What are you looking for?

I have just realized something awful about fatherhood. It’s something I’ve read about, but have always thought was one of those things that didn’t apply to me. But I was wrong. It’s something I hoped to avoid, something that will cause much pain, for my children and for myself. About a year ago my boys came in from playing in the woods. It was raining outside, and they were covered in mud. I didn’t want them slogging dirt through the house, so I told them to strip down to their Underoos on the porch while I ran to get a towel. We live in the country, so our nearest neighbor is seventy yards away—besides, it was raining pretty hard. No one was outside. Moments later I wrapped them in the towel and sent them straight to the bath. A few nights ago as I tucked my sons into bed, I was trying to understand why one of them was so embarrassed to change into his pajamas. Something about it struck me as odd, so things got serious. “Did something happen? Did someone make fun of you?” I asked. My other son started crying and told me, “Yes.” I was horrified. I imagined the worst, and I was prepared to do terrible things to the person who had wounded my boys in this way. Then they lowered the boom. “It was you.” They reminded me of the previous year’s incident with the muddy clothes and the front porch and the Underoos. They said the girl next door informed them a few days later she had looked out her window and seen them all but naked. They cried and cried. They were shamed, their little boy hearts were wounded–and I did the wounding. Of course I didn’t mean to, but that doesn’t matter. My carelessness led to their shame. It’s something they’ll always remember, and it will shape them in ways that it’s impossible to foresee. The thing I’ve realized about fatherhood is this: I will fail. No matter how hard I try to be a perfect father, I will fail. Miserably. I will love my children imperfectly. Their malleable hearts will be shaped not just by my successes, but by my failures, and they’ll bear those intimate wounds all their lives. Praise God, He somehow makes good of our worst. As a friend recently told me, my realization that I will fail is a great success on this long journey of becoming like my Father in Heaven. *This was first published in Homelife magazine in 2009.

I am delighted to present to you this short interview with the very talented and funny Jennifer Trafton. Jennifer is the author of The Rise and Fall of Mount Majestic, a novel for young readers and old readers (see Question 1). Idea: Why not spend some of that Christmas cash you got on a fine, beautifully illustrated story? Or you can spend it on illegal drugs? I think the choice is clear. Jennifer is personally autographing every edition purchased from The Rabbit Room bookstore. I assume that other people are autographing the copies sold in other locations. (Bad form. Not very British of them.) My 7 year old daughter has The Rise and Fall of Mount Majestic sitting beneath our tree, awaiting her discovery on one of these 12 days of Christmas. We’re all very excited to get our hands on it after she reads it in one day. Some dude named Andrew Petersomething reviewed this book here at the RR. He said, like, it was good. And stuff. 1. What are your thoughts on what makes a story “for children” and, conversely, “for adults?” Any thoughts on what makes “children’s lit” unique/worthwhile? I’ve never been very concerned about putting things into categories. Good stories are good stories. In my view “children’s literature” is any literature children like to read – which can, of course, differ from child to child. When I think of the stories that have tickled my funny bone the most, that have stretched my imagination in myriad directions, that have dealt with profound issues of life and death in ways that are searing in their simplicity, I usually end up in the “children’s section” of the bookstore. If such stories are not “for adults” as well, I pity the adults. There is nothing wrong, of course, with a book having a specific intended audience. A story has two participants, the writer and the reader, and they make a kind of magic together. Whether or not that relational magic works has less to do with formulas than with empathy. When I picture the readers with whom I want to be in that relationship as a storyteller, I picture kids (often particular kids I know) because I love their imaginative scope, their freedom from many “adult” concerns and hang-ups, their lack of cynicism, their embrace of silliness as well as mystery. So I write “for children” because I feel like, at the level of the imagination, and in the stories I love to read and love to write, I’m one of them. 2. What is your favorite color and what do you want to be when you grow up? My favorite color is joyful and I want to be red when I grow up. Wait. Stop. Reverse that. Okay, continue. 3. Is there a deeper reason why you believe you are called to write novels other than for the billions of dollars you make? No, the billions are enough. Occasionally I wake up in the morning and say to myself, “Jennifer, you have all those imaginary dollars lying in your imaginary bank account, doing nothing but gathering imaginary dust. Isn’t there more to life than this? Making art is a treacherous and beautiful adventure. It requires great courage and creative playfulness and a healthy sense of self-mockery. A story can change someone’s life; it can wiggle its way into a child’s heart and plant a seed there that will grow and blossom as the years go by, until one day that grown-up child (who has never fully grown up, thankfully) will look back and say, ‘That story was one of the things that shaped who I am as a person.’ What a terrifying privilege for a storyteller! What a responsibility! What a calling!” This line of reasoning convinces me until my rent is due. Then I pray everyone rushes to the store and buys my book. 4. On a scale of 1-3, how irritating do you find scales? Seven, at least. Seriously, they are the bane of my existence these days. I’ve tried everything—soap, rubbing alcohol, scouring pads, pliers . . . They will not come off. And believe me, they itch. I think my next book should be about a dragon. 5. What’s next for Jennifer Trafton, author? A new novel? A line of knitted green berets for the “army stuff” section at Wal-Mart? A run for Governor of Puerto Rico? Spill the beans! In 2011 I’ll be diving back into a third novel I’m in the middle of writing, which I am very excited about, because I will get to think about giraffes and ridiculous inventions and call it “work.” (How many of you can say that about your jobs? Other than the zookeepers and mad inventors reading this, of course.) I will also be rearranging my closet, editing things that need to be edited, washing dishes occasionally, warning people about giants, and eating way too much ice cream. Beyond that, I’ve given up on “planning ahead” in life. The best (and worst) things come unexpectedly. I hope there will be many new friends to meet, great books to read, travels to new places, much to laugh about, a lot of Oreos, and very few beans, spilled or unspilled. Like the heroine of MOUNT MAJESTIC, Persimmony Smudge, I am craving a new adventure right now. But as Bilbo Baggins once wisely said, sometimes all you have to do to start having an adventure is to go out your own door: “You step onto the road, and if you don’t keep your feet, there’s no telling where you might be swept off to.” Thanks, Jennifer. Find Jennifer at her website. (You can read the first chapter of her book here.) Jennifer on Twitter. Jennifer at The Rabbit Room Store. (Autographed copies.) Note: Originally posted at my website. In Klingon. Not really. -Sam

This is a version of an article I wrote for LifeWay’s ParentLife magazine. It appeared in the July, 2010 issue. At writing seminars everywhere, writing teachers are giving stuck story-writers the same advice: “Ask yourself, ‘What is it that my character wants?’” Why? Because once you know what a character wants, you know what choices he or she is likely to make. Once your character starts making choices, consequences follow. And then a story begins to take shape. Desire. Choice. Consequence. That’s what a story is made of. When we speak of the other kind of character—an individual’s character or integrity—we’re usually talking about the choices that person makes. A person of character chooses the good over the bad, the better over the good, the best over the better, whatever the circumstances. And why does a person make such choices? Because he or she wants what is good or better or best. Each of us is a welter of warring desires. You want to lose weight, but you also want that other piece of cake. You want to make good grades, but there are a million things you want to do instead of studying. You want to please God, but you also want to please yourself. So how do you choose? You choose according to what you want at the moment of choosing. And your choices have consequences, which shape the next part of your story. Desire. Choice. Consequence. It’s what character is made of too. It is that parallel between story development and character development that makes story such a valuable tool in shaping your child’s character. In the midst of life’s battles, it can be hard for a child—for any of us—to step back far enough to see the connection between desire, choice, and consequence. In a well-told story, on the other hand, it is easier to see the big picture, even as we inhabit it in a small way. If you are going to use stories as a means of shaping your child’s character, it is important, of course, to find stories that teach the right things. But that is not the only important thing; it is at least as important that you get in the habit of talking to your child about the stories he or she experiences. Help your child see the connection between desire, choice, and consequence by asking questions like these about the stories you read together: -Why do you think the character made that choice? What was he trying to get? -Did that choice get him what he wanted? -What else did it get him? -What was the cost of that choice? -Do you think the choice was worth the cost? And here’s the thing: these are the kind of questions that can help redeem even a questionable story. You might slip up with a book choice or a movie choice; it happens. But if you’re talking with your child, helping him or her make explicit the connection between desire, choice, and consequence, even a story that isn’t altogether appropriate can be a great learning opportunity. As character-building goes, a questionable story with great follow-up questions might be more valuable than a perfectly appropriate story with no discussion. I don’t mean to suggest, of course, that any old story will do for your child or that all stories are of equal value when it comes to character-building. Some are indeed better than others. In the examples below, I offer three foundational character truths, each with three books that portray it. Character Truth #1: This world does not define you. Children’s fiction is full of stories in which the main character suspects he isn’t who he appears to be. Why does that idea ring so true? Because it is true. We weren’t made for this world, and in the end it’s not the world that names us or gives us our identities. To live a life of Christian character is first to come to terms with this truth. Consider the mouse Despereaux in Kate DiCamillo’s The Tale of Despereaux (Candlewick Press): he is rejected by his fellow mice because he cannot bring himself to cringe or scurry. He is brave, adventurous; and as he follows his heart he finds out who he really is. Another of my favorites in this vein is Andrew Peterson’s Wingfeather Saga (On the Edge of the Dark Sea of Darkness and North! Or Be Eaten, Waterbrook Press). In these fabulously engaging books, two brothers and a sister find out that they aren’t who they thought they were. The Story of Ruby Bridges (Scholastic) is a non-fiction picture book that tells the beautiful story of a six-year-old black girl who faced incredible hatred from whites in her hometown of New Orleans when she became the first black child to attend Frantz Elementary School in 1960. Her determination not to be defined by the hatred of the whites who verbally abused her every day—and her willingness to forgive—is inspiring. Character Truth #2: You find your life by losing it. This paradoxical truth is at the heart of the Christian faith. As with any paradox, we come closer to understanding it in story form than in its stated form. Generations of children have been introduced to the sacrificial nature of friendship through the spider Charlotte, who devotes the last of her life’s energies to rescuing the pig Wilbur in Charlotte’s Web (HarperCollins). And The Velveteen Rabbit only becomes “real” after his beauty has been loved to shredded ugliness. Kate DiCamillo’s The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane (Candlewick Press), also about a toy rabbit, plumbs a similar theme. Character Truth #3: Grace is primary. True character is not a question of will power. Character that lasts must grow out of God’s grace—and the realization that we don’t have it in us to live a life that is up to God’s standards. That’s a hard thing to teach; grace is another of those paradoxes that can be better grasped as story rather than as precept. And yet it is hard to find children’s books that truly make grace come alive for the reader. I have fallen in love with a picture book called Sidney and Norman: A Tale of Two Pigs, by Phil Vischer (Nelson Publishers). Sidney the Pig is a mess, even by pig standards. His neighbor Norman has it all together. Both pigs are astonished to learn that God loves them without regard to their ability (or lack of ability) to keep things together. Eleanor Estes’s The Hundred Dresses (Sandpiper) is an achingly beautiful depiction of a poor girl’s willingness to show grace and forgiveness to classmates who torment her—and her willingness, in the end, to bless them with beauty. And I couldn’t offer a list of character-building children’s books without mentioning Sally Lloyd-Jones’s Jesus Storybook Bible. It is a reminder that the Bible is a series of stories that add up to one big story—the story of Jesus. “The Bible isn’t a book of rules, or a book of heroes,” Lloyd-Jones writes. It’s an adventure story about a young Hero who comes from a far country to win back his lost treasure. It’s a love story about a brave Prince who leaves his palace, his throne—everything—to rescue the one he loves. It’s like the most wonderful of fairy tales that has come true in real life! That, in the end, is why story is so valuable to the parent who wishes to shape a child’s character. All the best stories are but faint echoes of the truest Story. And as that Story finds its way deeper into our hearts, we cannot help but be changed. [Editor’s note: Jonathan’s blog is full of all sorts of great stuff. Be sure to check it out at Jonathan-Rogers.com]

At the close of another year, I love to ask people what their 5 favorite films, records, and (especially since it’s the rabbit room) books were of 2010.  (Note: said films, records, or books need not have been released in 2010 – only discovered and enjoyed.) 2010 was an exceedingly busy year for me with little time to take in much in the form of entertainment, and as I sit down to make my own list, I realize that I don’t have much to draw from.  But here it goes anyway: BOOKS I actually read exactly 5 books this year (and started my 6th yesterday).  But if I was only to read 5 books, these were really good ones! 5. Telling Secrets – Frederick Buechner In preparing for my Hutchmoot talk, I revisited my favorite author and for the first time ever read a book for a second time.  It was even better than I remembered. Telling Secrets is the third of four memoirs written by Buechner and is also my favorite of his books. 4. Birthright – John Sheasby John spoke at an artist retreat I attended this year and what he had to say was exactly what I needed to hear at this time in my life.  His talks at the retreat are what this book is comprised of and though I may enjoy him more as a speaker than an author, his insights on our identity in Christ are truly transformational. His book helps lead us from the servant’s quarters to take our place as sons and daughters in our Father’s house (and heart).  (This post from earlier this year is the fruit of this message’s work in my life: http://bashful-building.flywheelsites.com/?p=10054) 3. Letters From The Land Of Cancer – Walt Wangerin Jr. Again, in preparation for Hutchmoot I turned my attention to one of my favorite authors and picked up this journal of his experience of being diagnosed with cancer. Full of grace and soul-baring honesty, this is a book that will be meaningful for people whether they have had to deal with cancer or not.  Mortality is a teacher that leads its students into depths of wisdom usually reserved for the dying.  Think of this book as an opportunity to gain access to wisdom and beauty without having to pay the usual harrowing price of admission. 2. Fiddler’s Green – A. S. Peterson Pete entrusted me with an advance copy of his new book and honored me by inviting me to make suggestions and speak into his creative process.  It was a generous invitation and I had a blast returning to the world of Fin Button!  I couldn’t put it down and was delighted to witness my friend discover his creative voice with such surety. I loved it! 1. Intimate Allies – Dan Allender This is perhaps an unusual entry, but I regard Allender’s book as the single most transformational book – outside of the bible, of course (that’s for the fundy watchdogs out there ;- ) – that I’ve ever read.  After 18 years, Taya and I were both surprised to discover our marriage was more fragile than either of us suspected.  The Holy Spirit used counseling, community, and this book to guide our ship to safer waters.  I’ve already read this book twice and will be reading it soon again. It gets to the heart of what’s broken in all of our relationships, focusing on the curse detailed in the opening chapters of Genesis, helping us to see the Big Idea of marriage as a holy means of sanctification.  So good – even if you’re not married or if you’re marriage seems healthy and happy.  This book revealed to me the fallout of the curse and how it affects every area of my life. NOTABLE MENTION: Yesterday I just started reading The Charlaton’s Boy by our own Jonathan Rogers and so far I LOVE IT!  I’m two chapters in and can’t wait to get back to it… FILMS I didn’t see a lot of movies either.  Or if I did, they weren’t all very good. (Yes, I’m one of those who saw The Last Airbender).  Though I don’t think my list is particularly interesting (I didn’t see a lot of art films this year), I still offer it humbly: 5. Shutter Island It was good clean fun to see a legit suspense/psychological thriller with such a signature atmosphere and competent performances from both cast and director. 4. Toy Story 3 My low expectations were blown away by the emotional weight of this family film!  I laughed, cried, and thoroughly enjoyed it in spite of myself. Pixar for the win.  Again. 3. Harry Potter My favorite of the Harry Potter films so far.  I really like the Harry Potter universe and have enjoyed the films thus far for what they were, but this was the first one that delivered more than I expected.  (Though I wish the one – for lack of a better descriptor – “love scene” had been handled a little differently.) 2. Up In The Air This is a 2009 film that I saw in early 2010.  I thought it lived up to the hype and especially resonated with me as a person who travels extensively and experiences first hand the challenges of staying connected with community and resisting the constant temptation of isolation.  A great film with great performances that skillfully explores it’s themes with a light touch. 1. Inception Loved it.  Just like most everybody else. What I loved most about it was that I had never seen anything like it. A great idea well executed that generated a lot of great conversation (especially here in the rabbit room!). RECORDS: 5. Sigh No More – Mumford & Sons This gets my vote for the raw passion of it alone. This record also gave voice to many of the things I was feeling in the midst of a turbulent season in our marriage. I felt like they wrote the soundtrack to my journaling.  Interestingly, Taya felt much the same way, and so this record became a kind of common ground for us in a time when we needed it.  Besides that, the post-Christian consciousness of much of the lyric content provided good fodder for reflection and understanding the current zeitgeist. 4. Waking Up – Onerepublic An unapologetically great pop record.  My sons discovered this one and shared it with me, which was a rewarding experience in and of itself.  Big, hooky, anthemic melodies set to classic pop music with a hip-hop rhythmic sensibility.  A fun record with surprisingly organic production and GREAT sounding drums. 3. Flamingo – Brandon Flowers Another great pop record recommended to me by Andy Osenga.  Thanks Andy! Brandon sings with 80’s alt/pop bravado and brings Daniel Lanois in to participate in the production, bringing musical gravitas to these catchy melodic gems that harken back to the hip records of the late 80’s. This is more than your average pop record, with a sonic landscape that calls to mind the open lonely spaces of New Mexico and the shiny “all that glitters is not gold” lights of Las Vegas, Nevada. 2. Scratch My Back – Peter Gabriel Peter Gabriel has been one of my favorite artists of the 80’s, 90’s, and now into the new century with the best cover record I’ve ever heard.  Here he takes a sampling of songs that have meant something to him and covers them backed only by orchestration, thus rescuing the songs from the sonic era that would otherwise entrap them.  The orchestration is timeless and progressive in it’s elegance.  It was also fun to learn what Gabriel is listening to, from David Bowie and Lou Reed to Arcade Fire and Bon Iver. “The Book Of Love” alone is worth the whole price admission.  (I wrote a review of this record here: http://bashful-building.flywheelsites.com/?p=6559) 1. The Suburbs – Arcade Fire Though I was initially disappointed with it, this became my favorite record of the year.  Worthy of an entire post, it’s hard to sum up what I love about this record in a paragraph. It’s reflections on the spiritual and emotional sickness of the modern man is insightful and artfully rendered, describing the hangover of modernity (or what I’d like to think of as our generation’s version of what Walker Percy called the “malaise”).  In a single line, Winn Butler names what we’ve lost for all that we’ve gained: “I used to write… I used to write letters, I used to sign my name…”  Check out the remarkable interactive video for their song “We Used To Wait”: http://www.thewildernessdowntown.com/ So what have you been listening to this year?

Today I’m excited to introduce you, if you haven’t met, to a guy named Dave. Dave Bruno. Dave is the author of a new book, The 100 Thing Challenge. Dave and I met at Hutchmoot (The Rabbit Room retreat/conference/whatever) and spent a wonderful weekend not talking at all. He really regrets this as do, I’m sure, all those people who kept avoiding me the entire time.  Weird. (Actually we just didn’t get to connect and both hope to remedy that next time. There were so many wonderful people there. By that I don’t mean Aaron Roughton. I mean, Aaron was there, but…) I think Dave has some real wisdom for us and I hope you’ll give his answers a read. 1. Tell us about how you got from ChristianAudio.com to the 100 Thing Challenge and a little about yourself. I tell the story in chapter 2 of my book (plug, plug) about how I’m a reluctant entrepreneur. Sometimes I feel like a tired out labrador retriever who wouldn’t mind taking a long nap, but there’s always someone throwing sticks to fetch. It’s in my blood to pursue entrepreneurial opportunities, especially when it can bless people in the world. Here’s a secret, I’m not personally a big fan of audiobooks. I’m a reader. I like to underline and write little notes in the margins. But when my buddy Cory Verner (now ChristianAudio’s president) approached me with the idea of starting a company to publish thoughtful Christian titles that had been overlooked as audiobooks, I couldn’t resist. There was a market need to fill and we’d bless people by being successful with the business. No brainer! The whole ChristianAudio experience was great. My plan was to try to spend about 5 years growing the company and then sell it or my part of it to free myself up for “the next thing.” Well the next thing, the 100 Thing Challenge, came along 4 years into running ChristianAudio. I’m a writer and a huge believer that average Americans need to pursue simplicity instead of affluence in order to generate economic and cultural wealth. When my crazy idea to live with only 100 person possessions turned into a worldwide movement and an opportunity to publish a book, there was no way I wasn’t going to fetch that stick. 2. What is the 100 Thing Challenge and wouldn’t the 101 Thing Challenge be just a bit better? Just one more thing; that’s all I need to make it “just a little better.” Right? Well, I think the 101 Thing Challenge — the Just One More Thing Challenge — would be a perfect match for what I call “American-style consumerism.” That’s the kind of consumerism that always wants to get more in the hopes of arriving at the dream life. The problem most of us have faced is that we’re always getting, but never getting there. It never stops. 101, 102, 103, and on and on. So I conceived of the 100 Thing Challenge as a way to break free from the bondage American-style consumerism. My theory has been that if I remove myself from the routine of excessive consumption, my behavior would change. And it has! The “official” 100 Thing Challenge that I write about in my book has been over for a year now. But I still have about 100 personal possessions. I’m happy to say that I’m no longer a participant in the unending cycle of acquisition that used to characterize my consumer behavior. The 100 Thing Challenge isn’t about “100.” It’s about helping people who feel stuck in stuff free themselves. 3. But Dave, things aren’t bad are they? Didn’t God make the world? Your book is a thing!? 🙂 Can you contrast your position with the dangers of Gnosticism (the body, pleasure is bad) and Asceticism (enlightenment, spiritual elevation comes from denial of food, pleasure, things!)? Sam, I think all of your readers should flee from Gnosticism . . . right to Barnes & Noble to buy my book. 😉 Seriously, though, I do have strong theological convictions here. There’s a lot to say about this. But I’ll just mention that Ecclesiastes was much on my mind during the 100 Thing Challenge. It says, “There is a grievous evil that I have seen under the sun: riches were kept by their owner to his hurt.” Seems like riches are bad, right? But Ecclesiastes goes on to say, “Everyone also to whom God has given wealth and possessions and power to enjoy them . . . this is the gift of God.” That is the guiding principal, I think, where possessions are concerned. It’s all from God. Not just the things, but also our power to enjoy the things. American-style consumerism says that the things come from brands (preferably luxury brands) and the power to enjoy the things comes from within ourselves. That attitude doesn’t square with a Christian worldview. 4. The Bible is filled with admonishes not to envy, but politicians (“You have a right to what your neighbor has”) and advertisers (“Your life is incomplete without this thing I’m selling”) are continually working to encourage just that. How do you call on Christians to simplify, while making it clear that God does call some to the responsibility of greater wealth and all to contented thankfulness? Well, God’s yet to call me to the responsibility pursuant to tens of millions of dollars, so I’m just guessing here. I do have a couple of thoughts, though. First, fill your ears with admonishments that don’t encourage envy (and other vices). How? Ditch the TV. I wish I had more time to extol the glories of not owning a TV. Look, I truly believe that Christians are fighting a losing battle if they fill their minds with hours of television. It’s like a law of the universe: watch a lot of TV and you will succumb to American-style consumerism. It’s not worth it. Get rid of the TV. Second, in America we’ve come to associate wealth with outward displays of affluence. But that’s not the biblical perspective. A Christian should be rich on the inside, regardless of outward display. Christians in American need to retrain themselves to not only believe this (we all say we believe it) but to actually act like we believe it. This cannot be theoretical. So I strongly believe most Christians in America should pursue simplicity for an extended period of time, a year or more. It’s the only way to deprogram ourselves from the consumer conditioning we’ve received and accepted. A life of simplicity leads to a life of contentment. 5. Any helpful tips for parents during Christmas on how to avoid (even with good intentions) training our kids to become slaves to envy/thanklessness/idolatry/selfishness etc.? Time. I’m really serious about this. Time. Put a five-year Christmas plan into action. Aim for this: after five years of a concerted effort to prioritize Jesus’ incarnation and family time and charity during the Christmas season, your children are glad to celebrate Christmas without being showered with consumer junk. Don’t try to “make a point” this Christmas. Parenting isn’t about making points every now and again. It’s about passing on a heritage of virtuous behavior and healthy emotions and strong faith to children. This takes time. That’s my main “tip.” Commit to training up your children over time. And be gracious. They’re just kids. While they don’t need lots of junky toys, neither do they need lots of lectures. Celebrate Christmas with them. Thanks so much, Dave. Here’s Dave’s website. Dave on Twitter. Dave and The 100TC on Facebook. Again, consider getting David’s book. Note: Originally posted at my website, which is like The Rabbit Room, only dumb. -Sam

Let me put this out there. Over the next month, I’ll find myself with a long span that will fill inevitably itself with fireplaces, family, friends, and falafel (first food with ‘f’ that I could think of). It will be a joyous time of crisp nights with hot cider, memorable moments with my wife and extended family, and decorating our family cat, Murph. But there will be a margin. Oooh, that margin. The project is sitting on the desktop of my Macbook. I started it four months ago, before another semester of grad school kicked in and the church calendar took off. It’s a book idea I’ve had for some time. I love it. I hate it. And now I have to face it. Yet if I’m honest, I have to tell you I’m afraid to do so. I know that I’ll try my best to fill the margins with every movie the honorable Rev. Thomas McKenzie tells me to see. I have one Jennifer Trafton and two Pete Peterson works waiting to be read. And I will get to all of those. But I also know that family only stays so long, and that presents only take a few minutes to unwrap. But the church calendar slows considerably for us these days, while the school takes a longer break. Thus, the marginal space will continue to call and ask me what I’m doing with it. I’ve been journeying into some Emerson lately and an essay, “Heroism,” emerged with a particular quote that Emerson remembered hearing in his youth: “Always do what you are afraid to do.” There are a few key things ahead for our church next year that I’m afraid to ask our community to move toward. There are issues in my marriage that need to be addressed that either my wife or I am generally afraid to bring up. And there’s this stupid book that makes me believe no one would ever want to read it and that it’s a dumb idea in the first place — any excuse to mask the fear. It reminds me of something else I read in The War of Art (seriously, read that book!) where Steven Pressfield writes, “Fear tells us what we have to do.” I hope my holiday season is filled with cheer and peace and joy and love and every other descriptor that adorns a Christmas card. But I also hope it’s filled with fear — at least enough to point the way to where I’m supposed to go.

The good S.D. Smith quoted C.S. Lewis at his blog a while back: …only Supernaturalists really see Nature. You must go a little away from her, and then turn round, and look back. Then at last the true landscape will become visible. You must have tasted, however briefly, the pure water from beyond the world before you can be distinctly conscious of the hot, salty tang of Nature’s current. Here we have the key to what Lewis (and the other Inklings, and all the Romantics, dating back to S.T. Coleridge) believed about literature. All created things are icons, in some form or another, of spiritual reality. This is what I mean when I talk about “logos epistemology.” It’s the belief that the creative logos, the Word, is within and behind all creation, and all creation points to that Christ/logos. What we can know is all built on the foundation of the logos, to which physical reality points. But this nominalistic thinking – that the physical reality only has surface meaning and nothing beyond it – is severely limiting and dehumanizing, because we are so much more than bare physical fact. This is why embedded in C.S. Lewis’s Narnia septology is planetary symbolism; we experience the deeper levels of reality while interacting with these symbols, even if we don’t understand them. This is why his Ransom trilogy is built on the scaffolding of literary alchemy. We pass through the stages of black (grief/loss), white (purification) and red (eternal life) with Ransom, whether we understand alchemy or not. This is the exact opposite of gnosticism. It’s not “secret knowledge,” which is more important than the physical symbols, but the belief that the physical symbols do indeed picture reality. In gnosticism, the physical imprisons reality. In logos epistemology, the physical is part of reality and points to the Creator.

I’m on a plane flying home after the last date of the Behold The Lamb of God tour. I’m tired (to the point that I fear I’m not up for writing this post–forgive me if it meanders…), excited to see my family who I miss so much, and I’m filled with a gratitude that warms my heart even as I return to the cold Minnesota winter. The common sentiment I heard night after night from countless people after the show was that they felt like “Christmas can begin now.”  And it’s no wonder. Andrew Peterson’s Behold The Lamb Of God may be his masterpiece–a remarkable Christmas record that quietly defies all of the conventions of what we’ve been taught to expect from a Christmas recording, eschewing sentimental favorites in favor of a wholly original work that is a potent reminder of what happened 2000 years ago and still has the whole world talking. If you, reader, have never heard this record, do yourself a favor: stop reading and order it right now. This isn’t just another Christmas record.  Nor was it just another Christmas tour. For those not familiar with it, Behold The Lamb Of God: The True Tall Tale of The Coming Of Christ takes us on a journey through the ages to reveal how the Old Testament is as much about the coming of Jesus as the New Testament is, from Abraham, Moses, the kings and prophets, all the way to the young girl in a shabby stable giving birth to the Hope of all mankind. That I got to be a part of the “telling” of this story night after night is one of the more meaningful things I’ve gotten to be a part of. Each night began with an artist in the round segment where Andrew introduced us as his friends, bragging a bit on each of us individually before inviting us to play a couple of songs. This is very generous of Andrew – it’s his night, the people are there to see him, and he doesn’t have to share the evening with anyone, and yet night after night he gives most of the evening away to his friends and their songs and stories. As a fan who often attended the show, the artist in the round segment was my favorite part of the night, though that’s not necessarily how everyone feels. Andrew told me “I know some people don’t enjoy the artist in the round part as much as others, but I feel that it’s good for them, like I’m giving them their vegetables.” As the tour went on, the beautiful balance of it revealed itself to me. As I said, the evening starts with each solo artist introducing and playing one of their songs before passing it to the next artist, two times through. Ben Shive kicked it off, followed by Andy Osenga, then myself, Jill Phillips, and Andy Gullahorn, before going back to Ben for another round. You should know that these artists are my heroes and that every night I marveled at my good fortune to get to share the stage with these people whose voices have sung to me the grace of God in times when I’ve desperately needed it. None of them get much if any radio airplay and work in relative obscurity, yet they are among the best at what they do – their work marked not only by the excellence of their craft, but the generosity, courage, and humility of their spirit. And it’s their generosity and courage that moved me most and that I want to talk about here. They sang of hope and grace, yes, but always in the face of their fear, shame, and doubt, exposing the places where their hearts have been broken. They didn’t have to do this, risking such vulnerability, returning to their wounds, but they did this night after night, naming the broken places for the healing of those who would receive it. Andy Osenga would sing like he was opening a vein: “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus I did what I planned to do And I feel like I knew I’d feel But I want to come back to you… Jesus you’ll have to come get me Cause it’s too far to walk from here.” Jill and Andy together singing of the lowest point in their marriage that was tested to the breaking point: “Gaining back the trust we lost was harder than just losing it But if we wanted change at all The pain was a prerequisite Little by little, one piece at a time We were putting back together what was left of a broken life It wasn’t quick, it wasn’t easy But that kind of change doesn’t happen overnight… I wouldn’t have it any other way No I wouldn’t have it any other way…” I am moved to tears even in the remembering of it now as I write. And then Ben Shive would sing what is quickly becoming one of my all-time favorite songs–a song about death called “A Last Time For Everything”–which he introduced each night by talking about how he realized that one day there would be a last funeral. “It will be like any other funeral. Nobody in attendance will know it, but it will be the last one. And I like thinking that this is how death will pass from existence: with no fanfare to dignify its passing.” And then with a touch of his fingers to the piano that is distinctly his, he would sing one of the saddest and loveliest melodies I’ve heard. “You need to look death in the eye, in the eye… You need to see that he’s afraid to die, he’s afraid to die But you my love… You’re going to wake up soon In your lonely room To the sound of a singing bird Throw the curtains back To find your bags already packed And the cab is at the curb And like a bad dream Unreal in the morning light So will the world seem When you see it in the mirror for the last time There is a last time, a last time for everything” Every night these words of my heroes, my friends would kindle the fire in my heart, to keep it warm and soft to the touch. The artist in the round was bookended by Andrew Peterson himself singing his beautiful songs “Dancing In The Minefields” about marriage and “The Reckoning” with its longing for the return of Christ who will set all things right and make everything new. It occurred to me toward the end of the tour how inspired the flow of the evening was–how the first part with our stories of hope, grace, and all that we long for in the face of all of our shame, fear, and doubt asks the questions that God answers so completely and kindly with the mystery and beauty of the Incarnation, God with us, breaking into the run down tenement hall of our humanity to take us to the home that we’ve never seen but that we know is real if only because of our homesickness. The shame of our sin, the struggles we’ve known, the fear of death are all answered by: Emmanuel. “Gather round, ye children, come and listen to the old old story…” The last night of the tour, Todd Bragg (drummer, tour manager extraordinaire, and one of the kindest people I’ve had the pleasure of working with) prayed over our last dinner together before the show. “Lord, we thank you that we get to tell this story…” his voice cracking with emotion, halting as we waited in pregnant silence, the words we all waited on gathering weight and depth. “It’s a good one.” Amen.

I first heard bluegrass as a 12 year old in Southern California. Lester Flatt, once a leader of Flatt & Scruggs of Beverly Hillbillies fame, was on television. I pestered my Dad for a banjo after that, and he often says he got me a banjo when I was 13 and I didn’t come out of my room until I was 21. Flatt & Scruggs In 1946 Bill Monroe kicked country music into high gear with his own hopped-up version.  This seminal bluegrass band had Lester Flatt on guitar and Earl Scruggs ripping the banjo. Earl literally blew people’s minds back then; I have a recording of one of the first Grand Ole Opry shows with Monroe and his new band. When Earl would play an instrumental solo, the crowd would scream and shout like they were watching Eddie Van Halen in the 1980s. Shortnin’ Bread (banjo instrumental). One of my main banjo heroes. Watch the sense of ease in his playing and demeanor. I Ain’t Gonna Work Tomorrow The Stanley Brothers The Stanley Brothers had an edgier sound. They basically took Monroe’s music and used it to supercharge their old-time mountain music. Very soulful. Worried Man Blues George Shuffler on lead guitar, a great old Christian gentleman and one of my early guitar heroes. Ralph Stanley and the Clinch Mountain Boys Carter Stanley, the rhythm guitarist and lead singer, passed away in the mid-sixties. Several other great singers took his place, many of them going on to their own careers. Here’s one: Keith Whitley, who turned into a major country star by the 1980s. I Hear a Choo-Choo Coming Larry Sparks and the Lonesome Ramblers Larry Sparks stepped into Carter Stanley’s shoes in the mid-sixties, and went on to become a bluegrass legend. He’s one of my all-time guitar heroes, and one of the most soulful bluegrass singers ever. A Face in the Crowd and Carter’s Blues David Grisman David Grisman brought a jazz sensibility to bluegrass in the seventies and eighties. This is with Tony Rice, Mark O’Connor, and Rob Wasserman – jazzed up instrumental bluegrass with no banjo. E.M.D Tony Rice Tony Rice has had a career spanning over four decades, becoming synonymous with the idea of bluegrass guitar. This is from an instructional dvd he made in the early eighties. The guitar lead he plays looks deceptively simple, but anyone who’s tried to play it knows it just ain’t so. Also check out his rhythm behind his singing; his guitar jumps out between vocal lines. Tony is one of the best artists in American music; here he sings a Norman Blake song that still gives me chills after all these years. Church Street Blues J.D. Crowe and the New South A few years earlier, in the early to mid 1970s, Tony had played with J.D. Crowe and the New South, along with Ricky Skaggs and Jerry Douglas. This bluegrass supergroup redefined the music. J.D. Crowe is my other main banjo hero. Also, check out the solos on this next tune. Tony’s guitar work is stellar as usually, and J.D. busts the daylights out of it. Nine Pound Hammer If I could suggest one record to get, recorded with more modern techniques yet capturing the spirit of Bluegrass, it would be The Bluegrass Album, pictured up at the top of this post. Tony Rice, J.D. Crowe, Doyle Lawson on mandolin, the great Bobby Hicks on fiddle, and Todd Phillips keeping the upright bass steady. That record exploded my world back in 1981.

There is an episode of Star Trek The Next Generation entitled “Darmok.” The set up is that the Enterprise meets an alien race with which humanity has never been able to communicate. The humans have a “universal translator,” which means that they can understand the words that the aliens say. But they can’t comprehend their meaning. Why not? Because the aliens only communicate through allusion. Instead of saying something directly, they use metaphors based in the common narratives of their culture. So, instead of saying “I am having romantic feelings” they would say something like “Juliet on the balcony.” The captain of the alien ship teaches Captain Picard how to communicate by forcing him to have a shared experience, a fight together against a common enemy. While working together, Picard comes to understand how the other captain communicates. Of course, the biggest problem that the humans are going to have in talking to these aliens is that they don’t have common stories. So, when the alien says “Darmok and Jalad at Tanagra,” he means that two heroes must fight for a common goal. Unfortunately, the humans don’t know that story, so they have no reference point for what the aliens are trying to say. I recognize how increasingly like these aliens I am. I was sitting in a meeting a few weeks ago. The person leading the meeting was talking about “spiritual formation.” That’s kind of a buzz word in the church world right now. He had lots to say about this topic, and what he had to say was very well thought out. I, however, had a hard time understanding what he was saying. Why? Because he didn’t use any stories. There were not examples, no parables, no narrative. Because there was no narrative, no “Darmok and Jalad at Tanagra,” no “Juliet on her Balcony,” I couldn’t grasp the material. I understood every word he was saying, but the words were like vapor in a disembodied haze. I find the same thing to be true when I watch movies. I love movies, but one of the things that makes me hate certain movies is their lack of narrative structure. Take “Babies,” a sort of documentary that follows the first year in the life of four newborns. It is cute, it is sometimes beautiful to look at, and it gave me an appreciation of some of the different ways people raise babies around the world. However, I hated the movie and was ready for it to be over 15 minutes in. Why? Because the narrative was so weak, really non-existent. Clint Eastwood’s latest “Hereafter” also struggled to have a real narrative structure, putting it on my “bad list.” Then there was Transformers 2 which, apart from terrible acting, had a maddening lack of narrative continuity. Therefore it sucked. All of this leads me to a greater point. I think about the people who are outside of the Church, those who don’t know the great stories of the Bible or of Church History. They come into our church, and we might as well be talking about Darmok and Jalad at Tanagra. We have common narratives within Christianity, but for those outside I would assume that these can be hard to connect with. If I were a “seeker sensitive” guy, I would say that the solution to this is to stop using Biblical narratives. Instead, I would rely on movie clips and pop songs. Another way I could respond would be to just not worry about those people. I’ll just use my church language, my “Christianese,” and they can just figure it out or not. I don’t wish to accept either of those options. I believe it is essential to maintain our stories, we just have to do a better job of teaching the Grand Narrative to those on the outside. We have to be careful to use language that invites them in, while recognizing that there simply is no slang word that can substitute for “propitiation.” I think the best way to do this is to tell the Grand Narrative each and every Sunday, which is in fact what we do in the Anglican tradition. Through our Eucharistic liturgy (two Church words to be sure!), we tell the story of the God who took on flesh, was born, lived, taught, suffered, died, rose, ascended, sent the Spirit, and promised to return. I’m not talking about what we say in the sermon, I’m talking about the entire movement of worship. I am a person who loves good stories. I love to read them, hear them, watch them, and tell them. Most of all, I love the story of Jesus and I long to tell that story over and over again until the whole world has heard.

Several years ago, I discovered a book called The Ragman And Other Cries Of Faith by Walt Wangerin Jr who is, among other things, a pastor and award-winning novelist. The combination of his pastoral heart and his gift for storytelling are a potent mix that have been a companion and comfort in my journey. I can’t recommend his writing enough. There is a remarkable chapter from Ragman called “An Advent Monologue” about the mystery of the incarnation that is strange, poignant, and utterly beautiful. It has haunted me ever since the first time I read it with its story of an abused woman whose history and heartbreak have caused her to be suspicious of any kindness and resistant to love. The story is narrated by a Protagonist who is determined to gently break through her best defenses to heal and love her, and ultimately deliver her from the prison of her own misery. The story has never failed to move me and about 6 years ago I was compelled to write a song inspired by Wangerin’s beautiful vision of the incarnation. After many starts that never quite felt right, I started to be afraid of failing the material – Wangerin’s prose was so beautiful, I feared ruining it. And since fear is the chief enemy of creativity, I knew early on that I would need some help finishing it. The idea was pretty precious to me, so I was very guarded with it, bringing it only to a few writers who I felt might be able to help me make the most of it. No one that I shared it with seemed to resonate with it the same way that I did, until years later – when my record company was asking me to write an original Christmas song for a compilation they were putting together – I remembered the song and brought it to my friend Andy Gullahorn. Andy is one of the most gifted songwriters I know, and his work never fails to move and inspire me. His songs have the magical qualities that mark all the songs I love the most: they surprise, fill me with wonder, and create a quiet place in me where the Holy Spirit can speak. I’m a big fan. That I also get to call him a friend is one of the great blessings of this season of my life. Sitting in his songwriting room above his garage, grateful for another chance to collaborate with this giant of a songwriter (Andy and I have written a number of songs together, including “Holding The Key” and “How I Ended Up Here” from my last record), I shared Wangerin’s “Advent Monologue” and was encouraged when I saw it hit him much the same way it hit me. [spoiler title=’Spoiler!’ style=’default’ collapse_link=’true’]Let me say here how nervous I am to presume to put words in the mouth of the Almighty by doing a song from God’s perspective, but for this particular song, it seemed there was no way around it. But it also seemed fitting to be so bold in a story depicting the boldness of the Incarnation. So with a sense of—I don’t know…God’s approval? Blessing?—we put pen to the paper (or fingers to the laptop) and started writing. [/spoiler] I had written a bunch of verses that we were able to keep much of for the middle two verses in the song (it’s always gratifying to raid the bone yard), but I was having trouble figuring out how to hang the song on a singular idea that could be the chorus. Years ago, I had arrived at the idea of the Protagonist singing: How should I come to the one I love so she will receive me… or … so she won’t be afraid… But it just didn’t seem quite right. I liked the vulnerability of the question, “how should I come to the one I love…” but the next line made the Protagonist feel weak and anxious to me. Andy’s first suggestion was that the next line in the chorus should be “I will find a way,” so that it would be: How should I come to the one I love I will find a way, I will find a way… And that was when the Christmas lights turned on for me and I knew we had a song. The earnest longing of “how should I come to the one I love”, answered by the unrelenting determination to “find a way” – that was when the song began to take the shape I had always hoped it would. Andy has an amazing knack for getting to the heart of things – and he helped to make sure that every line had heart. In the world of songwriters, Andy is definitely one of my all time favorites. I might even go so far as to say I have a kind of professional crush on him as a writer. Oh, uh… hi Andy… I didn’t realize you were here… um. Did you hear any of that? Enter ANDY GULLAHORN: Yes, I am here. But don’t worry, I didn’t read that last part. First let me thank you for bringing this song to our writing appointment. I remember having some hesitations when you said you wanted to write a Christmas song. If I have any strengths as a songwriter, writing Christmas songs is not one of them. But as you explained Wangerin’s story to me I quickly realized that this wasn’t going to be a typical Christmas song – so I could jump in with you. It isn’t a secret to anyone who knows me that I am not a well-read individual. Most of my knowledge about books comes from listening to friends talk about the books they are reading. So although I had heard of Walt Wangerin before that day, I am pretty sure I hadn’t read any of his work. I remember when we first started trying to write the song, I didn’t want you to show me the actual story – I was just going to go off of your re-telling of it. But it didn’t take long before I caved in and asked for the book. I was blown away when I read the story. I know I read it at least twice while you were sitting there pretending to think of lyrics but actually checking email or something. I think my first response to you was something like, “Instead of writing a song about this, you should just give a copy of this story to everyone in your audience.” I am grateful that you didn’t listen to me. You have had a vision for a long time of making this story accessible to people in a new way – and I hope we came close to that. JG: I couldn’t have hoped for it to turn out better than it did! What I loved about the story and had hoped to capture in the song is a sense of the mystery of the incarnation. Because we’re so familiar with the concept of it as a doctrine I suspect that we’ve forgotten how radical it is that God chose to infiltrate humanity this way. Wangerin’s story awakened me again to the messy mystery of it and forced me to reckon with it all over again. AG: I have been playing this song most nights on this Christmas tour. Every night that I play it, at least one person finds me after the show to ask me about it. The standard comment I get is “I really like the song but can’t figure out what it means.” The funny thing is that in some ways I feel the same way about the original Wangerin story as well as the song – and that is part of why I think it is special. I mean, on one hand I can easily say what the song is about – the Incarnation. On the other hand, none of the metaphors in the story tie up neatly. It is about a battered woman – but it isn’t. It refers to Mary – but it doesn’t. All I know is that when I read the story I am deeply moved – but it isn’t a movement I can easily explain. It is like the truth in the story completely bypassed my brain and my reasoning to take up residence somewhere deeper. So although I can’t really explain it, it feels more true to me than some things that are more easily explained. JG: What I like about it is that it refuses to be reduced, categorized, and then shelved. Something about the messiness of it forces me to engage it (and therefore the mystery of the incarnation) every time. AG: Ok. I have to say this feels a little weird talking about a song I “wrote” in this way. I am not saying it is one of the most powerful songs ever written. I can say, however, that it speaks to me as much or more than any other song that I have had a part of. I think I can say this because the most powerful part of the song (the story) is something that neither one of us can take credit for. That is all Mr. Wangerin. So even as I play the song, I am still moved by the story – every time. And I don’t say that to take away from the work that we put into making this song come to life – it was just as challenging (if not more) than writing something from scratch. But I have to say it is fun to sing a song that always feels like someone else is telling me a story. JG: I suppose it doesn’t hurt that it’s the greatest story ever told. ________ I Will Find A Way JGray & Andrew Gullahorn At the end of this run down tenement hall Is the room of a girl I know She cowers behind all the dead bolt locks Afraid of the outside world So how should I come to the one I love I will find a way Many thieves and collectors have used that door But they only brought her shame So she won’t even open it anymore Still I will find a way I could call out her name with love through the walls But condemnation is all she hears I could break down the door and take her into my arms But she might die from the fear So how should I come to the one I love I will find a way, I will find a way How should I come to the one I love I will find a way No hiding place ever kept her safe So she hides inside herself Now to reach her heart the only way Is to hide in there as well I will hide in there as well She gave up on love waiting for a change But a change is coming soon Cause how could she not love the helpless babe Who is waking in her womb I found a way She’ll know I am coming before I am here When she hangs her head she’ll see me there And then when I come she won’t turn away All the beauty and joy will return to her face And what of the loneliness? Now it is gone Lost in the bond of the mother and son Every sin that she suffered at the hands of men Every single disgrace will be washed clean again I will love her completely and when I am grown I will carry her out of that tenement room I am doing a new thing and soon you will see I am coming among you and my name shall be Emmanuel, Emmanuel ________ After writing the song, it felt like it wouldn’t fit very well on a compilation record that included Christmas classics recorded by other artists in various styles, so I wrote another song for that project. I hope to record “I Will Find A Way” in the future, but in the meantime I couldn’t have been happier to learn that Andy included the song on the Christmas record he made with his wife Jill Phillips (he sings and plays it better than me anyway). I hope you’ll check it out! You can buy the record here in the rabbit room store or on iTunes. Click here to buy Walt Wangerin’s book that includes “An Advent Monologue” from the Rabbit Room Store And here’s a recent live performance of “I Will Find A Way” from this year’s Behold The Lamb of God tour.

The dictionary definition of omnipresence is “(of God) present everywhere at the same time.” I’ve been thinking on this for the past month and wonder how many of us really live from this very orthodox truth on a daily basis. Suppose I did begin to recognize this Fact. How would it change my relationships? If I was frustrated or hurt by someone, and yet chose to recognize that God is present all around me, in me, and that He “works all things after the counsel of His own will” in my situation, how would that change my course of action? In my creative life as a musician, singer, songwriter, how would it change my creativity and output to know that the true Muse is always present with me, brooding over the waters, ready for the moment of creation? How would it change my worship of God to know that I am literally living and having my being in Him? Would every moment become a different facet of worship? Would washing dishes or writing a song or spending time with my children become a form of worshiping God? When I walked into the church for worship with others, would it change the atmosphere if we all knew as Fact that God was already present, that we didn’t have to coax Him to “come down,” that we didn’t have to “invite Him” or sing songs asking God to come to us? Can it be possible that the manifestation of that Presence is merely awaiting our recognition, our trust, our faith-response to the Fact of omnipresence that is stated in the Word of God? How would it change our sense of security, of being protected, of having a mission and a purpose in life to know that God is always present and working His eternal purposes – working all things together for good to them that love Him, working everything for good to those who have been called according to His purpose and plan? What if we ate, slept, and breathed this truth for awhile? Would it become part of our consciousness, a subconscious undercurrent of faith?

My eight-year-old’s cub scouts served supper to a group of homeless men through Nashville’s Room in the Inn ministry, and I had the privilege of sitting at table with a man I’ll call Roderick and hearing his story. I thought you should hear it too. Roderick looked to be in his fifties. He was a handsome black man with a well-kept beard and intelligent eyes. He wore a green army coat. His hands, like the hands of all the men who ate with us that night, were chapped and battered, but nothing else about his appearance telegraphed his homelessness. “Where do you sleep most nights?” I asked him. “At the Rescue Mission,” he said. “How many men are there on a given night?” “About eight hundred,” he said. “Some are there for a couple of nights. Some are there for a months. I don’t know they stories. I try to talk to folks, but a lot of folks at the Mission don’t want to tell anything about theyselves. Some of them’s got something to hide, some of them’s ashamed. Me, I like to tell my story. It does me good. I don’t know what other folks has been through, but I been living on the streets for twenty-one years. “I come to Nashville in 1989,” he said. “I aint had a home since I got here. Come from Humboldt. A hundred and forty miles west of here.” “And how did you end up here?” I asked Roderick thought on that a little while. “Let me squeeze twenty-one years into a minute. Then let me squeeze a minute into ten seconds: I ended up here and homeless because of a judge, a prosecuting attorney, a po-lice, and a landlord. “I grew up in a shotgun shack. You could see right through from the front to the back. After I was grown my mama got an her apartment in Section 8 housing, and we thought that was going to be a lot better than the shack. But the way we be living in the fifties and sixties, that’s the way my mama living now. The landlord tell my mama what to do, and she got to do it. “They changed the lease law in 1989, you see, and after that the landlord could do whatever she wanted to do. She could say who stayed and who had to go. It was my mama’s apartment, but she didn’t have no say about it. I come to see her one day. I got there about noon, but she didn’t get off work until three that day, so I set on the steps in front of her door to wait for her. I hadn’t been there long before a po-lice drove up. He started coming up the steps with a white woman I didn’t know. Looked like maybe he was there to serve a warrant to somebody lived in the apartments. I wasn’t feared at all. I sort of scooted over on the step to let them get past, and the po-lice said, ‘It’s you we come to talk to. This woman has some things to say to you, and I want you to listen to her.’ “The woman said, ‘Do you know who I am?’ “I said, ‘No ma’am. I might have seen you around town once or twice, but I can’t say I know who you are.'” “She said, ‘Well I’m the landlord here, that’s who I am. I own this place, and I get to say who can stay here and who has to go.’ She explained how I wasn’t welcome at Hillview Manor any more, and she waved a paper that said I was permanently barred. I couldn’t come set foot at Hillview Manor again. “Well I was so surprised I didn’t know what to say. I started to ask a couple of questions, but the po-lice shushed me. This was her apartments, he said, and folks had to do whatever she said. I just wanted to know what I had done to get treated that way, and the po-lice said the landlord didn’t have to tell me. “I said, ‘But this is my mama’s house. You telling me I can’t come to my own mama’s house?’ “The lady said, ‘This aint your mama’s house. It’s my house, and I’m saying you can’t come back. I got a paper here from the law says you can’t ever come back.’ “I told her, ‘You aint even told me what I done wrong,’ and she didn’t have no answer for that. But the po-lice said, ‘We stood here and talked long enough. It’s time for you to get moving, Roderick.’ “I did come back a few times to see my mama, but somebody called the po-lice every time, and they run me off. The last time I went was eighteen years ago. That time the po-lice really threatened me, and I been feared to go back. I aint set foot in that county or seen my people in eighteen years.” “So you’ve been living on the street twenty-one years,” I said. “Did you ever find work? Couldn’t you have gotten a job, found a place to live?” I couldn’t help noticing he appeared able-bodied, even after twenty-one years of homelessness. But Roderick ignored the question. “And now just about everybody’s dead or gone, but I still aint been back. My brothers and sisters, my aunts and uncles… My mama’s still there, still in that same apartment in Hillview Manor. Landlord’s gone too. I don’t know if she’s dead or if she just went away. The judge that give me the lifetime ban, he’s dead, and so is the prosecuting attorney.” “Wait a minute,” I said. “If everybody’s dead and gone, why don’t you just go back and see your mama?” “They’ve still got that paper. It’s a lifetime ban. The new landlord said they still got it in the file cabinet.” “But who could possibly care?” I asked. “It’s been twenty-one years.” “I’m feared of them po-lice,” Roderick said. “They threatened me. “The legal aid called the new judge for me, and the judge said I was welcome to come to his county any time I wanted to. I just couldn’t set foot in Hillside Manor as long as that paper is in force. Except Hillside Manor is where my mama is. It’s the only place in the county I want to go.” “You’re telling me nobody can do anything about the paper?” “Judge said I could fill out some papers and get an inquest, and I can go before the court in thirty days and he could probably get it taken care of.” His passivity was maddening. It was clear he was leaving something out of the story. “Then why haven’t you gotten it taken care of?” I asked. “My legal aid quit me. Last time I talked to him…I don’t even know why I said this…It just flew out of my mouth…but I said, ‘You aint done a very good job for me.’ And he said, ‘I don’t like what you just said to me.’ And there was a click, and the line went dead. And I didn’t know if he hung on me or if we just got disconnected. “So I called him back, and I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. I said, ‘We got disconnected right after you told me you didn’t like what I said to you,’ and he said, ‘I reckon we did.’ And I said, ‘I don’t even know why I said that thing.’ And he said, ‘I’m finished working on your case. I don’t want no more to to with you.’ “I really don’t know why I told that man he wasn’t doing a good job.” “But there are plenty of other legal aid lawyers in Nashville,” I said. “Yeah, but they aint been much help. Ever time I get an appointment with one, I get there and it’s another one there besides the one it was supposed to be. The last time it was was two ladies I hadn’t never seen before. I told them they wasn’t who I had come to see, and we got all sideways, and I told them I’d never step foot in that building again.” It wasn’t hard to imagine Roderick getting sideways with people who wanted to help him. In this whole peculiar story he had never mentioned any effort to take responsibility for his own situation or solve his problem in any way. The landlord’s antipathy, by his account, was entirely inexplicable;  he apparently had chosen twenty-one years of homelessness over getting a job; and now it was the lawyers’ fault that he hadn’t completed the simple process of getting this situation sorted out. “I know it’s aggravating,” I said. “But can’t you push through it? After twenty-one years, you’re so close. If you fill out that paperwork and set things in motion, you’ll be thirty days from being able to go back and live with your mama.” “That’s right,” he said. “After twenty-one years on the streets.” “How long ago did you find out that you could get an inquest and get this over with?” “Two months ago. Maybe three.” “But you still haven’t filled out the paperwork.” “I can’t get no legal aid to help me. I’m going to have to get a real lawyer–the kind you pay–and I aint got the money.” “How old is your mama?” “Eighty, eighty-one. We thought she was going to die a few weeks ago.” “Then what are you waiting for, Roderick?” For the first time since Roderick began his story, there was a pause. “A while back a legal aid asked me a question. He said, ‘How do you know it aint your mama behind all this. How do you know she aint playing both sides?'” At first I thought Roderick was just adding to the list of wrongs that the legal aid lawyers had done him. But Roderick leaned toward me across the table as if to whisper. His eyes were wet. “I believe it is my mama been keeping me from coming home. She been putting it off on the landlord and the po-lice and the judge, but I believe she’s the one don’t want me there. I’ll tell you one thing: every time I ever showed up at her house, the po-lice was right behind me. And I don’t know how else the po-lice could have known if she wasn’t the one calling them.” I knew he was right. He had to be. The peculiarities of his story suddenly made a kind of sense–this “lifetime ban” honored by a new judge and a new landlord twenty-one years after the fact, the arbitrariness of the landlady’s persecution, Roderick’s delays and self-sabotage. It finally occurred to me how little of Roderick’s version of things needed to be true if that last part were true, if indeed his mother didn’t want him near her. Roderick’s whole story, I realized, was another way of telling that story. I wondered what had happened in that home that made this twenty-one-year exile seem necessary–what wrongs done by Roderick, what wrongs done against him. Roderick pushed his chair back and stood up to leave. He shook his head and said to nobody in particular, “This here’s a long way from home.”

The Slugs & Bugs Christmas records are finally in stock, the CDs have been shipped, and most folks have received their pre-orders. This seems like a good time to say, once again, thank you. Decent and faithful people of the Rabbit Room, you collectively pre-ordered over 850 CDs and flat out donated another huge chunk toward the making of A Slugs & Bugs Christmas, and we’ve done the very best we could to make a record worthy of your trust. And If you do like it, and especially if you LOVE it, please tell the world over the next two or three days, since the market for Christmas music won’t last much longer. One of the standout features of A Slugs & Bugs Christmas is the Slugs & Bugs Choir, singing their hearts out on 75% of the songs. The kids were amazing, but you don’t have to take my word for it. With footage from the Rabbit Room’s own Jonathan Rogers and The Proprietor himself, we compiled a short video clip of the choir at work. Ladies and gentlemen, with my most sincere thanks, I give you the Slugs & Bugs Choir! (click HERE to order your copy of  A Slugs and Bugs Christmas)

Today marks the official release of A.S. Peterson’s (that’s Pete Peterson to you) new book, Fiddler’s Green, the follow up to his debut novel, The Fiddler’s Gun, published last year by Rabbit Room Press. The Fiddler’s Gun was a labor of love birthed through the encouragement of family and friends and financed by patrons who partnered with Pete to make it happen. Part adventure, part love story, part historical fiction, it’s the tale of Fin Button: orphan, pirate, and revolutionary. Fiddler’s Green picks up where Gun left off and hits the ground running. The tale that unfolds is epic in scope, sweeping the reader not just to the far reaches of the world, but deep into the brokenness of Fin Button’s heart. I couldn’t put it down. So I offer to you, on the day of its release, the top 10 reasons why you should check out Fiddler’s Green: 10. If you liked The Fiddler’s Gun, you’ll LOVE Fiddler’s Green. I couldn’t have hoped for a better conclusion to the redemptive story of Fin Button. 9. Being that it’s Fiddler’s GREEN, it is the perfect gift for environmentally conscious readers. 7. For all of its swashbuckling, it’s also a genuinely touching love story. I mean, come ON. 6. And it’s an historical novel, so you kind of get brownie points for reading something that might make you smarter. It might, in fact, make you want to say “an historical” instead of “a historical”. 5. Did I mention that it had pirates? 4. …and knights? 3. And because of passages like this:  (upon entering the Strait of Gibraltar . . .) “Though Fin couldn’t see it, she felt the closeness of land around her. From beyond the grey veil she could sense the oppressive weight of two great continents crowding down to the sea, each to kneel and contemplate the nearness of an ancient earthen brother.” 2. Because the sooner people buy this book, the sooner Pete can publish his next one (which, rumor has it, might be an epic western. And that is awesome). And as I said in my official endorsement of the book (printed on the inside flap – which is like a bonus reason to get it), the number 1 reason to check out Fiddler’s Green: “The best of Peterson’s work in The Fiddler’s Gun is matched and tripled in his action-packed sequel, Fiddler’s Green. He proved himself an able writer of a worthy tale in Gun, but as I read Green, I felt like I was witness to the magical moment of a certifiable author being born. There were passages that took my breath away and brought tears to my eyes. Stunning prose, unforgettable characters, a rip-roaring page-turner of an adventure that I couldn’t put down. I thoroughly enjoyed this book! Now, tell us another story Mr. Peterson.” Available now in the Rabbit Room store and wherever great books are sold.

If you’re anything like me (and I’m betting you are) you’ve got a huge list of books that you know you should have read but you haven’t. They’re the sort of books that you hear about (and are threatened with) in school. You might have been forced at far too young an age to read one of them and were bored to tears. You might see these books referenced in other, newer works and feel like you’re on the outside of an inside joke. You might hear them quoted by people who sound far smarter than you and you suspect that if only you’d read a few of those books you’d sound smart, too. This dreaded list of books probably includes names like Tolstoy, Dostoyevsky, Melville, Milton, Dickens, Nabokov, Hugo, Faulkner, and Steinbeck. Over the years the weight of all those pages piles up and becomes so heavy that you fear you’ll never have the strength to turn them all. Let’s be honest, the Classics are scary. They are long, boring, hard to read, and scarcely relevant to the modern world. Right? Earlier this year I began meeting once a week with a couple of friends for the purpose of getting some of those books read–not read in an academic setting but read for fun, read for enjoyment, read because we wanted to rather than because we were made to. We started with Paradise Lost and we’ve gone through a variety of daunting books, finishing up A Tale of Two Cities a few weeks ago. The surprise of reading these classics has been how completely wrong most of our assumptions were. I wasn’t surprised that they were good books, of course they are, that’s why they’re still around. But what has continually surprised me is how contemporary they are. Let’s take Paradise Lost, for instance. It’s an intimidating book, no doubt about it. It’s four hundred years old. It’s big. Its language is dense. It’s epic poetry. But the biggest hurdle for me was that I thought I knew the story–Adam and Eve. We all know what’s going to happen. What was the point of putting in the hours when I already knew the ending? Well, as with all great storytelling, the “what” is only half the fun. The”how” is where the magic happens. And in Paradise Lost the “how” is spectacular. There are passages so visual, so visionary, so cinematic that the pictures Milton paints are like scenes out of a comic book, or out of the Matrix. The action is vivid and epic in ways that can’t rightly be translated visually even in our age of digital cinema (although there’s a movie in the works that I have no hope will be any good.) See for yourself. Read the following excerpt in which, after two days of war, Satan’s ranks assault Heaven with cannons and siege engines and the Lord’s army becomes enraged. The angel legions throw down their weapons in anger, and begin hurling hills and even the mountains themselves at the enemy: Forthwith (behold the excellence, the power Which God hath in his mighty Angels plac’d) Their Arms away they threw, and to the Hills Light as the Lightning glimpse they ran, they flew, From their foundations loos’ning to and fro They pluckt the seated Hills with all their load, Rocks, Waters, Woods, and by the shaggy tops Uplifting bore them in their hands: Amaze, Be sure, and terror seiz’d the rebel Host, When coming towards them so dread they saw The bottom of the Mountains upward turn’d; Till on those cursed Engines triple-row They saw them whelm’d, and all their confidence Under the weight of Mountains buried deep, Themselves invaded next, and on their heads Main Promontories flung, which in the Air Came shadowing, and opprest whole Legions arm’d, Their armor help’d their harm, crush’t in and bruis’d Into their substance pent, which wrought them pain Implacable, and many a dolorous groan, Long struggling underneath, ere they could wind Purest at first, now gross by sinning grown. [Now Satan’s angels start throwing their own hills . . . ] The rest in imitation to like Arms Betook them, and the neighboring Hills uptore; So Hills amid the Air enounter’d Hills Hurl’d to and fro with jaculation dire, That under ground they fought in dismal shade; Infernal noise; War seem’d a civil Game To this uproar; horrid confusion heapt Upon confusion rose: and now all Heav’n Had gone to wrack, with ruin overspread. [Then the Almighty Father looks on all this and has had enough. He calls the Son forth and says. . .] ‘Effulgence of my Glory, Son belov’d, Son in whose face invisible is beheld Visibly, what by Deity I am, And in whose hand what by Decree I do, Second Omnipotence, two days are past, Since Michael and his Powers went forth to tame These disobedient; sore hath been their fight, As likeliest was, when two such Foes met arm’d; [. . . ] War wearied hath perform’d what War can do, And to disorder’d rage let loose the reins, With Mountains as with Weapons arm’d, which makes Wild work in Heav’n, and dangerous to the main. Two days are therefore past, the third is thine; For thee I have ordain’d it, and thus far Have suffer’d, that the Glory may be thine Of ending this great War, since none but Thou Can end it. [. . .] Go then thou Mightiest in thy Father’s might, Ascend my Chariot, guide the rapid Wheels That shake Heav’n’s basis, bring forth all my War, My Bow and Thunder, my Almighty Arms Gird on, and Sword upon thy puissant Thigh; Pursue these sons of Darkness, drive them out From all Heav’n’s bounds into the utter Deep: There let them learn, as likes them, to despise God and Messiah his anointed King.’ [. . .] So said, he o’er his Scepter bowing, rose From the right hand of Glory where he sat, And the third sacred Morn began to shine Dawning through Heav’n. . . . and then it starts to get good. All throughout these scenes of staggering breadth, beauty, and sheer, gosh-wow, eye-popping action (written by a blind man no less) is the gospel—the gospel in ways that you’ve scarcely imagined. A gospel in which Christ is envisioned as Heaven’s greatest champion, charging across the empyrean on a great chariot, the enemy fleeing before him, preferring to cast themselves voluntarily into the gaping abyss rather than risk the fury of the Son. You may have heard that Satan is portrayed as a sympathetic figure but that’s a claim that embraces a vulgar misreading of the story. Milton leaves no doubt that Christ is the hero of creation. So here in a book that predates cinema by three hundred years, is an adventure so grand that nothing I’ve ever seen with my eyes can match it. Another example of how wrong assumptions can be comes from Tolstoy. I haven’t read his novels yet but after reading two of his short stories, The Death of Ivan Ilyich and Master and Man, I’m aching to. What I expected was stuffy Russian society, clunky, boring prose, and perhaps a few insights into the time period. What I got were stories that read as if they’d been written yesterday in America. In fresh, lively, and often hilarious writing, Tolstoy points out the emptiness of consumerism and materialism and corporate ladder-climbing. When the vain Ivan Ilyich decorates his new house, Tolstoy tells us that the result was a house that was made to look somewhat richer than it was, yet never so rich as to be actually so, the result being that in Ivan’s effort to distinguish himself from (and look richer than) his neighbors, he invariably looked exactly like them. Tolstoy could be describing any suburb in America. The story is 150 years old and yet thoroughly contemporary. One more example and I’ll wrap this up. A Tale of Two Cities. Dickens’ style is incredibly cinematic. He turns his environments themselves into actors, infusing them with character and vivid color. The ever-present mob of Paris revolutionaries becomes a raging ocean surging and breaking in the streets. The district of St. Antoine, at the center of the revolution, becomes a bloodthirsty giant described as a madman who’s got his blood up and has gone in search of vengeance. And worst of all, La Guillotine, the dread mistress, insatiable and requiring of Paris her daily wine. Everything is alive. The city. The streets. The grindstone and the Bastille. And amid the seething madness of the Reign of Terror, a small family is caught in the swift current, swept along, and saved by an unlooked for savior. We all know the last lines of the book, but what a journey it is to get there. So, so good. “It is a far, far better thing I do than I have ever done . . .” The thing about a good ending like that is that it’s got to be earned. And maybe that’s what classics do best. They earn their status, and they force us to earn their rewards. Are they hard to read sometimes? Yep, you bet. They make you work for it. But they deliver. The last chapter of A Tale of Two Cities might be one of the most beautiful there is. I’m glad I put in the hours and earned the right to appreciate it. Boring? Stuffy? Irrelevant? Nonsense. Do yourself a favor. Find a friend or two. Pluck one of those musty old books off the shelf, you know the ones I mean, the good ones. Start turning those pages. You might be surprised at what you find.

Hey, folks. I’m two shows into the Behold the Lamb of God tour, and officially in the Christmas spirit, whatever that means. I guess it means I feel a little more like a 10-year-old kid and a little less like a 36-year-old guy who has to fix the sink and the muffler. We’re in Milford, Ohio, and big, fat snow is falling. That reminded me of this poem about winter. Thanks for reading! (From the Bench at the Bend in the Trail) I know that I should cringe When I think of the muddy cold Of winter in Tennessee. But today, with my daughter And her friend prancing In the brown grass yard, Crunching leaves, singing, Rosy cheeked and rowdy In the chill of Autumn, Refusing their sweaters, Drinking the dusk Like a mug of cider, I look to the early dark Of winter with easy joy, Because those are the days We light candles, eat soup And keep the water hot For tea, or coffee, or cocoa With those crunchy little Marshmallows. Those are the days We wrap ourselves In quilts my mother made To watch our favorite movies. Or we dust off the gameboard And look out the windows At the weak light and yearn For past (or future) graces, For dying days like this one, Or days like last April When I felt against my lips How the new leaves On the maples were soft As a baby’s foot. We find some peace In warm pleasures: In the smallness Of our heated house Beneath the vast Mountain of cold air Piled on us clear To the stratosphere, Trying to freeze us In our lamp-lit hollow, Our cleft of calm and longing Where we tend the fire: Memory of Autumn’s embers, Coming song of spring, Summer kicking in the womb. Winter is where hope lies happy.

Today is the official release day for The Rise and Fall of Mount Majestic, by a friend of the Rabbit Room, Jennifer Trafton. A few quick reasons you should buy this book: 1) For starters, that’s a great title. Go ahead. Say it aloud to yourself. There’s rhythm, alliteration, and it evokes a sense of strange, adventurous beauty. You may think I’m overstating my case, but that’s the best way I know to describe how I felt when I first laid eyes on this book. 3) Jennifer Trafton. She came to Hutchmoot 2010 and chopped celery with my wife and Evie Coates in the kitchen. That makes her awesome. 4) The story and the writing are superb. This is the biggest one for me. Lots of books have great covers, great titles, and are written by people who occasionally chop celery, but they aren’t well written or rich in beauty. But Mount Majestic is both of those things. Jennifer’s sentences are playful and deft, and it’s clear that she cares about words. She cares about the sound of them and the aesthetic of a sentence. I read somewhere that Annie Dillard said she wasn’t interested in writing good books, but good sentences, and I think there’s something to that. My favorite writers aren’t just the ones that are telling the truth, but the ones who are telling it beautifully. 5) She makes up names like “Guafnoggle” and dreams up walking mangroves and underground kingdoms, and, yes, poisonous turtles. The story is about Persimmony Smudge’s discovery of a giant asleep under the kingdom, and her desperate struggle to keep it asleep lest it wake and destroy everything. It reads like a modern day fairy tale, so it felt familiar. But right up to the last chapter I had no idea how the book would end. The book is thick with wonder, from the illustrations to the cover and dustjacket, to the moment when Persimmony first sees the sleeping giant. It’s a great story for read-aloud, for your 8-and-up kids, and even for the grownups. I loved it as much as my 12-year-old did. So thanks, Jennifer, for following your nose and writing a moving, memorable tale. Oh! And congratulations, from the Rabbit Room, on your book release. day. Pick up your copy here.

As Christians we are so often asking for what we’ve already received in Christ rather than thanking God and affirming what we’ve been given. This is one of my favorite Major Ian Thomas quotes on the subject. How did they (the children of Israel) get through Jordan? They put their feet in the waters of Jordan and stood still. Why? God told them to! What happened? God divided the waters and they went through on dry land. Why? God said they would! “As ye have received Christ Jesus the Lord, so walk ye in him” (Col 2:6). How are you to walk in Jesus Christ? As you received Him. How did you receive Him? By faith. Was that very difficult? How then are you to walk in Him? By faith! Will that be any more difficult? As you have learned to thank Him for His death, so you thank Him for His life, humbly assuming that He lives in you, as you have already humbly assumed that He died for you. Is that not simple? And how long has it taken you to find this out? Remember, He does not give you strength – He is your strength! He does not give you victory – He is your victory! He cannot be your life without being all you need, for “in him dwells all the fulness of the Godhead bodily, and you are complete in him” (Col 2:9). Then count upon the fact – and stop asking for what you have!

Happy Thanksgiving, Rabbit Roomers. In honor of this fine holiday I give you my newest poem, which started out like John Berryman and became a total rip-off of Billy Collins. So don’t sue me. I wrote it while Pete, Jamie and I drove from Tennessee to Shiloh, my folks’ place in North Florida, where I write these words. I looked and looked for the perfect image to complement the poem, and this was the best I could come up with. Again, don’t sue me. Have a grand feast, and don’t do that thing where everybody has to say something they’re thankful for before you eat. I’ve found that everybody’s happier if you wait to do that after the trypto-whatever kicks in. THANKSGIVING (A CONFESSION AND A PLEA TO THE ALMIGHTY) Be near me, Savage Dreamer, Bright Igniter of Exploding Suns, But not too near. I’d like to live, By your grace, just long enough To taste another perfect steak. And to see my children marry, And, perhaps, to pen a memoir. Great redeemer of my lechery, Bright Dawn of Blessed Hope, Lay waste to every prideful thing, Each black infraction of your law. O Swirling Storm of Holy Anger, Be patient with me. I’m certain I will make a second gluttonous Trip to the festal spread of food. And I might as well admit, O King Omniscient, I plan to make a third. And that will lead to sloth, I know, If only for the afternoon. Awake, O sleeper! But not yet, not yet. I want to dream a dream of light In Heaven’s towering splendor. I long, my Lord, to walk its streets Or better yet, to drive them. I’ve always wanted a motorcycle, A cool one that blats and rumbles Like a herd of flaming zebras. I could totally impress the ladies With my holy rolling zebra steed, But only by your perfect pleasure, Ruler of the angel armies, blaster Of the horn of strength, would I ride The golden highways awesomely. O Wisdom of the Ages, speak! Sing to me of secret knowledge Open wide the gates of truth, And let me learn it, by your grace, Through the medium of television– Smartly written situational comedy, Perhaps, or an epic space opera. Let me taste the honey of your word, My beloved savior. Seriously. Save me From my wit, my words, my songs, My sin, my bad poems, my vanity, My every single human impulse, Except the ones I like and am able To justify using my corruptible Reason, my imperfect understanding, And my belief in your inexhaustible Forgiveness. When I awake, saintly, I will consume a dish of pumpkin pie. And, as I politely swallow a belch, I will lean my heart on yours, Almighty, To whom, alone, is due thanksgiving.

I came fully awake very early this morning, and opened my eyes to a window full of sheer crimson light. One of those rare, red mornings that come sometimes in autumn had visited the mountains. I wonder if beauty can be so great that it wakes you even from physical sleep, because I was exhausted. But there came that light, and up went my eyes. That dawn was a face pressed against my panes, staring at me until I woke to stare back. I sat up then, propped on pillows to watch the light draw back and laugh itself into pink, and then the gold of new day. And as I watched, the words from a story I had read just the night before spoke themselves over and over in my head: With his one good foot, the man nudges Josip, pushing him gently, making him turn to face the opposite wall. The bar of lig ht is climbing higher now. “Do you see?” Josip shakes his head. “Surely you see,” says the man. “I see the light, but the walls imprison it.” “The light has entered the prison. Nothing can keep it out.” “If there is no window, the light cannot enter.” “If there is no window, the light enters within you.” The novel in this case is Island of the World, by Michael O’Brien. I was familiar with O’Brien through his nonfiction book, A Landscape with Dragons. I sped through that one; a fascinating look at the spiritual and imaginative symbols that fill fairy tales and myth throughout the ages, and come to us in modern times through fantastical literature. (I highly recommend it, though disagree with O’Brien’s conclusions about A Wrinkle in Time.) So full of insight was that book into the workings of imagination, into the way we crave beauty and battle in story, I knew I would probably enjoy his fiction. When a bookish friend urgently pressed this 800-page novel into my hands last week, I dove right in. Imagine that a medieval mystic poet wrote a modern novel with communist Yugoslavia as his setting and a little boy as his hero.  That will get you the feel of this tale. The story opens in the boyhood of Josip Lasta, a Croatian boy oblivious to the turmoil enveloping his country at the end of WWII because he is so immersed in a joyous childhood in the remote mountain village of Rajska Polja, (translation; “the fields of heaven”). His life is simple; his home just three rooms, but he is rich in all the things that count. Taught literature and love by his schoolteacher father, adored by his warm-hearted, bread-baking “Mamica,” Josip is raised in the tight, friendly circle of his village and schooled in a living faith by the hearty Franciscan priest, Fra Anto. I’m not giving anything away when I say the first hundred pages of this book fool you with their joy. You know tragedy is coming, it’s hinted at in the first chapters. But the strong, homey beauty of family and field and tradition draws you into an innocence as sweet and blind as Josip’s. You dwell in that world with him as he discovers the great beauty of the earth, and senses the Love that beats behind it. You watch as light forms a land of its own at the center of Josip’s soul, founds a refuge right in his heart, and you, the reader, feel it to be the heartbeat of the story. Then the world breaks apart. Josip’s life is shattered and he is exiled, not just from his home, but from that place of joy in his deepest heart. And that’s where the journey begins. From the point of tragedy on, the novel moves quickly through Josip’s life as he becomes a mathematician, a professor, and then a “cultural rebel” under Tito’s reign. From a literary point of view, I found the pace of the novel swift and smooth; it was that rare book where I barely noticed the passing of a hundred pages. The history explained, and the evocation of the culture and mindset of that part of the world is superb. I have always maintained that stories are the best way to learn history, and if you are curious about the Balkans, you should read this for pure education. Yet the glory of this book is not in its excellent writing, or detailed research. The gift of this story lies in its unblinking portrayal of human brutality as it is juxtaposed with the light, the poetry, the Love that still bubbles up in the heart of a wounded boy and calls him relentlessly home. I warn you, this is a book that might cause embarrassment if read in public places. It has greatly funny moments; I sat in a coffee shop yesterday trying hard not to laugh straight out loud at the novel’s conversation between a Croatian Catholic and a Pentecostal from Harlem as they compare notes and merrily call each other heretics. But I have also cried at this book, teared up in ridiculously public places more often than with almost any other novel I have read. The tears aren’t surface either; whatever hurt or struggle you bear, this story will touch it. This book will not spare you as a reader (and if you are squeamish about violence, be warned that it is squirm-worthy. Not gratuitously graphic, but definitely matter of fact.) Josip’s life, the brutality that comes upon him unawares, his fight to escape not only evil men, but the “heart of Cain,” in himself, describes the battle in which I think we all are daily locked. But it also describes the journey and offers the affirmation that through pain and despair, we are all, truly, walking toward a world remade by Love. A world beyond this, and yet one growing up in the innermost regions of our souls. In this way, I find the story to be a mystic’s work, because it is a story that affirms the reality of the spiritual world as it shapes and transforms the events of the physical. Life and death, hope or pain, life may deal these things to us in circumstance, but it is the love working within us that changes what is marred and dark into grace. Josip’s story on the outside is an epic, Homeric journey across oceans and mountains, but the journey of his soul is no less the point and gift of the story. Josip must make his way back to the country within himself where Light enters in, even when there is no window. For me, to read this book, was to walk a little better in my own odyssey of the soul. In so many ways, this book is about the beauty that is always reaching out, always growing up within, beckoning us back, and sometimes that call comes in the form of a story. Island of the World was just such a gift to me. Josip turns and faces the wide open doors. “I do not know if I have the strength to enter.” “You do not need strength. You need the heart of a child. See, one comes to you now. He will show you the way.” Though the old man still has not opened his eyes, he points, and there at the end of his fingers, standing a few paces away, is a twelve-year-old-boy in white shirt and shorts, with sandals on his feet. When Josip meets his eyes, the boy smiles and extends his hand. Step by step, the child leads him upward toward the entrance, pulling gently . . .  Josip steps forward, but in that step he dies. Pitching headlong, he falls and falls and falls–into terror and despair. Then, the little hand pulls him up. Now he is standing again and going forward and at last he enters the house of God, the joy of his youth.

In the last decade or so, I’ve read several books on the subject of art. I can count on one hand the number that I would call essential. The War of Art by Stephen Pressfield is one such book. If you’re unfamiliar, you should immediately read Ron Block’s post on the book from two years ago here, and you can also purchase the book here. Now on to my point. I’ve hit the wall lately. Projects sit in digital folders, collecting cyber cobwebs if such things exist. Some ideas have come and gone. Excitement wanes over time for what made me feel so passionate just a few months ago. I’m not sure what it is exactly. Pressfield does, however. He calls it The Resistance. Anything and everything that works against you to keep you from creating what it is you’re called to do — be it apathy, Satan, last night’s lasagna — it’s all placed in the same greater category. The Resistance. One of Pressfield’s quick thoughts in the book hit me squarely on the vocational jaw recently and I believe it worth sharing. He writes: A pro views her work as craft, not art. Not because she believes art is devoid of a mystical dimension. On the contrary. She understands that all creative endeavor is holy, but she doesn’t dwell on it. She knows if she thinks about that too much, it will paralyze her. So she concentrates on technique. The professional masters how, and leaves what and why to the gods. Like Somerset Maugham she doesn’t wait for inspiration, she acts in the anticipation of its apparition. The professional is acutely aware of the intangibles that go into inspiration. Out of repsect for them, she lets them work. She grants them their sphere while she concentrates on hers. The sign of the amateur is overglorification of and preoccupation with the mystery. The professional shuts up. She doesn’t talk about it. She does her work.

Seeing my life as a story is one thing, seeing myself as the central hero another. I am helped by the thought of examining my life as if it were a story and that I ought to make of myself a good character. I know there are a few different books out with that as a central premise and (though I haven’t yet read any of them) I benefit from hearing people refer to them –especially to that central idea. I am a character in a story. I am on a journey. I may or may not have a guitar slung on my back as I walk down the railroad tracks smoking a cigarette while squinting. The problems often come in for me when I view myself, not as inconsequential in the big story, but as far too central. Sometimes it’s not even that I think I’m central in a good way, but that I think that my failings will derail the whole story –that I am the irredeemable Gollum, wrecking everything. It’s an arrogant presumption for me to think that I know either what will come of my little part in the bigger story, or that I can really know what it is. When post-moderns rail against certainty, I am often flummoxed by what they are saying and implying (especially about the alleged ineptitude of God). But in the case of a humble uncertainty about how our life fits into the grand, sovereign design of God throughout the ages, a certain uncertainty is demanded of us. The problem with pretending to be the director, or author, or a heroic central character, is that we are applying for a job which has already been filled. God is the author and the hero. Unsure of all the implications or not, we do know our place. If we are in Christ, there’s absolutely no doubt about our position, our relationship, our adoption, our justification, our standing before the Father. When the Accuser comes, throwing stones as his name demands, his accusations toward us hit the mark with great precision. The prosecution proceeds. Yes, yes, that is true about what I’ve done. He’s right. Things are looking bad. But when he is faced with the certain work of Christ on our behalf, and the resultant standing we have in Christ’s righteousness, he is unable to make a winning case. We are acquitted based on the work of Christ alone. In the great exchange, Christ receives our sin, bearing it on the cross, and we receive his righteousness, a free gift we receive by grace through faith. We receive this not for our stellar performance in the story of our life, but because he loved helpless rebels who couldn’t rise from the dead. Lazarus, you are officially dead. Can’t you do something about it? Um, no. We needed a miracle. We needed the deeper magic. “Be alive!” The Gospel is the central plot point, the hinge on which the whole tale turns. And what a turning! I recount the Gospel because it underscores the central roles in The Story. There’s no question of us being the Main Character, or Author. The worldwide casting calls for those jobs are a presumptive farce. But the calls go out all the time. We are offered regular remedies to our most basic problems which are so corrupt as to make snake oil seem like the fountain of youth. There isn’t salvation anywhere but in Jesus. No talk-show host with new age self-referential remedies on TV, or economic elixirs on radio, can cure what deeply ails us. Most often, the charmers are calling on us to look within, to view ourselves as the answer to our distress. They even speak out against the other people’s version of seeking salvation from within and argue that theirs is the true way to obtain your own salvation. Right and left-wing humanism serve the same god. Mirror, mirror on the wall. So what about my story? What about The Story? Same Author. Same Hero. It’s not me, or you. If we don’t see ourselves as derivative characters, as inventions of the Author, then we are on a collision course with needless confusions (not to mention rebellion). More presumptuous is the notion that we are Author-itative in any kind of grand sense. We write, but it’s a subcontracted job. It feels really important to me to make that distinction. It feels to me like it’s a subtle point, but a point of great importance. It’s a small hook from which hangs a heavy cloak. “God is sovereign, man is responsible.” Walter Staton said that and the order of the coupling is important. Have you ever been listening to “testimonies” and heard people talk about their salvation experience and God barely comes into it, except as kind of a side-character? I once heard (at a baptism!) a person tell her story of salvation by telling about all her struggles in life, but always returning to the refrain, “But God always knew I was a good person.” Her tale was one of personal goodness and near-sinlessness throughout life, which God knew all along, and, like an encouraging buddy, always saw her for what she really was. A hero. No need for a change of heart. No new birth. No work of Christ. No bad news (beyond “other people” causing her problems). Just God’s stamp of approval on her immaculate life. I wanted to barf. Mirror, mirror on the wall. If God is reduced to the role of midget league cheerleader in your life, it’s not Christianity you’re embracing. It’s a Christian-languaged horror story of self-actualized salvation. The truth is so much better! The Gospel frees us from our need to be needed. Lest I fall to the charge of over-simplifying (to which I’m admittedly open), let me add this. I do think that, in some sense at least, there are heroes among mankind. Jeffrey Overstreet says that art is not something that you make, but a conclusion reached by others. I get what he’s driving at. It’s the same thrust I want to make here. The title “hero” is not something we can really assign ourselves. It’s a conclusion that will or will not be reached by others. The audience will see and know. Of course the audience that matters most is also the author of the tale, who is not at all surprised by how your story turns out. He is, of course, the central hero as well. His work is what makes you a new kind of human. So we must get over ourselves, come to the end of ourselves, and repent of our self-inclined madness. We win by losing, triumph by surrender, become heroes –if we ever are– by being rescued. If we shatter the self-reflecting mirror on our walls, perhaps, in the fallen shards, we’ll see at last a thousand reflections of heaven.

I’m up to my neck in a Jeremiah study this fall. There’s a Bible study in Kentucky of which I am an honorary, if distant, member. When I lived in Nashville, I drove up once a week to pore over this or that book in the Old Testament with these people, and six years later, I’ve kept at least loosely up as they’ve plowed through the major prophets. The understanding these long-distance studies have opened in my heart cannot be measured. Take, for instance, the spring of Isaiah One blustery spring Saturday about three years ago, my dear friend (the teacher) came over during one of my Kentucky visits just so I could spill my hundred and three questions about our current Isaiah study. Rain light poured in a bay window over the table where we sat with coffee, Bibles open, notebooks spread, pens in hand. For three hours–three hours, mind you–we talked our way through Isaiah. At the end of it, I remember sitting back in my spindle-legged chair, that pure, grey light in my eyes and a light just as serene in my spirit. Finally, that day, I grasped that God’s judgment is part of his love I saw mercy in those epic books of judgment. I never thought I would. My walk with God has often been marred by my fear of him. Not a holy reverence, but a cringing, slave-like terror that I would never be enough to please the God I serve. For a while, this fear so shaped my eyes I could barely open the Bible without finding some new thing to worry about, some new evidence of my own perpetual inadequacy and God’s resulting frown. I came to my quiet time one day, Bible in hand, and told God I really didn’t want to open it. I was not strong enough, I felt, for the challenge of Scripture. Obviously, I failed to grasp whatever it was that set everyone else rejoicing. But I did pray. I begged to know God’s love and in the silence that followed, God spoke so clearly in my heart it startled me. I must open my Bible. He could, he said, hold me safe through this fear, teach me the truth about himself. But only if I would engage again. Only if I would open that Bible in my hands, plunge into the battle and let him fight for me. I sighed and resigned myself to my task. My study of Isaiah began in sheer obedience. I remember this now as I delve into Jeremiah, because each day I find myself awed. I keep on finding mercy, right there in the judgment. Mercy so epic in story and scope, my soul is wide with it, and my faith finally has air to breathe. The thing I ached to know and am finally touching as I study the prophets is simply God’s grace. But this is key, I have realized that grace has many faces. There is the tender, father-hearted face. I’ve seen this clear as water in Jeremiah. This is the face that weeps when his children go astray, crying out for the lost ones to return. There is the strong, kingly face of kindly rule. The benevolent Master offering rain and gladness and wine and feasts if his people will only acknowledge his name. There is the Lover who yearns over the wife of his youth, lamenting her beauty, her lost faith. But when those faces of goodness fail to move the hearts of a dark-spirited people, a new face appears. There is the face of the Maker, the keeper of all power who wields lightning and wind and forms the mountains. There is the frown of the holy-hearted Spirit who cannot bear to see his people turn from goodness to worship idols and destroy their children. And there is the final face of judgment, the stern, stone-set gaze that brings pain on the children he made. But every one of those faces is mercy. Every one of those faces is rooted in love, begun and ended in grace. What would happen if God didn’t judge his people? What if he left them to go about their merry, idolatrous way and said not a thing? What if God left me to the vagaries of my own sinful self? Judgment is what happens when tenderness and tears are not enough. If we will not have the personal God, the Lover, then we shall be left with the elemental God, the Maker of the the mighty heavens and the pathless earth. And every force of his holy, creative power will run through us as a purging fire. But the fire, the pain, is mercy. It is destruction with the goal of redemption. Over and over throughout the prophets, God states the goal of his judgment: a people who no longer need law or rod because goodness is etched on their very hearts, formed in their very souls. The goal of judgment is annihilation only of our sin. We, ourselves, come through cleansed. We may be broken apart, but it is only so that the dirt drops off and God can craft us beautiful again. The miracle is that God sticks around to see it through. Any other god would just zap the sinful lot of us and be done. To bring nations and peoples through the process of a judgment that leads to full redemption is a true, everlasting love. It is a faithful love that is not willing to leave us in sin, nor finish us in anger. Love is the only force I know that works throughout every change to bring about the goodness, restore the beauty of the beloved. I used to be afraid of the prophets in all their bluster. Now, I know, they are just expressing the storm of God’s grand and many-faced mercy.

“God spoke to me this morning.” I looked up at Philip with a little grin. I always save my best thoughts for those mellow moments towards the end of the meal, when there’s a little wine left in the glasses and the dishes in the sink have yet to be thought of and Caspian, having abandoned all hope of receiving anything from the table, has laid his head down on Philip’s foot with a sigh that is not so much resignation as the slackening of a campaign. “He did?” Philip’s face was all animated interest in the soft glow of candlelight and he laid down his fork. “In the Bible?” “No—it was in a poem.” I paused and lifted my eyebrows significantly. “Is that so?” He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms with a satisfied smile. “And do I get to hear it?” That was all I was waiting for, and he knew it. I dashed into the kitchen where my journal sat waiting on the counter and dashed back again, as if afraid that the enchanted moment of communion would pass if the twilight deepened any more outside or the candles on the table burned a bit lower. I read it out loud to him there in the waning, flickering light and could feel the joy throbbing in my voice, unabated since that morning’s first perusal of Yeats’ The Two Trees. When I was done Philip silently reached for my journal which I had laid on the table between us and read it slowly to himself. When he finally looked up at me his face bore a reflection of my own joy, and a sympathy with what I had seen buried like a horde of fairie gold within the exquisite lines. THE TWO TREES by: William Butler Yeats (1865-1939) BELOVED, gaze in thine own heart, The holy tree is growing there; From joy the holy branches start And all the trembling flowers they bear. The changing colours of its fruit Have dowered the stars with merry light; The surety of its hidden root Has planted quiet in the night; The shaking of its leafy head Has given the waves their melody, And made my lips and music wed, Murmuring a wizard song for thee. There the Loves a circle go, The flaming circle of our days, Gyring, spiring to and fro In those great ignorant leafy ways; Remembering all that shaken hair And how the wingèd sandals dart, Thine eyes grow full of tender care: Beloved, gaze in thine own heart. Gaze no more in the bitter glass The demons, with their subtle guile, Lift up before us when they pass, Or only gaze a little while; For there a fatal image grows That the stormy night receives, Roots half hidden under snows, Broken boughs and blackened leaves. For all things turn to barrenness In the dim glass the demons hold, The glass of outer weariness, Made when God slept in times of old. There, through the broken branches, go The ravens of unresting thought; Flying, crying, to and fro, Cruel claw and hungry throat, Or else they stand and sniff the wind, And shake their ragged wings; alas! Thy tender eyes grow all unkind: Gaze no more in the bitter glass. While I make no pretense to literary criticism, or to the analysis of Yeats’ belief system, I think it’s pretty safe to assume that the two trees in the poem stand for the trees found in the original Eden: the Tree of Life and the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. And the reality which they image is one that has been with us in all its sorrow and bliss since the Fall: that of man’s choice. We chose that latter tree under the delusion of a lie and a warped perception of what assures freedom and joy and life and peace. And with it we got all the bitter barrenness of hell itself. The glass, or mirror, the demons hold is not so much a falsehood as it is a mockery. “Look what you got for all your pains: an agony of death-in-life and a cheap imitation of life-in-death!” One fatal choice and the whole beauty of the created order was shaken, shattered. And might it not be so that every time a similar choice is made, every time the fatal image is taken for the real and the lie is plucked and swallowed that the Fall happens all over again, essentially if not actually? The affair in the Garden was not about keeping rules or breaking them so much as choosing the Desire of our souls or choosing His counterfeit. At the heart of this poem lies that ancient choice, as terrible today as it was when God first granted it in the Garden: heaven or hell? Life or death? Not only for all eternity but for this very moment snared in time. “Gaze on this,” the poet pleads, “not on that.” Love and long for—in other words, submit to and believe—the ecstasy of the Life offered you. Take faith to turn from the ruin of your own heart and fix your eyes on something that is truer than all the sorrow of the world put together. It has been said that for every look at self we must take ten looks at Christ. I find that truth expressed with such magnificent beauty in this poem. For while the accepted interpretation—and for all I know, the original intent—of these lines may uphold an inward search for goodness apart from Christ, as a Christian I take great delight in the freedom I have to celebrate the gleaming flashes of truth that glitter and sparkle with such inexorable joy in the world around me. We’re miners, really, we servants of the true King, plunging through a darkened world in enemy territory to retrieve the scattered bits of Eden that were made to flame in the light of the sun. For though far-flung and often couched amid the hard crust of error and inaccuracy, they are there all the same. As C. S. Lewis recounted in Surprised by Joy, longings that disclose eternal realities may be mediated to us by ‘the water-colour world of Morris, the leafy recesses of Malory, the twilight of Yeats…’ That is just the wonder of poetry—or of anything beautiful, for that matter. It bears the opportunity of communicating spiritual truth, these remnants of a lost paradise with which our tired earth is endowed like veins of living gold, and give us courage to hope in a Redemptive Plan that is steadily, patiently, unrelentingly working to restore all things to their original purpose. For what does the ‘holy tree’ represent if not Holy Desire: indeed, the Life from which all living springs? As a believer I have the blessed opportunity to gaze into my own heart and see Jesus Christ. To find the mad paradox of His beauty and light and goodness and truth breaking irresistibly through the many chinks and cracks of this very flawed human vessel. To call myself a saint, of all things, and to laugh at the gorgeous joke of it and to know that it’s the realest thing about me. That unspeakable realness jars me time and again from morbid introspection and self-centered cynicism. It reminds me that while ‘those who fain would serve Him best are conscious most of wrong within,’ the consciousness of our very weakness is what ultimately propels us towards Him with a force that all the ‘natural virtues’ in the world together could never muster. And it silences those ‘ravens of unresting thought,’ those ceaseless doubts and questions and inward deliberations, as if by some potent charm. When the home of our thoughts shifts from ‘who am I?’ to ‘Who is He?’ I believe we begin to fathom the miracle of ‘Christ in us, the hope of glory’. When my sister was in art school, one of her assignments was to paint a self portrait that would be subjected to a peer review. With characteristic unconventionality, and in one of the bravest moves she could make as an artist, she produced a work that was different than anyone else’s in the class. Dividing her face down the middle, she painted one half as her normal self: short red hair, a mouth curving in what could be mischief or pensiveness, a wide-eyed intentness to the gaze. The mirror image had many of the same distinguishing features, but the hair was long and soft like something you’d see in Rossetti, and the face was even more beautiful than my beautiful sister can’t help being. But the most striking thing about it was the nimbus of gold radiating from that half of the head, recalling the treatment of Orthodox iconography. “So, you think you’re a saint?” jeered her classmates. But my sister had made her quiet statement. And though she has gone on to produce works of stunning technical mastery and classical realism, that painting remains one of my favorites to this day. It’s the majestic sweep of the gospel, the essence of Romans 6, 7 and 8 encapsulated in one visual experience. The truth is that anyone in Christ is a brand new creation: ‘the old has gone; the new has come’. Throughout the Bible, God’s people are likened to thriving trees and fruitful gardens, springing with a Life that is bigger than they are. He calls us ‘trees of righteousness, the planting of the Lord’; He promises that if we abide in Him we’ll bear fruit that remains. I just love that image of His life in me: an indefatigably green growing thing that even my obtuseness, my failures and sins, cannot destroy. Flowers and their fruit borne of no effort but that of yielding and birds of joy singing and darting among the branches. And the flaming circle of immortality resting like a nimbus over my head.