Thoreau’s dictum: In wildness is the salvation of the world. ” On recalling a trek in his young adulthood, when he and his brother explored a Mexican river delta wilderness by canoe: “ For the last word in procrastination, go travel with a river reluctant to lose his freedom in the sea. ‘He leadeth me by still waters’ was to us only a phrase in a book until we had nosed our canoe through the green lagoons. If David had not written the psalm, we should have felt constrained to write our own. ” And Leopold showing his cards as plainly as at any point in the book, following up a statement about how humankind tends to harshly handle the gift of wilderness: “ Be that as it may, I am glad I shall never be young without wild country to be young in. Of what avail are forty freedoms without a blank spot on a map? ” Aldo Leopold lands the book with “The Upshot.” Professor Leopold has taken us on a long series of field trips, taught us to appreciate what we have seen, and is now bringing it home. Here he outlines his “ land ethic, ” his core philosophy as a naturalist: “ A land ethic of course cannot prevent the alteration, management, and use of these ‘resources,’ but it does affirm their right to continued existence, and, at least in spots, their continued existence in a natural state…it implies respect for his fellow-members, and also respect for the community as such.” The best teacher is often a person who loves what he or she does and who teaches by giving others a window to see that. Aldo Leopold loved the land and saw the wonder of it, and he had a gift for inspiring others to do the same. In this book, we are welcomed into, as Wendell Berry put it, “ the peace of wild things ” and are invited to appreciate, protect, and, in an exhortation much-needed in our increasingly technology-driven world, to get out and enjoy the good earth around us. A troubadour, poet with a guitar, & stage banter-conversationalist, Matt Wheeler lives in Lancaster County, PA with his wife & teenage son. He specializes in songs based on classic works of literature - his 2021 album "Wonder of It All", featuring songs & stories based on books including "The Horse & His Boy" & "Watership Down" is an example. His new album, "A Hard History of Love" is based on Wendell Berry's short stories. You can read and listen to more of his work at www.mattwheeleronline.com . If you’ve enjoyed this article or other content coming out of the Rabbit Room, you can help support the work by clicking here. 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by Stefanie Peters When asked what it looks like to be an editor at the nonprofit publisher Library of America , I often say two things: first, that my job is as much research as it is editing, and second (with tongue in cheek), that most of the writers I edit are dead. There have been a handful of exceptions to this, one of whom is Wendell Berry. I’ve had the joy and honor of publishing two books with Wendell so far: Port William Novels & Stories: The Civil War to World War II , which was published in 2018, and Port William Novels & Stories: The Postwar Years , which will be published on July 16 ahead of Berry’s 90th birthday in August. Library of America’s mission is to champion the best of American writing by publishing definitive, authoritative editions. Our authors include the most influential and essential writers from all periods and genres, and we publish them in heirloom-quality hardcover editions. Maybe you’ll recognize our black jackets, with the author’s name in calligraphy above a red, white, and blue stripe. What do we mean by authoritative editions? Answering this question normally requires a good bit of textual research. For example, I recently edited a collection of William Faulkner’s short stories. Most of the stories were first published in magazines, and Faulkner’s original texts were edited either for a particular magazine’s house style or to shorten descriptive passages and remove sexually explicit material and obscenities. Sometimes an inattentive copyeditor introduced errors as well. Faulkner then published almost all his short stories in book collections, where he retained more editorial control. He often revised the stories for these collections. Even then, the books’ copyeditors were not always consistent with Faulkner’s preferences for spellings and punctuation. So I worked with the Faulkner scholar Theresa Towner to make sure that the texts we published in the Library of America editions were as close as possible to what Faulkner would have intended, correcting errors, obvious mistakes, and inconsistencies, sometimes with reference to Faulkner’s original typescripts, where they still exist. Authoritative texts are a way to honor the author’s intentions, and also to ensure that readers have access to the best version of a book available. James L. W. West III, the Fitzgerald scholar who edited The Great Gatsby for Library of America, said  that the work of creating an authoritative text “can be likened to the stabilization, cleaning, and restoration of a work of art that has deteriorated over time.” With a living author like Wendell Berry, the question of an authoritative text becomes a bit easier. We publish the version of the text that Wendell wants us to. But there still is a process to get there. So to describe what I do in editing Wendell’s fiction, I want to back up because I am the last and least of the membership of Berry’s editors. Wendell’s first reader and first editor, and the most important, is his wife, Tanya. Wendell famously doesn’t own a computer and writes his first drafts by hand, which he reads aloud to Tanya and then revises based on her initial feedback. Tanya then types the handwritten pages and makes further edits as she does so, marking her edits with checkmarks in the margins. Wendell has said  that knowing he will read his first drafts aloud to her is intimidating and that he is always trying to impress her: “I haven’t worked alone in any sense. I’ve been by myself a lot, but I haven’t been alone. I’ve been accompanied by her, and I think our companionship has left me very willing to accept the companionship and criticism of other people.” After the first few drafts with Tanya’s editing, Wendell’s drafts go to friends for critique, and then they go to Jack Shoemaker at Counterpoint Press, who has been the editor and publisher of Wendell’s work for over fifty years now. Jack, whom I work with to create the Library of America editions of Wendell’s work, gets a xerox of the typescript draft in the mail, and his edits and Wendell’s revisions are sent back and forth in hardcopy and are also discussed on the phone. It’s a process that takes time—editing Wendell’s recent book The Need to be Whole took them over five years—but, Jack says , “it still provides what Wendell wants in this slow process of things: time to think. Time to reflect.” The editing process doesn’t always end when the book is published. When Wendell’s first three novels were reissued by North Point and Counterpoint, Wendell took the opportunity to revise. In Nathan Coulter (1960, revised 1985), Port William was never named, and the original edition ended with a twenty-two-page chapter that was cut in 1985, in which Nathan slept with his neighbor’s wife and was run out of town. A Place on Earth (1967, revised 1983) was cut by one-third when Wendell revised it; he called the original version “clumsy, overwritten, wasteful.” And when The Memory of Old Jack (1974, revised 1999) was reissued, Wendell added an author’s note that said “When I began to write about the people of the imagined community of Port William in 1955, I had no idea that I would still be writing about them in 1999. I had no plan, and I still don’t” and that owned up to “‘errors’ of genealogy and geography.”  Many of Wendell’s edits over the years fall under that category of “errors” of genealogy and geography. He once said that he wanted to be sure “the outhouse was always on the same side of the river.” In 2004, Wendell’s daughter Mary Berry was hired by Counterpoint to make notes about geography and genealogy that were used to create the map of Port William and the family trees that are published with all the Port William novels and stories, both by Counterpoint and Library of America. All the editions since then have strived for consistency in those details. So when I come to edit Wendell’s books, I start by getting the most up-to-date versions of the texts from Jack. Then, I become something like a fact-checker. I send Wendell letters with lists of questions to create the explanatory endnotes that go in the back of the Library of America editions, as well as any typos or errors in the texts I either find or suspect. A few weeks later, I get back careful, handwritten explanations and sometimes further edits. For example, for the volume of the postwar novels and stories that will be published this month, I wanted to know why, in The Memory of Old Jack , Jack Beechum hears the song “Wildwood Flower” at a dance in 1888, when the first recording I could find by that title was by the folk group the Carter Family in 1928. I was convinced I had the wrong song! But it turns out I caught Wendell in an anachronism, and he revised the sentence so that it doesn’t name the song. Wendell also sent me a handful of corrections, including changing the name of Wheeler Catlett’s boss in Remembering , changing Dorie Catlett’s death date in the family tree, and moving the location of the Stepstone Bridge on the map of Port William. The United States, more than any other country in the world, is a nation founded on words and ideas, and it is important to preserve those words through careful textual and editorial work—especially at a time when words are often seen as unreliable, and unreliable texts proliferate on the internet. Maybe keeping “the outhouse always on the same side of the river” seems like a small thing, but I’m convinced that it makes a difference to be faithful to the details. Stefanie Peters is an editor at Library of America in New York City, where she has worked with writers including Louisa May Alcott, Wendell Berry, Jonathan Edwards, Ernest Gaines, Madeleine L’Engle, Ursula K. Le Guin, and Edith Wharton. If you’ve enjoyed this article or other content coming out of the Rabbit Room, you can help support the work by clicking here. Our weekly newsletter is the best way to learn about new books, staff recommendations, upcoming events, lectures, and more. Sign up here.

by Drew Miller We’ve compiled a Spotify playlist of the songs that were performed at March 19th’s Local Show , accompanied by Jared Malament’s description of what made the evening special. Click through for our third playlist of the season. (Note: Audrey Assad unfortunately was sick that night an unable to join us, so you will not find any of her songs on this playlist. In addition, none of the songs Jordy Searcy played have been recorded yet, so this playlist does not include those either.) “This week at the Local Show we unfortunately missed out on Audrey Assad due to sickness, but we were still treated to wonderful newcomers including Claire Holley , McKenzie Lockhart , and Becky Kinder . They were rounded out by Jordy Searcy , now a veteran of the show. As always, the stories they shared were just as important as their songs and we heard of everything from parenting and young marriages to youth ministry and aging. For my part, I would especially recommend keeping an ear out for McKenzie Lockhart, particularly her song ‘Where is the Hope?’ which I hope she releases soon. For the time being, we’ll have to settle for listening to the Facebook live stream.” —Jared Malament Set List “Three Little Birds,” Claire Holley (Bob Marley cover) “Ball and Chain,” McKenzie Lockhart “Revolution,” Becky Kinder (unreleased) “25,” Jordy Searcy (unreleased) “Heat of July,” Claire Holley “Sleeping Mad,” McKenzie Lockhart (unreleased) “Run,” Becky Kinder “Guys Like Me,” Jordy Searcy (unreleased) “The Ball Game,” Andrew Osenga “Love Never Came,” Claire Holley “Where is the Hope,” McKenzie Lockhart (unreleased) “Alive,” Becky Kinder (unreleased) “Andy the Nihilist,” Jordy Searcy (unreleased) “In the Bounty of the Lord,” Claire Holley (unreleased) “Walk Together,” McKenzie Lockhart (unreleased) “Only You,” Becky Kinder (unreleased) “Favorite Days,” Jordy Searcy (unreleased) “Pasadena,” McKenzie Lockhart (unreleased) Click here to listen to the playlist from our second Local Show of the season on Spotify. . Note: We are currently looking into how we can make these playlists available on Apple Music as well. We appreciate your patience and are excited to make these songs as accessible as possible.

by Drew Miller Welcome to our new podcast led by Dr. Steve Guthrie: The Artist’s Creed. In a series of interviews with various artists in our community, Steve draws on the tenets of the Nicene Creed to develop a rich vision of the relationship between the voice of God and the voice of the artist—constructing an “artist’s creed” of sorts. This first episode features a conversation with leading George MacDonald scholar Dr. Kirstin Jeffrey Johnson about the first phrase found in the creed: “I believe.” Click here to listen to the first episode of The Artist’s Creed.

by Jonny Jimison [Editor’s note: To celebrate the reprinting of Helena Sorensen’s  Shiloh  trilogy with Rabbit Room Press, we are sharing this delightful article by Jonny Jimison, first published in 2016. Enjoy, and consider picking up some of Helena’s books at our online store. ] I hope you’ve encountered the writing of Helena Sorensen—but if not, I want to introduce you to a trilogy of novels that strike me to the core: Shiloh , Seeker , and Songbird . The Shiloh series is a thoughtful, lyrically written fantasy epic set in a land covered in a deep shadow, where the brightness and warmth of the sun is a wishful fable—and so is hope. Over the course of three books and several generations, we are introduced to the tortured Amos, the bold Isolde, and many other hunters and warriors, children and craftsman, including Evander. Evander is a natural leader, taking his band of hunters deep into the woods to find food for the village, but he is also detached, set apart from them in ways that he can’t quite put into words. Perhaps it’s born in him; his mother is one of the few in Shiloh who can dream. At the end of a day of hunting, Evander huddles around a campfire with the other hunters. They defend against the shadow and the wolves by the fanning the flames of their fire and by making music. And Evander sings: “Another day has died Another night descends, unyielding No strength ta watch the skies The breathless dark too heavy lies And I must close my weary eyes My fragile torch and lantern wielding” There was quiet around the camp. The flames crackled. The embers hissed. One thick log split open and tumbled to the ground in two red-gold slabs. It was Lorne who spoke first: “Was it yer ma, Evander? Did she teach ya that song?” Evander thought. “She sings some of ‘er own, but this one, I think, she learned from ‘er mother.” Lorne nodded. “I thought as much. I’ve heard it before.” “She still sees them, then? These night visions?” Alistair asked. “Dreams,” Evander said. “She sees lights?” Chase asked. The younger men shifted their weight, seeming as uncomfortable as Evander was with the increasing intimacy of the questions. “Just one light, mainly,” Evander said. “The sun, she calls it. A great light that hangs in the sky, a light that burns away the Shadow.” No one spoke at all, until Knox tossed a scrap of food into the fire and spat. “Visions like that would drive any man mad.” Muscles tensed all over the camp. The hunters waited, stealing glances at Evander and glaring at Knox. It took a moment for Evander to reply, but when he did, his eyes met Knox’s with a challenge. “It’s the darkness that drives a man mad.” — Seeker , by Helena Sorensen These Shiloh books are mighty dark stories, literally and figuratively. Vision is dim, death is always near, and the bleakness of the world seeps into characters like a poison. Even the happier moments are tinged with bittersweet longing. But for all their darkness, these are stories to reacquaint you with hope, because they tell the truth. The truth, part one: the world is a dark place, and hope often seems lost. The truth, part two: even when hope seems lost, it is the darkness that is doomed. All it takes to kill the darkness is a little light, and beyond the shadow there is light overflowing. We just forget it sometimes in the dark. Some stories celebrate the darkness. The Shiloh series names it: darkness is the absence of light. Pain and shame and fear are the withdrawal symptoms of our deep longing—our need—for “a great light that hangs in the sky, a light that burns away the Shadow.” Every shadow in the corner forgotten by the daylight where flecks of dust gather and hide in secret and every lengthening line that draws trees on the street on the opposite side of a horizon going up in flames holds in the weight of darkness proof of light and presence. — Shadows , from Ruins and Kingdoms by Jen Rose Yokel I see this kind of message everywhere in great works of art, especially in The Rabbit Room community of artists and storytellers. Helena’s Shiloh series, Jamin Still’s paintings, Andrew Peterson’s songs—they are all beautifully crafted pieces of work that stir my soul and awaken a homesickness for heaven. They are windows to eternity in a dark world. Then there’s me. Take a look at this excerpt from my upcoming graphic novel, The River Fox : Yup. My love language is slapstick. Despite my lifelong love of pratfalls and puns, this eager embrace of comic-strip humor is a new thing for me. Until recently, I saw my wacky comics as foolishness when compared to the delicate beauty of Ellen and the Winter Wolves or the brutal honesty of Andrew Peterson’s Light for the Lost Boy . The Rabbit Room community changed all that, fanning the flame of my stories by affirming my heart for cartoony humor. My pride always told me that the light tone of my comics made them frivolous, but this community has helped me see how that light tone is an asset, a blessing—a gift from the Creator! God calls me to spread fun and humor, but he also leads me in grieving and longing and seeking. He leads me through the Shiloh series and Jamin’s paintings and Light for the Lost Boy . He leads me through the books of Ecclesiastes and Galatians and yes, even Deuteronomy . He leads me through movies and paintings and conversations with strangers at work. He leads me every time truth is told. And what is art if it ain’t truth-telling? I want to affirm the beauty created by Helena Sorensen and Jamin Still and Andrew Peterson, because their truth-telling is a beautiful, essential part of the kingdom. But they also affirm my comics, reminding me that my gleeful character humor is also a beautiful, essential part of the kingdom. Just because it’s more wacky doesn’t mean it isn’t true. And just because something is commonplace, or unheralded, or scary, or even just plain weird, doesn’t mean it isn’t true. Sin and grace, absence and presence, tragedy and comedy, they divide the world between them and where they meet head on, the Gospel happens. Let the preacher preach the Gospel of their preposterous meeting as the high, unbidden, hilarious thing it is. — Telling the Truth by Frederick Buechner So let’s keep telling the truth. Tell the truth in your doodles and symphonies and casseroles, in your woodwork and housework and yard-work, in your writing and teaching and performances and studies and vacation plans. Your truth-telling is a beautiful, essential part of the kingdom. Keep telling the truth and know that this place is home. And when I say “this place,” I don’t mean just The Rabbit Room. I mean the Kingdom. The darkness blurs our vision now, but it’s hopelessly—hilariously—outgunned! Shiloh , Seeker , and Songbird  are available in the Rabbit Room store.

by April Pickles One Saturday, my friend Rebecca Reynolds bundled herself in three coats and hiked up Roan Mountain with a jar in her hand. Standing on the mountaintop, she opened the jar, read a poem into it, then sealed it shut and carried it back down the mountain. As part of a recent online auction to raise funds for The Rabbit Room’s North Wind Manor project, Rebecca offered a simple glass jar. “Eight Ounces of Canned Poem,” she titled it. “You pick the poem. The jar will be labeled with a tag identifying the poem, the date of the reading, and the specific environment you choose for the reading of the poem.” While I had been dreaming about a cellar and Mason jars, Rebecca had been writing about them. She had crafted a work full of hope and promise, a tale of burial and longing for resurrection. April Pickle Rachel Lulich commented, “People said bottled water was a fad.” Jonathan Rogers asked if she had any more photos. Bill Smithfield wanted to know if there was an option in which the winner could choose what Rebecca drank before the reading. But Rebecca persisted, “It’s going to be the next big thing. First edition, collector’s edition right here, people.” And, “This is a 16-ounce jar, but it only holds eight ounces of poem. And some settling occurs during transport.” When I placed my winning bid, I knew just the poem I wanted her to read, and I told my friend she could choose the setting. Several years ago, my stepfather battled an aggressive form of brain cancer. All the doctors agreed Mo was going to die, even with steroids, even with radiation and chemo, even with two surgeries. And he did. Twenty months after his diagnosis, on the Wednesday before Easter, in a cemetery blooming with Central Texas wildflowers, my family mourned as our beloved one was laid into the ground. We took turns shoveling a bit of dirt onto his casket, an oak casket made by Trappist monks. Mo was a quiet, Jesus-loving man—slow to speak, slow to become angry. My mother chose a large natural rock for his headstone. When she asked their children what the headstone’s inscription should say, my sister joked, “Quiet.” Mama opted for a line from one of Mo’s favorite songs: “Let there be peace on earth, and let it begin with me.” Back when Mo was in the throes of battle with the cancer monster, one night I dreamed I held a shovel. With the shovel I dug a cellar in my backyard. Then one by one inside the cellar, I set glass jars of fruits and vegetables onto a wooden shelf. The morning after the dream, I took my phone from the nightstand, opened the Facebook app and encountered Rebecca’s poem. While I had been dreaming about a cellar and Mason jars, Rebecca had been writing about them. She had crafted a work full of hope and promise, a tale of burial and longing for resurrection. Here’s the poem I read that morning, the same poem Rebecca Reynolds read into a jar atop Roan Mountain on Saturday: The sky was cool as a sunfish belly, by high heaven flesh-flecked, flushed and gilded. Fin-slit frolic, through iced glory swelling, made her leap, split those thin waters. Threaded by golden strands, dawn stitched God’s firmament to the red clay of Ticker farm where Blythe lined sea-blue Mason jars on a time-bent one-by-six under yellow cellar light. It was a room dug deep, though not very, a blank, earthen womb for harvest and babes kept through summer storm; sweet, hidden plenties, nestled against odds from middle wars waged. Longing like hope cast by hook and line, stretched from burial to whimsy.

by the Rabbit Room Recently, there have been a lot of conversations about how the Rabbit Room can best bring people together and support the work of creative communities across the world. We’re happy to tell you we’ve been listening, and today we are excited to lift the veil on the next frontier of the Rabbit Room experience. We believe social media is the key to shaping the world into a better place, and over the past few years, Facebook has worked alongside organizations like ours to develop a host of new tools and systems to provide communities ways to define themselves and serve their users in custom-built environments that cater to the specific needs of niche audiences. As you can imagine, the Rabbit Room communities are fertile soil for that ground-breaking development, and we’ve been delighted to partner with folks like Facebook whose goals so closely match our own. So it’s with with great pleasure that today we can finally announce an exciting new alternative to traditional community: Facemoot. It is our hope that Facemoot will provide a meaningful connecting place for those of us who are on the search for kindred spirits, but are tired of the noisy clamor of social media and awkward face-to-face interactions with strangers. Welcome to the Moot. Facemoot is simple, and even countercultural, in its design. Here are a few of its most exciting features: Tired of “Facebook statuses”? Try Facemoot soliloquies. Each soliloquy must include a minimum of 500 characters. No more small talk. Engage in real, meaningful conversations. Instead of “likes,” Facemoot offers four separate and distinct loves: storge, philia, eros, and agape. Are you tired of grammatically incorrect internet speak? Our Grammar Police™ filter will automatically correct abbreviated textspeak and fill in you’re every missed Oxford comma, incorrect apostrophe and dangling modifier. Don’t want other rabbits to know you’re online? Use the Ring of Power™ function to become invisible.* No friends online to chat with? Our AI-based chat rabbit named Chabbit™ is well-read and eager to discuss the intricacies of everything from Narnian cuisine to best practices in translating Russian literature. All-new emojis include Tolkien’s fireplace, smoking pipe, and Rabbit Trails comics characters. We are delighted to invite you into this new community. In the coming months, we’ll be working hard to roll out plug-ins for other popular online platforms. Our goal is to accommodate all your social media needs, including Instamoot, Mooter, SnapRabbit, and more. *(Caution: may fill users with dread and a paranoid sense of being watched.)