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Jonathan Rogers’ The Charlatan’s Boy will be available on October 5, but you don’t have to wait that long! We’re officially accepting pre-orders starting right now, and when you buy from the Rabbit Room store (update: links are now working again!), each pre-order will be signed by Mr. Rogers himself (no, not that Mr. Rogers).Believe me when I tell you that this is a book you want to read. Jonathan’s really outdone himself here and I can’t wait for the world to get their hands on it. To whet your appetite, here’s a sneak peek. Read the first chapter, meet Grady and Floyd, and then check out the video at the end. Also, check out the Feechie Film Festival at Jonathan-Rogers.com. Most of the movies there were made by Rabbit Roomers. “The unusual settings and characters keep the surprises coming, while Rogers’s lovely descriptions and distinctive voice keep the pages turning. Faith fiction readers of all ages should enjoy this…” —Publishers Weekly “Jonathan Rogers knows how to tell a story. He’ll take you to fantastic lands that somehow still feel close to home and keep you happily guessing until the end. His fantasy tales ring of folklore and seem to spring up out of history like old willows in an earthy bog. Dr. Rogers never fails to serve up uncanny adventures that, like some impossibly nutritious brownies, are ridiculously tasty and deeply fulfilling.” —Wayne Thomas Batson, best-selling author of The Door Within Trilogy “Jonathan Rogers has created a new kind of story—part fantasy, part southern fiction. It’s sad and funny and heartwarming. Imagine a southern version of a C. S. Lewis story or a Christian version of a Mark Twain tale. Imagine a world where dragons are alligators, the American South is an island kingdom of cowboys and swamp dwellers, and ugliness, it turns out, is profoundly beautiful. Jonathan Rogers, a Georgia boy with a PhD, a strong faith, and a healthy imagination, gives us a timeless story no one else could have written. I loved it.” —Andrew Peterson, The Proprietor The Charlatan’s Boy Chapter One I don’t remember one thing about the day I was born. It hasn’t been for lack of trying either. I’ve set for hours trying to go back as far as I could, but the earliest thing I remember is riding in the back of Floyd’s wagon and looking at myself in a looking glass. I’ve run across folks claim they know everything about their birthday—where it happened, who they was with, what day it was. But if you really press them on it, turns out they don’t remember no more about it than I do. They only know what somebody told them. I don’t care who you are—when it comes to knowing where you come from, you got to take somebody else’s word for it. That’s where things has always got ticklish for me. I only know one man who might be able to tell me where I come from, and that man is a liar and a fraud. Every time I asked Floyd how he got me, he give me a different story. One time he told me he found me squawling under a palmetto bush and took pity on me. That didn’t seem likely since I never known Floyd to take pity on me or anybody else. Another time he said he bought me from a circus man who was getting out of the business and selling off his animals. Said he mistook me for a monkey and the circus man was gone before he realized he was tricked. Which might explain how he got me, but it still don’t explain why he kept me, does it? A couple of times Floyd told me my real mama give me to him because I was too ugly to keep. I truly am one of the ugliest fellers you’re liable to meet. I’m short and wiry—sort of monkeyish, I reckon. I got one blue eye and one green, and they’re closer together than most folks find pleasing. Instead of having two eyebrows, I got one long one that don’t know where to stop. My ears is too little, but the way they stick straight out from my head makes them look too big. And my chin is so bashful it just sort of hides all day in the shade of my bottom lip. You can’t even tell where my goozle stops and my chin begins if you don’t look close. If you ever seen the feechiefolks in one of them puppet shows, you know about what I look like. If you want to know the truth, I’m pretty sure that’s why Floyd kept me. Back when villagers still believed in feechiefolks—which wasn’t that long ago—Floyd made his living by giving lectures about feechies and charging a copper for a look at a genuine, real-live he-feechie. Which was me. He dressed me up in muskrat and possum hides and slopped gray mud all over me the way feechiefolks are said to do, and we went from village to village in that crickety wagon of his, from one end of Corenwald to the other. When we come to the edge of a town, Floyd stopped the horse so I could get in my box, and he shut me in. It was a wooden crate with air holes drilled in the top. Floyd used to keep his dancing bear in it before I come along, so it was pretty roomish for a scrawny feller like me. Floyd painted the outside with a picture of a blackwater swamp with alligators and craney crows and those swell-bottom cypress trees with graybeard moss hanging down so spooky and lonesome. And words painted all over it: PERFESSER FLOYD PRESENTS: THE WILD MAN OF THE FEECHIEFEN SWAMP! SEE A GENUINE HE-FEECHIE ALIVE AND IN THE FLESH! AMAZING! ASTONISHING! YOU’VE NEVER SEEN ANYONE LIKE HIM! There I’d sit while we rode that last mile or so into the village. Sometimes it was so hot the sweat made the mud run down my face and into my eyes, but it was peaceful in there, with the wagon creaking along and little sticks of sunlight poking through the air holes while bugs and little bits of dust floated in the brightness. Rolling into one of the villages in my box, I felt like I was worth something. Folks in that village was going to give Floyd a copper coin for the pleasure of looking at me. I wasn’t just an ugly little boy with no mama or daddy. I was “AMAZING! ASTONISHING!” I was something them folks hadn’t ever seen before. When the wagon squeaked to a stop, Floyd set up a footbox like a little stage and started his patter. “Laaadies and geeentermen!” he hollered, sort of stretching it out like he was growling it. “Laaadies and geeeentermen! My name is Perfesser Floyd Wendellson, collector of the rare and the beautiful, and the world’s foremost authority on feechie life and habits!” My box had a knothole in the side panel, and when I hunkered down, I could see the villagers gathering around the wagon. Things get quiet in the villages, so the commotion of a stranger pulling up in a wagon and hollering about feechiefolks fetched a crowd right off. And once the villagers was in earshot, they wasn’t going anywhere. You never seen anybody could hold a crowd like Floyd. He cut a fine figure in his shiny coat and squared-off hat—so tall and straight. His black mustaches wagged when he talked, and even folks who didn’t believe a word he said couldn’t wait to see what he was going to say next. I knowed Floyd’s patter by heart. He rearranged the pieces pretty freely, stretching it out if folks was slow to gather, or leaving parts out if folks seemed restless, but the main points of the speechifying was the same every time, and they was pretty simple: First, Floyd was the bravest adventurer ever to pole a flatboat and the only civilized man ever to come out of the Feechiefen Swamp alive. Second, for one night and one night only, Floyd was giving a lecture in the village hall—a lively report of his travels with a full account of the habits and customs of the feechiefolks, the wild and mysterious native inhabitants of the Feechiefen. Third, Floyd’s lecture would include the displayment of a he-feechie he had brought back from the swamp, the only genuine feechie to be found in the civilized world. Fourth, everybody in the village was invited to come listen to Floyd’s lecture for the small price of one copper coin per person. Sometimes Floyd started in on all the other so-called feechie authorities—how they’d just find a ugly boy, diaper him in muskrat pelts, slobber him with mud, and call him a feechie. How them other feechie experts was all just charlatans and frauds and only Floyd had the real thing. It took some gumption to tell such a barefaced lie as that. There aint a lot to admire about Floyd, but the man does have gumption. Sitting in that box and listening to Floyd run on about what a fine specimen of feechiehood I was, can you blame me for believing it myself? “Wild Man of the Feechiefen Swamp” is a heap better than “ugly boy whose mama didn’t want him.” When it comes to Floyd’s tales, you got to pick and choose what to believe anyway; I figured I might as well believe the tales I liked the best. And I never believed them feechie tales more than in the five minutes just before the box flung open. By the time Floyd got to my cue, I was about to bust I felt so feechiefied. “He’s really quite harmless”—that was my cue. When Floyd worked them words into his patter, I commenced to yowling like a panther and growling like a bear and howling like a wolf, thumping around in my box and putting up such a ruckus as you never heard in your life. I kept it up until Floyd whapped on my box a few times with his cane. It didn’t take much of that business to get the crowd whipped up pretty good. I know Floyd and me was supposed to be the show, but the crowd made a pretty good show their own selves, and I liked nothing better than watching it through my knothole. A few younguns run off hollering; the rest found a grownup to hide behind. They looked like a nation of popeyed squirrels, peeping out from a forest of trouser legs and ladies’ skirts. Some of the womenfolks raised up their eyebrows and clutched handkerchiefs to their chins, and some of them glowered at Floyd for bringing such a dangerous critter into the midst of their peaceful village. The menfolks mostly kept a brave face, putting on smirks as if to show they didn’t believe Floyd had a feechie in that box. But behind most of the smirks you could see a little doubt. Floyd made like he was as surprised by the commotion as anybody—like this wasn’t the same routine we done five or six times a week as far back as I could remember. He stammered and acted flusterated, like he was throwed off and was struggling to get his wagon back on the path. Really he was just giving the smart alecks in the crowd a chance to pitch in. There was always at least two or three of them fellers around. “What’s the matter, stranger? Cat got your tongue?” “I used to believe in feechies too, Perfesser. When I was a baby!” “How about a unicorn, Perfesser? If you got a unicorn, I’d gladly pay a copper to see it.” “Maybe you should take your feechie show to the next village. This village aint got enough idiots to make a suitable audience.” The hecklers figured they was being original and clever. They figured they had the upper hold on Floyd because they was taking him off his script. They never understood that they was the script. No smart aleck ever said anything Floyd hadn’t already heard a hundred times before. And he might have played like he was flummoxed, but Floyd always had both hands on the reins. He picked out whichever heckler looked to have the most gumption and the least back-down, and he give him a look of astonishment, like he couldn’t believe somebody would doubt his word. Then he raised a trembling finger to point at him. “You, sir,” he said, and he sort of nickered it like a horse—“Youhoo-hoo-hoo, sir”—like his feelings was so hurt he couldn’t talk right. “Do you suggest that I am a fraud and a liar?” The smart aleck jutted out his chin, stood up a little straighter, and said, “You said it yourself, stranger, not me.” It played out that way every time. You’d have thought every smart aleck in every village in Corenwald had studied Floyd’s script. Floyd had him where he wanted him. “Am I to understand, sir, that you don’t believe there is a living, breathing he-feechie in this box?” “Sounds like you understand about right.” By now the other villagers was egging on the smart aleck, and he was puffed up like a rooster. I couldn’t help feeling sorry for a feller who was about to get so completely and utterly used up. Floyd could put this quiver in his voice like he was working hard to control his feelings. “Then perhaps, sir, you would like to step up here and see for yourself.” Well, what’s a feller going to do? Even if he was starting to feel balky and jubous about the whole thing, he couldn’t back down in front of the other villagers. So he made his way to the front, and Floyd give him a smart-alecky bow and swoop and made room for him on the footbox. Floyd stood there with his hand on the lid of the box for a good long while to give everybody some time to think about what might happen next, and the quiet and the waiting felt just like the minute before a storm cuts loose. I hunkered there waiting for the first crack of daylight at the opening of the box lid, and when it come, it was a whole new rumpus. I sprung out like some kind of wildcat and scrabbled up onto the smart aleck’s head. He was so discombobulated, he didn’t know what to do, and I perched there while he staggered around and waved his arms, and I beat my chest and hollered, “Ooooliee, ooooliee, ooooliee!” Meanwhile, the crowd was hollering and scattering and giving me plenty of room to cut whatever capers I might want to cut. Younguns was crying and dogs was barking and the grownups was doing a poor job of hiding their alarm. I yodeled some more and did a couple of back-over flips and scrabbled up a tree, and there I crouched where the crowd could get a good look at me. And when I was in the tree, and the villagers was on the ground, and there was a safe-ish distance between us, I could see the fear and panic melt into something more like fascination. And didn’t I feel interesting! About that time, Floyd marched over to the tree and started his palaver again, and it was like a spell was broken. “I’m terribly sorry, ladies and gentermen. He’s usually quite docile, I assure you. If you’ll give him some room…” Then he talked to me, real gentle, the way a good horseman talks to his horse. “Grado, Grado…” Grado was my stage name. My real name is Grady. If I had a last name, Floyd never told me what it was. “Grado,” he said, “it’s all right. Nobody is going to hurt you. Come to Perfesser. Come back to your box.” I jumped down, and everybody sort of gasped and drew back, but Floyd grabbed hold of my arm and walked me back to my box and shut me in it. That’s how we fetched folks for Floyd’s lectures. And we fetched them too. Some nights it seemed like every man, woman, and child in a village paid their copper to hear Floyd talk some more and to get another look at me. Floyd’s lectures was entertaining enough—one lie after another about how he poled a flatboat across the Feechiefen and how the feechiefolks had welcomed him into their tribe and initiated him into their mysteries. Some of that foolishness Floyd got from old nursery stories, but most of it he just made up. He’d change things from night to night, just to keep it interesting I reckon. Some nights he said feechies had magical disappearing powers, and some nights he said feechies was just so skilled at camouflage that they only appeared to disappear. Some nights he said feechies was peaceable, and some nights he said they was bloodthirsty savages. Some nights he said they was human, and some nights he said they was swamp monsters, and some nights he said they was elves of some kind. Just according to his mood on a particular night. Then he brung me out. “Grado here is a full-grown feechie,” he said. He said that when I was four years old, and he said it when I was twelve years old. “As you can see, feechies are much smaller than we are. And considerably uglier.” Wasn’t we a pair? Floyd made his living by telling lies, and I made mine by being ugly. It wasn’t a bad living either. But it didn’t last forever. Even in the smallest villages, even far away from the cities, the time come when nobody believed in feechies anymore, and we had to figure out other ways to make a living. Here’s what I want to know: what is this country coming to if everybody’s got too civilized and skeptical to pay a copper to see a real-live feechie boy? https://youtube.com/watch?v=QAgBQ30nbPk%3Ffs%3D1%26hl%3Den_US

We are on the cusp of VDT Madness. In just a few months, The Chronicles of Narnia: The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, as imagined by Michael Apted and, uh: Christopher Markus, Stephen McFeely, Michael Petroni, Andrew Adamson, Douglas Gresham and C. S. Lewis, will hit our holiday movie screens. Book publishers, anticipating their cue, are rolling out their movie tie-in wares for either our enjoyment, engorgement or exasperation. HarperOne will release fresh editions of VDT for you to read and hear (an audio tie-in features Derek Jacobi) along with A Year With Aslan: Daily Reflections from The Chronicles of Narnia (available October 5). Other publishers will help you get “inside” the story, crack “codes” and learn “secrets.” Once Lewis became a theist, even before he became a Christian, he began his lifelong practice of daily Bible reading. For Lewis, Bible reading was as natural to his daily routine as eating or sleeping. From the time of his conversion, the atheist turned Christian most often read passages prescribed in the Anglican prayer book, but his method of reading, study, and meditation varied. Sometimes he simply read from cover to cover the King James Version (also known as the Authorized Standard Version) or the Moffat translation; and as a medievalist he was also familiar with the Coverdale Bible. Sometimes, as his published letters indicate, he would focus for a time on a particular book of the Bible such as Romans or the Psalms. Often, as a trained classical scholar he would read frequently from the Greek text of the New Testament. No matter what section of the Bible captured his attention at any given time, this one thing must be said about Lewis: he was a man of the Book. Being a man of the book took him further than being a mere student: he was a practitioner to the extent God’s grace allowed and, to the extent his talent, imagination and friendships allowed, he re-imagined the Gospel and the life of a Christ-follower afresh through the power of Story. Scripture + Lewis’s understanding of Scripture must surely be one of the better ways of getting inside Lewis and his love for the Lord, and thus by extension getting inside all that Lewis wrote. While other influences abounded in his life, it was Scripture which he deeply desired as his “grammar.” The Grammar of Christ unlocks whatever secrets and cracks any codes there may be for increasing our understanding of Lewis, and I think The C. S. Lewis Bible will show us how deep his grammar went. It was pleasure to speak with Lewis scholar Bruce Edwards, Professor of English and Africana Studies at Bowling Green State University, who contributed to The C. S. Lewis Bible and helped bring it to print as a member of the advisory board. Professor Edwards shares here with Rabbit Room readers a preview of what’s in store when the book releases on November 12. What is The C. S. Lewis Bible? Harper One is publishing a NRSV edition that features approximately 600 comments, asides, and meditations drawn from more than 40 works by C. S. Lewis that link his theological reflections to specific Biblical passages. Is it a “Study Bible”? If you mean, “Will I get targeted, sustained Lewisian commentary on a majority of Biblical passages?” then my answer is no. It is more of a “Lewis-flavored” edition of the Bible. Lewisian passages are scattered throughout that are related to key themes. For instance, you won’t find an explicit comment from Lewis on what the Apostle Paul meant by “baptism of the dead,” but you will find his wit, cunning, and insight into the nature of the Bible as his Lord’s storybook, one that is coherent, reliable, historical, and trustworthy. Do we need a C. S. Lewis Bible? Do we “need” a Max Lucado Bible or a Joel Osteen Bible? Basically, those kinds of Bibles provide a convenient gathering point for one teacher or preacher’s point of view and give the reader a further extension of their ministry or worldview. This edition can be treated as a devotional guide to Scripture with Lewis’s life of faith and purpose as the primary backdrop; it’s unique, perhaps, in that it provides a new window on Lewis’s personal reverence for and commitment to Scripture. How did you get involved in the project? Harper contacted me as somebody who’s been publishing on Lewis for a while and maintains a fairly popular website on him. And they were aware of the four-volume encyclopedia on Lewis I recently edited, C. S. Lewis: Life, Works and Legacy. What was the process used in creating the text? Harper asked us (approximately 12-15 Lewis scholars from around the world) to identify passages in Lewis’s works that were apropos for linking to specific Scripture passages, or which could provide commentary relevant to a given book or chapter’s overall theme. We then excerpted the passages in Lewis’s works and indexed them to passages in the Bible that we thought Lewis’s comments illuminated. For example? I linked a comment from Lewis’s work Miracles to Matthew 10:37-39, which says, “Whoever loves father or mother more than me is not worthy of me; and whoever loves son or daughter more than me is not worthy of me; and whoever does not take up the cross and follow me is not worthy of me. Those who find their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake will find it.” Lewis’s commentary on this passage is: Some people when they say that a thing is meant ‘metaphorically’ conclude from this that it is hardly meant at all. They rightly think that Christ spoke metaphorically when he told us to carry the cross: they wrongly conclude that carrying the cross means nothing more than leading a respectable life and subscribing moderately to charities. [Miracles, Ch. 10] Were there any surprises for you as you worked on this project? I went into this project not just only to hunt down and contextualize passages from Lewis’s canon that happened to contain explicit reference to Scripture texts, but also to afford me an opportunity to reflect upon Lewis’s debt to Scripture itself, and what that debt may mean for us in the 21st Century.  This returned me to many Lewis works I had not read in their entirety in years. I wasn’t so much surprised as I was in awe of Lewis’s command of Scripture. We hear much about and make much of Lewis’s perspicacious grasp of myth and legend, but let me testify to the fact that Lewis’s immersion and comprehension of Scripture is astonishing and humbling. The one and the many, the particular and the universal, here they are in abundance; Lewis’s life and legacy are sanctified by and saturated in Scripture. I came to the conclusion (again and afresh) that Lewis’s commitment to Scripture is neither subtle nor elusive; rather, it is quite pronounced, and often the trump card in any significant theological argument he wishes to make, especially among believers themselves. He is openly contemptuous of any attempt to explain away the demands of Scripture through “spiritualizing them.” From your point of view, what do we need to know about Lewis and the Bible? I discovered once again the decisive effect the Bible had not only on anchoring his faith to apostolic orthodoxy, but also in providing him the foundational symbol-system, the parabolic building blocks, and the overarching narrative themes that inspired his apologetics and his fiction, and, indeed, energized and sharpened his literary criticism. Despite recent criticism from pastors such as John Piper, there is no one I know in Protestant, or specifically Evangelical, circles who has a more profound respect for the authority of Scripture than Lewis had. Simply put, he thought our obligation was to obey it, and this is thoroughly embedded in every letter he wrote to fledgling Christians. Lewis’s allusions to and citations of Scripture are distributed throughout his works, scholarly, apologetic, poetic, fantastic, or memoirist. He is never not in the presence of, nor never not informed by, a deep submersion in Scripture. Is there a statement by Lewis himself that you think epitomizes the project of The C. S. Lewis Bible? Lewis himself wrote in a letter, “It is Christ himself, not the Bible, who is the true word of God. The Bible, read in the spirit and with the guidance of good teachers, will bring us to Him.” [Letters of C. S. Lewis (8 November 1952), p. 247]. I think Lewis is surely one of our “good teachers.” * Here are some sample pages from The C. S. Lewis Bible. * More information is available from HarperCollins.

There are rumors around town that there might be a new Ben Shive album on the horizon. If you love his first album as much as I do, that’s cause for celebration. What’s that you say? You don’t own the first album? Good heavens. In that case, you’d best listen to this. It’s only one of the many amazing songs you’ve been missing out on. Listen. Love. And then get thee to the Rabbit Room store make it your own. Today only, The Ill-Tempered Klavier is just $10 ($7 Download). “Nothing For The Ache”

The question was raised here recently whether the artist’s pursuit is selfish. There is no template that covers everyone on the “making a living at art” issue. We are all individuals in different places in life and with varying temperaments, childhoods and experiences, and God of course deals with us as such and not as a subset of humanity known as “artist” (even though contract riders do). When I was a teen I had a burning desire to play music; it was all I wanted to do for a living. I had to fight through the disapproval of some of the adults in my family, well meaning as it was, and had to fight through the fears that maybe they were right and I should get “a real job” and “When’s the vacation going to end?” and simply work hard for two houses, one at the lake, a boat, a fat retirement, and “the good life.” The only way I made it through was via reliance on Matthew 6 and Malachi 3. This burning desire in me was placed there by God; as a teen and in my twenties I sat in my room for hours upon end and played guitar and banjo because I loved the thing itself, and still do. Escape? Probably to some degree. Did I have self-worth issues back then? Definitely. But the desire to play music was there; it is there still. As I watch my son, I note he has the same inner bonfire, in his case to draw and write stories. Is this a God-given talent and desire? I believe it is. That desire can be twisted; he can be turned from the sheer love of the thing itself to the approval he gets from it. My son can bury it and become a doctor or lawyer. But God doesn’t do recalls. That talent will be there, buried, unused, undeveloped, and as a result he will be chased by a sense of dissatisfaction. I think it comes down to this. Whatever the gift is, we’ve got to ask ourselves, “Would I do this thing even if no one ever heard it, saw it but God? Do I have sufficient passion to continue doing this the rest of my life? Do I love the thing itself or the approval I get, or hope to get, from others from it?” If we have that desire, that love for the thing itself, it is really hard or in some cases impossible to quench that blazing fire. Is the desire selfish? It can be, if anything but the Spirit of God is in control of the man. But desire is neutral in and of itself, which means desire can be redirected – plugged into the Source – and used an engine for the fuel of the Spirit. If we have a low view of the redeemed human, believing “The heart of man is desperately wicked” rather than “If any man is in Christ he is a new creation,” and the fact that we have new hearts in Christ, we will be constantly suspicious of our own motives. Some people will have this fiery passion to play music or write or paint and yet have to work at a day job to support their families. If their desire is burning hot they will still manage to carve out time to do the thing, be it painting, music, writing, or whatever form of creativity. Or they can couple it with something else, like giving guitar lessons and such. In Christian circles we are taught to be so afraid of our humanity that we can’t conceive of firmly seeing ourselves as gifted without thinking we’re arrogant or proud. We are so afraid of sin that we miss out on God’s things – the development and use of those talents God has given us. We call the exercise of those things “selfish.” But to be selfish is to be misdirected, to lose the eternal view. A musician, with a family at home, on the road for 250 dates a year. Selfish? Probably. But a CEO of a corporation can be just as selfish, getting a sense of worth through his work, just like the musician, spending all his time away from his family and yet thinking, “I am a good father because I’m a good provider.” To love doing a thing is not selfish. It is one of the things God made us for – for our pleasure as well as His. It is when that desire or love for music or writing or painting takes over our life and we neglect other things – family, finances, responsibilities. In the same way we can magnify the pleasure of eating and become gluttons. The desire to eat and the pleasure of it aren’t wrong; when food is made a god and our life is dominated by our taste buds we’re being self-ish. The last thing is that all desire, all talent, all of our being, must be laid out at the feet of Jesus Christ; everything must go to and through the Cross. “Nothing, not even the best and noblest, can go on as it now is. Nothing, not even what is lowest and most bestial, will not be raised again if it submits to death. It is sown a natural body; it is raised a spiritual body.” When we do this with our talents, we will find that God “really loves the hairless bipeds He has created and always gives back to them with His right hand what He has taken away with His left.” Is the artist’s pursuit a selfish one? It can be. Or it can be a means of God manifesting Himself to the world. It can be incarnational, and I don’t mean “Christian art” or “Christian music” but simply art and music.

Last night I was in the Hatch for a good while. I sipped red, painted green, listened to blues and glowed gold in the spotlight. See, I have this clip-on lamp that hangs above my worktable (and directly overhead) which makes it possible to function in a shop that  was absolutely not made for working at night (or working at all, really — more of a storage kind of situation which I’ve forced into a different function). What I’m getting at, why I said I glowed gold, it’s the lamp, it makes my hair shine like in that four o’ clock sun. Like a dusty angel. I always digress. By the by….this evening I’m going to be filmed while I create a piece of art. I’ll be featured in a music video for my fine friend and co-rabbit, Jason Gray. He’s tall, awesome, big-hearted, talented, sometimes saucy, always hilarious, and just a pearl of a guy. His song, called I Am New, centers around the theme of reclamation. Our tired souls and sad old hearts have been reclaimed, our Father makes us new. Then He stands back, admires, smiles, and calls us beautiful. A hard concept to swallow but I try to understand, fresh again, every day of my life. So if you know anything of my art, you’ll know that it naturally fits right into this scheme. I use any junky, rusted, worn, discarded matter (free is the best kind) I can get my crafty hands on and then undertake the task of creating something new, something bright, something touching and connective to the spiit, lovely to the eye. The prospect of a camera on me whilst I do this tinkering work I do, well….it is unnerving and exciting at once. I might freeze. My movements might be halting and clumsy, affected or fake….but probably not. I’m curious to watch my own hands from another perspective as they classify the elements, plan placement, hover above the wood’s surface, cast shadows, saw and sand the wood, pause, drill the holes, tap the nails, correct the false moves. Hopefully the birth of a cohesive work of art will occur naturally and fluidly tonight. Thankfully my face won’t be captured, but my hands and torso will…will my fingers look fat on camera? Maybe I should have cut back on the salt on my tomatoes at lunch… What shirt should I wear? Boots? Toms? Apron!? Oh gosh, the shop is a terrible  wreck. I want desperately to appear consummately artsy and innovative, totally with-it, hip, cool. Oh girl, silly girl… What I really look forward to, though, is seeing how all of this varied footage comes together to the tune of Jason’s song, to watch the story that Grant Howard creates unfold. So many mediums colliding! It’s going to be a veritable combustion of our arts. Stay tuned.

For two formative years of my life, my favorite song was Monty Python’s “The Lumberjack Song”. I was 13 and the silliness of Monty Python would make me laugh till tears leaked out of the corners of my eyes and my head throbbed from the perma-giggle. I remember being stricken with silent, heaving laughter while watching the skit “How Not To Be Seen” on Python’s comedy show. We had a “best of” VHS tape and my brother and I would rewind that skit and the dead parrot skit and others over and over until our sides ached like we were cramping from dehydration. And Monty Python and the Holy Grail was, well, the holy grail of funny for us. All those scenes seem so campy now–the Knights who say “Ni”, the dismembering of the Black Knight, the vicious, murderous rabbit, and the Bridge of Death (answer me these questions three…)–but they were like human catnip in the context of our blindingly sincere household. There was no sarcasm in our house, which I’m thankful for now. We had fun playing games and stuff but nobody in my family likes to make fun of others or to be made fun of. I guess you could say there was an overabundance of sincerity. I would never poke fun at someone else’s expense, but I also wound up taking myself way too seriously and it took me a long time to learn how to laugh at myself (and be laughed at). I got my education in sarcasm in college when cutting down peoples’ mamas was the rage and fraternity brothers frequently brought each others mothers into lewd conversation. So, in the Goodgame family, unmitigated silliness was like sap from the tree of life. Silliness meant laughter, and even more, laughter that was utterly safe for human consumption, even inebriation! You could get drunk on silliness, you could roll around in silliness and bounce off the silliness walls and never get hurt, and more importantly, never hurt anyone else. And speaking of getting hurt, it wasn’t (always) about seeing someone get socked in the groin with a bowling ball. For me, the clever silliness was the true elixir. It’s why I loved The Smothers Brothers and The Muppets, and why for a few years there I could never get enough Ren and Stimpy. Flagrant, brilliant silliness moved me. One more thin mint… it’s only wafer thin… Last Fall, my unscrupulously silly friend, Brian Long, was driving me to the airport in Houston and we were laughing about “Tractor, Tractor” and how one of his kids was not old enough yet to get the joke. She kept getting mad at Andrew for getting the words wrong. For probably the tenth time, Brian asked why neither Andrew nor I had any interest in doing more with Slugs & Bugs, and I told him, “You know, I might be interested in developing it, but I just can’t be a clown, and I can’t see any other way to do it. The whole ‘Yuk, yuk, yuk! Hey boys and girls!’ thing would just kill me.” “Dude. Animated videos,” he said. “You don’t have to be a clown, get my buddy Scott to make you some cool animated videos and you can just be yourself. The kids will eat it up.” And suddenly, I began to see. You don’t get many moments like this in life. I don’t know what it’s like to have cataracts, but I imagine that after living with them for years your sensory perception adjusts to the dysfunction. People who live with cataracts from birth have to learn how to “see” when the cataracts are finally removed. Depth perception, color contrast, facial cues–much of what their brain is trying to tell them goes untranslated for a time while they adjust to the new brightness and clarity. After Brian brought up the videos, I couldn’t articulate the revelation that was flooding into my brain, probably because I really didn’t know what I was seeing. After a time, I said something like, “You know, I think I could do that.” Over the next few months, I prayed about it. I talked to Amy, I talked with Andrew, I sought advice from my brother. I wrote a slew of new S&B songs, always moving forward with it, though not really knowing what that meant. Then somewhere in those first few months, my eyes adjusted to the light, and here is what I saw. I am passionate about songwriting. I am passionate about the struggle to parent well and reflect the love and joy of Jesus to my family. I am committed to the journey of experiencing all of life with Jesus, not just the churchy parts of life. I love to encourage others toward that journey. I love silliness. With Slugs & Bugs all these things come together in a way that’s personally and artistically inspiring, that can provide for my family, and that I am perfectly suited to and well prepared for. In the words of Gomer Pyle, “Surprise, surprise, surprise!” Following in the wake of our original inspiration to serve both kids and parents, Slugs & Bugs will strive to provide excellent creative content for kids which parents will actually enjoy and look forward to hearing (think Pixar, but with music). Slugs & Bugs records will be the ones that (I pray) keep getting put back into the CD player because they’re artistic and fun and because they care about children more than the rules they can teach children. Where the Gospel shows up overtly, it will be in words simple enough for kids to grasp but potent enough to keep parents listening. Maybe deep and meaningful conversations will arise. I don’t think that’s too much to hope for. As much as it seems a contradiction, most God-fearing parents I know have trouble talking to their kids about the Gospel. So many of us feel like such a failure at living out our faith that we stumble when we speak about it with our kids for fear of exposing our hypocrisy. Through the Slugs & Bugs records I hope to help chip away at that barrier by acknowledging the reality of our hypocrisy, and by reveling in the boundless grace we have in Christ–and by crafting great songs about camels and underwear and not getting eaten. By being both silly and spiritual, Slugs & Bugs will hope to entertain, but also provide a familiar and fun context for conversations about deeply meaningful things. The next big project will be the Slugs & Bugs Christmas record (which has an accompanying children’s Christmas production for churches). And as so many of you have asked, yes, if he can find a window in his sincerely crammed schedule, Andrew will be present and accounted for. His absence in this process has as much to do with his busy schedule and my evangelistic fervor as anything else. As for the release of A Slugs and Bugs Christmas, with your help, (you’ll find out how you can help next week) it will come out this November. Of course, I still write music for us “big kids,” and I still do regular Randall Goodgame concerts here and there. In fact, yesterday in Houston I played a Slugs & Bugs morning concert and then a 7:30 p.m. Randall Goodgame show. But at least for this season, God has tuned my heart to resonate with families, and point kids to the light of the Gospel in a way that challenges me to be as silly as possible while communicating truth with great artistry. How fun is that? It’s almost too good to be true, which is just like Jesus. And just in case there was any doubt left in my mind about God’s hand in all of this, September, October, and November are now all booked up with Slugs & Bugs Live concerts. If I take into consideration some of the comments from AP’s stirring series on money, that may be the biggest clue of all. I can’t see the future, so I don’t know how long this richly inspiring season will last, but for today God has given me a vision for ministering to kids and families and it’s as clear as the skies on the moon. And I am so thankful. For more info about the Slugs & Bugs Christmas production (think Christmas cantata that mixes super-silliness with sincerity and the occasional shepherd’s crook), click here.

My new friend (and art patron), Kim Watkins, wrote a while back and asked for this recipe, said she was intending to serve it for dinner when her in-laws came for a visit. I do love to hear who these recipes get served to, what words they might use to describe what they taste, and how many times they lick their fingers — I take joy in those little pieces of everyday extraordinaryness, the vision of someone’s mess-faced children bellied-up to the supper table, smearing their chubby fingers across an earthen plate to sop up that last spicy, treacly goodness. Since I had this written up I thought it might be sharing time again. Here’s the best semblance of August 7th’s tomato jam recipe I can come up with — I had it in mind for weeks (months?) theoretically, but totally concocted it on the fly. In a large heavy saucepan over medium heat, sweat in 2 tbsp olive oil until translucent… 1 large yellow onion, chopped 1 red bell pepper, chopped 2 garlic cloves, minced throw in some kosher salt (a teaspoon, perhaps), 2 sprigs of fresh thyme and 1 of rosemary add to that…. 2 28-ounce cans petite diced tomatoes (Hunt’s is my favorite) 2-3 tbsp brown sugar 1 cup chopped kalamata olives the zest and juice of 1 orange 1/2 tsp cardamom 1 tsp. cinnamon Now this is important: let the mixture simmer over mediumish heat for a good while. Let it reduce, linger, loiter, cook down, get all sticky and jammy….the consistency should be similar to something you’d want to smear on your morning toast. Once this delicious perfection has been reached, fish out the herb stems, taste and season with more kosher salt and black pepper if needed. So as anyone who attended Hutchmoot knows and can attest, it’s quite good served with the Moroccan chicken. It could also be tossed with some hot, fresh pasta, crumbled goat cheese and fresh lemon zest for a belly-warming quick supper. Perhaps you’d like it piled onto some slabs of crusty artisan bread, toasted or grilled, then topped with some shards of ricotta salata or parmesan and fresh basil torn over the top. Or maybe you just want to sit on the couch with the pan, a spoon and a glass of pinot noir. Let me know which scenario you end up choosing. Instead of just cherry-picking one for the next go-round, are there any recipe requests while I’m at it?

I know you laughed the day you first were told that you would have a son who would shine like a star above the desert. I know you stepped into that story like a dancer to a song. I know you leapt inside to hear your husband tell it. I know you did. I know you did and I know why. I know you’re waiting like that first year and the next and the next and the next with nothing more to hold than just a promise. I know you hide ‘cause you’re embarrassed. I know you cry because it hurts. I know you laugh because you’re angry when you’re honest. I know you do. I know you do and I know why. So you, here in this land between the ocean and the verdant green, you lie there like a barren stream of dust, except for tears. Your husband says the earth, it groans. He feels it in his failing bones. But this is not for you alone, so Sarah, in a year I know you’ll wake before the morning in a haze of sleepy peace. I know you’ll slip into that room beside the kitchen. I know you’ll reach into that woven willow bed beside the fire. I know you’ll laugh, I know you’ll laugh and kiss his cheek I know you will. I know you will and I know why.

This is the conclusion of a series of posts about money, art, commerce, and the Kingdom. It’s not so much about money, but a closing thought about the artist’s calling. The Great Nashville Flood of 2010 was devastating. People died. Homes were lost. We watched our neighborhood street turn into a muddy river. On one of our walks down the hill from the Warren to see the flood’s progress we spotted a family of field mice who had been forced to higher ground. Then we saw two or three moles. We and a few neighbors gathered them up and moved them to safety. Later, in the woods, we found a drowned baby rabbit, soaked through and pitiful. Their warren had flooded and it was too small and fragile to escape in time. I imagine its mother pulled it out with the others and this was the unlucky one. I have a thing for rabbits, you see, so it gave me pause. A few minutes later I heard my son Aedan screaming through the woods. I ran. Our dog, a huge Great Pyrenees named Moondog, had found another baby rabbit, this one still alive. Before Aedan could stop him, Moondog’s instincts kicked in and he attacked. Rabbits scream like humans. Aedan saw it all–and heard it all–as Moondog bit and shook the rabbit till its back broke. When I found Aedan he was weeping in the mud with the little bloody rabbit cradled in his hands. It was awful. Later, while the rain battered Tennessee, Aedan sat on the couch and wept. He punched the cushion and cried, “I’m sorry. I feel terrible and stupid that I’m crying over a little rabbit when there are people dying all over the world. It was just a rabbit!” I was astonished, as I often am by my children. I held him and told him to cry all he wanted. “You’re mourning the same thing,” I said. “Death is death.” He wasn’t just grieving the little animal, but the Curse itself. The rabbit in the dog’s jaws only signified the presence of the serpent in the garden of his boyhood. He was grieving the slow dusk of his own death as manhood’s shadow gathered in the east. The world, the rabbit screamed, is broken. That truth intrudes and slays the days of youth. Nature, in the words of Tennyson, is “red in tooth and claw.” So we grieve and we rejoice, like breathing in and breathing out. The little things matter, and the big things matter, and hearts far and near need hope. Art, if it can be ascribed value, is most valuable when its beauty (and the beauty of the truth it tells) bewilders, confounds, defies evil itself; it does so by making what has been unmade; it subverts the spirit of the age; it mends the heart by whispering mysteries the mind alone can’t fathom; it fulfills its highest calling when into all the clamor of Hell it tells the unbearable, beautiful, truth that Christ has died, Christ is risen, and Christ will come again. None of these songs and stories matter if the beauty they’re adding to isn’t the kind of beauty that redeems and reclaims. That doesn’t mean every song and every story has to be a sermon. Not at all! But the very existence of great stories and stirring music and good art is a sermon itself. That anyone at all in the world would set their sad heart and tired hands to the work of wreaking beauty out of chaos is a monument to Grace. It reminds us of light and high beauty, and it laments the world’s great sorrow. It gives the heart language to rejoice and language to mourn. Creation groans like a woman in labor? Even so. And we know every birth is a tight-wound cord of fear and joy, pain and pleasure, striving and surcease. Let those who can, tell that story. Let those in Christ whose hands paint worlds, whose tongues limn loveliness, whose ears hear astral strains–let them make, and make, and make. And let the made things adorn the dark and proclaim the coming Kingdom till the King himself is come.

I so appreciate all the discussion. Your comments have been moving and encouraging and have pushed me to think deeper about these things. Here’s the recap: First: wealth is a burden. Poverty is a burden. As one of my Bible college professors Twila Sias (hey, Twila!) pointed out in last week’s comments, Proverbs 30:7-9 sums it up beautifully. In the words of good ol’ overlooked Agur: “Two things I ask of you, O LORD; do not refuse me before I die: Keep falsehood and lies far from me; give me neither poverty nor riches, but give me only my daily bread. Otherwise, I may have too much and disown you and say, ‘Who is the LORD ?’ Or I may become poor and steal, and so dishonor the name of my God.” The beautiful Jill Phillips song “Daily Bread” was inspired by this very verse. (What’s that you ask? Is that song available in the Rabbit Room store on her album Nobody’s Got it All Together? Yes. Yes it is.) It’s a good way to remind yourself that to be stuck somewhere between relative wealth and relative poverty is a fine place to be, which is hard to believe when you’re stuck in the comfortable, entertaining, enjoyable, discontented mire of American culture. Second: better what you can. One comment in particular from EmJ brought up the buzz word “sustainability”. I think he (or she?) is right that it’s a little faddish, but it’s not such a bad idea. Writers like Wendell Berry and Michael Pollan are refreshingly wise when it comes to the environment and local economy, and there are worse things in the world than practicing what those guys preach about food and land and community. I’m going to make an analogy here, so bear with me for a paragraph or so. The much-debated documentary film Food, Inc. was fascinating. It was also disturbing. And whatever you may think of the film’s bias, the end is brilliant. After all the information is presented, the screen fades to black and we see a collage of practical ideas for how to change things. They didn’t just expose a gigantic problem; they also gave us a hundred small, attainable solutions. The big one for me was this: we cast a vote three times a day. Three times a day we choose what aspect of the food economy we’re going to support. We can either buy junk and fill the pockets of the corporations–or we can try to buy from local farmers, or grow our own vegetables, or at least purchase responsibly grown food. It’s going to cost a little more, sure. But if enough people make tiny changes, the corporations will feel it where it counts, and big changes will follow. The corporations won’t collapse, but they will follow the money; if it becomes more profitable for them to produce responsibly grown food, they’ll do it. I think that’s a sound theory. What if we applied the same theory to music and the arts? What if we chose the artisan equivalent of locally grown food? Whenever a new U2 album comes out we’re probably going to get it from iTunes (or Amazon or wherever), just like we’re probably going to get our spaghetti noodles at the grocery store. But if a local farmer (artist) is nourishing you by doing good work and working hard at it, then it’s worth it to go through the trouble to head to the farmer’s market (the artist’s website or–the Rabbit Room Store!) and cast your vote with your money. A little at a time, help the people whose art is helping you. If you’re reading this, you’re probably reading it on a computer. That means you aren’t starving. (If you’re starving and you own a computer, something’s very wrong.) That means you have–and this is a phrase that troubles me–disposable income. It means you have enough money to occasionally buy a book or album, and every time you buy one you’re casting a vote. So as often as you can, vote for the artists tilling their field and sowing seeds that bear (hopefully) lasting fruit. That’s all. Easy, right? Having said all that, I thought I’d make some practical suggestions. Food for thought. Ideas to chew on. (See how well this food analogy works?) Feel free to print these out and tattoo them on your ankle like all the hip kids are doing. I propose the following: 1. Buy the record, don’t steal it. This should go without saying, but I’ll say it anyway. If you like someone’s music, buy it. It costs a lot of money and time and heartache to make that album you love. Lots of artists are using things like Noisetrade to get their music out there for free, and that’s great. But there’s still an exchange happening–Noisetrade asks for your email address so the artist can communicate with you about their shows, new records, etc.–so whether it’s with your email address or your dollar bills, buy the music. You’ll be glad you did. I’ve downloaded free albums before, and you know what? I still haven’t listened to them. They’re sitting there on my hard drive gathering cyberdust because they were free. There was nothing at stake. On the other hand, I bought the new album by the Weepies last week and have listened four or five times already–partly because I’m a fan, of course, but also because it cost me something to acquire the songs. Whenever I do a concert for people who have bought tickets, it’s a more intense show than when I do them for free. The audience has something invested (even if it’s only $3); they’ve come with some expectation so the exchange carries more weight. 2. Go to concerts. You may think of yourself as a person who doesn’t like live shows. Maybe you don’t like the noise. Maybe it’s the crowds. Well, if you’re at a Square Peg Alliance show, chances are it won’t be loud and there won’t be a crowd. Har. Seriously, it may feel funny to choose a sit-down concert over a movie, but try it. Go to the websites of your favorite artists and see if they’re coming to a town near you. They’ll be glad you showed up, I guarantee it. Most of the time the tickets are about what you’d pay for a movie, only in this case your money won’t be lining Jerry Bruckheimer’s silken pockets–it’ll go to diapers or the new transmission or the mixing engineer for the new album. There’s a local theater company here in Nashville called Blackbird Theater Company. Jamie and I went to an original production called Twilight of the Gods, a philosophical, literate murder mystery. It was really, really good. Tickets were $15 each. If we had gone to a movie we’d have paid ten more dollars, total. I think ten bucks is a bargain for the set design, the beautiful theater, and the twenty actors playing their hearts out on the stage not ten feet away. Most of us who play music pay the bills by touring. CD sales are helpful, but touring is where the rubber meets the road. We need you to come to the shows. We like to play our songs for other members of the human race. We like meeting you. We love the crackle of spiritual electricity when our songs and your stories intersect. Bring your friends. Concerts–event bad ones–are usually more memorable than movies.  Plus, it pays the mortgage. 3. Choose individuals over avatars. Choose humans over screens. Know people by more than their screen names. Someone asked Wendell Berry what he thought of online community and his answer was exactly what I would have wanted Berry to say: “You’re not in community with someone until you’ve pulled their cow out of a ditch or spanked their child.” Hilarious. When the Rabbit Room left the cyber-world and took on flesh at Hutchmoot 2010, we caught a glimpse of this. Things were bettter, messier, more meaningful. They were more like real life and less like this pseudo-life we call social media (i.e., Facebook, Twitter, MySpace, and, yes, the Rabbit Room). I’m not saying social media is all bad, but we must remember it isn’t a replacement for flesh and blood interaction with the crown of God’s creation. Social media can be a good means to the end of true community. Everybody who plays music ought to have a website. They ought to have a Facebook page. It’s a great tool for interaction with listeners. But we need to defy the seduction of the screen and remember that when online communities become a destination unto themselves and have stopped being a way to something better–a way to incarnational connection with other humans–we be become disembodied, unmoored, lost in a world of ideas and theorems detached from the terrible mystery of flesh and blood, without senses, without the awkward mutual interaction of heart, mind and physical expression, without the ineffable language of human souls in proximity. (If you didn’t notice, I just described pornography.) Pull your eyes from the computer and the television screen, go outside and touch the bark of a tree. Dig in the garden. Muster the courage to accept the invitation to the cookout instead of staying home and updating your Facebook status. Try this: look someone in the eye. It’s scary, isn’t it? Scary because we’re not used to it, scary because the eyes are the windows to the soul and we’re as afraid of seeing as being seen. Facebook is a giant auditorium full of people hiding under the pews. Take heart and climb out. 4. Book a show. This is the one most of you will shake your head at. Concerts are planned by promoters with slick shades and limos, right? People often ask on Facebook and via email, “When are you coming to [insert state or country]?” The answer now and always will be, “I’ll be there as soon as someone like you is crazy enough to bring us in.” We don’t choose where we play. You choose us. We can’t open the phone book and call every church in every city and invite ourselves over. It would be a tremendous waste of time. I know because I’ve tried. We all have. Mike Petrucco and Sharon Frazier are just folks with jobs who like our music and made the call. It’s a ton of work (as I’m sure they’d attest), but I think they’d also tell you it’s rewarding. You may be surprised at how attainable it is, and how fun it can be. 5. Become a patron. Eric Peters was the first one in our community to try this idea. He needed money to make Chrome, so he set a goal: he needed, say, 200 people to donate $50. That’s $10,000. For that $50 everybody got a few copies of the album, their name in the credits, and most importantly the blessing of helping an artist create something beautiful and meaningful that would go on to bless many. The beauty is multiplied; the blessing is compounded. You, dear patron, can add to the beauty (thank you for that fine phrase, Sara Groves) by midwifing projects you believe in. A.S. Peterson did it with his novel The Fiddler’s Gun, and will soon be raising support for the sequel Fiddler’s Green. Randall Goodgame is about to head into the studio to record a Slugs & Bugs Christmas album (which I’ll help with as much as I can), and Ben Shive is about to record another album of mind-blowing songs. None of these people is rich, and all these people are doing beautiful work. You can help us tell our stories and shed light with our gifts. I mention all these upcoming projects because I know most of you aren’t loaded either, so you may need to choose just one. You can’t throw money at us willy nilly. But it looks like one of the ways the Rabbit Room is going to support local “farmers” is by helping artists and authors raise money by way of patronage, so I wanted to warn you: artist patronage is on the horizon. Two more quick things. 6. If you have deep pockets, dig deep. If you’re wealthy and have a heart for authors and artists who are doing Kingdom work by telling the Story, let us know. Email us at info@rabbitroom.com. We have dreams too big for our current budget. I often drive past this subdivision of enormous houses in Brentwood and think, “If just one of those people caught the Rabbit Room’s vision there’s so much we could do.” If we need to set up a non-profit to make that easier, we’ll do it (and have been thinking about that for a while). If we need to come over and present our vision we’ll shave, shower, and bring laser pointers and Powerpoint. You may not make any money, but you’ll be a part of something that shines. 7. Finally, don’t give a cent to the artists before you’ve given to your church. We don’t want your money until you’ve tithed and given to those called to the far reaches of the world. I hope you don’t think we’re begging for money. Sure, it can be hard, but that’s fine. It’s part of the deal. As stressful as the artist’s life can be, none of the folks in our little community have missed a meal or a mortgage payment (though I know many of us have come really close). All I’m saying is, if you have enough money to go to movies, pay for cable, own a cell phone, and buy albums, then consider the artists who have blessed you, encouraged you, or have been a small part of your journey with Christ–and choose to spend some of your entertainment budget there. A little goes a long way. Trust me. But as much as I believe in the importance of songs, books, and works of art that tell the truth and tell it well, we must remember the fatherless and the widow, the disenfranchised and abused and enslaved. We should support our churches and pastors and their families. We should support missionaries and IJM or Compassion International or World Vision or Blood:Water Mission–something, for Heaven’s sake. Do that first. Tomorrow is part four of a three-part series that is actually five parts long if you include the 2.5 part. Oh! Six if you include Ron Block’s George MacDonald addendum. Either way, I have a quick story to tell you in closing. Thanks for reading.

In part one I talked about the burdens of poverty and of wealth, in part two I laid out some of the nuts and bolts of what it costs to make an album–just one of many ways an artist can use his or her gift to shed light. Before I wrap this up I want to respond to a few comments. Thank you all for your thoughts. I’m a people-pleaser, so it’s always hard for me to throw out ideas like these for public scrutiny. I know better than any of you just how deeply wrong I can be about things, which leaves me with two options: I can keep quiet for fear of wrongness, or I can write out my thinking in the hopes of gaining a better understanding. A few of you bristled at some of my comments about Rich Mullins’s singleness. My point wasn’t that marriage is necessarily better, nor was it that single people have no responsibilities. Obviously, if you’re in Christ your responsibility first and foremost is to God, and his will should be sought in any decision. I thought that went without saying. But a married man or woman with children has a far different set of responsibilities than a single person. There are lots of options available to a single person that aren’t available to married folks, and vice versa. For Rich, identifying with the poor and living a somewhat vagabond lifestyle was an option he took as a single man (under God, of course) that he wouldn’t have been able to take as a married man with children. In fact, had he chosen to marry and have children and still live in his truck and go barefoot and smelly, he would have been a picture of selfishness–though I suppose there’s a slim chance he might have married a woman who was similarly called, and they might have lived in a van down by the river with their smelly barefoot children. I’m being silly. It occurs to me now that I’ve met lots of families blessed with the astounding courage to live on the mission field or in inner cities, which is probably what someone like Rich would have done. Still, that’s a picture of living simply, not in poverty. Living out of a truck (literally) would no longer be an option, at least with children in the picture. If you’re single and you’re still bristling, I’m sorry. But I’m not sure how anyone can argue that a single person’s responsibilities are the same as someone’s who is married with children. They’re just not. And my point was that a single person, as Paul said, has options a married person doesn’t. Like choosing poverty. As for the part about Rich’s theoretical wife wanting a few nice things now and then, I totally get your point. My list was a list of material things, as if that’s all women are interested in. That wasn’t my intention at all. That list came to mind because just that morning Jamie overslept and was late for school (she teaches music at a homeschool co-op), which meant a classroom of kids waited for her for twenty minutes. She hates being late for anything, and it was a bad way to begin an already busy week. I bought her a bouquet of flowers (aww), and I was thinking how thankful I was that we have the means to do that once in a while. And, by the way, the flowers made her happy. Not only that, but when we moved to the Warren we downsized considerably and one of the things Jamie sacrificed was a big, open kitchen for a tiny one. She’s gifted at hospitality, at making things beautiful and serving neighbors and friends, and I want so much to be able to add on a nice kitchen for her. We can’t do it anytime soon, but Lord knows I want to. NOT because she’s materialistic, but because a fine kitchen would be a tool she’d put to good use in Kingdom work. This scenario is something Rich Mullins never had to consider. That was my point. It’s not that women demand nice things and men don’t. A woman has to give up just as much to get married (just ask my wife, who was crazy enough to marry a songwriter). Her responsibilities change just as a man’s do. And one of the things they both give up is a certain amount of freedom. That probably just invited more frostiness, but there you go. A few of you also expressed frustration and/or despair at my nuts and bolts list of the demands of making a career of music (or coffee mug peddling). Many people don’t realize all that goes into making a record, so I thought it would be helpful to lay it out broadly in light of the patronage and tier options we sometimes offer here. I wanted to illustrate why it’s sometimes necessary to get creative with how we sell our CDs (i.e., Tier 7 for $200). I don’t mean to cause you despair–if you’re gifted at songwriting, then write songs. Don’t worry about how much it costs to record an album. The point is doing good work and shedding light. But if you’re a family man (or woman) who’s thinking of laying it all on the line to come to Nashville you should know what you’re getting into. It’s not easy. Heck, it’s not easy for twenty-year-olds fresh out of college! But moving to Nashville (or wherever) to pursue a dream is a fine thing, especially if your wife, children, and church are supporting your decision. I’ve often said that if you have two options before you, choose the one you’re most afraid of. Defy the fear with faith. Even if you fail miserably–and you probably will–God can gather up the bits and make it beautiful. But don’t be foolish–seek counsel. Seek it from your family, from your pastors, elders, mentors. Seek it from the Holy Spirit. Finally, don’t let me tell you what to do. I don’t know your situation like you do, or like the people walking with you. I can only speak from my limited perspective. Sure, I may have accrued a little bit of insight into this process, things you may not have considered yet, but I’m only one voice of many. When I was still in college I traveled to Nashville for two reasons. First, I wanted to see Rich Mullins play at the Ryman Auditorium. I had never seen him live, so it was worth the trip from Orlando. Second, I wanted to attend GMA, the Gospel Music Association’s yearly convention, which is now defunct (oh, how times have changed). If I was going to make a go at this music career I figured a week at GMA would give me a good handle on what I was getting into. I was a sophomore in college, was newly married, and was itching to quit school and move to Nashville. Reed Arvin, Rich Mullins’s producer, spoke at one of the sessions and changed my life. He had written a book called The Wind in the Wheat, a cautionary tale about a young man from a Kansas farm named Andrew Miracle. Andrew had a Gift. So he moves to Nashville and is gobbled up and spit out by the Evil Music Industry, losing his focus and his innocence in the process. It’s not a very well-written book (though Reed went on to write a few really good detective thrillers a la John Grisham, and he also provided me some great one-on-one advice while I was writing On the Edge of the Dark Sea of Darkness), but I read it and it did its work on me. It was hard to ignore that the main character’s name was Andrew. And that he was from a small town. And that he felt a strong call on his life to write and sing his songs. And that he wanted to move to Nashville. Reed had written the book just for me, it seemed. So at the session Reed talked about how important it is for us to stay rooted. Stay where you are. Your community needs you, he said. Your church needs you. If God gave you a gift, you don’t need to live in a certain city or have the validation of a record label to use that gift. Just shed light. Up and moving to Nashville isn’t the answer for everybody, and Music City is chock-full of people who probably shouldn’t be seeking a career in music. Nashville isn’t El Dorado, the lost city of gold records. Now that I live here I see all kinds of benefits to living in a community like this one, with or without the music industry. I love this city. The industry is vastly different now than it was when Reed wrote the book, but it was exactly what I needed at that time. I drove twelve hours home with a full head and a full heart. I chose to stay put. I chose to finish school. I chose to stick around and play church camps and Sunday night concerts and all-nighters for the junior high youth group and even to work for a year as a youth minister. I played wherever and whenever I could, and walked through the doors that God seemed to open. Only after years of that did I graduate college and move with Jamie to Nashville. Those years were important, formative years for me. So thanks, Reed. Now that I’ve lived here for thirteen years and have been playing music professionally off-and-on for eighteen years (man, that makes me feel old), I can tell you that none of the good things in my career were forced. The times I really pushed hard for something to happen usually ended in, well, nothing much at all. The happy surprises have borne the most fruit. The slow, patient, prayerful tilling of soil has brought the finest harvest, a harvest only recognizable in hindsight. That doesn’t mean I didn’t work at things. I did, and still do. But I have learned that it’s best to be patient. I’ve learned not to put too much stake in the music business equivalent of a get-rich-quick scheme.

I spent a number stressful days last week trying to write the last chapters of the next (and final) installment of the Fin’s Revolution tale: Fiddler’s Green. I’d put off those chapters for a long time because I needed to be patient and mull over Fin’s entire story and make sure that all the necessary events and emotions came together in just the right way. After writing all day on Saturday, I laid awake until three or four in the morning with a whirl of descending character arcs and plot resolutions spinning through my head. When I woke at seven the next morning my brain still hadn’t stopped. So I got up, got dressed, shirked church and sat in the coffee shop writing. At about 3pm on Sunday, I wrote the final sentence of Fiddler’s Green. An ending is a strange and delicate thing. In storytelling terms its importance is equaled only by its opposite: the beginning. The bits in the middle tend to be easier to shape because they’re open ended and the writer can, in some measure, both pre- and re- form them throughout the narrative. Beginnings are all promise and adventure, a setting out toward lands unknown. They signify a contract between the writer and reader in which the writer suggests a journey and, tendering a currency of time and attention, the reader buys a ticket hoping to gain safe passage through the writer’s mind in hope of entertainment, or escape, or revelation. But endings? Endings are final. After the last period, there’s nothing more to be said. All communication with the reader ceases. An ending might leave the reader angry or dissatisfied or, in the best cases, it can leave them moved to tears, or joy, or laughter. But laugh or cry, ending is a serious business. Think about your favorite book. There’s a good chance that when you recall it, you recall the feeling you had in its moment of ending. “It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to, than I have ever known.” -Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities “Yes, it is the dawn that has come. The titihoya wakes from sleep, and goes about its work of forlorn crying. The sun tips with light the mountains of Ingeli and East Griqualand. The great valley of the Umzimkulu is still in darkness, but the light will come there. Ndotsheni is still in darkness, but the light will come there also. For it is the dawn that has come, as it has come for a thousand centuries, never failing. But when that dawn will come, of our emancipation, from the fear of bondage and the bondage of fear, why, that is a secret.” -Alan Paton, Cry, The Beloved Country “Some natural tears they dropp’d, but wip’d them soon; The world was all before them, where to choose Their place of rest, and Providence their guide They, hand in hand, with wand’ring steps and slow, Through Eden took their solitary way.” -John Milton, Paradise Lost “Her eyes filled with tears that did not fall, but she said quietly, ‘I could die in peace, I think, if the world was beautiful. To know it’s being ruined is hard.’ […] She held out her hand to me. She gave me the smile that I had never seen and will not see again in this world, and it covered me all over with light.” -Wendell Berry, (book censored to prevent spoiler) “So Lyra and her daemon turned away from the world they were born in, and looked toward the sun, and walked into the sky.” Phillip Pullman, The Golden Compass “And Julian’s soul is laughing now, as booming and boisterous as the thunder. And the Lord’s embrace is his golden rope. . .” -Walt Wangerin, Jr., Saint Julian See what I mean? Each of those brief excerpts evoke their writers’ tales entirely. They stir up a swirl of emotions and I get misty-eyed and want to hold the book in my hand and smell it and smile. Each of these great endings has something in common: they convey not only a sense of resolution, but of continuance; they each imply, however subtly, that the story in some form goes on, or that we as readers, having spent our little time within the tale, are now drawn away, back to our own world, left to wonder at the mysteries still afoot in that other. This idea, that an ending can, or possibly should, imply a continuation or a new beginning, is important, I think. When done properly, it grants the book a sort of immortality because in the mind of the reader, the story has not ended but instead, continues into the distance. Certainly there are great books that end with finality but I wonder if they have the same endurance. To end well is a dire responsibility, it seems. In discussions of writing, people frequently ask if I have an ending in mind when I begin a story or if, instead, I simply begin writing and allow the story to unfold naturally and lead me to the destination of its choosing. Of course there are as many approaches to the process as there are writers. When some begin they have no ending in mind, only a vague direction. Others script their story down to the smallest scene before they write a word of prose. Still others write non-linearly, penning scenes and passages in whatever order they come along, only later finding a way to put them together into a cogent whole. None of these methods are wrong. But I can tell you that for me, I need an ending before I begin. I need a target to shoot at. A scene to earn. I’ve known the ending of Fiddler’s Green for nearly a decade now. It was in my mind almost as soon as Fin Button’s character took shape and I don’t think it’s unfair to say that I wrote the books for the purpose of writing the ending, two novels for the sake of a couple of paragraphs. That might sound crazy but writers have rarely laid claim to an excess of sanity. I think every storyteller knows what I’m talking about. You have an image in your mind, or a scene, and it’s something beautiful and wondrous and the need to communicate that bright moment is what sets us in motion. We know we can’t simply tell people about it because out of context it’s meaningless and silly; so we create entire worlds to explain our dreams and visions, to make sense of them if we can. I jotted down the ending to Fiddler’s Green several years ago and in the course of writing the books, I’ve gone back to peek at it often. It was like a treasure map that reminded me where I was going. Year after year, word after word, I followed it and after hundreds of thousands of steps, I arrived at the longed-for destination. But on arrival, I found out that it was surprisingly hard to stick the shovel in the ground and dig up the treasure I’d been chasing. So for a few months, I just stared at the spot on the ground, the big black X marking the spot. I walked around it and scratched my beard and I kicked the dirt awhile and I looked at it suspiciously from the corner of a narrowed eye. And then I took a deep breath and I sat down on a Sunday morning and dug. I’m not a parent so I don’t know what it’s like to experience the birth of a child or to see that child strike out into the world to make his own way. But I wonder if that sort of triumphal advent isn’t, in some way, akin to finishing a book. It’s an emotional business I can tell you. You live with a set of characters and their struggles for so long that when the time comes and you tell them goodbye, the experience is truly a kind of grief. I’m sure there are a few dozen people in Nashville chuckling and telling their friends about the guy they saw crying in the corner of the coffee shop on Sunday. The weight and finality of Fin’s last scene came down on me with such force that my chest was tight with it and my breath short. When the writing was done, I went home and paced my room for an hour with tears in my eyes trying to understand the strange emotional storm that ending the story had stirred. I still don’t fully understand it. Don’t read this to mean that the ending is sad; I won’t spoil that revelation for you. The emotional impact didn’t come from the nature of the ending, you see. I’d known that all along. The impact came from the finality of it, the realization that I no longer needed the map, that I was no longer searching for the means to explain a decade-long dream. The contract entered into so long ago had been satisfied. The beginning had found its fulfillment in the end. It’s something of a holy communion, isn’t it? To create. To love one’s creation. To lead that creation through trial and grief and, at last, to come through the grand adventure and say, “It is finished.” Oh, what a holy image we bear. The creation creates and so by labor and great mystery, glimpses the endless love of the Creator. So it’s done now. And I’m happy with it. Though the ultimate judgment lies with you, the reader, I think I’ve served the story well. I think Fin and her ragged cast have been honored and now that the writing is complete, I find that I’m humbled and incredibly grateful to have been entrusted with the gift of telling their stories. The book will be out December 7th, 2010. I hope you enjoy it. I hope you find that, in the end, it’s a story worth telling.

Hutchmoot was a beautiful quilt, sewn together with the ties of common bonds and uncommon love. Like a homemade quilt, lovingly crafted from swatches of familiar patterns, and recycled from classic old dresses, I witnessed a living and breathing piece of art. There was the memorable material known informally as Andyland (the Andrew Peterson Message Board). I finally met Allison and Gaines at the Counting Stars concert. They are a young couple with whom I’ve felt a special spiritual bond watching their family grow in the cyber world. How odd that this was my first real meeting of these delightfully kind and sincere young people, and yet I have long felt the compulsion to pray for them routinely. Then there was Chad, another long time Andyland friend. I first remember e-mailing Chad when he posted something that resonated on an early version of Andyland. Chad was serving in the military, and has been open about the battle he fights with cancer. He’s stayed in touch, despite much relocation. I was so thankful that he found me at the show. When I met Ron, lovingly referred to as Ronzilla due to his extra large stature, he reminded me that we became acquainted before both of his children were born, about ten years ago. Our cyber relationship was built on a mutual respect for straight talk, music talk, sports, and conservative politics. The relationship survived the infamous Amy Grant disagreement, a hot message board thread that seemed important at the time. Now I’d have to concentrate to remember what prompted such spirited debate.  I wonder if I may have carried things a little too far in that long-play thread when I began using footnotes. Then there was Rick and Melinda from Georgia, a beautiful couple and parents to Gabriel, 3 and Liliane, 1. I met Rick and Melinda at a concert in Cedar Falls, Iowa (or was it Cedar Rapids). Rick works for an airline and is blessed with the benefit of special airline privileges (read, free tickets), which they have used liberally to follow Andrew Peterson to shows all over the country. I saw Sharon again, a kind lady from Ohio that I first met via message board conversations. Later we put names with faces at an early Andrew Peterson Behold the Lamb of God presentation at Belcourt Theatre in Nashville. Around a dozen of our giddy group shared dinner and conversation at a nearby restaurant. Sharon has promoted Square Peg concerts for years and is usually on the cutting edge of great indie music discoveries. Chris and Lyndsay Slaten made it after all, after a near cancellation. I’ve known Lyndsay–who can convey more enthusiasm in a message board post than pretty much anybody alive–for ages. They are fellow lovers of books, music, and film and Chris is an indie recording artist. I’ve long enjoyed the simplicity and beauty of his record Under Green Canopies. In my enthusiasm to say hello, I woke their newborn baby; that may have been my worst Hutchmoot moment. I caught a glimpse of Christiana and Heather. We exchanged hellos but little more; one of the weekend’s sad realities was being unwittingly swept from one conversation to another, without time to marinate in any one exchange. Then there was dear Brandy C., who introduced me to her Nashville friend, Mandy C. the editor for LifeWay Christian Resources. I enjoyed referring to them collectively as Brandy/Mandy through the weekend. I well remember when Brandy unexpectedly lost her step-father Dennis. She was transparent about her pain and the resulting struggles and questions. While attending college, Brandy apparently thought I had some kind of writing credentials and sometimes sent samples, asking for critiques. Now she could serve as my mentor as she crafts good work as a writer for Compassion International. By the way, Brandy authors one of the best food blogs around. And how about those Travis Prinzi and S.D. Smith dudes? Did you have the sense that their entire lives had prepared them for what they said at Hutchmoot? Could they have been any more informed and articulate? When Andrew Peterson ask Travis about the characters in fantasy literature that most embodied a particular characteristic, his off-the-cuff answer was like a scholarly laundry list, as if he had been researching that particular question for years. In fact, I suppose he has. Other beautifully familiar swatches of quilt material came from those I first met at an Andrew Peterson or Square Peg concert. It was a joy bumping into my old, young friend Ben B., who introduced me to his lovely and articulate wife, Ashley. Our initial meeting came when my son and I road tripped to an Andrew Peterson/Eric Peters concert at a church in Kansas City, so many moons ago. Ben B. was a student at the time. He brought his sisters, which was bound to impress a family man like me. I vividly recall Ben discussing the music of Andrew Peterson, how it touched him to the core, and often made him weep. Bingo. Instant friendship. Since then, I run into Ben routinely at area Square Peg concerts. Ben Y. was there. I’ve noticed Ben Y. at several shows, but was particularly moved when he once accompanied Randall Goodgame on the cello, with little rehearsal time, lending another dimension to Randy’s songs. Recently, I noticed a YouTube video of Ben Y. doing a spectacular  Jason Gray cover. I have talented friends. My friend Laura is another wonderful sister that I first met at a Behold the Lamb of God show that she promoted in Elkhorn, Nebraska. She brought her husband Tom, the C.S. Lewis buff. She is a strong, supportive advocate for meaningful music and puts her money and time where her mouth is. Laura is a sterling silver example of a woman that uses her God-given gifts to His glory. It was great to see people like the Bens, Laura, and Ashley, who are part of my literal community in Nebraska, be so moved by the concept of Hutchmoot, that they flew or drove half-way across the country to attend. The patchwork quilt was also crafted by my supremely talented Rabbit Room colleagues, some of whom I had not met until our planning and prayer meeting prior to registration. The substance and depth of these passionate men and women of the Lord humbled me, though I didn’t share as many moments with them as I would have liked; our goal was to use the needle and thread of Christ’s love to stitch everyone into a human work of art, to His glory, not to inhabit Rabbit Room cliques. There was Andrew Peterson offering a kind or encouraging word, despite his own worry and fatigue. And Jason Gray, who long ago and far away participated in a message board for Christian acoustic artists and fans that I moderated. He was present with humor, insight, and compassion. Evie’s work in the kitchen–assisted by her servant’s heart crew–were Babette’s Feast moments. Ron Block conversed with relaxed confidence and humility, as one who is assured that he is in Christ.  Ron’s Square Peg Concert moment was stunning. More importantly, his shoe-leather theology made me want to be more like him and Him. Jonathan Rogers wove tales in the story-telling voice of an old sage. I want Jonathan to be my neighbor. I shared a meal and conversation with Randall Goodgame, learning about his trip to Africa, and the gift from God that he brought home, his son. I awkwardly posed some nerdish questions about Randy’s songwriting process. Let’s be clear; Hutchmoot without nerdish moments would not be Hutchmoot. I enjoyed a few snippets of conversation with my old buddy, Eric Peters. Like many of the Hutchmoot artists, here’s a man who lives with the knowledge that if the market were just, his records would sell more units than Michael W. Smith and Steven Curtis Chapman combined. Nevertheless, he persists with passion. And the solid rock was everywhere, otherwise known as Pete Peterson, who organized and by sheer force of will held together the world of Hutchmoot. Then there were the three clergy Musketeers, Thomas McKenzie, Russ Ramsey, and Matt Conner, who rode in with casual dignity, loving us with grace. These honorable men were always at-the-ready with kindness, compassion, and prayer. They offered sage, literate wisdom when the rest of us were at a loss for words. Sarah Clarkson, Chris Wall, Janna Barber, Kate Hinson, and those that I’ve failed to mention by name, you were part of the majestic beauty of Hutchoot. Your words were thoughtful and true. Your hearts were beautiful and transparent. Brannon McAllister is the designer and creative consultant from Brooklyn, NY, responsible for so much of the visual beauty on Andrew Peterson’s most recent records. The long conversation I had with Brannon was typical of those that randomly sprouted in the rooms of Hutchmoot, like wildflowers on sunlit mountainsides. The free form dialogue was as comfortable as the Church of the Redeemer couch on which we sat. Now the name Brannon McAllister will not be just a talented name in liner notes. When I think of Brannon McAllister, thanks to Hutchmoot, I’ll also think, “Nice guy.” There was Aaron R. who shared a personal/spiritual realization that had come to him at Hutchmoot, which provided peace of mind and an attitude of service. Aaron is a Rabbit Room buddy, our resident comedian. But woven into all that lighthearted humor burns an earnest heart of passion to be a man of God. I had a flesh and blood meeting with Aaron, his wife Lindi–who was so helpful in Evie’s kitchen–and their children, when they passed through Omaha on their way to a family reunion in Iowa, just several weeks ago. It was a massive blessing to renew that friendship at Hutchmoot. The late night, post concert kitchen conversations with Rabbit Room buddy, Tony and his wife Cherie, my new friend Tom M., Russ Ramsey, and so many others, were as meaningful as our Rabbit Room exchanges, with a little added warmth, like the insulating layer of that hand-made quilt. Finally, there were you, my new friends: Walt, Tenika, Anne, Breann, Phillip, Tom, John, Jennifer, Whit, and the rest of you whose names are inextricably linked to Hutchmoot. There was an art major from Grand Island, Nebraska and a songwriter from North Carolina. I wish there was a published list of Hutchmoot names, so I could better recall the beauty that is Hutchmoot. I met so many of you, whose names escape me in this stream of consciousness narrative.  Still, as swatches were tied together, I noticed you. Timing and circumstance didn’t provide enough time to learn more about you and your journey, but I wanted to. In some locales, quilts are called comforters and the threads that link swatches together are called ties. When a quilt is hand-made, the ties more effectively hold the material together than those quilts that are commercially produced; all the better to withstand washings and the rough and tumble of life. As the beauty of our respective lives are integrated into the fabric of our local communities, may we be mindful that despite its beauty, this quilt of community should not be the kind of art used exclusively for display. May it live and breath authentically as living art, reaching hearts that are weary and broken, loving uncommonly, like The Great Comforter. Blessed be the ties that bind.

In part one I talked about poverty and wealth, and a father’s calling to care for his family. Now I’m going to broadly explain some of the nitty gritty nuts and bolts behind trying to make a living as an artist. It might get tedious, but bear with me. How to Lose Money. So these mugs. Oh, the mugs. We thought it would be fun to find a place to commission some handmade Rabbit Room mugs, partly to support the specific potter, partly to give ye faithful Rabbit Roomers a beautiful, somewhat meaningful souvenir, and partly (how foolish we were!) to help the Rabbit Room make some money. *Note: if this is totally boring for you, skip down to where it says, “Now, forget about the mugs.” Brannon McAllister suggested a potter (potteress?) in Greenville, South Carolina named Katie Coston, so I sent her an email and got the wheel spinning. She charged about $16 for each mug. That sounded like a lot until I thought about all the equipment she had to have bought, and the expertise (they were really beautiful pieces) and the clay and finish and other supplies, and the time it took her to spin each lump of clay into something beautiful, and the lettering, and the firing, then the shipping and packing supplies–and suddenly $16 didn’t seem like all that much. So I ordered a dozen or so (which came out to $192); with shipping the total came to a little over $200. If you subtract from that Katie’s hours, equipment, and supplies, I’m sure that didn’t leave her much. When Jamie goes to the grocery store for our family the bill can come to quite a bit more than Katie’s gross, so our order for mugs probably didn’t even buy her and her family a week’s worth of food. Hmm. We re-sold the mugs in the Rabbit Room for the same price, but the shipping kicked it up into the twenties. Add to that the packaging, the time it took Pete to put together the orders and drive them to the post office, then consider the fact that, no matter how well we packed the mugs, with every batch of mugs we’ve ordered, the good ol’ USPS pulverized at least one shipment. Sometimes more than that. Then we have to either apologize and refund someone’s money (because we’re out of mugs) or we apologize and ship another, eating that cost. It’s stressful just typing this out. (I should mention that the first two orders of mugs were handmade by Katie before she moved to England. After that we went with another guy in Wisconsin who provides handmade mugs with the bonus feature of the Rabbit Room logo. These new ones are a little stouter, a little less expensive, and the logo looks grand.) With all the broken shipments we decided we’d better start insuring the packages. Well, that costs extra, and we discovered to our shock and awe that it didn’t do any good. It seemed like someone went postal on the boxes in order to make the USPS pay. But the USPS insurance claim system is cumbersome and hardly worth the trouble. If you bought a mug, I hope this doesn’t make you feel bad. It brought us joy to bring these fine little pieces of art into the world and to get them to you. But we’ve lost a decent chunk of money on them. The only folks who made money were Katie and Stoneworks, who made very little in the scheme of things (and the USPS, now that I think about it. They may have come out on top). Still, I’m glad to have my mug, and I bet you’re glad for yours too. (If you didn’t get a mug, I’m sorry to say we won’t be ordering them until next year’s Hutchmoot, where we can sell them and safely bypass the post office.) Whew. Did you get all that? I know it was tedious, but I wanted to give you a behind-the-scenes picture of what one can go through to a) support an artisan and b) to sell a unique and beautiful product. Was it worth it? If you ask Pete on a bad day, after stressing over all the shipping fiascos, no. When he sees you guys tweeting pictures of your unbroken and coffee-filled mugs, he’d say yes. Maybe. Now forget about the mugs. Imagine what it’s like to make an album. It’s a lot like making a mug. A $25,000 mug. That may seem like a lot of cash, and it’s definitely possible to make an album for less–but it’s also definitely possible to make an album for more. In the old days (as in, ten years ago) $25,000 would have been a teeny tiny budget. But here’s the breakdown, in case you ever wondered why some of us strangely insist on selling CDs instead of giving them away. You need a producer. A guy who’s smarter than you. For example, well let’s see…how about Ben Shive! Ben has a wife, four children, and a mortgage payment. He’s also really, really good at what he does. He could also make steadier money teaching college or playing piano in the corner at an Italian restaurant. But he believes in the work he’s doing and has carved out a good career making albums. He’s picky. He typically only produces projects he believes in because he knows he’ll spend weeks upon weeks with the songs and the artist–and because he wants to be a part of work that he values either for its artistic, spiritual, or relational merit. If you want a grownup to spend eight to fourteen hours a day for two months working on your album, you need to pay him. Right? Right. You need great musicians. This one doesn’t bear much explanation, but you should know that if you want a great player on your record you’ll usually need to pay him. He or she will be someone who’s had years and years of experience and will bring nuances to your songs you would never find on your own. They’ll make you sound better than you are. (This is definitely true of my records.) But these guys have families and mortgages and grocery bills too. So you need to pay them. You need a mixing engineer. Some guy with thousands of dollars of gear and a studio will tweak the tracks and set levels and turn knobs you never knew existed, all to make the song sound as beautiful as it can. Again, it takes years of experience to be proficient at this. And an engineer might be able to mix a song a day. So there’s another full-time job for a week or so. (Oh, and the producer is usually (and hopefully) still involved in this part of the process, so there’s his time, too.) You have to master the record. Mastering is the icing on top. It’s the final layer of sonic sweetness, and it’s when the songs are put in the proper order and burned to the final, glowing disc of ones and zeroes representing all your weeks of labor. Now you’re finished, right? Wrong. Now you have to hire an artist or designer. Someone needs to package the record and come up with a cover and lay out all the lyrics and thank yous and credits. After they come up with a (hopefully) mind-blowing cover and design they need to submit all that information to the printer. Oh, and you might need a photographer. This one goes before the artist/designer, in case you want to use pictures for the packaging. Me, I avoid this at all costs. (Take the Clear to Venus cover, for example. The one record with my face on the cover sold the fewest copies. Coincidence? I think not.) Then you need to print it. Usually folks print the CDs 1,000 at a time to get the best price break. So think about it. After all the above, then you still need to come up with $1,500-$2,000 to actually print the thing up! Unless you’re hip and you only sell it on iTunes and Amazon (or the Rabbit Room) digitally. Now imagine you have no record deal. You’re an independent artist. You book your own shows. You answer the emails, make the calls, manage your website, post Facebook status updates so people know you’re interesting and witty, and you’ve somehow managed to carve out enough time in your diaper-changing, utility bill-paying, yard-mowing, church-attending, self-doubting life to actually WRITE SONGS. Then what? Then, my songwriting friend, you have to come up with $15,000-$25,000 to record them (refer to above list), with the fool’s hope that you’ll sell enough to pay off the debt, or the financiers, or the grandparents so you don’t lose your shirt and your house. The artist’s life is not for the faint of heart, or the fiscally sage. It is an extravagant gamble. A leap of faith. Please understand–I’m not complaining. And I’m not complaining on anyone’s behalf. I’m grateful to still be doing this. I’m grateful that I have enough listeners to have a label to help offset that record-making cost. I’m grateful for a wife whose astonishing, audacious belief in my gifting has convinced me to keep at this for the last fifteen years. Lord knows I’ve been tempted to throw in the towel. I’m grateful for you, whose emails and purchases and attendance at my concerts have given me the chance to write, record, and tour. I do not take it for granted. I still get weepy if I think about it. But if you keep up with the Square Peg Alliance and the world of independent music you know I’m the least among my peers. There are so many writers whose songs are carrying the fire. I played a show in Chattanooga last weekend with Eric Peters and a band called Concerning Lions (who were really good). The concert was raising money for a group of counselors committed to making their services available to the poorest of the poor. One of them told how he plays Eric Peters’s song “Tomorrow” for many of his clients, and it helped them to voice their own fears and doubts and sorrows. I was so proud of Eric. And it reminded me (as if I needed reminding) how vital songs like his are in all this darkness. The music business, and now the book publishing business, is morphing even as I type this. By the time you finish reading this post there will be a zillion new bands, new websites, new ideas for the Future of Music. The times they are a-changin’. I don’t know if you’ve ever thought of it like this before, but every independent artist you know is an entrepreneur. Many of us aren’t independently wealthy, don’t have benefactors, and have never written a hit song like “Awesome God” or “Sing Your Praise to the Lord” to provide so much money we have to cap our income and give the rest away. Most of us have at some point gotten royalty statements in the mail from ASCAP (who handles radio royalties) that said, “We’re sorry, but we don’t send checks for less than $10.” The music industry is vastly different now from what it was even a decade ago. Record labels have had to change tactics, the advent of the internet and digital recording has democratized record-making and distribution, and an artist’s level of success seems to be in direct proportion to how much time he or she spends on social media. There’s a great temptation to spend most of your time promoting your work rather than improving it. We have become better typists than players; my computer keys are worn to the nub, but my fretboard is good as new. I’m not saying Facebook and Twitter and blogging are necessarily bad (forbid it that I should point out the speck in your eye when there’s a blog in mine), but that our need to sell CDs and book concerts and remind the world that we’re still here–still writing songs, still doing our best to create truthful, beautiful, excellent works–can seriously intrude on the time we could spend (and ought to spend) practicing, studying, honing our craft. Again, this isn’t a complaint. I confess I have complained before, but this isn’t one of those times. I know full well there’s sex-trafficking, slave trade, genocide, war, and starvation all over this broken, beautiful planet. The Kingdom, God’s will done on earth, stabs into the wide blackness like a bright sword in the hands of missionaries, doctors, pastors, and Christians who die for love every day. Michael Card told me there’s more persecution in the church now than ever before. There are brothers and sisters in dank prisons right now. I don’t know why the Lord tarries. But until he comes, it is my job, in the words of George MacDonald, “to better what I can.” Look around you. See the sorrow and weariness in the world, in your own community and church, under your own roof–in your own heart, for Heaven’s sake–and better what you can. Let Christ lead you; he’ll show you how. If you’re wealthy, keep your job and fling the money at those who are bringing water to the thirsty. If you’re not wealthy, better what you can. Work your field. Tend your family like a garden. Write a song about your story. Write a story. Better yet, live a story. Make something beautiful, and make something beautiful of your life. There’s so much in the world that’s falling apart, so put something together. Find a way. If you’re called to write songs and that means getting creative with how you sell your product so that people with means can help you carry on, then so be it. Many of us in Nashville were drawn here because of a fire in our bones to create. When I hear Andy Gullahorn sing a healing song for a rapt audience I am convinced that while there are some in the Body called to teach, and to preach, and to carry the Gospel to the earth’s edge, others of us are called to craft melodies and lyrics and carry the Gospel to the heart’s hollow. Whether a medical missionary is mending flesh or Gully is comforting a lonesome soul with a song, the medicine is the same. We carry to the world the presence of Jesus in us and through us who are in him and for him. However we can, we better what we can. Next: MONEY, Part Three

A passage worth reading from Thomas Wingfold, Curate, on making a living while following Christ: “‘Jesus buying and selling?” said Wingfold to himself. ‘And why not? Did Jesus make chairs and tables, or boats perhaps, which the people of Nazareth wanted, without any admixture of trade in the matter? Was there no transaction? No passing of money between hands? Did they not pay his father for them? Was his Father’s way of keeping things going in the world too vile for the hands of him whose being was delight in the will of that Father? No; there must be a way of handling money that is noble as the handling of the sword in the hands of the patriot. Neither the mean man who loves it nor the faithless man who despises it knows how to handle it. The former is one who allows his dog to become a nuisance; the latter one who kicks him from his sight. The noble man is he who so truly does the work given him to do that the inherent nobility of that work is manifest. And the trader who trades nobly is nobler surely than the high-born who, if he carried the principles of his daily life into trade, would be as pitiful a sneak as any he that bows and scrapes falsely behind that altar of lies, his counter.’ From another chapter called “Divine Service”: “‘Mr. Drew, your shop is the temple of your service where the Lord Christ, the only image of the Father, is, or ought to be, throned; your counter is, or ought to be, his altar; and everything thereon laid, with intent of doing as well as you can for your neighbor, in the name of the man Christ Jesus, is a true sacrifice offered to him, a service done to the eternal creating Love of the universe.’ ‘I say not,’ Polwarth went on, ‘that so doing you will grow a rich man, but I say that by so doing you will be saved from growing too rich, and that you will be a fellow worker with God for the salvation of his world.’ ‘I must live; I cannot give my goods away!’ murmured Mr. Drew thinkingly, as one that sought enlightenment. ‘That would be to go direct against the order of his world,’ said Polwarth. ‘No. A harder task is yours, Mr. Drew – to make your business a gain to you, and at the same time to be not only what is commonly counted just, but interested in, and careful of, and caring for your neighbour, as a servant of the God of bounty who giveth to all men liberally. Your calling is to do your best for your neighbour that you reasonably can.’ ‘But who is to fix what is reasonable?’ asked Drew. ‘The man himself, thinking in the presence of Jesus Christ. There is a holy moderation which is of God.’ ‘There won’t be many fortunes – great fortunes – made after that rule, Mr. Polwarth.’ ‘Very few.’ ‘Then do you say that no great fortunes have been righteously made?’ ‘If righteously means after the fashion of Jesus Christ — But I will not judge: that is for the God-enlightened conscience of the man himself to do, not for his neighbour’s. Why should I be judged by another man’s conscience? But you see, Mr. Drew – and this is what I was driving at – you have it in your power to serve God through the needs of his children all the working day, from morning to night, so long as there is a customer in your shop…Purely ideal or not, one thing is certain: it will never be reached by one who is so indifferent to it as to believe it impossible. Whether it may be reached in this world or not, that is a question of no consequence; whether a man has begun to reach after it is of the utmost awfulness of import. And should it be ideal, which I doubt, what else than the ideal have the followers of the ideal man to do with?’ ‘Can a man reach anything ideal before he has God dwelling in him, filling every cranny of his soul?’ asked the curate with shining eyes. ‘Nothing, I do most solemnly believe,’ answered Polwarth. ‘It weighs on me heavily sometimes,’ he resumed, after a pause, ‘to think how far all but a few are from being able even to entertain the idea of the indwelling in them of the original power of their life. True, God is in every man, else how could he live the life he does live? But that life God keeps alive for the hour when he shall inform the will, the aspiration, the imagination of the man. When the man throws wide his door tot he Father of his spirit, when his individual being is thus supplemented – to use a poor, miserable word – with the individuality that originated it, then is the man a whole, healthy, complete existence. Then indeed, and then only, will he do no wrong, think no wrong, love perfectly, and be right merry. Then will he scarce think of praying, because God is in every thought and enters anew with every sensation. Then he will forgive and endure, and pour out his soul for the beloved, who yet grope their way in doubt and passion. Then every man will be dear and precious to him, even the worst; for in him also lies an unknown yearning after the same peace wherein he rests and loves.’ He sat down suddenly, and a deep silence filled the room.”

A few questions were raised about the Counting Stars pre-order tiers we sold here, and about the pricey $20 Rabbit Room mugs. If a few people were brave enough to question it by commenting, I’m sure there were even more who kept quiet. There are a few more of those patronage plans on the horizon so I figured it would be a good time to explain our thinking. Years ago I played several shows with a few members of the Kid Brothers of St. Frank. Remember them? It was the unofficial pseudo-Catholic order started by Rich Mullins in honor of St. Francis of Assisi, and included a few younger musicians like Eric Hauck, Michael Aukofer, Mitch McVicker, and Keith Bordeaux (who wasn’t a musician, but who was on the verge of moving to Arizona to serve however he could before Rich died). I was as big a Rich Mullins fan as you could imagine, so in the years after his death I was honored and a little frightened to find myself occasionally doing shows with those guys. Eric in particular embodied the spirit of the Kid Brothers. He was hilarious, gentle and kindhearted, had a long biker goatee, a braided ponytail, smelled a little funny, drove a motorcycle, and played cello. You read that right. He played cello, and he played it well. Also, he never wore shoes. The only time I saw him with footwear was in the airport (because the FAA requires it). When they stopped him from boarding the plane Eric pulled out of his grimy backpack a grimy pair of flip flops to appease them. He was perfectly content to bounce through life without anything to tie him down, money least of all. I, on the other hand, was married and had two baby boys. I couldn’t just crash on random couches from night to night. I was responsible not just for myself but to provide food and shelter for my family. I couldn’t up and disappear like a burp in the wind whenever the mood struck. The day I got the advance for my first record deal we threw a party at our little house in Watertown, Tennessee (a 1000 square foot farmhouse we rented for $500 per month), and I splurged on the following: one cheap propane grill, some ground beef, and one Nintendo 64 game system. We used the grill to make burgers for our friends (several of whom were Kid Brothers) and the Nintendo to play the James Bond shooter Goldeneye until sunrise. All told, I spent $200. I remember one of the guys pulling me aside and gently questioning my materialism. I was flummoxed and a little defensive. Was I being materialistic by purchasing a $100 video game? Was I being materialistic to have bought a cheap grill to cook the food? (Food they were happily eating, I thought to myself.) These guys, back when they were official members of the unofficial order, had taken vows of poverty and chastity. I hadn’t. And besides, for the first several years we lived in Nashville (even after the record deal) we were living well below the poverty line. I stood there by the new grill thinking, “I haven’t taken a vow, but I’m living it, by golly.” It wasn’t a big deal, though. I shrugged it off and partied on. It was a good day, and the fun we got out of that James Bond video game was worth every penny. I love those guys and the mighty honor they paid me by letting me do shows with them. Just a few weeks before that, I was on a plane to Bolivia with Compassion International along with Keith, another Kid Brother. There, I met little Elba (whom we still sponsor), and I wrote “Land of the Free“, about my whirl of emotions, convictions and confusions over Elba’s joy in the midst of such poverty. I didn’t know what to do with the discontent I felt with my own lifestyle. The answer, I decided, must be poverty. If I want joy, I must live in a hut. I must follow the footsteps of St. Francis and Rich Mullins and become a mendicant bard. Houses are bad. Money is bad. People with houses and money are bad. I was fired up. I came back to the States ready to sell everything and live a communal lifestyle with a few other folks, and we even went so far as to look at some land where we’d sing hippie Jesus songs and share packets of Ramen noodles for the rest of our days. I was still grieving the death of Rich Mullins (we weren’t friends or anything, but I was still grieving in some sense), trying to sort out how to emulate the way Rich lived out his love for Jesus. I saw joy on the faces of the Bolivian Christians, and it was a joy I didn’t see at my church back home. I remembered Rich saying, “Following Christ is not about having your perfect little life with your perfect little house, far away from homosexuals and minorities.” How very true those words still are. But I couldn’t figure out my place in this way of living. I was thankful for our sturdy little house and our community, and didn’t want to leave it. I was haunted by the truth that if I asked Elba and her family whether she’d rather live in their house or mine, they’d choose mine. If they could opt to have running water in their home, they’d choose it every time. They’d choose to have good shoes, clean clothes, and plenty of food. So the answer for me, a family man, wasn’t poverty. Around this time I read an excellent book by Richard Foster called The Freedom of Simplicity, and I had my answer. What I envied about the Bolivians wasn’t poverty. It was simplicity. They didn’t choose it. It’s a necessary result of living in poverty, the silver lining on a dark cloud. That’s why people come back from Africa with that infectious gladness–not, of course, because of the terrible smell or the sickness or the injustice–it’s the simplicity. It’s a life uncluttered by television and power bills and traffic jams–a life enriched by the intense joy of interacting with other souls at a profoundly deep level, which is what we were meant for. What we miss when we come back from mission trips and church camps and spiritual retreats is life at its simplest. American culture is one extreme (a land of plenty at the cost of simplicity) and the Third World is the other (poverty with the gift of simplicity). Each has its blessings and its curses. This point of this isn’t to get to the bottom of which of these extremes is better, but to propose a better way. A Christ-centered life of intimate fellowship unharried by either sickness and starvation or the chaos of a capitalistic rat race might be a good picture of the order of the day in the New Jerusalem. We don’t want to thrust electronics and trinkets and McDonald’s fries on Elba’s family any more than they’d want to thrust their dirt floors and malnutrition on us. What I wish for Elba is clean streets and sturdy houses, good food and warm clothes: hope. What I wish for us is walks in the woods, good friends, a tight community with a loving church at its heart: peace. The only way to usher in that Kingdom is to walk in the way of Jesus. To love well, to push back the fall, to let the Spirit lead. Now, the beauty of it is that each of us carries a peculiar gift to light the darkness. Rich Mullins, God bless him, was single. That meant he could give most of his money away and hitchhike barefoot. It meant he could up and move to Arizona to live with Native Americans and he didn’t have to ask a soul. The Wind blew, and he floated on it. He wrote about his long, lonely, love-struck journey with Christ, and we, the Saints, were edified. But what about the rest of us? As much as I’d like to be as cool as Rich, I can’t. I got married at nineteen, so as long as I’ve been writing songs I’ve had a family to care for. That means I want a roof over their heads, and shoes on their feet (sorry, Rich and Eric), and beauty and safety and health. In my walk with Christ I have found that at times my footprints align with my heroes’ and other times they don’t, no matter how hard I try. Most of the time, their shoes are just too big for me to fill. Speaking of shoes, I grew up fairly poor. We never missed a meal, but that’s because many of those meals were a cheap tuna casserole called Peterson Special. (Mom named it that because we all loved it and the name gave the pot of noodles some dignity, I suppose.) Back to the shoes: I remember walking to school in 4th grade and noticing that I could stick my big toe all the way through the sole of my thrift store sneakers. I understood that new shoes weren’t in my immediate future so I duct taped them every other day. I remember sitting at my desk staring at the other kids’ Chuck Taylors, wondering why I couldn’t have a pair. I dreaded the days they’d ask us to take off our shoes in P.E. because my socks were so gray and ratty while all the other kids’ socks looked brand new. They stared at me and I stared at the floor. I know what it’s like to be the (relatively) poor kid in the room. Now, as a thirty-six year old father and husband, I have a thing about shoes. I’m disproportionately excited whenever I get to buy a new pair of shoes. I feel like the king of the world walking out of the store with those new cushiony insoles, and I’m embarrassed to tell you that I’m constantly checking myself out when I see my reflection in a store window on New Shoe Day. The same goes for my kids. My own 4th grade shame carries itself over into my kids’ lives so that Jamie knows to send me out with them to buy their shoes; I don’t trust her to choose cool enough shoes for them. The point: being poor is not the only way to radically follow Christ. Some people are called to it. I have long felt a tension between all that I learned from the Kid Brothers and Rich Mullins about identifying with the poor and the weak, versus my holy responsibility to tend to my family’s spiritual and physical needs. Had Rich ever married, I’m certain his wife would have appreciated a nice dress every now and then, or a bouquet of flowers, or a decent kitchen, and she probably would have lovingly insisted that he not give all his money away, especially after she bore his children and needed to buy diapers, and school supplies, and shoes for goodness sake. And the other thing is, Rich Mullins had hit songs that are still making money. He gave a lot of his money away, but he also had a constant stream of it flowing in. Lots of it. And I’m sure the ministries he supported with the surplus were grateful that he channeled it to them for Kingdom work. Money isn’t the root of all evil. The Bible doesn’t say that. Here’s the verse: “For the love of money is a root of all kinds of evil. Some people, eager for money, have wandered from the faith and pierced themselves with many griefs.” (1 Timothy 6:10) We’re called to keep watch so that we don’t fall in love with money. To be sure, wealth is a heavy burden and isn’t for everyone, just as poverty is a burden and isn’t for everyone. The people of the church are varied in strengths and weaknesses. Money itself isn’t evil. In fact, money can be a great tool for Kingdom work. It’s easy to tout ideals about how wrong it is to be wealthy until you’re on the receiving end of someone’s generosity. After all, someone has to buy the burgers. Next: Part II, The Extravagant Gamble

There’s a moment in George MacDonald’s Phantastes in which food makes all the difference. …it not only satisfied my hunger, but operated in such a way upon my senses, that I was brought into a far more complete relationship with the things around me. The human forms appeared much more dense and defined, more tangibly visible … I seemed to know better which direction to choose when any doubt arose. I began to feel in some degree what the birds meant in their songs, though I could not express it in words, anymore than you can some landscapes. Food can do this sort of thing. I’m sure you’ve experienced a baser version of his: not stumbling through Fairy Land trying to get a grip on what’s around you, but the simple grumpiness and crankiness that results from being late to get your meal. Tricia and I went through this in our experience at Hutchmoot, and in the moment our plane landed back in Rochester. We had spent all weekend having amazing meals courtesy of the cooking artistry of Evie Coates, who occasionally blogs for MyFoodSubscriptions. On the way home, our first flight was delayed, and we did not have time in the layover to get dinner. We were starving by the time our plane landed in Rochester. We got in the car and drove directly to get Rochester’s most famous meal: The Garbage Plate. (If you’re ever in Rochester, I’ll take you out for one of these.) We were revived (though I admit, the next morning I regretted the decision to eat such a plate at 10:30pm). Where am I going with this ramble about food? Wherever I want. It’s food. It’s worth talking about. But apart from that … well, let’s back up and say that Evie’s cooking is better, by far, than a Garbage Plate (and believe me: as a Rochesterian, that’s saying a lot). Combine Evie’s cooking with the great company at Hutchmoot and the wonderful conversation around the dinner tables, and you had an experience that helps you to see the world better, like the man walking through Fairy Land. It’s magic. It’s sacramental. AP told a story at some point during the weekend about bringing the same pot of chili to a family that had lost a loved one and a family that had welcomed a new baby into the world. Food, in all its wonderful varieties, is like the stories we tell. They are many and varied, but all the best ones have a source in One Story. Food sustains us; the Story sustains us. Food, like all the created world, points to the greater reality in and behind and around it, that there is a creator who sustains us and nourishes us. At the first meal of the Hutchmoot weekend, it was noted many times that Evie put a lot of love into her cooking. It might sound like hyperbole, but it’s not. Love and food go together. And now I’m hungry, so I’m wrapping this up and heading downstairs for a burrito.

An airplane is such a sterile but dirty environment. It’s sterile in an aesthetic sense, plastic and vinyl and white luggage racks, like a line of drawers in a morgue, or bunks on a Navy battleship. It’s dirty because everyone is breathing the same air in a closed environment, and thousands of hands that have been who-knows-where have touched everything. On an airplane one has absolutely no control over one’s life. It is a total act of faith to get on a plane, especially these days. We use our reason to determine that most planes make it to their destination; we subconsciously calculate the risk of malfunction or fire or the captain suddenly becoming a paranoid schizophrenic. We mentally and often subconsciously calculate these risks, then make a leap. Any action is a leap; it’s just that some see more risk than others, and some folks lack the faith necessary to leap. But we must leap, even to get out of bed. We have no idea what the day may bring. Will it be another routine day, with a shower, breakfast, the paper, a kiss for the wife and kids, Starbucks on the way to work, lunch, work, the drive home in traffic with the monotony on the radio, dinner, a movie, and sleep? Or we can be met by natural disaster, a tornado or earthquake that wipes out our possessions, or even our family.  The phone rings. An accident, or a stroke, or heart attack. That kiss to the wife was her last – or ours. We try to console ourselves with routine, with keeping our heads down, by thinking like an ox treading out grain, round and round the circle of days, trying to believe that nothing  is changing, that life is linear, living with no aerial view, no overarching vision. But to be in time means to change. The body ages daily. The muscles weaken. The reflexes get slower; the mental faculties diminish. Time-bound experience isn’t linear; it’s often jagged, soul-piercing at times. From a solely human perspective, there is no such thing as hope. Death is the great equalizer. It brings down king and peasant, celebrity and nobody. So it makes sense to start with the inescapable Fact of Death and work backwards. What do I want my life to have meant? What will be the sum total written on my tombstone? What do I want the Lord Jesus Christ to say when I stand before him? This is the aerial view, seeing the end from the beginning. It is Sanity. We can hide from this Fact through hedonism, materialism, technology, and routine; we can be cowards and pretend everything is linear. This is what many of us do. I have often done it at times. But it burns up our most precious resource: time. Living for mere pleasure or possessions gains us nothing and ultimately costs us everything, like playing video games for eight hours a day, eight days a week. I want to live my life in light of the Facts, especially that of standing before Christ to account for my life. Jesus said the only way we could bear much fruit is to abide in him. I want to abide, every day, and bear much fruit. Too long have I hidden in the shadows, like Theoden, living in fear and self-delusion, not taking up the mantle of my kingship – the rule of Christ, through me, as if it were me living, in my domain, my circle of influence. Theoden had a mighty destiny, but the false counsels of Wormtongue stole many years from him. I have felt many years stolen from me by my own Wormtongue, the satanic counsel that comes into my own mind – fears, feelings of inadequacy, the desire to hide away at home and simply enjoy the blessings given through my work. But, like Theoden, right now is always the time to choose what is right. It would have been easier for Frodo, and Sam, and Merry and Pippin, to stay in the Shire and hide their heads in their hobbit-holes, to pretend that the world wasn’t being covered by darkness. But they were caught up in a story that wasn’t merely about their little hobbit-lives; it was about the life of an entire world, and each of them had a vital part to play in it. Many of us have our little hobbit-holes, those places of contentment and comfort, ease, where the steady supplies of garden vegetables, good ales and Longbottom Leaf keep us mired in the illusion of permanence. But we can’t stay there, not as a hiding place, if we want a life that resounds with the Eternal. While the Great War is on, Hobbiton can be a place of respite from my journeys, but I have a mission, a purpose, and the forces at work in this world are not going to sit back and wait for me to fulfill my calling. It will all pass me by, and someone else will be used in my place unless I step out in faith. Blessed is he whose trust is in the Lord.

A few times during Hutchmoot I heard about books I wanted to track down but I didn’t have anything to write on. Now I can’t remember a single one. I’m sure I’m not the only one, so I thought it would be helpful to start a list here. Some of these are available in the Rabbit Room Store, so check there before you go gallivanting over to Amazon or somesuch to spend your hard-earned money. We’ll put it to better use than they will. A few people asked me about the following: Walking on Water, by Madeline L’Engle The War of Art, by Steven Pressfield Bird by Bird, by Anne Lamott I also referenced in my George MacDonald talk the book The Sacred Journey, by Frederick Buechner. Anyone else?

The power of story. The beauty of community. Those, I would say, encapsulate the dominant themes and conversations from the initial Hutchmoot gathering. Both are sexy. Both require work. The common bond between so many convening around the Rabbit Room these days is a love for story and a feeling that God has given them a story to tell in the process. I met several burgeoning songwriters and authors over the weekend who mentioned they felt empowered to create what was within them. The community at Hutchmoot provided the impetus needed for these works waiting to be brought to life. And that’s a wonderful thing to be celebrated. But Hutchmoot is temporary. And the Rabbit Room is digital. We have certainly found inspiration and encouragement to this point (or else we wouldn’t be here), but a longing emerged from those present at Church of the Redeemer for a deeper level of artistic community. The friendships between various songwriters and authors were highlighted and then prodded, “How do I form what you have formed?” The underlying tension is that everyone in the room recognized that the songwriters pushed one another to be better. Pete and Andrew Peterson both said they shared their books with one another throughout their drafts. Like-minded artists pushing one another deeper into the excellence of their craft, of their own story, is what so many longed for. I spent the Sunday night after Hutchmoot in the Nashville area before heading home catching a Griffin House concert. He’s a Nashville songwriter who’s been able to ply his trade for a decade or so and he shared a new song he said was birthed in a community group. It was my favorite of the songs he revealed that night. Just a few weeks prior, Griffin gave us an interview for a music website I founded a few years ago. In it, he speaks of this community and the power of it in his own life: “I just joined this songwriting group with Bob Schneider and some other writers – right now Sarah and Sean from Nickel Creek are in it – and we all get together and write, sending in a song every week based on a prompt we’re given … we have to turn one in every week, it keeps us going. I’ve written my entire new record from that process. I’ve been amazed just how much having a prompt, an assignment, can help keep you focused.” I was amazed this last weekend at the need for homework and a community that will push me to complete it. It’s one thing to have a story in your head. That’s the romantic part. The grist mill of deadlines is the covenant relationship you make with that story. We’re not typically given to relationships so intense and demanding. But it’s the beauty of community that draws us to marry our story and, ultimately, introduce it to the world.

Allen Levi, Ben May, and I stood on Wendell Berry‘s front porch as nervous as schoolboys. Allen had prayed aloud as we pulled up to the little Kentucky farmhouse that God would keep the visit from descending into some goofy hero worship, and that we’d remember who we are, that somehow our visit would amount to a blessing to the Berrys even as it would be to us. Basically it was, “Dear God, don’t let us be dummies.” There was a lot going into the trip. Early this year Ben May wrote Wendell a letter explaining that he and a few of his singer/songwriter friends had been greatly moved by his writings and would be honored to spend a little time with him. Wendell agreed to it, on the condition that we not drive all the way to Kentucky just to see him, saying he didn’t think he was equal to such a responsibility. So we let him know we’d be in Kentucky for concerts in August, and the date was set. Allen and Ben read and re-read Berry’s books before the trip. I keep a number of Wendell’s books of poetry at arm’s reach and read from them often, but have been too busy this year to dream of re-reading any novels or essays. But just to be responsible I brought Jayber Crow with me on the trip. In my hotel room the night before, I flipped through it and read passages at random, reliving the heartbreaking beauty of the story, and ended up re-reading much of the last chapter–clear to the bittersweet ending that left me sobbing on the floor of my office five years ago. (“Sobbing” isn’t an exaggeration. The book wrecked me.) Allen and I met for coffee at Heine Bros. Sunday morning before the visit and talked about songwriting and stories for a few hours before we picked Ben May up from the airport. Between that conversation and the previous night’s in-the-round concert with Allen, one of my hopes for the trip was realized. See, meeting Wendell was only part of the point of the trip. From the first time I met Allen I hoped to be grafted into his story in one way or another, so our “goofy rabbit trail” (as Ben referred to it to Wendell later) was an excuse to spend some time in the car with a few kindred spirits. And the nice thing about that was, by the time we picked up Ben, the trip was already a success. My soul already felt healthier just being around those guys. It took the pressure off. Wendell could have been a crotchety old geezer who shooed us from his porch and we still would have driven home happy. But Wendell and his wife Tanya were anything but crotchety geezers. We approached the porch in silence, each of us thinking of our own favorite stories about the Port William Membership, each of us took a deep breath, and Ben knocked. After a few moments a beautiful, sharp-eyed, white-haired woman answered the door and welcomed us in: Tanya Berry, who, as anyone who gives a hoot about Berry’s writing knows, transcribes Wendell’s hand-written manuscripts with her trusty typewriter—the same Tanya who lived with him many years ago on the banks of the river in the long-legged house. She smiled and offered us seats in the front room. About that time came footsteps from staircase, and Mr. Berry descended, greeted us with a giant smile, and looked each of us in the eye. I had read that Wendell Berry can intimidate. I assumed that meant he was standoffish or stiff. Quite the opposite was true. The source of any reputation for being intimidating was, in fact, his kindness. He looked me in the eye when he asked my name, and he seemed to actually care about the answer. It wasn’t a formality, and as far as I could tell he wasn’t just being nice. I was a guest in his home and he wanted to know my name, it seemed, in a deeper way than I was used to. I don’t know that I managed to meet that formidable gaze or that enormous grin. We sat and talked for two hours. When Allen, God bless him, exercised his gift of southern palavering and told Wendell all about his timberland in Georgia, Wendell sat up and started talking. It was a subject that interested him, which was no surprise. In minutes I had learned more than I ever wanted to know about Native American forestry in Wisconsin, which meant I was free to let my eyes roam around the room while Wendell talked. There was, as you might imagine, no television. In the center of the room was a woodburning stove, and on every wall were books, books, books. Virgil. William Blake. Books on Kentucky birds. Shakespeare. At some point Allen asked Wendell if he wrote every day. He more or less deflected the question, then turned his bright eyes on me. “What about you, Andrew? You’re a writer. Do you write every day?” Again, that intimidating interest. I gulped. I was a possum in headlights. I told him I tried, but it was hard. I have these three kids, and we homeschool, and the demands of a music career make it difficult. I mumbled something about how music uses a different part of my brain than book writing, so it’s hard to move back and forth between the two. To my great horror, Wendell disagreed. He said kindly, “Now I don’t buy into all that scientific talk about ‘parts of the brain’. I think you have one mind.” I gulped. “Well, sir, what I mean is that it exercises a different kind of creativity. Surely you, uh, feel differently when you’re writing a poem than when you’re writing an essay or a novel, don’t you?” “But you can’t think about that while you’re doing it,” he said. “If you think about what you’re doing, then you’ve stopped doing it. If you stop writing your song and think ‘I’m writing a song,’ then you’re no longer writing a song. The bird,” he said, “has flown.” I gathered my wits. “I guess what I’m saying is just that writing an album is a creatively demanding process and–” “But are you writing songs or are you writing albums?” asked Tanya from her rocking chair. Her brow was furrowed and she was weighing my every word. “Uh, well, both, ma’am. It’s not like this for everybody, but a lot of times I’m thinking of the album as a whole while I’m writing the song. I want the album—and I think of it like a photo album—to tell a story, sorta. I gather the songs together and sort out the good ones from the bad ones and the good ones make it to the record–” “So,” Wendell said, “you write bad ones. How do you judge the good from the bad?” By now my adrenaline was pumping into my system full-bore. I, the youngest person in the room by nearly fifteen years, was being grilled, more or less. “Well, sir, if I hold two songs up next to each other, usually one will say better than the other what I mean to say. If the song doesn’t say it well, it gets shelved.” I hoped this would satisfy them so he and Allan could get back to their discussion about Chief Milwaukee’s timber wisdom. But no. “Then it’s about what the song is saying, then,” Tanya said, still watching me with an eyebrow raised. “Not the music?” “Well, it’s both. The lyric and the music are married,” I said. “Do you write out the music?” “No, ma’am.” “Hmm.” And then, thank goodness, Allan or Ben chimed in and those spotlight eyes and the intense interest passed on to someone else. I was so relieved I almost crumpled into Wendell Berry’s couch and fainted dead away. For another hour or so the talk meandered, and at one point Wendell turned to Ben with a grin and said, “Well, Mister May, you haven’t hardly said a word. Are these two all that entertaining?” Ben had his minute in the sun, as it were, and offered up to Wendell his gratitude for his hospitality and his work. A few minutes later I had my chance, too. I took a deep breath, steeled my nerves, and told him how I grew up loathing all things agricultural, and how my parents always impressed on us the beauty of the land and the old ways but I kicked against those goads. I told him how I found myself living in a cookie-cutter subdivision in Nashville as I read the final pages of Jayber Crow, and how I picked myself off the floor, wiped my eyes, and immediately started looking online for land in Kentucky. I wanted to live a richer life, one where I and my wife and children could hear what the land had to say. I told him how his works teach me to care about things that matter, and how his stories have encouraged some of us in Nashville to approach our music more like farmers tilling ancient soil than miners digging for gold. He nodded. Then he deflected the compliment again. He said, “Well, the only thing I don’t like about that is that you all think it’s me and my ideas. It’s not. I learned all this from many teachers. If you subtracted from my work all that I learned from my teachers there would only be the tiniest bit left. And I don’t want to take credit for their work. I will take credit for the discipline of sitting down and writing it out. But that’s all.” “You don’t have to take credit, sir. I just wanted to thank you.” I was a guest in his home, so I didn’t want to be contrary. I appreciated his humility. But if I were a bolder man or a friend of his I would’ve said this: “But Mister Berry, I’m not reading your teachers’ books. I’m reading yours. And besides that, I don’t know another author who can say these things like you can. I don’t know anyone else who walks their woodlands on Sabbath mornings and writes verses like, ‘And now the remnant groves grow bright with praise / They light around me like an old man’s days.’ No other author has used his sage imagination to construct a fictional town like Port William and populated it with characters like Hannah Coulter, Andy Catlett, and dear old lonesome Jayber Crow. No other author has so ascribed dignity to the men and women who have chosen to stick around their homes and communities while so many of us abandoned our roots as if they were there to kill us and not to keep us alive. My life is richer because of you. Like it or not, Mister Berry, we have you to thank.” Wendell and Tanya graciously gave us their Sunday afternoon. And the more I thought about it the more I realized what an honor they paid me and the other guys simply by listening. They didn’t nod and indulge us for a few minutes until we awkwardly excused ourselves (a scenario for which we were fully prepared). No, they turned their bright eyes on us and paid attention. If they didn’t understand what I meant, they said so. If they disagreed, they said so, kindly. If Allen or Ben said something that lit Wendell up, he in turn illuminated us. More than once, he told a funny story that ended in a burst of laughter that warmed my heart. When he grinned his whole body grinned with him. For two hours we engaged in something called “conversation”, in which ideas and opinions are exchanged, challenged, and sometimes—if you’re lucky—agreed with. In that mighty company I was forced to think about what I had to say, because they were listening. And doesn’t that sound just like the Wendell Berry you’d imagine? To write those kinds of essays, stories, and poems, you have to have a strong mind—one mind, he would argue—and wide-open eyes, and ears to hear. You have to pay attention. I could not be more thankful for the two hours I spent in that storied room with Allen and Ben and the Berrys. I asked Tanya if she had a CD player, and she did, so I left her with a copy of my new album. I hope she listens to “The Magic Hour”, and hears the nod to Wendell’s poem “The Peace of Wild Things“, and knows that some of us, feebly though we do it, are trying to pay attention too.https://rabbitroom.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/08/TheMagicHour.mp3

As the protagonist of Phantastes awakes under the beech tree (which wants to be a woman), he reflects on his desire to stay with her, and then narrates, “I sat a long time, unwilling to go, but my unfinished story urged me on. I must act and wander.” Isn’t that a great summary of almost every moment of life? My wife wrote some beautiful words about Hutchmoot, which I cannot even begin to parallel. Please read the whole thing, but let me quote the ending: I am home. And while my time on this street has been short, I can clean up this neighborhood in what little time I have left. I can plant trees and I can teach people to garden and I can paint buildings. But closer to the heart of what it means to revitalize, I can tell stories. With words, I can shape a context for those roaming this bleak landscape. God comforted me with story. I will care as I have been cared for. Tricia and I are wrestling deeply with what was, three years ago, a seemingly clear call from God to move into a tough part of the city, and what is now a seemingly clear call to leave. There are conflicting emotions: Are we leaving because we’re afraid and pulling a Jonah? (I guess we’ll find out if a whale spits us back up on Grand Avenue.) Or would hanging on here simply be an act of pride? (“What will they say if we leave – that we failed God’s calling?”) The “For Sale” sign is stuck in our yard. We know we’re supposed to go. Our unfinished story urges us on. We must act and wander. Why do I mention this? It struck me, as I read it in Phantastes, that all of us are part of unfinished stories. This is obvious enough, and in MacDonald’s book, the protagonist makes that decision in isolation, and moves on. In our world, we bump constantly into other people who are also in the middle of unfinished stories. A hundred of us gathered at Hutchmoot, and we were a hundred unfinished stories, all intersecting in the same time and space. We intersect with other unfinished stories every day, and this should cause us to be filled with grace toward one another. I think we’re often like the taunting fairies just a few pages earlier in Phantastes: “Look at him! Look at him! He has begun a story without a beginning, and it will never have any end! He! he! he! Look at him!” It’s easy to forget that each of us is stumbling through fairy land with hardly the faintest clue what direction we’re heading in, and it’s easy to taunt each other instead of encourage one another. For my part, this whole transition into and out of the city will hopefully remind me that I’m as clueless in my unfinished story as everyone else is in theirs. I hope it helps me to walk with others when our stories intersect, rather than taunt and jeer, because they’re not walking like me, or in the same direction.

A poetic, hard, empathizing look at a rugged community in the Ozarks, where almost everyone you know is related in some way, and meth–cooking it, distributing it, and using it–surrounds you. Clapp, describing her work, writes: “Miles recognized that the “luxuries” of the hill folk were “all romances,” and included “music, whiskey, firelight, religion, and fighting.” …Noting that her Appalachian neighbors had no theaters, bullfights, or sports arenas, Miles said of music that “it is their one emotional outlet.” Commenting on the nasally, high-lonesome vocalization of the mountain singer, she remarked that “the oddly changing keys, the endings that leave the ear in expectation of something to follow, the quavers and falsettos, become in recurrence a haunting hint of the spirit-world; neither beneficent nor maleficent, neither devil nor angel – something not to be understood, yet to be certainly apprehended.” Hillbillies, if I may respectfully resort to that term, did not theologize very explicitly, corralling spiritual realities or perceptions into systematized categories and giving them Latinate names. Nor did they complain, not in general, and certainly not about their lonesomeness in particular. But in their music they felt free to acknowledge loneliness and other pains, even to weep openly in the company of others. Loneliness is admitted and alleviated in church, where preaching and especially singing express grief and separation and long-felt agony in a way not otherwise noted in the stoic mountaineer’s life. Here is Miles at church, singing along and looking about: “Tears are running down seamed and withered faces now, as the repression and loneliness of many months finds relief; the tune changes again, and yet again – they do not tire of this… [In these songs about meeting deceased fathers and mothers in heaven, the singers anticipate] Broken ties restored, old pain of lonely nights to be no more – that is the dearest promise of this religion; the aching of old grief suddenly caught up and whirled away in this aroused hope of glory. ‘By-and-by we’ll go and see them…’ Did ever Israel captive peer into the future any more wistfully than these?” So what does any of this have to do with Winter’s Bone, the new movie from writer/director Debra Granik? Maybe not much, but for me, it provided a context for the part of the movie that left me stunned, sitting speechless in my seat for several minutes after everyone else had left the theatre… but let me back up for a minute. Winter’s Bone is based on Daniel Woodrell’s 2006 novel of the same name. Set in the Ozarks, where Woodrell grew up, the story follows 17-year-old Ree Dolly (played by Jennifer Lawrence) as she tries to locate her father, who had recently been released from jail after posting bond, just before his court date to face charges of cooking meth. Ree finds out that her father has put up the house that she and the rest of her family live in and if he doesn’t show up for the trial, they will lose their home. With the family already riding the fine line between barely subsisting and having nothing at all, and with nothing to fall back on, Ree knows they won’t make it without the house. Because Daniel Woodrell was writing about the culture he grew up in and lives in and because the movie adheres pretty closely to the book (I’ve heard), the story never strikes a false note. It was filmed on location in the Ozarks, and in fact, the little girl playing the younger sister of the main character actually lives in the house many of the scenes take place in. In the last act of the film, there were three or four times I was afraid the story would follow the path of a typical Hollywood film, offering some kind of easy resolution or contrived climax, but instead it went where the story needed to go. The ending itself is absolutely perfect. But make no mistake, this is a dark film. Peering into the underbelly of an insular culture where the distrust of outsiders-even when they are family-is compounded by the secrecy surrounding a drug culture means that you won’t find a story filled with bright, sunny, fields and flying unicorns. It is hard not to see parallels between shots of cattle and the way women are treated in that culture, and it’s hard not to wonder where God is in a story like this. That’s not to say there aren’t moments of grace, though. At one point Ree offers up an incredible statement about the joy and the burden of love, telling her two younger siblings “I’d be lost without the weight of you two on my back.” Flannery O’Connor, in a statement that seems like it could have been behind the making of this film, once wrote: “There is something in us, as storytellers and as listeners to stories, that demands the redemptive act, that demands that what falls at least be offered the chance to be restored. The reader of today looks for this motion, and rightly so, but what he has forgotten is the cost of it. His sense of evil is diluted or lacking altogether, and so he has forgotten the price of restoration. When he reads a novel, he wants either his sense tormented or his spirits raised. He wants to be transported, instantly, either to mock damnation or a mock innocence.” Returning to my opening, here’s where I made the connection with Emma Bell Miles’ words about the role of music in the lives of her friends and family:  the first song that plays over the end credits is sung by Marideth Sisco, a woman who made an appearance earlier in the movie, at a “singing.” Here, at the conclusion of the story, the choice of songs is Farther Along, an old gospel tune that, in light of what I had just seen, overwhelmed me. It gave me a richer appreciation for the story, and reminded me again of the hope of the Gospel, the promise that, one day, all things will be made new.

Think of all the amusing anecdotes you know about junior high football. I’m guessing 75% are set in that “magic hour” when the boys have arrived at the practice field but the coach hasn’t. Thirty junior high boys, no adult supervision. Something’s bound to happen. In eighth grade, my cousin Brett got his pants pulled down at football practice. The coach was elsewhere–wrapping up bus duty or finishing one last cigarette in the teachers’ lounge before facing the barbarians. Frank, the starting fullback, snuck around behind and snatched Brett’s pants in front of God and everybody. It was a beautiful pantsing, not one of those awkward affairs where the victim clamps his knees together and goes into a squat, clutching at his britches and his dignity. No, this was clean and quick. Brett’s pants went right to the ground. Frank whooped and cavorted in his triumph. It was easily the best pantsing of the season. The other boys howled and pointed at Brett. Who just stood there. The hooting mockery swirled around him, but Brett stood his ground–pants around his ankles, arms akimbo, a look of perfect serenity on his face. The howling became nervous laughter as the mockery gave way to confusion. The boys had never seen such a thing before: the one boy who maintained his dignity was the one whose pants were crumpled around his ankles. Frank looked fitfully toward the school, whence the coach would soon be coming. “Hey, Brett,” he said, his voice broken by a nervous chuckle, “pull up your pants, man.” Brett crossed his arms and stared off into the middle distance, as grave as a statue. “Brett, man,” Frank repeated. “Pull up your pants. Coach gonna see.” Brett shifted his weight but didn’t otherwise move. “I didn’t pull them down,” he said, with withering dignity, “and I’m not going to pull them up.” Frank looked from Brett to the school building and back to Brett. The fascinated boys had gone silent. The door from the equipment room swung open, and the boys gasped in unison at the sight of the coach’s lanky form emerging. Frank hesitated. For an instant it appeared he would run away. He took one last look at the approaching coach, then circled around behind Brett. Sighing grimly and rolling his eyes, Frank pulled Brett’s pants back up where they belonged. It was one of the great moments in the history of eighth graders.

Rewind one week. Hutchmoot 2010, there is much bustle and chatter in the sunshine-yellow kitchen…Saturday evening’s Moroccan Spiced Chicken, not to mention many other tasty foodly items, would not have come off in as timely or seamless a manner if not for one…(kindly insert lively drumroll)…Redhead Kate. Our acquaintance began with a string of emails about baking ingredients and an offer of a suitcase full of sweet potatoes. “Good thing I’m traveling Southwest!” she said, since two pieces of luggage are allowed, bless that airline’s heart. I knew I liked this girl, a real thinker, expeditious. She works for her family’s sweet potato company in North Carolina and brought with her quite a large box of the beauties as well as a deep, wide knowledge of the product. She laughed as she watched the gems get run through the dishwasher before roasting. Nothing but the best, cleanest sweet potatoes for our guests. So Kate showed up on Thursday evening, donned an adorable apron she brought along, and got right to work. (Oh, if anyone wanted brownie recipes, she’s the one to ask.) She baked while simultaneously helping Pete with registration matters and making merch lists and such. Truth be told, I’m not sure exactly what it is she was doing, but she did it well and without fuss. Her genuine laugh, her easy manner in the kitchen, her calming tone when I was about to lose my cool while getting ready for service, they were all ways in which I was blessed to the bone by her presence last weekend. In preparation for Saturday morning’s breakfast, I was thrilled by her lovely arrangement of the meat and cheese plates (which I usually have a hard time delegating because I don’t think anyone will actually do it to my standards). Her lovely little landscape of gently curled slices of ham and her asymmetrical placement of cheese wedges pleased my discerning eye. What a God-send she was, in so many respects and in the most literal sense of that word. God sent her directly to my kitchen, armed with understanding, a cool head, humor, and love for the craft. She spoke my language, finished my sentences, read my mind. Miraculous, that. Now, for the chicken. (No drumroll really necessary.) I’m going to share a slightly different way to do it, for one chicken, since I doubt very seriously that you’ll be making 40 of them. Preheat oven to 425. Ready a roasting pan or oven-proof skillet large enough to cradle the dear chicken without crowding the pieces (we want crisped skin, not the steamed, slimy sort…gross.). Rinse thoroughly and pat dry (I mean really dry) one whole chicken, cut up. In a large mixing bowl combine: 1/4 cup olive oil the zest and juice of one lemon 3 cloves of fresh garlic, finely chopped 2 tsp. of fresh ginger, grated (a microplane or fine grater will do the trick) 2 tsp. each of chili powder, cumin, cinnamon, coriander, kosher salt Add the chicken pieces to the heady, fragrant mix which now resides in your bowl. By the way, make sure you cut the breast pieces in half, crossways, since they’re always so gigantic…those poor chickens, having to heave those breasts around the barnyard/crate/what-have-you. Zhoosh them around in the paste mix, cover and let it loiter in the fridge for a few hours if you can, but if you can’t, it’ll still be mighty tasty. If you have planned accordingly and therefore have had time to let it sit in the Frigidaire, you’ll now need about 30-45 more minutes to let the chicken hang out in its bowl on the counter. It needs to shake off the chill, relax a bit. Putting it straight in the oven would be kind of like how you feel when you walk out of your meat-lockerish, air-conditioned homes these days in Nashville into the searing, eyeball-melting heat. No one likes that feeling, not even a dead chicken. Be kind to your product. Scrape off any larger chunks of garlic (since it quickly burns and turns bitter) and arrange the chicken pieces in the roasting pan, skin side up. Roast in the upper-half region of your oven for somewhere in the neighborhood of an hour. Meanwhile, your house will smell like very heaven, and it will be hard (I speak from experience) to resist opening the over door frequently to steal little bits of crispy skin. Deny this urge its power. The oven wants to maintain its level of heating excellence. The skin should be golden brown and sizzly when it comes out, and there should be some real gorgeous Chicken-y love swimming around down in the bottom of the roasting pan. Aw come on, who am I kidding? If you’re game enough to make this chicken, you are probably the sort of person who knows when a chicken is done. Let her rest for a bit after coming out of the oven, the juices need time to meander back to their rightful spots. Et voila! You’re done, and so is the chicken. So now it’s time to eat…with your hands. No forks allowed. Let the spiced oil and juices run down your wrists and drip onto the other residents of your dinner plate, it makes for a much more sensually fulfilling affair. A little finger bowl on the table next to each place setting is nice for sticky fingers. Fill small reservoirs of your choosing with an inch of water, an ice cube and a sprig of fresh mint or sprinkling of fennel seeds. It’s the little extravagances, you know. Here’s a similar version of this dish from my blog, for those of you who like to experiment.