What are you looking for?

There’s no doubt about it, my mother has the gift of hospitality. Enter her house nearly any time of day and you’ll be greeted by the warm smell of something delicious being whipped up in her kitchen, as if she were just hoping someone might stop by. Her house is always immaculate and inviting, neatly decorated and comfortable, and she converses easily with everyone she meets. She just seems to know intuitively how to make people feel welcome. But I did not inherit my mother’s gifts; most of my talents are from my Dad. I am a thinker, an introvert, and I do not have an aesthetic bone in my body. So imagine the shock I experienced when I decided to stay home and care for my firstborn son. I knew, because of the wonderful care my mother had given our family, how important it was for me to take on this role, but I hadn’t realized how naturally it came for her until one day when I asked: “What did you want to be when you were a little girl?” “All I’ve ever wanted to be is a wife and mother,” she told me. It was not the answer I wanted to hear. Something must be wrong with me, I surmised. And thus began a warped worldview I’ve only recently realized I possessed. Unfortunately, I lumped all of women into two distinct categories: those who were naturally gifted in the domestic arts, like my mother, and those who were not, like me. The result of such thinking was a ten-year struggle between my role as Mom, wife, and homemaker—and my passion for writing. And then I met Jill Phillips, a recording artist who works from home while caring for three kids with her husband Andy Gullahorn, who also sings and makes music. I went to Jill’s house one afternoon and met her kids and saw how she mothered them, and we talked about finding time for our passions in the midst of our daily lives. Jill told me about a book she’d been reading and invited me to a small group meeting with other women who were reading along with her. The book was Real Love for Real Life: The Art and Work of Caring by Andi Ashworth. It’s a comprehensive look at the ways we view the role of caregiver in modern times, and it’s a defense of the value of that vocation. Ashworth examines her life before and after she began placing an emphasis on her calling as caregiver, and she offers encouragement as well as exhortation for anyone seeking to make the most of their daily relationships. Without romanticizing or dismissing the hard work that goes into caregiving, Ashworth lays out specific ways to examine our current methods of care and offers concrete examples of how we can do a better job. The chapter Jill’s group discussed that morning is called “Rest For the Weary,” and it really grabbed my attention. “Because the work of caring is invisible to so many people, and because caregiving as a vocation has been neglected by our society, we need to bring it out of the shadows and help people understand what we do. When you value what you do and correctly name it as work, respect and appreciation for your efforts will likely spread throughout your family and beyond.” (p. 122) Finally, here was a book that validated the work I knew my mother had done and I was trying to do, and also gave me the language I needed to understand that this work was far more comprehensive than a clean home and a well-cooked meal. My calling didn’t have to look exactly the same as my mother’s, and if God gave me a different set of skills, it didn’t have to mean I wasn’t doing a good job caring for my family. I could still use the gifts he gave me to fulfill that calling in my own unique way, like my ability to be a good listener, my off-beat sense of humor, or my natural awareness of other people’s moods. “If you are someone whose primary work is to care physically and emotionally for those entrusted to you, then you are in the business of imagining for the good of those people and working to bring about what is true and lovely and admirable in them. Your gifts, your time, and your work are important. You are not alone. Like countless others through generations, you are participating in God’s perfect design to love in the everyday realities of life. In doing so you reflect the beauty of a God whose love knows no limit.” (p. 18) I went home, and later that summer I started a small group at my church with several ladies who read the book with me. These ladies helped me discover things about myself, ways that I was already using my gifts to care for my family and new things I could try which might even encourage my creativity in writing. They helped me recognize the error of my thinking about only two categories of women, and I began to let go of the idea that my role as caregiver and my passion for writing had to be at odds with one another. It’s still tricky at times to navigate both paths, but I’m encouraged when I remember that this season of life, with all of my children at home, is fleeting and no one else can be their mother but me. “Embracing the seasons of caregiving helps us seize the moment for what it is: a portion of time that is small when seen against the whole of life on earth and the vast expanse of eternity. Yet what great significance is found in a single opportunity to love someone in a way that can never be repeated.” (p. 156) The best thing I learned from this book is that taking care of people encompasses a great deal more than domestic giftedness, and it’s not something only mothers can do. The truth is that all women, and all men for that matter, have abilities and talents which enable them to care for other people. It’s just that our definitions of caregiving are too narrow. It’s not something only wives and mothers do. It does not merely involve cooking and cleaning, and it’s much more than menial labor, regardless of the fact that so many people who do it do so without getting paid. “While caregiving is often associated with women, it’s clear from the Scriptures that all God’s children are responsible to take neighbor-love out of the abstract and bring it into our concrete, daily lives. Our overarching vocation in the kingdom of God is to take care of the earth and its people, to protect and develop what God has made.” (p. 11-12) I’m so glad the Rabbit Room Press has republished this book – it deserves our attention. It’s not just a book for women, and it’s not just a book for mothers. It’s a book for Christians. Let it encourage you to seek out the non-efficient business of loving and caring for the people in your life. May it open your eyes to the value of a love that is lived out in real life, in the nitty gritty corners of caring, not just the esoteric planes of exultation. And as a result, may the people you love see your work as a reflection of a creative, loving God who values people enough to be intimately involved in their daily care. “When we live in light of the gospel, we view time and people from the perspective of eternity. Even the small things we do to show people they matter can make a difference. We make our offerings, not knowing if our efforts will even be noticed, but knowing that each person matters supremely to God, and he notices. We live by faith, not by sight, entrusting the outcome to God and knowing that we’re participating in his work of caring for the people he loves. That knowledge fills all of our caregiving with eternal significance.” (p. 46) [Andi Ashworth’s Real Love for Real Life is available in the Rabbit Room store.]

I’m working on a book, and I wrote this today as part of a chapter. I thought it might be a blessing to my fellow Rabbits this summer. The Celtic Christians, like the Romans, usually worshiped in rectangular buildings (as much as some modern people would love to think of Celts worshiping in forests and glades, or in round buildings where everyone was equal before Mother God, it’s not true). The evidence indicates that these Christians stood during worship, with women on one side of the room and men on the other. They required two priests to celebrate the Eucharist, just to make sure it was legitimate. These priests stood before a raised altar at the front of the room. Over that altar hung a large object. In the Roman churches at the time, the object over the altar was a cross. Sometimes the cross had a representation of the body of Jesus on it. This is true to this day, of course. Roman Catholic churches, in fact most churches, have a large cross in a prominent spot. Though video screens have now replaced crosses in some churches, it is right and good to have a cross hanging front and center. The cross reminds us of our redemption and forgiveness through the sacrifice of Jesus. It is a potent symbol of our faith. The Celtic churches did not have a cross. Instead, they had a crown. This was, for them, the central meaning of the Gospel: Jesus is King. Remember that they lived in a land which boasted many warlords, so many kings. Invaders constantly crossed into Celtic lands. War for the right of rulership was a common experience. Who was or was not the real king was often in doubt. In this context, the Celtic Church lifted up Jesus as the one true King, the King of Kings. You may see how counter-cultural this was, and how dangerous. I can’t imagine that many lords liked the idea of their people declaring someone else as Lord every Sunday. You may also see how amazing it was that some Celtic warlords practiced the Christian faith and why a few of them are now thought of as saints. I would not argue that we should replace the Cross with the Crown as the central image of our faith. But what if we did? On one hand, we might lose some important things, like the suffering of Jesus and our call to suffer with him. We might lose our focus on his tremendous sacrifice on our behalf. We might lose some hard-won compassion. Those would be a terrible losses. But there is something to gain in the Crown. The Crown might remind us that we are not our own masters. It might remind us that in all our political, cultural and economic difference we are still all subjects of one great ruler. It might remind us that our will is not to be done, but rather His will. A Crown might remind us that Jesus is Lord, whether we want him to be or not. Of course, we could want both things–The Cross and the Crown. That would be something, wouldn’t it? A Church that saw Jesus as both the Suffering Servant and the Reigning King? A Church that saw herself as both redeemed and submitted, as forgiven by the King but also reigning with Him? That would be a grand image to take from the Celtic Church, a gift they can give us these many centuries later.

Real Love for Real Life is not only a beautifully-crafted exploration of the calling of caregiving, it is a gift of care in itself. Andi Ashworth writes with great compassion and great humility, and the result is a book that will literally change lives and give souls courage to dwell in Christ’s love in concrete, practical ways. Andi’s perspective is refreshing and rare, in the way that all good, old, true things are: a voice of affirmation to an often overlooked and sadly neglected part of the Body of Christ, and a loving challenge to a generation that seems characterized by isolation, busyness, and hurry. She is such an inspiration, a genuine example of a lifestyle of love. It was my great privilege to ask her a few questions on the occasion of the release of the Rabbit Room Press edition of her timeless–and timely–book. Lanier: In your book, you paint a picture of caring as a unique and legitimate vocation, encompassing a limitless spectrum of opportunities for expressing love in practical ways. People tend to think of caregiving as specific to the needs of the helpless–the sick, the dying or very small children–and while you honor these special cases as sacred and necessary, you cast a vision that goes beyond them, embracing the daily occasions of a lifetime. You point out, however, with great compassion, that the calling of caregiving is one that receives very little outward validation in our day and age, particularly as more and more of the details of our daily lives are outsourced to “professionals.” To the ones called to love in such concrete, often mundane ways, your words are literally wine to the soul, a much-needed voice of affirmation amid a wilderness of hurry and efficiency and convenience. In the ten years since you first wrote such life-giving words, would you say that the attitudes within the Church have changed towards caregiving as a valid calling? If so, how? What are some of the things that you would say to encourage this generation to consider the vocation of caring, or to help individuals recognize it as a calling in their own lives? Andi: There is small and steady progress with the Church’s understanding of the nature of vocation. Organizations like The Washington Institute for Faith, Vocation, and Culture do a huge service by helping people fully understand the meaning and mission of vocation. But in the general church culture as in the larger society, there is one big issue that gets in the way of a full comprehension of caregiving work and vocation. Work continues to be largely understood only in terms of a work/compensation model. And most of the caregiving that takes place in everyday life is not paid labor. The mother or father caring full-time for children and family life, the homemaker creating a home that’s interesting, alive and welcoming, the person who’s always meeting the practical needs of neighbors and friends, the work of hospitality . . . there are a million different versions of what caregiving can look like. It’s hard work and it’s creative work, but so much of it takes place behind closed doors or without much fanfare. The results are seen, felt, and enjoyed by others, but it’s rare for folks to really notice or think about the labor that went on behind the scenes. Biblically speaking, work has an intrinsic value of its own when it’s carried out to satisfy genuine need. The value of someone’s work has nothing to do with whether or not it has a paycheck attached to it. It’s crucial for caregivers to understand this, to learn a holistic theology of work, to know their labor matters to God and to the flourishing of families and societies. Everyone needs to know their work matters. It’s very wearying to feel invisible to the world or to the people in your own household. But if you can latch on to the truth that caring for human life is a very powerful work that actually changes the shape of people’s lives and the way they experience the world, you will have a vision that can hold you even in the midst of dismissive cultural attitudes. Real Love for Real Life was born out of my own need to understand all these things. It’s a very personal book, full of stories. It was also very important to me to write about the imaginative, creative, and artful side of caregiving. Van Gogh said something like this: “the highest form of art is fashioning human lives.” I’m not sure if that’s the exact quote, but it’s certainly true. You’re creating all the time–creating a mood, creating a meal, making a sick person comfortable, creating a celebration, nurturing compassion, creating a welcome–you’re always making. When our imaginations are captured by the idea of creating good stories in the lives of the people we’ve been given to love, a world of possibility opens up. It must be said that a lot of caregiving work is tedious, repetitive, and wearying. Washing endless loads of laundry, a thousand trips to the grocery store, cleaning up after children, all the bits and pieces required to care for a spouse or friend who’s battling illness. But if we can keep in mind the bigger story we’re creating, it goes a long way in bringing meaning to the details. If you are someone who’s drawn to respond to human need in practical, creative ways, take it seriously and live it out faithfully. The world is desperately in need of people who are gifted and called in this way. L: You place a great emphasis on recognizing individual gifts as clues to opportunities for service in the body of Christ. How did you come to such a clear and tailored sense of your calling, especially in a world that is constantly shouting at us to “do it all?” Can you elaborate on how you have learned to say “no” to good things that simply don’t line up with your personal calling? A: For many years, because we were a self-employed music business family, I did a lot of work that was necessary–accounting and administrative stuff–but that I had no natural ability for. As time went on I was increasingly frustrated spending my days working in an area I was not drawn to, not gifted for, and would never have chosen had it not been connected to my husband and our family income. At the point of my highest frustration, about sixteen years ago, I took a class from a counselor that changed my whole way of thinking and living. For the first time ever, I considered my personality type, my gifts, the settings I preferred to work in, the tools I like to use, fields of knowledge I already had, and others I would like to pursue. I thought about the things I love to do and will always do in some capacity because they are integral to who I am. I began to understand that those things are inside me because God has put them there and I’d be wise to pay attention. For one thing, I realized I’m a writer and began to pursue that seriously. And I started looking at my life in other ways to see what it was telling me. My journals helped me see that caregiving was huge and continual. We had a constant stream of people coming through our home, the Art House, and I was taking care of them all in one way or another, so the caregiving included our children and family but it was much more than that. Once I had the tools I to think about vocation, I could see that I was good at caring for people and that I’d been inclined that way since I was a young girl. I was naturally nurturing, but I’d also learned through response, experience, and study. I had skill in cooking, listening and staying at the table with people who needed to talk, giving counsel and speaking honestly about my own life, anticipating need, creating beauty in our environment–really all kinds of things I’d never thought of as being anything special–but in fact they were. They were exactly what was needed in the life God had given us. I’ve been so grateful to have navigational tools as my responsibilities have expanded into other areas, but caregiving in different forms continues on. The more I can name my callings, I am free to say “no” to things that are not mine to do. I can trust God to provide someone else. I am now more inner driven than outer driven. Naming the different parts of my vocation isn’t something I did over a decade ago and never had to do again. Chuck and I do it all the time. Periodically we take stock of our individual and shared callings because they shift and change, the shape of our family changes, and our own needs change. It’s really important to know what our work requires of us at any given time, not to mention caring for our marriage and our bodies. And understanding the relational aspect of calling is crucial–that we’re most responsible inside our circle of immediate and extended family and close friendships. Requests are coming at us all the time and there’s no possibility of keeping up with everyone, so there has to be a way to navigate. The unanswered emails, Facebook messages, and phone calls often feel like failure, but we know we’re not without limits. We have to have an order of priority and ultimately live before the Audience of One. Everyone does. We’re all capable of trying to split ourselves in so many pieces that we don’t end up being any good to anyone. L: I love the fact that you and your husband have evaluated your calling as a couple, and have made such intentional choices in accordance with your vision for home and family, and the ministry that can take place within these contexts. What are some of the ways that you compliment each other in this shared life, and how do your personal vocations enhance those of your marriage? A: My husband, Charlie Peacock, is a very gifted musician, songwriter, record producer, entrepreneur, thinker, writer, speaker . . . the list goes on and on. It’s not really fair for one person to be good at so many things, but there it is! He’s wired to thrive in complexity and loves to juggle many things at the same time. I have to juggle too, but when it comes to writing, creating a talk, or preparing to host the occasional large event in our home–when there’s something attached to a deadline, I need space to concentrate and pour myself in. I need to focus on that one thing as much as possible. My husband, on the other hand, can write a book while other people are in the room! He learned that kind of focus when we had small children. He would sit at the piano and work on songs while the kids were noisy and playing in the same room because music was our bread and butter. We didn’t have any other place for him to go to be alone. I, on the other hand, have to tune all the way in to the people in the room. It’s the way I’m made and it’s also been necessary for the life we’ve had. We’re different in many other ways too. He makes quick decisions. I’m a processor. He’s an improviser. I’m a preparer. We’ve come to understand over all our years together that our two very different kinds of wiring are actually very complimentary. One style is not better than the other, just different. Our life has needed both. So our styles are different, but we have many, many shared concerns. Place is very important to us. A life of the mind is important. Ideas are important. People are important. We live and work in a century-old, renovated country church where our recording studio, offices, and home all string together. We’ve been making things and serving people from this place for many years. We partner in the work of Art House America, a non-profit committed to the encouragement of imagination and creativity for the common good. A lot of that work has been hospitality based, but it’s changing. We can’t invite the world into our home anymore in the same ways we always have. But we now have a virtual Art House, a blog where we publish essays that reflect Art House America cares, concerns, and joys (arthouseamerica.com/blog). I work closely with our editor, Jenni Simmons, to have a hospitable blog that offers a wide range of topic areas–Creation Care, Artful Children, Feast, Music, Visual Art, Bookish, and much more. A change like that–shifting focus from our place to the blog is healthy for our marriage at this stage. I still love meeting with individual people, which I do often, but right now I really care about creating a blog that educates, inspires, and goes way beyond our front door. And Chuck has a very heavy production schedule, so he’s not as available these days either. After 37 years of marriage we are more sensitive to each other’s needs personally and vocationally than we’ve ever been. We’re shifting accordingly and that is key to a good marriage and a fruitful life. L: One of the things that is especially refreshing about your perspective on caregiving as a calling is the gentle reminder of our human limitations. You have a lot to say about the needs of the caregiver, and the necessity of receiving care as gracefully as we give it. What are some of the ways that you have learned to recognize your own needs and boundaries? What are some of the practical ways that you replenish your own wells of creativity and artistic giving? A: Hospitality has taught me about my limitations probably more than anything else. A hospitality vocation makes for a rich life, full of treasured relationships and involvement in people’s lives. But I’ve had many seasons of being so completely burned out by always having people around and not having privacy, I felt I would internally combust. I am an introvert and so is my husband. We were in our early forties before we learned the true meaning of introvert/extrovert. It was a revolutionary bit of information. I am highly relational, but I also need a lot of alone time and private space to reenergize and be with people again. When we began to understand our needs, we made adjustments. And we’ve been making adjustments ever since–everything from small tweaks to large changes. We made a huge change just this year. At the end of 2011 we both decided that our life of having people stay with us so often was at an end. We’d been at it for thirty years, with increasing intensity over the last twenty. But we’re in a different season now. In addition to what I’ve already talked about, we have five grandkids and will soon be adding to that number. Our daughter and son-in-law are several years into an international adoption process and we eagerly await the arrival of our newest grandchild, whenever it happens. We want to be present with all these little ones. So as much as we value hospitality and will always maintain that kind of life in some way, we’re drawing the line at overnight guests as much as we can. Aging is helping me pay attention to a healthier way of living. At 56 years old I have to take care of my body and conserve my energy for the things I’m called to now. I’m more aware than ever that I can’t push and push beyond my mental or physical energy, so I’m trying to be wise and take care of myself. Regarding practical ways to replenish, I’m walking and swimming multiple times a week and trying to eat well consistently. I’m newly in touch with my garden in a way I haven’t been in years. I planted garden spaces all around our property, and then got too busy to take care of them. I still have help with maintenance, but this year I’ve had my own hands in the dirt–planting, weeding, and deadheading. It’s very nourishing to me to be a part of creating beauty outdoors. I read a lot. Well-written books are huge in my life. Literary novels and memoir are important. Cookbooks are necessary and inspiring. I read the Bible for food and breath and life, always. I write in my journal often. If I get to go the beach once a year, I’m a happy girl. I love bike riding when I’m in California visiting family. The beauty of sacrificial behavior inspires me. Greatness in visual art, literature, music, theater, and film feeds my mind and soul. A wonderful, connecting conversation with a friend does too. Every now and then we get to go to Laity Lodge, which is a retreat center in the hill country of Texas. We usually go there to work in some way–to be a part of the speaking team or for Chuck to play music. But I always come away refreshed in body, mind, and spirit when I’m there. The setting in the Frio River Canyon, the hospitality, the food, the people, the caliber of teaching and music and art making, and the restful schedule all serve to make Laity Lodge one of the most special places I know. It’s not often that you can go somewhere to be a part of the work, but come away refreshed and inspired. L: It is significant to me that you focus more on the concept of celebrating the ceremonies of life, seeing them as chances to anchor your loved ones in tangible experiences of love, rather than merely holding up traditions. How do you live in harmony with the changing seasons of your life, while still maintaining such a strong sense of family connectedness and continuity? A: I want to leave my family with a heritage of memories and a strong sense of belonging. It was important when my kids were growing up and it only gets more important as grandchildren have come into the picture. I think I’m more in tune to this longing because my parents divorced when I was very small and the most anchoring experiences I had were with my maternal grandmother. My dad was hardly in my life at all. My mom was very much in my life, but died when I was a young woman. So I’ve often felt rather rootless in regards to family of origin. By the time I was old enough to care about where I came from and ask questions, my mother and all my grandparents were gone. One of my aunt’s, my dad’s sister, has been really generous about passing on family information, but on my mom’s side I don’t have much. So I probably overcompensate by saving every scrap of paper someone generates in our family, keeping loads of journals, and wanting to do what I can while I’m around. I want to leave a trail of experiences, recipes, photographs, and stories that communicate love, belonging, and family history. In the first years of our marriage, Chuck and I came very close to not making it. When the grace of God came to find us after we’d been married for seven years, we learned to be intentional about creating in family life and having stories to call our own. I guess in one way or another we’ve been doing it ever since, only now with the help of our grown children. When our kids were growing up we didn’t have a lot of continuity surrounding major celebrations like Christmas. For one reason and another we couldn’t keep things the same every year. But we found our way into different traditions. We made a big deal of Valentine’s Day, making it a celebration of the love within our little foursome instead of something only for Chuck and me. For ten years, until our daughter, Molly, left for college, we wrote letters to each other and read them aloud after a sharing a special dinner. I have the letters in a scrapbook. Once in a while I’ll get them out and read them again, crying every time, especially with the last batch! With grandkids we have rituals and traditions–dances under the disco ball in our living room, cooking together, decorating Christmas cookies with the whole family, playing games in the car that Chuck creates on the spot! For little kids, even the smallest rituals have meaning because it’s all about continuity and sharing something together. My first granddaughter and I even have a tradition of making the coffee together whenever she spends the night. We started it when she was a toddler and she’s now eight. When she was tiny she sat on the kitchen counter while I rinsed out the coffee maker and filled it back up with water. Then we opened the jar of coffee beans, smelled the rich aroma of good coffee, poured it in the grinder, ground the beans while she counted to ten, put the coffee in the coffee filter, placed everything back on the coffee maker, and she would push the “on” button. At eight years old she can do most of this by herself. But everything must be done in the proper order and we never skip the step of sniffing the beans and commenting on how good they smell. In the whole scheme of things this is very small, but it belongs only to the two of us and I bet she’ll remember it when she grows up! Gatherings with family and friends–holidays, birthdays, Mother’s and Father’s Days–anchor us. Earlier this year I was thinking of the significance of these kinds of gatherings for family life. My thoughts became an essay titled “Why We Gather.” A long time ago, I heard my friend Nita Andrews say something profound and beautiful. I wrote her words in my journal: “rituals and traditions become our interior secret, something of time, place, and history. They are patterns of beauty that we can create, and our people will keep them as the place of their heart, the place that they came from.” I believe this and I want it for the ones I love. L: How has the acknowledgement of caregiving as both an act of worship and an art form impacted your personal relationship with Christ? A: I love what William Barclay has written: “Real worship is the offering of everyday life to him, not something transacted in a church, but something which sees the whole world as the temple of God.” Worship does happen in the gathering of the Church, of course. But one of the beauties of the Christian faith is that we can also worship him through our ordinary, daily lives, even when we’re not aware of it. Since the love of God and love of people are intertwined, there is great meaning in the thousands of ways faith can express itself through love in an individual life. Matthew 25 says that when we feed the hungry, give clothes to people who need them, care for the sick, give drinks of water to thirsty people, visit shut-ins, and welcome strangers, we’re actually serving Christ himself. This scripture has a very wide application, but I try not to miss what it means in my own life as I feed hungry people around my table, give drinks of water to my grandchildren, or welcome strangers into my home. The message is clear that even the smallest act of caring for another human being in a life giving way is an enormous expression of love to God himself. It’s about meeting human need where we find it and we find it in the life God gives us. I also know that going after beauty is the right thing to do. It’s such an obvious thing to say that beauty matters to God, but it’s true. It’s also true that people are cared for through beauty. So when I do even the smallest things to bring beauty into our life, arranging a vase of flowers from the garden or ironing a beautiful vintage tablecloth for the kitchen table, I feel the pleasure of it and the rightness of it. How could I not love a God like this, who is sovereign over every square inch of the universe, and yet whose love and involvement brings meaning to even the smallest details of my life? Everything matters and so I run to him with every need, every gratitude, every desire, every heartache, and every hope. L: Andi, thank you so much the gift of your time and your words, both here and in your book. I know that they will bear God’s grace to many, in the giving and receiving of care in His name. The new Rabbit Room Press edition of Real Love for Real Life is available in the Rabbit Room store.

After taking a hiatus from blogging in order to focus on writing and spending time with my family, I’m dipping my toe back in the waters to give you an update on what’s brewing in our world. In November of 2011, Centricity and I talked about doing a Christmas record for 2012, and as I wondered about what that would like—what kind of Christmas record I could get really excited about—I thought about a Gray Christmas tradition that involves one of my favorite books by one of my favorite authors: Beyond Words by Frederick Buechner, a kind of dictionary/encyclopedia of religious words and characters that come to new life under Buechner’s observant eye. Every year I pull the book off the shelf and look up each of the characters who make an appearance in the Christmas story, and every year I’m moved by the humanity of these people who find themselves unexpectedly caught up in the middle of The Greatest Story Ever Told. With all that has muddied the waters of the meaning of Christmas in the years since “redemption ripped through surface of time in the cry of a tiny babe,” it’s been good for me to be reminded that it actually happened, once upon a time, in a certain place, in the lives of very real people who look much like myself. So I set out to write and record a collection of Christmas songs based on the individual characters in the story, filling in the gaps with traditional Christmas carols that would advance the narrative. Our own Andrew Peterson’s masterpiece Behold The Lamb Of God: The True Tall Tale of The Coming Of Christ was also a guiding light for me, an example of a non-traditional Christmas album that has found a home in the hearts of so many people, deepening their experience of the wonder of Christmas. I had no idea what I was getting myself into! Here I had an opportunity to take it easy and record a bunch of classics and be done with it! But once this other idea took hold of me it drew me deeper and deeper into it until each of the characters presented themselves, asking for their stories to be told. Ten songs later (and several others that won’t make the record) we decided we had to stop and leave some room for the carols that would help identify this as a Christmas collection. Making a Christmas record is tricky because just about everyone has a different opinion about what a Christmas record should be. Actually, it’s less an opinion than it is an impassioned conviction. When I let word out about this project on my facebook page one commenter would write something like: “Please do the classics!” and then the very next commenter would write, “whatever you do, don’t just do the songs that everyone else does – original songs please!” Even my own house is divided over the idea of what makes a great Christmas record. Throw into the mix the consideration of what kind of songs best serve what radio is looking for and what my record label Centricity is hoping for (though they’ve been very generous to let me chase my passion on this) and it makes for a bit of a tightrope walk. Trying to please everybody is the enemy of creativity and at some point in the process I had to set aside the various imagined expectations. My guiding prayer became this: to make the kind of record that was true to God’s call on my life, that most honored the heart of God made flesh in Jesus, and that gave a voice to those who were there on that holy night at the dawn of redeeming grace. This left me at the mercy of my most demanding critic: myself. But it also put me in a position to be led by my delight. It seemed like a great opportunity to work with my friend and one of my favorite producers, Cason Cooley, whose work on Katie Herzig’s The Waking Sleep and Jill Phillips’s In This Hour are great examples of both his playful adventurism and his humble service to the song (do yourself a favor and check out both of those records!) Cason’s work has a quirky and joyful exuberance that I thought would be a perfect fit for this project. I wanted it to be a really joyful record. As I got deeper into the story and the characters, though, I found myself in an intense narrative peopled with characters in the midst of great drama and crisis. The young girl who carries the secret of angels; the heartbroken young man whose fiancé is pregnant with another’s baby (will he forgive her when it’s in his power to ruin her?); the wisemen with their gifts of gold (will they give the child what he desires most, the gift of themselves?); the harried innkeeper so overwhelmed with his work that it’s hard for him to recognize the wonder on his doorstep that would make him whole. Yet there is great joy in the midst of this sober drama, too: the exuberance of the shepherds, wide-eyed and breathless the moment after the angels split the sky with their chorus. They are running into town with Gloria! still ringing in their ears—not entirely sure where they’re going, but what is there to do but run!—to see the newborn King. And of course there is the child himself who will make us children again and heal the world with joy. I’ve played the little bits that we’ve gotten done so far for some friends, and I received the greatest compliment I could have hoped for when a friend told me that he thought it sounds more like “me” than any thing I’ve ever recorded. Complicated scheduling and a spring full of touring made it more difficult to pull this project together than we ever imagined, but Cason and co-writing friends like Randall Goodgame, Andy Gullahorn, Nichole Nordeman, and Joel Hanson have been generous in their time and care to help me bring these songs to life. And so here we are putting the finishing touches on a collection of songs about the incarnation that we hope will surprise, delight and give people a sense that once upon a time and a place, among men and women just like us, a baby was born who changed everything. It’s the greatest story ever told, and it’s a story that we are all a part of, caught up in, and inexorably shaped by. Frederick Buechner, whose writing plays a significant part in these songs, has said that the story of one of us is the story of us all. If we’ve done our job well, then hopefully these characters will feel like old friends, as familiar as the person in your mirror. I hope you like it when we’re finished! I’ll write soon about the experience of writing and recording this record.  Until then, merry Christmas!

I’ve been a fan of Carolyn Arends since 1995, when I saw her open for Rich Mullins at the Ryman Auditorium here in Nashville. That means that for seventeen years of my life I’ve been affected by the songs and writings of this most excellent Canadian. I count it a great blessing to call her a friend. Her newest book, Theology in Aisle Seven, is a collection of pieces she wrote for Christianity Today, and is available here.  –The Proprietor The day before he died, my father wore what his doctors called the “Star Wars mask”—a high-tech oxygen system that covered most of his face. Pneumonia made his breathing extremely labored, but that didn’t keep him from chatting. “Pardon?” my mom would ask patiently, trying to decipher his muffled sounds. Exasperated, he’d yank off the mask, bringing himself to the brink of respiratory arrest to ask about hockey trades or complain about the hospital food. After several hours, he gave up on conversation. He started singing. “What are you humming?” my mom asked. My dad repeatedly tried to answer through the mask before yanking it off again. “‘With Christ in the Vessel, I Can Smile at the Storm’,” he gasped. “Wow,” murmured my mom, before singing it with him. My dad learned “With Christ in the Vessel” at Camp Imadene in 1949, the summer he asked Jesus into his 8-year-old heart. Six decades later, hours before his death, that silly old camp song was still embedded in his soul and mind, and he was singing it at the top of his nearly-worn-out lungs. I have never liked thinking about my own death. But I’ve considered it enough to know I hope I go down singing, or at least speaking or thinking, something about Jesus. I suppose that is why I found myself sobbing on an airplane while reading Margaret Guenther’s The Practice of Prayer. In one section, Guenther discusses the Eastern Christian discipline of continuously repeating the Jesus Prayer: “Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.” She reports her own efforts to incorporate the practice into her daily life, even sizing up the logs she chops for firewood by the number of Jesus Prayers she’ll likely get through before they are cut. I love the idea of having such truth-giving words ingrained into my routine. But here’s Guenther’s line that really got to me: “I hope that by imprinting [the Jesus Prayer] on my subconscious, it will be with me for the rest of my life, especially at the end, when other words will perhaps be lost to me.” Guenther, a former professor at General Theological Seminary in New York, is an accomplished and educated woman. Yet she is humble and practical enough to do what she can to prepare for her own death—and for the possibility that even before her death, her mind might fade into dementia. In a culture consumed with denying mortality, here is a woman who plans for it, in a way that affects the minutiae of her life now. Many early Christian communities encouraged believers to engage in the spiritual discipline of considering their own deaths—not in order to create morbid fear, but to put this life in the proper perspective. Memento mori, medieval monks would say to each other in the hallways. “Remember your mortality,” or, more literally, “Remember you will die.” Death unaddressed is the bogeyman in the basement; it keeps us looking over our shoulders and holds us back from entering joyously into the days we are given. But death dragged out from the shadows and held up to the light of the gospel not only loses its sting, it becomes an essential reminder to wisely use the life we have. When we remember the mortality of those around us, they become more valuable to us. Madeleine L’Engle once noted that when people die, it is the sins of omission, rather than the sins of commission, that haunt us. “If only I had called more,” we lament. Remembering a loved one’s death before it happens can spur us into the sort of action we won’t regret later. And remembering our own mortality helps reorder our priorities; a race toward a finish line has a different sense of purpose and urgency than a jog around the block. When a believer acknowledges that he is headed toward death (tomorrow or in 50 years), he can stop expending the tremendous energy it takes to deny his mortality and start living into his eternal destiny, here and now. And he can be intentional about investing himself in the things he wants to be with him at the end, much the way Guenther seeks to make the Jesus Prayer a permanent part of her psyche. I don’t want to romanticize death. My friend Bernie calls it “the Great Gash,” and I must confess that on the six-month anniversary of my father’s passing, the hole left by him is still gaping. But though death hurts, it is not the end. Though we mourn, we do not mourn as those who have no hope. And so I offer my dread of death to the Author of Life, asking him to help me to number my days rightly. I don’t know how many I’ve got, but I want to use every one of them to get the truth about who Jesus is—and who I am in him—more deeply ingrained. That’s why I’m teaching my kids “With Christ in the Vessel.” We sing it at the top of our lungs. ———————————— From the April 2011 Issue of Christianity Today, now included in the the new ebook THEOLOGY IN AISLE SEVEN.

In 2002, Andi Ashworth, the co-founder of Art House America (along with her husband, music producer Charlie Peacock) published, Real Love for Real Life: The Art and Work of Caring. The book is Andi’s care-filled challenge to find creative ways of bringing beauty into the lives of those around us, and it’s become a book beloved by readers everywhere. Sadly, Real Love for Real Life went out of print and copies became scarce. When Andi approached us to discuss the possibility of putting it back into print as a second edition, we were more than happy to help. Rabbit Room Press is now proud to announce the release of the second edition of Andi Ashworth’s acclaimed Real Love for Real Life: The Art and Work of Caring, featuring a new preface to the second edition written by the author. If you, like many, have been anxious to read it but haven’t been able to find it available, fret no longer. It’s now on sale in the Rabbit Room store. Russ Ramsey discussed the book back in 2008. And Jill Phillips discussed it in 2010. Look for a new Rabbit Room review and an new interview with Andi Ashworth in the next week. Here’s what Publisher’s Weekly had to say: “Edith Schaeffer’s The Hidden Art of Homemaking (1971) and What Is a Family? (1975) have sold steadily in Christian bookstores for over a generation, and now Ashworth offers daughters (and sons) of Schaeffer’s early readers an equally inspirational tribute to caregiving. Wife and business partner of Nashville musician Charlie Peacock, Ashworth maintains in this solidly biblical yet culturally aware book that caregiving, loving, and serving other people is to some extent the duty of every Christian. For certain Christians, caregiving is also a lifelong vocation that, though undervalued in our productivity-obsessed world, deserves as much respect as any paid employment. Ashworth is no Martha Stewart: she provides encouragement rather than crafts and recipes. Nor is she Pollyanna: she recognizes that caregiving can be tedious and exhausting, and only those who set firm boundaries and rely on God’s help are likely to persist. Ashworth’s own struggle with balancing business and home life increases her credibility as she promotes flower gardens, hospitality, and leisurely conversations over dinner . . . If her abundant anecdotes evoke nostalgia for a bygone era, they also reinforce her point that “when we create beauty in our environment, relationships, music, cooking, poetry, and celebrations we express our hope for the new heaven and new earth that God promises.” Ashworth does not provide a detailed road map to her peaceable kingdom, but she clearly shows that if it is ever to be created, someone must care.”

Yesterday marked the launch of a brand new website called Story Warren. It’s the brainchild of our good friend, S. D. Smith, who’s been patiently cooking it up over the last couple of years. Head over and check out the site. You’ll recognize quite a few of the names on the masthead. Here’s how Sam describes the Story Warren mission: Story Warren exists to serve you as you seek to foster holy imagination in the children you love. We want to do this primarily in two ways: Mostly, we want to write and share posts that will inspire, encourage, and foster holy imagination in you. Trickle-down imagination! I don’t know about you, but I can’t give to my children what I don’t have. Children become engaged when we are engaged. Also, we need the very same thing. Our focus here will center on children, but most of that applies to us as well. Secondly, we want to serve as a connection to storytellers, song-singers, teachers, and others who are doing this wonderful work. Imagine this place to be like Rick’s in Casablanca, except with way fewer Nazis. It’s a place to connect with others who are on the same road, to be exposed to some artists and authors who are potential allies in your battle. We want to be champions of construction. There’s a million places on the internet to fight about stuff. (I know, I counted.) We don’t want to be another place where angry, anonymous people can prove they’re right on the internet. Grab a hammer, or a wheelbarrow. Leave the wrecking ball alone. Let’s build together, loving the little ones by everything we make. We want to be allies in your efforts, coming alongside and sharing our water canteens, maybe telling some dumb jokes. But we do truly hope God uses this place in your life for your deep joy and his great glory. We’re on your side.

Theoretically, I’m a grown man. And yet I’m afraid. When I’m walking alone and the breeze suddenly quickens, fear awakens in me. The grass blades bow low like reverent, pagan slaves. The unconnected debris is caught up and scattered like so many prescient tramps. When the wind comes faster, and the tree limbs yield to the point of snapping, I want to run. Is there a ghost in the wind? Is he angry? May be. Is there magic in the wind? I think so. Enlightenment, be hanged. It was there in the beginning. The Spirit of God hovering over the face of the waters in creation, like the Spirit of God would hover over humble Mary and recreate everything in the waters of her womb. The wind is alive, for it is spirit. I’m sure you’ve heard that the Hebrew words for spirit, wind, and breath are all the same word (though with wide meaning variations). Same goes for Greek. Try reading John 3 (or all of John) and think about all the double-meanings as Jesus talks about those born of the spirit, who are like the wind. Where is he from? Galilee? Where is the wind from? Half the time people are wondering where he’s from, where he is, and where he’s going. He is the one born of the wind (Spirit). He is from the sky (same word for heaven) and his father, the Sky God, approves of him. He is the Master of the Wind, and the Sea. He will crush the dragon. The story goes that God made man out of dust, then breathed into his nostrils the breath of life. The breath of God, the life of man. Dust to dust. We die when we stop breathing, or when the breath of God leaves us. Wind. Spirit. Breath. Life. I suppose I only want to say that if you at times feel there is magic in the wind, believe it. There is no stranger fairy tale than the true tale of God’s created and sustained world. Try to invent wonder beyond the story he is telling and you will be checked. Truth actually is stranger than fiction. It is an incredible deception that sustains a disbelief in magic. Thomas Jefferson may cut as many Bibles to shreds as he wishes, editing out the silly parts, but miracles cannot be so easily excised. The earth is a wizard’s tent, teeming with potions and enchantments. Do we need to stretch our imaginations to see the unseen wonder of the world, especially the world to come? Yes, we do. We need an enchantment to break the spell of the dogmatic disbelief of our age. But this disbelief is not even fully rational. Imagine telling some one about the world who had never seen it. “You see, we put seeds –like little babies of a plant– into the ground. We water them, or the Sky God sends rain. He sends sunshine as well and, sometime later, our food grows out of the dirt.” Is it any stranger that we ourselves came from dirt? The world is already magical. Every beanstalk is magic. And every Jack is immortal. Why search for the goose that lays golden eggs, when it’s amazing enough they lay eggs at all? Or, hey, why not? Look for the golden eggs. I’ve seen stranger things. Kisses cause cradles. Because of all that is, I’m prepared to believe a lot that is (apparently) not. I urge you to disbelieve the disbelief that surrounds us like an evil fog. Disbelieve the sneering comics who cynically dismiss magic and sincerity. Disbelieve the desperate scolds who preach the impossible tale of Godless good. Disbelieve the doubting part of your heart. Surrender to wonder. Jesus is its maker and master. When the wind picks up, maybe it’s not the wrong kind of fear I experience. Maybe it’s sudden, unstoppable humility before the untamed world and its wild God. The sage of Ecclesiastes calls us to, “Fear God and keep his commands,” and elsewhere to, “Follow your heart.” It is good to lay hold of one and not neglect the other. ——— Note: Not to implicate them in my buffoonery, but along these lines I owe much to G.K. Chesterton (especially Orthodoxy) and N.D. Wilson (Notes From the Tilt-A-Whirl).

This is a transcript of my opening remarks at Hutchmoot 2011, revised slightly to work as a post here. In case the spirit of the thing comes across as actual irritation, let me say that this is intended to be good-natured ranting, if there is such a thing. I have a lot of friends who use the terminology I’m poking fun at, and the last thing I want is to make enemies. This is just me raising my hand from the back of the class to ask if there’s a better way to think about the subject. –The Proprietor Allow me to kick off Hutchmoot 2011 with a complaint. Many of you have heard of “verbing”: the practice of using a noun as a verb. The very word “verbing” is a case in point. Other examples: friend, spam, and Google. You “table” a discussion. Concerts get “booked.” I get it. Language is a fluid thing, and part of the beauty of it is the way it changes with the times. Still, as Calvin said to Hobbes, “Verbing weirds language.” Allow me to dialogue a little more with you about it. (See what I did there?) There’s another word that’s popped up recently, and every time I’ve heard it or read it I’ve had some kind of reaction. It’s not a noun that’s been verbed—rather, it’s an adjective that’s been nouned. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I just verbed the adjective-ing of “noun,” and in this very sentence verbed “adjective” too. Nouning verbs is a little more difficult, but it happens every time I go on a “run.” It happened a few minutes ago when I stood in line for Evie’s cooking. I thought to myself, “Gimme some eats.” And Evie, in a brazen case of verbing two nouns and employing  two nouned adjectives, with some hyperbole thrown in, likely thought to herself, “If Andrew comes back for thirds I’m going to fork him in the innards, and he won’t stomach that for a second.” I’m certain that made no sense. Let me be clear: this phenomenon is nothing new, nor is it wrong. Again, it’s one of the things I love about language. But let me get to the point. The word I’m talking about, the one that galls me a little, is this: “creative.” I keep hearing people refer to themselves not as creative but as creatives. As in, “I’m a creative who works in the ministry,” or on the occasional Twitter bio, “I’m a wife, a mother, and a creative living in Punxatawney, PA.” I’m sure some of you are in this room, and that’s fine. But let me push back just a little, lest this “creatives” thing get out of hand. I think what folks are trying to say is that they’re especially creative people, that they aspire to live a life of creativity, or perhaps to pursue a career in some artistic field. They believe themselves to be wired differently than normal people. To be honest, the first few times I heard someone describe themselves that way I thought it was kind of cool. I thought to myself, “Ooh, I want to be a Creative. Where do I sign up?” What that tells me now is that there’s a sense of membership involved with the word, as if a new inner ring had been created, and I was outside of it. All I had to do to enter was to casually refer to myself and my friends as “creatives,” and I could be one too. A line had been drawn, and I wanted to cross it. It was just one more case, in my heart at least, of wishing I could sit at the cool table in the school cafeteria. There’s certainly nothing wrong with naming. When my brother Pete first moved back to Nashville a few years ago, he hadn’t finished The Fiddler’s Gun yet, and was living in a fifth-wheel RV in my neighbor’s driveway. We can laugh about it now because, as many of you know, he was miraculously married a few weeks ago. But at the time, he was suffering from a degree of identity crisis and wasn’t sure what he was supposed to be doing with his life. We went to lunch with Russ Ramsey and Randy Draughon, two pastors at Midtown Fellowship, and Randy asked Pete, “So what do you do?” Pete poked his fork at his quesadilla for a moment, then said, “I have no idea. I’m just trying to find my way.” That’s a fair answer. I think that’s true of all of us, to some degree. But I interjected, “He’s a writer. An excellent writer. He’s finishing up his first book.” Later that day we sat in the roach-infested RV and talked about this very subject. I told him something I learned from Annie Dillard’s book The Writing Life, and from many of my friends here in Nashville: if you’re going to be a writer, you have to make some changes. You have to order your life around the idea that you write. You adjust your paradigm. You fine-tune the way you see the world, the way you move through your days. You’re a writer, and that means you have to start paying attention–it also means you have to get to work. If you ask many Nashvillians what they do, they’ll tell you without batting an eye that they’re songwriters. Or they’re record producers, or authors. That doesn’t necessarily mean it’s their full-time job. But in some measure it’s a way they spend their time, and maybe even make some money. I’d bet that in the beginning, most of them felt a little sheepish describing themselves as songwriters. But eventually, if you stick to it, and you’re adept enough for people to pay you to do it, you give up the fight and admit the truth: you’re a writer. I encouraged Pete to overcome his fear of pretentiousness and start answering the question “What do you do?” with “I’m a writer.” Or at least, “I want to be a writer.” It’s important to pursue the outworking of your gift with intentionality and diligence. When I was growing up I would never have imagined that a regular person could actually become a novelist, or a film director, or a guitar player. Those careers were reserved for people of privilege, or at least people who knew some Great Secret that I didn’t. The only secret there is to know isn’t a secret at all: it takes a lot of work. Even then, it takes the miracle of Christian community to help you distinguish between your dreams and your gifting. My dream in high school was to pencil Batman comics. It wasn’t my gifting, though. I’m not saying God couldn’t have used me somehow had I doggedly pursued a job at DC Comics. But even though I love to draw and hope to grow as an illustrator, it couldn’t be clearer to me that my gift is very different from that dream to draw. But there’s a difference between saying that you’re a writer or artist or musician and calling yourself a Creative. One answer tells us what you do, the other makes a claim about who you are. To say that you’re a songwriter implies, “I’m a person who writes songs.” To say that I’m a Creative implies, “I’m different than normal people. I’m a thing that you are not. I’m a creative person. You’re an uncreative person. No offense, man. It’s just the way I was awesomely made.” Now, I’m not saying that’s exactly what’s in the heart of everyone who calls themselves by that name–just me. I know my heart well enough to see how easily I could end up there. And eventually I’d find myself surrounded by a bunch of people who are just as pretentious as I am. Now my annoyance is showing. My point is this: we’re all creative. Tolkien coined the word subcreator. Some of you have likely heard me or someone else talk about that idea, but it bears repeating. He said, “We make in the manner in which we were made.” To put it another way, we serve a Creator, with a capital C. One of the ways in which we’ve been made in his image is that we also delight in creating. Everything we make is derivative and secondary, and in some manner draws attention to the primary creation, the truth, and the Creator himself. That means everyone on earth could justly label themselves a Creative. That means that even if you don’t wear hipster glasses, skinny jeans, and have Justin Bieber hair, you’re a Creative. It means that even if you’re a banker, a produce manager, or a doctor you’re a Creative. So allow me to reclaim that hijacked adjective, for the good of the world. None of us in this room is a Creative. But all of us are creative. What that means is this: the Rabbit Room isn’t just for authors. It’s not just for writers or artists or musicians. It’s for people who love the arts, good stories, and fellowship, or maybe it’s for people who carry a great longing that feels like loneliness but is in truth the God-given ache that calls you home. I have a theory, friends, that that means the Rabbit Room is for every person. You may have come here without knowing why. You’re welcome here. You may, like me, feel uncomfortable at conferences. You’re welcome here. You may in fact be an artist of some kind. You’re welcome. All manner of Christian denominations are represented here. You’re welcome. Some of you may be struggling with mighty doubts. You’re welcome. Some of you may refer to yourselves as Creatives. You’re welcome, too. Seriously. We have never wanted the Rabbit Room to be an esoteric place. We’ve never wanted our conversations to be stuffy or eccentric. That isn’t to say there’s no place for big ideas and brainy people to study them. But I want the Rabbit Room to be incarnational. That means that it is, hopefully, a place where big ideas take on flesh and descend to mingle with fishermen and tax collectors and prostitutes and tentmakers—with normal folks like you and me. Our heads may be in the clouds, but our feet are on solid ground. People talk a lot about the intersection of faith and art. I want Hutchmoot to be about the intersection of faith and dinner. Or the intersection of faith and laughter. Or maybe the intersection of faith and frustration–or what about the intersection of faith and intense, debilitating, soul-crushing doubt. How about that? What about the intersection of time and eternity? What about a three-point intersection of faith and art and the smell of used books? One of the things I loved most about Hutchmoot last year was that none of us had any idea what was about to happen. This isn’t a workshop. We’re not here to evaluate your works. We’re here to hang out, and to talk, and to see what happens at the intersection of faith and folks like us. So this place is for lovers of good stories, good art, good songs, good food, and good conversation. I happen to think everyone on earth falls into that category. Not just Creatives. Tolkien described our creations as lights refracted from God, the pure and ultimate light: Man, Sub-creator, the refracted light Through whom is splintered from a single White To many hues, and endlessly combined In living shapes that move from mind to mind. Though all the crannies of the world we filled With Elves and Goblins, though we dared to build Gods and their houses out of dark and light, And sowed the seed of dragons, ’twas our right (used or misused). The right has not decayed. We make still by the law in which we’re made. Our hope is that in this incarnation of the virtual community in the Rabbit Room, the eyes of your hearts shine bright with the hope to which you’re called, that this weekend you would know with all of the saints, the height, the depth, the width, and the length of the love of God, whose earth is spilling over not just with his own creatures, but with men and women endowed with his image, scampering about like children on a playground, unable to help themselves from speaking into being these many lesser lights–lesser, but no less the Lord’s. So as we delight in these lesser lights, let us remember the Creator, to whom we owe our thanks, our deepest praise, our adoration, our admiration, and our allegiance.

For better or worse, I’ve been a fan of Stephen King’s work since I was a teenager. I’ve always said there’s more depth in his books than most people give him credit for (as is easily evidenced in stories like Rita Hayworth and the Shawshank Redemption and The Green Mile), but his books certainly aren’t for everyone. Last week, CNN published a story called “The Gospel of Stephen King,” which is far from comprehensive, but is interesting nonetheless if you’ve ever wondered about the Christian themes in King’s work. Here’s an excerpt: Zahl, the Episcopal priest, says so many heroes in King’s books are broken people: physically frail, alcoholic, disabled and lonely. Even the evil people are rendered with compassion. “King understands grace at a deep level,” says Zahl, author of “Grace in Practice.” “He typically concentrates on the marginalized and the outsiders who ultimately carry the day. God often does his work where people are the most messed up.” Read the entire story here.

The Song of the Day is brought to you by Eric Peters, the color orange, and the letter “B.” It’s track nine from his new record, Birds of Relocation, and here’s what Eric has to say about it: This song is a case of marrying old lyrics to new music. I wrote these words in the summer of 2000 and originally proposed that it be on Scarce (2006), but that album’s producer didn’t seem interested in it, so I shelved it. Having always liked these lyrics, I brushed them off while writing Birds of Relocation, set them at eye level, and lovingly affirmed them–I still believe in you. After trashing an earlier, older, and, honestly, outgrown chorus, I rewrote the music entirely, and with the guidance of Andy Gullahorn, gave these lyrics a chance to finally be heard. This song, though written over ten years ago, thematically seemed to fit so well on this album. Funny how time works. And flies. “No Stone Unturned” Eric Peters Birds of Relocation

The central action of “The Life You Save May Be Your Own” is a battle of wits between Mr. Shiftlet and Lucynell Crater–Shiftlet angling to get the old woman’s car, the old woman manipulating Shiftlet to marry her daughter. It is tempting to call their mental chess match, with its measures and countermeasures, a duel of competing world views. Mr. Shiftlet presents himself as a philosopher, constantly steering the conversation toward life’s imponderables. The old woman is a pragmatist, earth-bound and world-weary, the kind of person whom you can’t put anything past. But even if these two characters compete with one another, I’m not sure their world views do. Both Mr. Shiftlet’s philosophizing and Lucynell Crater’s no-nonsense materialism are both ways of avoiding any claims that God might have on their lives. Mr. Shiftlet’s restlessness is not that of a man in search of truth, but the restlessness of a man running from truth. His favorite topic, the theme of his song, is unknowability. Find the full discussion at Jonathan-Rogers.com.

Follow your gifting, hone your skills, and no matter what your gift, pursue it with excellence and integrity. Anyone can be an artisan–even David Rees. This video will give you all the proof you’ll ever need. Watch and be amazed (do not fail to check out the website).

I just got word that we’re allowed to show you the cover for the new record. When the folks at the label told me they wanted Katie Moore to do the cover I headed straight to her website. I was pleasantly surprised that I was already familiar with her work (with the Civil Wars, Leagues, Ingrid Michaelson and Trent Dabbs, to name a few) and even owned several of the albums. We met and I blathered for about an hour about the songs on Light for the Lost Boy. At one point I told her that I kept picturing a boy in the woods with a lantern. I said it bashfully because I doubted it would make a good cover. Well, a few weeks later she sent several ideas and everyone who saw this knew right away that it was the one. Thank you Katie, and thank you Centricity Music for signing her up to work on it. Just for laughs, I’m including a link so you can download a screensaver, and you can also click the image below for a high resolution version of the cover. Can’t wait for you guys to hear the record in August. –The Proprietor

“We really didn’t know what this was going to be when we started recording it, but it’s kind of turned into this story that we didn’t anticipate telling–the story of our lives for the past three years.” That’s Caleb Chapman describing his band’s newest EP, To the Ends of the World. I met Caleb on tour last fall and immediately enjoyed his company. He was 22 years old and had already been married for a few years. I enjoy the look of surprise on folks’ faces when I tell them that I got married when I was 20, but there I sat, registering the same look when Caleb told me he had one-upped me by a year. I must watch this young grasshopper closely, I thought as I stroked my beard. I knew he had a band, and that Brent Milligan (whom I’ve known for several years via his excellent production of a few Eric Peters records) and Joe Causey had produced their latest album. I also knew Caleb’s dad (this guy named Steven). What I didn’t know was that their music would make me ugly-cry while jogging. Several times, in fact. As soon as To the Ends of the World released I bought it, and as soon as I listened to it I loved it. It sounded like a combination of Coldplay, The Killers, and Switchfoot. It sounded fresh and full of energy and joy. But what caught my ear from the beginning wasn’t just the sound. It was the story. And that’s what makes me ugly-cry. Especially when I’m running. When I get to the last song, “To the Ends of the World”, I’m usually at the end of a three-mile jog. I’m no distance runner, so I’m often about to collapse after 30 minutes. Then I hear the opening lyric, “You run / You run as far as you can run from love / You run”, and I feel like the song is being sung straight to my wandering heart. Then I feel my feet lift off the ground a little. “You can’t escape my heart / ‘Cause my heart runs to the ends of the world / I’ll fight for you / I’ll fight until I die for you”. Those words ring like an anthem in my head and my heart, and it’s like I could run forever—not from something, but to it. The previous songs, while often joyous on their own, lead me through a painful story—a story not without questions—to this triumphant ending, to an answer: no matter how far we run we can’t escape the height, width, and depth of God’s overcoming love. We might as well try and outrun a tsunami. I’m excited to tell you that Caleb the Band will be joining me on the Light for the Lost Boy tour this fall! (Yes, I mean that exclamation point with all my heart.) I’m so very excited about it. That means Caleb, his brother Will Chapman (who played most of the drums on my new record), and guitar/vocal/keys/bass ninja Scott Mills will be joining Ben, Gullahorn, and me—and that means I get to play my songs with a full band. That’s something I rarely get to do, and I can hardly wait. You can pick up the new Caleb EP in the Rabbit Room store for a whopping $7 (you can also listen to clips). Check out their website here. They have several videos on YouTube, but I thought this one would be a good introduction to just how good these guys are. Even when they’re standing on a boulder. https://youtube.com/watch?v=qJ69-KofxOg%3Frel%3D0

Sometimes when I sit back and look over the records that have been put out by this community, I’m utterly and completely amazed by the talent and craftsmanship I’m surrounded by. In the last couple of months we’ve had incredible works by Eric Peters and Andrew Osenga and just wait until you get to hear The Proprietor’s forthcoming Light for the Lost Boy. But perhaps the album I’m most often in awe of is Ben Shive’s The Cymbal Crashing Clouds. I can think of no reason why this record ought not be numbered among all time favorites in ten years, twenty, and beyond. This song is one of the reasons why. A Last Time For Everything by Ben Shive

Alan Paton (1903–1988) is a South African writer who saw himself as a poet who wrote novels. He is best known for Cry, The Beloved Country (1948). It is the story of a Zulu pastor’s search for his missing son, in a land where racial injustice had become the norm. As the principal of Diepkloof Reformatory for young black offenders, from 1935 to 1949, Alan Paton was able to introduce significant reforms–enabling inmates, who had proven themselves responsible, freedom to work and often live away from the reformatory. He was so opposed to his country’s apartheid policy, that in 1953 he founded the Liberal Party of South Africa. The international success of Cry, The Beloved Country, kept him financially independent and protected him from government prosecution, although his passport was confiscated in 1960 for about ten years. The following poems are from his collected poems, Songs of Africa. My Lord has a great attraction… My Lord has a great attraction for the humble and simple, they delight in his conversation, The insane stop their frenzies and look at him unsurely, then they crowd round him and finger him gently, Their wistful eyes capture something that was lost, they are healed for a moment of the hurts of great institutions. The half-witted press their simple thoughts upon him, and he listens with attention to the babbling of imbeciles. He knows their meanings, and they observe him trustfully. He passes through the great gates of Alcatraz, and there is no searching machine that can prevent him, He goes into the cells that have the iron doors, where the wild men are shut in completely, They put their wild teeth on his hands, but take them away again from his wounds with wonder. Oh Lord teach us your wisdom, and incline our hearts to receive your instructions. Then the maniac would stay his hands from the small girl, and the drunken man from the throat of the woman, And the father from the growing son, and the son his hands from the father. And the wild boys could be brought out from the cages, and the wild men from behind the unutterable doors. No Place for Adoration I saw the famous gust of wind in Eloff Street It came without notice, shaking the blinds and awnings Ten thousand people backed to the wall to let it pass And all Johannesburg was awed and silent, Save for an old prostitute woman, her body long past pleasure Who ran into the halted traffic, holding up hands to heaven And crying my Lord and my God, so the whole city laughed This being no place for adoration.

My husband and I recently returned from an extended stay on one of the barrier islands of Georgia. I’ve been visiting this beloved part of the world my entire life but this one island in particular for the past two decades, without a lost year among them. I honestly could not believe it when I realized that fact (and how keen we are to the signs and markers of our own existence!), but twenty years just seems like such a milestone to me. Such a tender vantage-point from which to consider not only who I’ve become over all that span of time, but also what this island has consistently meant to me–I love it like no other spot on earth. Since I was seventeen, I’ve been making the attempt to put into words the unique beauty of this place that is so much a part of me. Alas, never to my satisfaction–my journals are filled with half-fledged raptures and awkward attempts–but I’ve been trying, nonetheless. I can’t help it. I know this place, and I am known of it. I imagine the longing to express my love for it will haunt me for the rest of my life. And I’m so glad. But one of the things I wanted to do upon so meaningful an anniversary was to try and commit my feelings to verse. It’s not what I would like it to be, not nearly. Some things are just too precious to confine to words, and the greater my loves, the more I feel my inadequacies. I realized at the outset, though, that I can’t put everything this island is to me into one poem; it would take volumes to do that. So I honed it down, whittled my words into one clear channel. And what resulted was nothing more nor less than a love song for an Island. I hope you enjoy it. Love Song for an Unlost Land Living God! Was there ever a world of such grace? The beauty of a thousand summers lives on here, with the souls of all their flowers, and the heady young glory of my own greening spring. My past waits on through all the long winter of exile, brooding under moss-hung trees and haunting the cloistered shades with a memory of joy too tender to be told. I find it once more–and my own self with it–not in the slow gathering of unforgotten days, no quaint posey of remembrance, delicate and intentional, but all in a rush, in one greedy draught of golden air, sailing over the causeway like a homing bird. It assails me with an embrace that takes my breath and never fails to summon a spring of tears. How kindly this jeweled Isle has kept my times, whole days of deathless joys and hours so precious this world seems scarcely large enough to hold them. Surely it was a dream: that age, that innocence, that marsh-skirted island itself– so my winter-soul speaks amid the cold despoiling of earth and tree. Surely life was not meant for such sweetness. But I have only to catch a wandering breath of jasmine on the breeze, or a lemon-thrill of magnolia, or even (or mostly) the Maytime gift of lowly privet, to doubt my own doubts and laugh my unbelief in the face. Before such sweet convincing flee my land-locked thoughts, like wind-tossed foam scattering over a silver shore. But, ah! To come–to feel the sun’s wealth falling warm upon my upturned face, To drink the cordial of the salt-laced air and see the curtained moss waving and parting in welcome– is resurrection; a revival of the deepest things, as real as the awakening fern that inhabits the boughs of these legend oaks, kissed alive by rain and dew, furled fronds unwithering in a sudden flowering of green. This is my gift, my grace of this undying place. My hoarde, my fairy gold, that makes me rich beyond compare. All this, o Island-world, set like an emerald upon your filigreed marsh, you give without stint in astonishing candor, baring your verdant heart to those who love you. And who among such swains more ardent than I, who loves the very sand-loam of your soil, and your life-teeming shallows, and the spring of your grass beneath my feet? I remember that early wonder, leaping unfettered from an ingenuous soul, the first time I found you here, dreaming of your own youth upon a golden-hazed sea. I was young enough then to believe all the promises of spring, to feel without fear, so that the untested ardor of my overfull heart raced forth to greet you in sister-love, lavish as you in my warmth. No check on the reins of joy, save a maiden modesty, beneath which glowed the coals of a blossoming passion for life. Oh, seventeen! To know once more your frank-eyed vision, your hopefulness for all life’s love! I meet you here again, amid my flowers and trees, see your winsome face smiling back at me across a score of years– unfathomable chasm! Sorrows sleep there little dreamt of in your sweet simplicity. But more mercies–oh, so many more–quickened and kindling to a blaze by which my life is lighted. You–whose quandaries could be settled over a cup of tea, whose starry eyes thought to comprehend the universe with a span–you could not know what wine the world had to offer, or with what brooding love your heart would be plowed and sown. I’d not give my dreams for yours, to have these losses unlearned or these mercies unmet. No, not for the very stars your eyes had the witchery to command. And yet, for all that, one liquid cadence, spilling in rapture from the throat of a bird, swinging low over the golden grass with a flare of scarlet wing, and I am undone. Shot through by an envoy flashing past, while he, unmindful of my wound, trails the music of my youth behind him in careless effulgence. I rouse in rebellion, beating my wings against the cage of years, courting folly in the midst of wisdom with a mad longing for all that is past. But if time is relentless, eternity is its thief, stealing back all our hours for one glorious whole, for which youth is but surety in pledge. If such be the case–and joy itself teaches me it is so, and beauty, and the clear eyes of a girl–then I’ll take such sweet stings and welcome, with a smile for all they signify. Twenty years between that day and this, and I come no more alone, hedged round with fancy, eyes for none but my dreams. My heart has opened wide, expanded, unfurled her reefed sails, to welcome one other, dearer, o Island, than you, and you all the dearer in his light. I’ve given the honeysuckle of my girlhood for a womanly profusion of gardenia, spilling a fragrance unlooked for, and safe visions have grown up into vagabondry, even amid our quiet ways. Lone bird no longer, I sail with him wing and wing, a twin-masted schooner, lithe and lighthearted, running with the wind down all that ecstasy of unknown ways. Many paths through the sea, many points of sail our lot, becoming more his and more my own as we chart our course through waters fair and fell. And wander where we might, here kindly harbor awaits, where, resting on the green bosom of an island, we will remember all your sweet love and the selves that we are in your arms. And so, Island-love, I give back your gifts, lifting my heart as freely as yours. I’ve seen your marsh in full tide, offering up all that blue to the sky–serene and trusting– and so you have taught me to live, unafraid.

Tim Filston asked a great question regarding Flannery O’Connor, and I hated to let it languish in the comments (at Jonathan-Rogers.com), so I’ll address it in a post. He wrote: I’m looking forward to your insights about her. Her willingness to face off with the dark, ugly side of human nature seems courageous to me, and not just in a thrill-seeking way. When a writer depicts the human heart as only a bruised thing, then the reader can only expect “there-there” assurance that everything will be alright. But, O’Connor calls the reader down into corruption (it seems to me) so that we might have a shot at being called up–higher up than we started. What do you think–am I in the ballpark with this, or is this a stretch? Tim, I think you’re more than in the ballpark. I think you’re somewhere around the pitcher’s mound. I wrote this biography for all those people who have heard they’re supposed to be getting some spiritual meaning out of O’Connor’s stories but just can’t get there. Your remarks get close to the heart of what O’Connor is doing in these awful stories (awful, you’ll remember, meant ‘filled with awe’ or ‘awe-inspiring’ before it meant ‘terrible’; I’m drawing on all those meanings here). Here’s a relevant tidbit from the introduction to The Terrible Speed of Mercy: Blessed are the freaks and the lunatics, who at least have sense enough not to put any faith in their own respectability or virtue or talents. The freaks in O’Connor’s stories stand for all of us, deformed in so many ways by Original Sin. All of us, as the old hymn says, are “weak and wounded, sick and sore…lost and ruined by the Fall.” The freakishness and violence in O’Connor’s stories, so often mistaken for a kind of misanthropy, turn out to be a call to mercy. In O’Connor’s unique vision, the physical world, even at its seediest and ugliest, is a place where grace still does its work. In fact, it is exactly the place where grace does its work. Truth tells itself here, no matter how loud it has to shout. People are offended by Flannery O’Connor’s stories, and they ought to be. They’re offensive. I’m reminded of what Peter said about Jesus: he was “a stone of stumbling and a rock of offense.” Jesus’s parables would offend us if we hadn’t heard them so many times–or if we were paying better attention. After acting like a complete jerk, the Prodigal Son comes home, welcomed into his father’s arms. The older brother, who has been behaving himself, keeping his nose clean, takes offense, and we can all understand why. It’s a little shocking to realize that Jesus presents the older brother as just as big a jerk as the younger brother–much more shocking for Jesus’s original audience than for those of us who know what we’re supposed to think about the story. The parables, in my understanding, are driven by that dissonance between the truth and the way we feel about the truth. Jesus shows us what the kingdom of God looks like; if we allow ourselves to be offended by that vision, we begin to see what needs to happen in our hearts. I claim to love grace, but I’m bothered by the fact that the vineyard workers who showed up an hour before dark get paid the same amount as the workers who started at daybreak. I can either reject that parable altogether, or I can think about why my heart doesn’t line up with the things I say I believe. But it would be a big mistake to explain away the offense–to say it’s not really that offensive. O’Connor’s stories are offensive and shocking in a different way; they were, to borrow her imagery, startling figures drawn for the almost-blind. But I do believe she was working from Jesus’s storytelling playbook, using shock and offense to show us something about our hearts. To quote again from the introduction to my book: If the stories offend conventional morality, it is because the gospel itself is an offense to conventional morality. Grace is a scandal; it always has been. Jesus put out the glad hand to lepers and cripples and prostitutes and losers of every stripe even as he called the self-righteous a brood of vipers. In “A Good Man Is Hard to Find,” it is painful to see a mostly harmless old grandmother come to terms with God and herself only at gunpoint. It is even more painful to see her get shot anyway. In a more properly moral story, she would be rewarded for her late-breaking insight and her life would be spared. But the story only enacts what Christians say they believe already: that to lose one’s body for the sake of one’s soul is a good trade indeed. It’s a mystery, and no small part of the mystery is the reader’s visceral reaction to truths he claims to believe already. O’Connor invites us to step into such mysteries, but she never resolves them. She never reduces them to something manageable. O’Connor speaks with the ardor of an Old Testament prophet in her stories. She’s like an Isaiah who never quite gets around to “Comfort ye my people.” Except for this: there is a kind of comfort in finally facing the truth about oneself. That’s what happens in every one of Flannery O’Connor’s stories: in a moment of extremity, a character—usually a self-satisfied, self-sufficient character—finally comes to see the truth of his or her situation. He is accountable to a great God who is the source of all. He inhabits mysteries that are too great for him. And for the first time there is hope, even if he doesn’t understand it yet. If you keep asking questions, Tim, I might end up cutting and pasting the whole book into blog posts. Thanks for asking.

There’s a lot of N. T. Wright talk around here right now, so it seems an appropriate time to continue the series on Christian Storytelling. In the past couple of installments we began looking at Wright’s view of the Bible as an “unfinished drama.” We continue now with an understanding of ourselves as actors in the fifth act. The Christian story gives new meaning to the old Shakespearian line, “All the world’s a stage.” The world is the stage upon which the drama of redemption takes place. And you and I are players. But we are not merely players. We are the faithful improvisors of the tragic and glorious fifth act of history, trying with all our might to remain faithful to the first four acts, as well as the few scenes of the fifth act, that preceded us. The first four acts, and perhaps even Act V, scene 1, have been laid down for us in the Scriptures. We have some solid clues as to what will happen in the final scene of Act V, but there is a great length of scenes in the fifth act to be played out. Obviously, the objection might arise that if we only have four acts and have to improvise a fifth, we’ll be left to our own devices, and authority would shift away from the text and to us. I think this would miss the point of the illustration, however, as the first four acts would serve as the authority for the fifth. It just wouldn’t be a comfortable or easy authority. Rather than pulling timeless principles from Scripture to apply in any and every context, we would now be forced to ask the question, “Where was the biblical story going?” and “How do we, as its followers, continue to take it there?” We somehow have to deal with the fact that the Scriptures do not give us the whole story, nor do they give us an answer for every single question that arises. To treat the Bible like it does is to misuse it. The Scriptures do not lay out the fifth act in detail, but they provide a direction that we faithful improvisors should take. The strength of this position comes in its treatment of the Scriptures as the story of redemption. Certainly the Bible is not laid out in the form of a Shakespearian play. But it is a story, and we must treat it as such, difficult though that may be. The story, of course, has a main character: Jesus of Nazareth. If we get bogged down in too many of the minor details of the story and do not focus on the story’s central trajectory, the proclamation of Jesus as crucified Lord of the universe, we’ll take the story in all sorts of misguided directions. Therefore, we should see the Scriptures as an unfinished drama about Christ, a drama which we are to live out in each setting we are given. We should take our places in our allotted scenes, take the role given to us, and live out the incarnational story of Jesus as faithfully as possible. The term “faithful improvisor” is meant to be a self-correcting term. If we focus solely on the word “improvisor,” we’ll think authority lies in each actor, making it up as he or she goes along. But if we are genuinely “faithful” to the script we have been given, we’ll hopefully avoid such an approach. And furthermore, there are few soliloquies in this play. We surround ourselves with other actors (and even drama critics) on the stage to point out when we’ve taken too much creative license. But likewise, if we neglect the word “improvisor,” we will establish for ourselves some rigidly narrow view of how things should be done and lose our ability to become faithfully incarnational in our own worlds and contexts. We’ll also refuse to learn from other actors who might be better than us. So with humility, we have the joy of playing our parts in the drama of redemption, living and speaking the story of Jesus.

And finally, here’s our video of N. T. Wright serenading us with his (and Francis Collins’) version of The Beatles’ “Yesterday.” Enjoy, and have a great weekend. Watch the other videos here: Dylan’s “When the Ship Comes In” and Sydney Carter’s “Friday Morning.”

Bishop Wright sang three songs for us. You’ve already seen his performance of Bob Dylan’s “When the Ship Comes In.” Here’s a look at the first song he played, “Friday Morning,” by Sydney Carter (who also wrote the folk song “Lord of the Dance”).

On this fine Wednesday, allow me to brighten your day with this beautiful cover by two of my favorite people (and neighbors, more-or-less) of one of my favorite songs by one of my favorite songwriters. That’s FOUR favorites in one video. Seriously, Don and Lori Chaffer are delightful and crazy talented. If you’ve never dug into Waterdeep (or Paul Simon), here’s a good reason to correct that. Check out Waterdeep’s website here.

This is not a post about sports. Chad Pennington emerged as the last guy standing after injuries plagued Marshall University’s football team at the quarterback position. Player after player went down and the unheralded freshman from Tennessee debuted. I was there at an early game, watching this guy throw passes that looked like they took ten years to get to the receivers. My verdict was in: this guy stinks, and he’ll never amount to anything in the football world. That was about 15 years ago. A few days ago, Chad Pennington retired from the NFL after an eleven year career in which he was twice named the NFL’s comeback player of the year. He still has the highest completion percentage in the history of the NFL, making him the most accurate professional quarterback of all time. And professional takes on a fuller meaning with Pennington. He is universally praised, loved, and acknowledged as an ideal pro athlete. He worked hard and overachieved his entire career. Besides his intelligence and athletic gifts, he is known for class, dignity, charity, and other virtues that make a lasting reputation. In college, he led Marshall to unheard of victories and became one of the most, if not the most, beloved quarterback the team has ever had. And that’s saying a lot at Marshall, which has had numerous great quarterbacks. Everyone in West Virginia feels like he belongs to our state, even though he is not originally from here. He is an adopted son and we are very proud of him. I admire him greatly, and despite my cheerless prognosis, I cheered him on for his entire career. His career features many highlights, one being that he was once a runner-up to Peyton Manning for the NFL’s MVP award. Playing through countless injuries, he left a mark on professional football that was all his own. What about my early prediction, my dismissive reaction to his debut? I was, of course, dead wrong. I’m fairly knowledgeable about football, but I suspect no one is interested in hiring me as a talent scout. For Chad Pennington, it goes beyond his talent. What I couldn’t see at the time was his intelligence, character, class, work ethic, and determination. I counted him out without all the facts. What if what I had said mattered? What if Chad had heard my dismissal, taken it as truth, and hung up his cleats? There are people who don’t have access to all the facts about you. They may criticize and dismiss you based on a sampling of your efforts. Maybe they’re right, of course, in their evaluation (and it may help to hear them out). But don’t let critics write you off. I still think Chad wasn’t that impressive when I saw him early on. He didn’t have a great arm. In fact, he never had a truly great arm. But his intelligence, will, and over-all character did more than compensate for whatever lack of talent he had. I think it’s safe to say there have been thousands of players with more natural talent. But it’s the same story over and over. The physical stats–your strong arm, height, speed, agility–don’t make you the best. Having enough talent is a given, after a certain point it becomes about work ethic, character, and other factors (see Outliers by Malcolm Gladwell, or Matt Conner’s review here). Mostly, it’s about who works the hardest. The same may be true of you and me. If we are called to do something and genuinely have a gift for it, then the main thing in our way is hard work. And the critics, if we let them be. Of course, one of the great needs for discernment in our lives is in just this area. We need to know when some one is a critic and when some one is a counselor. We need counsel, and some of that will be critical. (The best help I’ve received in my writing has been very critical.) We should ask for wisdom from God, who gives generously. Chad Pennington had more doubters than just me, and you have plenty of people lining up to tell you that your dream is not realistic. There are likely people itching to tell you the sample of your work they see defines you as a bust. These people often operate on a baseline of condemnation. They feel condemnation surrounding them and look for opportunities to share what they know so well. This is a very tempting mindset and is pretty much mankind’s default setting. It’s a mindset that must be argued against with vigor every day. If you are a believer, the deep reality about you isn’t one of condemnation, but of acceptance and love. That doesn’t mean you will be an NFL quarterback, or the next C.S. Lewis. But you will be you, and that’s what the world needs. More precisely, it’s very likely what your community needs. And if you don’t play well at the local level, why export that to the world? Seek ye first to love and serve your family, your church, then see about what happens elsewhere. Leave it in God’s hands and work very, very hard. Don’t hang up your cleats and don’t worry about “proving everyone wrong.” Let God be true and every man a liar. Christian vocation is about love and service, not revenge. Don’t make the condemning critics important enough in your heart for it to continue to be about them. Make it about God’s love, your calling, and a community that needs the work of your hands.

My dad gave me the gift of woodcraft when I was a child. I grew up watching him, and later helping him, make furniture in the garage, and a lot of what he made is still in good use. I expect I’ll inherit some of it one day, and it’ll go on being of good use in my own home. The craft he gave me has served me well for my entire life. I built a violin when I was writing The Fiddler’s Gun, and though it’s far from a masterpiece, I’m still proud of it. Every time someone picks it up and plays it, I get a little tear in the corner of my eye. I built two cedar canoes a few years ago and that experience was something very akin to a love affair. It’s hard to spend months caressing the curve of a handmade boat without coming to feel a strange affection for it–an affection that’s doubled when it’s set afloat for the first time. I read a quote once that went something like this: “Happiness is crossing a still water in a vessel of your own making, and landing upon an undiscovered isle.” If you’ve ever built something and seen it put to good use, you’ll understand how true that statement is. A few days ago, Dave Bruno shared the following short film from the Christianity Today website. It’s about a furniture maker named Harrison Higgins, and I wonder if he might tell us that “Happiness is sitting down in a chair of your own making to eat a well-prepared dinner.” The act of creation, the craftsman says, can be either a sacrament or a sacrilege, depending on how we approach our work. The film is only about 5 minutes long, but it’s something like a love letter to the art of woodcraft–a subject near and dear to me. Watch it here: Furniture Fit for the Kingdom. And then read this excellent article about it: Artificial Grace: Why the Creation Needs Human Creativity. Special thanks to Dave Bruno for bringing this to our attention on the Facebook Hutchmoot page.