What are you looking for?

In case you haven’t heard, Jason Gray’s “More Like Falling In Love” is getting lots of radio play these days. (Call your local station and tell them you want to hear it.) But just because he’s got a song on the charts doesn’t mean he’s abandoned his noble folkish roots. The song of the (tues)day is my favorite off his newest album. It’s called “The Golden Boy & The Prodigal.” Like a good Bob Dylan song, it’s got about 47 verses and I dig that (even if the radio stations don’t.) There are two sides to every person Like the two sides of a dime Heads or tails it depends upon Who’s watching at the time Though I hate to say it Mine is no exception One part is the prodigal The other part: deception Like the prince and the pauper Like Jacob and his brother Each hide a different heart Each a shadow of the other Me and my doppelganger Both share the same blood One I have hated The other have I loved One of them’s the Golden Boy The man I’d like to be I show him off in the parades For all the world to see The other is much weaker He stumbles all the time The source of my embarrassment He’s the one I try to hide The Golden boy is made of straw His finest suit will surely burn His vice is the virtue That he never had to earn The prodigal’s been broken And emptied at the wishing well But he’s stronger for the breaking With a story to tell I’m not easy with confessions It’s hard to tell the truth But I have favored the golden boy While the other I’ve abused And he takes it like a man Though he’s longing like a child To be loved and forgiven And share the burden for awhile So take a good look in the mirror Tell me who you see The one who Jesus died for Or the one you’d rather be Can you find it in your heart To show mercy to the one The Father loved so much That he gave his only son… Get Jason’s Everything Sad Is Coming Untrue in the Rabbit Room Store for just $10.

This is for real. Somewhere around the country, twelve emeralds are hidden, and the clues to their location are in the pages of The Clock Without a Face, by Scott Teplin, Mac Barnett, and Eli Horowitz. I’ve been an admirer of McSweeney’s writing/reading/tutoring community for a while, and even hope to emulate some of their methods here in the Rabbit Room one of these days. They run several inner-city tutoring centers around the country, with the idea that if you can teach a child to write you greatly increase their chance of succeeding in the world. I think that’s true. We’ve long kicked around the idea of opening up Rabbit Room tutoring programs for the purpose of exposing children to great writers, particularly great writers who were/are Christians, and encouraging those children to hone their craft and to treat it as Kingdom work. I geek out just thinking about it. Back to the treasure. McSweeney’s just published this book, and as far as I can tell the emeralds have yet to be discovered. I just read the book today and laughed out loud exactly three times while reading it. It’s funny, well-written, and really cool to look at. If you remember Graeme Base’s The Eleventh Hour, a picture book mystery you’re invited to solve before you turn the last page, you’ll see its influence on this book. But The Clock Without a Face takes it a step further and ends with a challenge to unearth bona fide, handcrafted emeralds. How cool is that? Very cool, I say. And I plan to sic my smarter-than-I-am kids on the mystery in the hopes of paying for their college. We have a few copies in the Rabbit Room store, if you’re looking for some adventure.

Five years ago today I begged my wife to take me to the hospital. “Take it off!” I told the doctor. “I don’t care anymore. It hurts too much. Take it off.” And they did. You probably know the rest of the story. If not, let Andy Gullahorn tell you about it. I should add, this is my remix of his song. It is far superior in every way. [audio:RoastBeef.mp3] You can purchase this glorious remix right here in the Rabbit Room store. CLICK HERE! (Yes, that photo is of the actual shoe I was wearing during my accident. My friend and neighbor Christopher Williams stole it from me a few years ago, had it bronzed (yes, BRONZED) and gave it to me Tuesday night at a surprise five-year toe-amputation party thrown in my honor. The plaque reads “Andrew Osenga – Less of a body, Mower of a man”. I have good friends.)

Tolkien has always been a source of wisdom for approaching the fairy tale, particularly his classic essay, “On Fairy Stories,” about which I have written here before. That is, he teaches us, as an outsider or even trespasser in the land of Faerie, how to enter it and appreciate it. But on re-reading The Hobbit, I found a fascinating trick he plays on his readers: Identifying with the story and plight of Bilbo, he makes us the fairy tale, and shows us how others respond to it. Here’s what I mean: We’ve been part of this adventure with Bilbo from the beginning. We’ve found ourselves comfortable in the Shire and suddenly thrown, partially against our will, into an adventure with a band of dwarves and a quirky wizard. We escaped trolls, goblins, Gollum, spiders, and wood-elves; we’ve discovered a magic ring and a sword. At this point, about 2/3 of the way into the book, Tolkien makes a very deliberate story transition: “…we are now drawing near the end of the eastward journey and coming to the last and greatest adventure, so we must hurry on” (end of chapter 9, “Barrels out of Bond”). From here, we step into Lake-town, a small wooden village of people (not elves or dwarves) a few days from Dale and the Lonely Mountain. Dale is the town and the Lonely Mountain the dwarf dwelling places that were destroyed by the dragon Smaug, and the reason for the whole adventure: The dwarves are returning to reclaim their treasure and defeat Smaug. In Lake-town, a fascinating little legend (or fairy tale) had been told for many years that the Dwarf kings Thror and Thrain would return “and gold would flow in rivers through the mountain-gates, and all that land would be filled with new song and new laughter.” In other words, a land plunged into darkness by an evil dragon would be returned to a state of glory by the return of a king. Sound familiar? As we journey with Bilbo, King Thorin (son of Thror son of Thrain), and the dwarves, we are journeying with the fairy tale into the land in need of magic. And here’s how we’re received. There are five responses to the fairy tale: “But this pleasant legend did not much affect their daily business.” This editorial comment by Tolkien in Chapter 10 gives us the way most of the world responds to the old magic, the true magic of the one true fairy tale. It doesn’t much affect our daily business. This is unfortunately as true for many of us Christians as it is for the rest of the world. “Some of the more foolish ran out of the hut as if they expected the Mountain to go golden in the night and all the waters of the lake to turn yellow right away.” Some, in other words, thought that the redemption of these lands could happen in an instant, as though a simple magic spell could automatically do away with all evil. There are at least two faults here: A certain gullible disposition that will believe almost anything, and a miscalculation about the devastation caused by Smaug. Smaug’s evil was too great to be undone because a few dwarves simply walked into town. In the same way, some do not take adequate stock of the extent and depth and power of the Fall, and think that Jesus just makes everything “ok” in an instant. “The Elvenking was very powerful in those parts and the Master wished for no enmity with him, nor did he think much of old songs, giving his mind to trade and tolls, to cargoes and gold, to which habit he owed his position.” The “Master,” the ruler of Lake-town, was far too concerned with money, power, and privilege to pay any attention to old songs and tales that might change things. It matters not to some what kind of suffering and tragedy happens, or what kind of redemption or change might be possible, as long as one’s own power stays intact. “It was easier to believe in the Dragon and less easy to believe in Thorin in these wild parts.” In the shadow of the Lonely Mountain, the effects of Smaug’s evil actions were so potent that it was very difficult, near impossible, to have hope or trust in old tales. The man about whom this statement was made was standing in the presence of Thorin, the very fulfillment of the legend, but believed more in the terror of Smaug than in the tale. This is the exact opposite of the foolish response above, which took Smaug’s evil lightly. These are so affected by evil and the Fall and all the terror it has caused, that hope seems an impossibility. The fifth response, of course, is that of Bilbo and the dwarves themselves. Fairy tales, you see, will not be disbelieved. If they are disbelieved, they continue to exist. The story goes on. The tale retains all its potency. The magic still works. The gospel heals and saves even its strongest opponents and radical disbelievers. Dragons are slain because Hobbits and Dwarves press on. In the end, Bilbo is surprised, in his conversation years later with Gandalf and Balin, that the old tales, songs, and prophecies have come true. “Of course!” said Gandalf. “And why should they not prove true? Surely you don’t disbelieve the prophecies, because you had a hand in bringing them about yourself? You don’t really suppose, do you, that all your adventures and escapes were managed by mere luck, just for your sole benefit?” As with Bilbo, so with us in our response to the great Fairy Tale, the True Myth. We get to enter into it and be part of the story.

Well, that was a crazy week. Nashville had the most rain in recorded history in a span of 36 hours. Flood. It was insanity. I ended up in a crew of folks in our neighborhood running from house to house over the first few days. We started out bailing water out of basements, shop-vac-ing in seeming futility for hours on end. Then we were ripping up flooring, pulling down drywall. Then hauling it out to the curb. Then taking a two-minute shower because the water treatment plants shut down. What a week. I had so many plans. Birthday party for our friend Katie. First church meeting in a new (temporary) building. Rock show at 12th and Porter with my amazing band. I was going to finish writing and recording new songs for YoungLife camp this Summer. Was going to cut drums and guitars on an EP for Seth Harper. Was going to make more money than I was spending. Didn’t work out. But a lot of other Nashvillians had plans, too. Some events, like weddings or meetings. But more so, plans to keep the family pictures forever. To hand down the wedding dress or that old guitar. To have a safe and welcoming home for their families and friends. To live and see their kids grow up, get married, have kids of their own. For some folks in our city, these plans didn’t work out either. But quite strangely, there are parts of me that are grateful. Grateful for the folks I didn’t know, who go to my church and showed up at my house to help haul soaked drywall to the curb. Grateful that I got to see my intentional Wednesday night friends again on Thursday morning. That we got to put action to what we always talk about. Seeing needs and getting to serve each other in a very tangible way. A lot of people use the phrase “get your hands dirty”. Ours were filthy. Cracked and blistered. As for our house, we had to rip out all the flooring and walls in the finished portion of our basement. What used to be the studio where we recorded “The Morning” and Andrew Peterson’s “Behold the Lamb” and a ton of other amazing memories is now just drywall and concrete. Thankfully, my new studio was unharmed and I didn’t lose any gear. But it was a backbreaking week that left us with three small dumpsters in the front yard and a week’s lost income. Personally, I’m frustrated and inconvenienced by our losses. I grieve with those down the street who lost much more. And I’m grateful none of us are having to face it alone. I found this video today which beautifully shows what last week looked like for a lot of us. Some of these shots are within blocks of our home. The Nashville Flood. May 2, 2010. from Michael Deppisch on Vimeo. The video is here, for those of you reading this on facebook – http://www.vimeo.com/11431574

To close out an evening of great music at last night’s Square Peg show here in Nashville, Eric Peters was joined by the entire peggish ensemble for the performance of this song. Even the audience got involved which means that I was in the back row singing, a rare and terrible occurrence. I suppose you could say that Eric Peters makes me want to sing. Didn’t Stryper sing a song that went something like that? The song is called “The Storm.”

Douglas Kaine McKelvey and I managed to live in the same city for more than a decade before we met. He was hired by my record label to write a new publicity bio and I met him at a coffee shop a few weeks ago to talk about my new album. We got the required interview stuff out of the way and spent an hour talking books, writing, songwriting, and illustration. I left the meeting with the feeling that I had just made a new friend. Doug has written a lot of songs and a few books, teaches creative writing to a group of high school students, and has a killer beard. We’re glad to have him. –The Proprietor ——————————————— The late Walker Percy had a habit of abruptly ending novels just shy of the moment when a protagonist might be expected to finally embrace some sort of redemption. Doubtless that persistent hesitation to describe the actual crossing of the threshold of the holy was what Percy had in mind when he asserted in one of his essays: When it comes to grace, I get writer’s block. Maybe he was on to something. When I consider our collective history of attempts to translate the infinite mystery and wonder into a few descriptive phrases of prose or song lyric, there’s an admittedly high cringe factor. Somehow, it just doesn’t seem to come off—at least not when you approach it directly. It’s like trying to pluck a magic tail feather from a phoenix. Apparently, you’ve got to be very wily, vigilant and patient and sneak up on the thing from an odd angle. If it sees you coming, it’ll instantly disappear and leave you grasping at empty air. Even as towering a literary giant as Dostoevsky seems to stumble at the end of the enormously brilliant “Crime & Punishment” when he tacks on a late conversion experience for that murderous rascal Raskolnikov. After all that came before it, the actual moment of surrender in the epilogue comes off as comparably flat and uninspiring. So if Walker and Fyodor struggled with it, I guess I shouldn’t feel so bad about my own patchy record of trying to communicate mysteries like the incarnation and the movement of grace into human lives. But still I have to ask, what is it about grace that is inevitably so difficult to capture and communicate? Why is it that when we try to portray it or explain it literally and directly in song or film or story, it so often eludes us? Or, to approach it from the other direction, why is it that a metaphoric depiction of encounters with grace, somehow organically rooted in the narrative, is inevitably so much more powerful? How does one, as a lyricist, novelist, or poet, communicate the idea of grace in a way that doesn’t do violence to the living wonder and mystery of the thing? Is it even possible to do so? Or when we attempt it are we like a child with a dull pocket knife approaching a frog to see what the mystery of life looks like on the inside. It’s going to be very, very hard to do without killing the frog. But grace, at its heart, transcends biology and all manner of mechanics. Grace is the intrusion of something otherworldly, something foreign to our usual way of doing business. We come closer to actually describing it, I think, if we say that grace is “magical”. Isn’t that how we experience it anyway? It is mystical. It is something that we can talk in circles about, but that’s not the same as finding ourselves swept into and enveloped by it. Maybe that’s why we’ve long sensed that some of the most enduringly transformational works in Christendom have been the fantasy writings of folks like George MacDonald, J.R.R. Tolkein, and C.S. Lewis. Francis Bacon said: The job of the artist is always to deepen the mystery. Is that what Jesus was doing with his storytelling? Rather than taking grace apart and analyzing the components or the mechanics of it, was he inviting listeners to enter through the door of the imagination, to emotionally live through a story, and to experience what grace might be like, and then to say: “That. That thing you just got a glimpse of. That thing you just felt stirring in you and around you. That was like the movement of grace. That was a glimpse of what love means. Of what mercy is. That’s what the kingdom of God is like.” Was he using story to draw us into an actual relationship with grace, to force us to wrestle with it rather than speak an easy “yes” or “no” to an abstract idea? Brennan Manning, in his book Ruthless Trust, issues the call: Send in the artists, mystics, and clowns. Their fertile imagination pours the new wine of the gospel into fresh wineskins. With fresh language, poetic vision, and striking symbols, they express God’s inexpressible Word in artistic forms that are charged with the power of God, engaging our minds and stirring our hearts as they flare and flame. In our post-christian, post-modern culture, what kinds of images, what kinds of symbols, what kinds of stories, what kinds of songs will we tell and paint and sing and film that will again infuse our culture with the ideas of creation, sin, guilt, brokenness, sacrifice and redemption that are the necessary foundational building blocks for an understanding of this wild and untamable mystery called grace? It’s a big question—and an important one—and therefore one that I don’t want to abandon indefinitely to the realm of the abstract. While I can’t always say why or how exactly, I do know that over the years there have been numerous works of art and music and literature that have been very real catalysts for epiphany moments, for the deepening of my own experience and understanding of who God is and what He’s about in this world. There have been, in other words, artists and writers who somehow got it right—or at least right enough. So here’s my invitation to the Rabbit Room community: would it be of interest to anyone to use this comment thread as an opportunity to describe our own encounters with specific works of art, music, theater, film, and literature that have impacted us? I’m curious to know what creative expressions have carried the power to change other people’s lives and thinking, and eager to share a couple of my own epiphany experiences with works of graceful and grace-filled art. Anyone?

It’s been a real joy to see how people have embraced the Hutchmoot. I look forward to meeting you folks and joining faces with familiar names. (Joining faces? That sounds really weird but I refuse to edit it.) Over the last couple of days there have been quite a few questions raised and I’m going to do my best to give the answers. If you’ve got other questions shambling around in your brain that this post doesn’t cover, post them in the comments and I’ll be happy to answer . Question: I’m not a singer/songwriter/author/artist. Can I still come? Answer: Absolutely. Our vision is for the Hutchmoot to be an event that fosters conversation and community. We don’t want it to be so stuffy and academic that it feels like English Composition 101, or so arts-based that it’s nothing more than a series of workshops. We want to provide an environment in which anyone who loves great stories can come and be fed, even if that means you just love stories for the simple enjoyment of receiving rather than creating. In a lot of ways, the Hutchmoot will be like the Rabbit Room website: We’ll say stuff about books or music, or movies, or our faith and we’ll try our best to sound like we know what we’re talking about. But instead of leaving comments on a post, you’ll be able to make sarcastic comments in person! It’ll be fun. And if you’re the lurking sort, that’s fine too, we’ll provide some comfy corners for you to listen from. Question: How late can I register? Answer: The sooner the better. We’ve got to have a certain number of registrants in order to pay the bills so if we don’t have enough sign-ups by June 15th, we’ll probably have to cancel, and we don’t want that. If the response is really good though, we’ve got a maximum number of people that we can comfortably accommodate in the facility (probably somewhere around 100). So if we fill up fast, you might miss your chance. Question: Can I wait and pay when I get there or do I have to register in advance? Answer: For planning purposes we need to know exactly how many folks are coming. We’ll eventually have to set a registration deadline and beyond that we won’t be able to accept any more registrations. It’s not that we don’t want you, it’s just a matter of logistics. So make your plans early and register while there’s time. Question: Why are registration fees and deposits non-refundable? Answer: Because all of our planning will be based off of the number of registrations and if people back out at the last minute, we’ll be in big trouble when it comes time to pay the bills. We only want you to register if you are sure you are coming. Question: Will there be any special guests? Answer: Yes, oh yes. But we aren’t ready to announce that just yet. Question: What about kids? I’d like to bring my entire family but we can’t afford to pay full price for our children. And what about those of us who are dead broke college kids? Answer: We are looking into this. I hope we will be able to offer some sort of option for the under-18 and student crowd. Look for an announcement in the coming weeks. Question: Will the sessions and panels be recorded for podcasts? Answer: We intend to record everything so that we can make it available online but we haven’t worked out the logistics of that yet. We hope it will happen but we can’t promise it. Question: Will this be an annual event? Answer: We sure hope so. Question: The date conflicts with (insert conference name here), will it be on the same weekend every year? Answer: Every date seems to conflict with something, and those other conferences aren’t half as cool anyway. We don’t know if we’ll do it on the same weekend every year or not. Too early to tell. Question: Where should we stay when we come? Answer: We’re working with a couple of hotels in the area to provide discount rates to Hutchmoot attendees. We’ll make an announcement when we know more. I’m also going to do my best to set up a Hutchmoot Forum this weekend on the website to give folks an opportunity to connect with each other and share rides or possibly even find someone to stay with here in Nashville. Look for an update as soon as that’s functional. Question: I have a certain type of food allergy. Will there be alternate menu options available to me? Answer: I’m still waiting to hear from Evie on this, but I’m pretty sure we can find something tasty for you to eat (even if I have to run down to the store and pick it up myself.) Question: What can I do to help? Answer: Spread the word. Tweet about it. Mention it in your Facebook updates. Blog about it. Write your congressman. Question: Why don’t we hear about the Nashville flood in the national news? Answer: We don’t know but trust us, it was (and still is) an epic event in Nashville history. Question: Why do they call you Pete if your initials are A.S.? Answer: Ancient Swedish-German secret. Question: Why doesn’t my local Taco Bell sell Chili Cheese Burritos anymore? Answer: Because they are insane and should be shunned. That’s all I’ve got for now. If there’s anything I didn’t cover, go ahead and ask. I’ll do my best to get you a quick answer. Big announcement coming next week. Stay tuned.

Remember the Michael Jordan commercial where he recounts how many buzzer-beaters he’s missed, how many games he’s lost, and the other failures in his career? I love that. Because of the inspiration? Nosir. Because I’m not a Michael Jordan fan and grew up despising the bandwagoneering of suddenly-now-Bulls-fans because of the dunking guy with the tongue out who gets foul calls when people make eye-contact with him? Si senor. I am a bitter, emotionally crippled, hermit of a man. Actually, though I don’t give a fig about the Bulls and never was an MJ fan, I do see the value of such a commercial. It’s kind of brilliant. The point being that those whom we all see as Incredible Successes, were not always and are not always so. Failure is essential to success. Stick that on a poster with a mountain, or a hang glider, and bam. Maybe the hang glider is crashing into the mountain. Yes, that’s it. J.K. Rowling was rejected 8 million times by several billion publishers before one took a risk on her. (Note: Slight hyperbole.) (Note the second: Did you see where there was hyperbole within hyperbole there?) Trillions of writers have similar stories, many have tales of wallpapering their walls with rejection letters. Then, later, they all become gazillionaires. I imagine there’s a lot of slow rolling down of the window of the mercedes to peer at the editor who rejected their work. Then the slow removal of expensive sun-glasses followed by the ironic smile…finally, the energetic peel-out. (Note the third: I’m frightfully sorry I keep using these massive numbers. I just feel the need to keep using higher and higher figures until they lose all meaning. Vote for me next election. I’d fit right in the Gubment.) Some guy in this Room of Rabbits (who is clueless about sports) encouraged me to blog about the story of my stories. That is, to talk about what I am “going through” as I give fiction writing the ole’ college try. I am reluctant to bore you to death with details, but I will say that some of the best advice I’ve been given has had to do with failure. “Anything worth doing is worth doing badly.” G.K. Chesterton I take that to mean that there is a season for doing a thing badly before we ever do anything well, and that I must, as a writer, not expect my early efforts to be anything close to perfect. There are going to be lots of missed buzzer-beaters and, perhaps more appropriately, a lot of games I’m not even going to get in to play at all. But sittin’-the-bench is time to notice things. Practice is time to…um…practice. Time to get better. So, here’s to bad writing and being willing to fail. Even these are gifts. Cheers!

The Rabbit Room started in September of 2007 as an experiment in community. I didn’t know what it would grow into, if it grew into anything at all. I knew that my life had been impacted on a deep spiritual level by the works of artists and writers who were Christians, and from what I could tell those artists and writers were fashioning those works in community. They not only cared about the excellence of their work, they understood, on some level, that they needed each other. So they met every week in the original Rabbit Room and shared a pint by the fire. They nourished friendships, they celebrated one another’s gifts (and since they were men, and British, I’m sure that means they also made fun of each other), they wagged their jaws, and they shared their writings. They may have even chortled. We’ve tried to emulate as much of that as possible via the wonder of the Interweb, but the time has come to step out of cyberspace and into the real world. I’ve met many of you at shows, and I’m always humbled, excited, and grateful (read: geeked out) to hear this place has been a blessing to you. It thrills me to interact with the folks whose screen names show up here on a regular basis. I’m fascinated by that mysterious ingredient in the books/films/music we discuss that drew you, of all the billions of people in the world and of all the zillions of websites in the world, to the Rabbit Room. That ingredient is, as far as I can tell, Story. Story with a capital S. It’s the stories we tell, the stories we sing, the stories we live, and the Story we’re invited into by the Author of our faith. So the next chapter in the story of the Rabbit Room is Hutchmoot 2010. “Hutchmoot?” you ask? Well, you can blame it on Sarah Clarkson’s dad. He suggested the name, sort of kidding, and we laughed. Then we sort of stole it from him. It may sound weird now, but once you’re used to it you’ll be on board. On the bandwagon. In the hutch. It’s scheduled for August 6-8 in Nashville. Here’s the scoop: Q: What’s a Hutchmoot? A: It’s a gathering. A meeting. A retreat. A conference. A powwow. A shebang. An entmoot, without the ents. Q: What happens at a Hutchmoot? A: Food. Good food, prepared by our resident Rabbit Room foodie Evie Coates. Quality time among fellow Rabbit Room readers with whom you’ll develop friendships that will last until you’re 87. Two concerts (one by yours truly, the other a private in-the-round concert with members of the Square Peg Alliance). The book release of Jonathan Rogers’s The Charlatan’s Boy. Sessions led by Rabbit Room contributors (pretty much all of us will be there). Panel discussions on writing, songwriting, and film. Nightly conversation with dessert and coffee. Q: Why should I go? A: Because you must. Q: No, really. Why should I go? A: We want you to come and enjoy a weekend of music and conversation about the stories all around us in song, film, books–and most importantly the story being told through our lives; our own story–what it means to get to the holy hidden heart of it, how to tell a better story with the days we’re given, and how our stories intersect each other’s and connect to the Great Story. See? I told you so. You must. Q: Who’s going to be there? A: Andrew Peterson (me), Jason Gray, Eric Peters, S.D. Smith, Pete Peterson, Evie Coates, Jonathan Rogers, Ron Block, Randall Goodgame, Andrew Osenga, Russ Ramsey, Travis Prinzi, Curt McLey, Stephen Lamb, and Thomas McKenzie. There are probably more that I’m forgetting. Oh, and YOU. (Because you must.) Q: What do I need to do? A: Click here to visit the official Hutchmoot 2010 website, where all your dreams will come true. You can read about the schedule, browse and buy the recommended reading for the retreat, and register. That’s it. That’s the plan. The event will be held August 6-8 at Church of the Redeemer in Nashville. I really think there’s something to this story-meets-community idea. I know it’s enriched my understanding of the Gospel, deepened my imagination, and blessed me with dear friends. We’re excited about this next phase in the experiment, and look forward to mooting with you. Sincerely, The Proprietor

It’s tempting to continue our recent trend of science-fiction inspired Songs of the Day, but I’ll spare you by refusing to mention that this song both refers to outer space in the first line and features an astral body as its primary metaphor. Just ignore all that and listen to how awesome the Shive is. The song’s called “She Is The Rising Sun” and Ben wrote it about a girl. It’s his way of saying she’s hot.

“Our girl is here!” Gwen says the instant I walk in the door. And Larla, Gwen’s ninety-five year old mother, turns to greet me. Her gray eyes are so crammed now with the past there’s almost no room for the present, but she gives me a questioning smile. “We love her,” Gwen says matter-of-factly, patting her mom’s shoulder as I stoop to give her my arrival kiss. “I love you hon,” Larla says in the faded voice I know well, and pats my hand in her brisk way. “We’re glad you came to see us.” And finally, with another glance at Gwen, she nods as if she has decided for sure and turns to look me straight in the eye: “You’re our girl.” Those words are a small miracle to me. I visit Kentucky only twice a year, once when the dogwoods are skirted in pink, and once in the fire of fall. It’s rare I can visit in between, and while Gwen has known me from birth, Larla hasn’t. I’m not, as they say in those Kentucky hills, “kin.” I’m just an occasional visitor. Yet Larla, even with Alzheimer’s disease, has never forgotten me. Each time I come, she knows me afresh. Some part of her retains its hold on who I am and the fact that she loves me. I was marveling at this again last week during my spring visit and decided one morning to write about it. Larla sat next to me at the breakfast table patting my left hand as I used my right to jot random musings whenever I got the chance. Gwen was in and out with eggs and orange juice and I was in search of the perfect word, my mind working to the rhythmic clatter of frying pans, when Gwen called to her mom from the kitchen, “Aren’t we glad our girl Sarah came to visit?” And in that instant, the mystery cleared. Something about having my pen in hand helped me to see what was going on. Larla knew me because I had been told into her story. Gwen, I realized, is a narrator. The moment I walk in the door, Gwen begins to tell me into the story of her own life and that of her mom’s. Word by word, statement by statement, with comments about “our girl Sarah,” and “how much we love her,” she narrates my presence into her mother’s life. Larla never has a chance to forget me. Gwen sets the scene by helping Larla to greet me, she tells the history of my visits as a tiny girl, and moves her story forward with constant affirmations of how lovely a thing it is to have me there. Gwen has used her words to frame me into belonging. It is storytelling at its most real. It is narrative at its highest power of love. As an author, I am keenly aware of the power of narrative. I struggle so often to get just the right words in place when I attempt to describe a character, because I am aware that the voice of the narrator tells a reader exactly what to think of any character. A reader’s affection or disgust for any book person is based on the words in which they are framed. Narration is a form of creative power. What Gwen has helped me to see is that this power is present in the real life, workaday world as well as the novel. Here we are, all of us telling stories about each other every day. I am beginning to understand how much our relationships are formed by the narrative of our conversations; our spoken affection or disgust, our gossip (or hopefully, lack of it), our love when it spills into speech. All of it helping to form the stories of the people around us. In this light, the power of a word like “welcome” is as good as “once upon a time,” because it flings open a new door to the possibility of friendship, of laughter, of belonging.  What crackling possibility. What a chance for all of us to be creators in the most ordinary of realms. I love that all people–writers, readers, or not–are made to be storytellers. God made us this way because he is the first Storyteller who told us into existence, and continues to define our lives with his redemptive words. But I think we partner with him in narration. Faith is one kind of buoyant of storytelling, we speak what we know is true and cannot see. But so is love. Love is definitely a narrator. Love chooses to speak what is possible about the people it describes. Love narrates lonely people into families. Love uses every word of its story to tell all people into grace. I have decided that I want the narrative I tell about other people to be a hospitable sort, one that tells people into my life as Gwen told me into hers. I want there to be a fireside feel to my conversation, a sort of pull-up-a-chair invitation in my words. I want to say to each person that happens into my days, “come on in, I’m going to tell you into my story.” And by God’s grace, it’ll be a good one.

Don Chaffer, of the most excellent band Waterdeep, is one of my favorite people, and not just because he’s my neighbor. Well, he lives a few miles away, but we’re in the country so it feels like he’s in hollerin’ distance. He blogs over at the Waterdeep site, and after I read this piece I rode my virtual sorrel mare down through the vale to seek Don’s blessing on posting it in the Rabbit Room. He obliged with a wave of his straw hat and went back to tilling. —The Proprietor “We believe in one Lord, Jesus Christ, the only Son of God, eternally begotten of the Father, God from God, Light from Light, true God from true God, begotten, not made, of one Being with the Father. Through him all things were made.” -The Nicene Creed When the heat pump crapped out at our new house, I started researching heating systems. Turns out that one of the big things you have to pay attention to is what they call an efficiency rating. The efficiency rating measures how much energy you’re putting into the heater against how much energy you’re getting out of it. Heads up, it’s never 100%. You always lose some energy. Compliments of inertia, friction, and black holes, everything loses energy. [Author’s confessional note: Truth be told, while I’m confident that inertia and friction play a big role in inefficiency, I’m not so sure about black holes. However, I wanted to throw a little something Einsteinian in there. I’ve got a feeling about that guy. He seems like he ought to be part of this conversation somewhere. Plus, he’s got cool hair.] And because everything loses energy, we all cast about, trying to figure out how to compensate for what’s missing. It’s the way of the earth.[Additional author’s note: we ended up getting the heater repaired under our home warranty. This has temporarily solved the problem, but I’ll have to re-visit it sooner than I’d like, I’m sure.] Believe it or not, I thought about all this in church this morning as we were reading the Nicene Creed together. We recited, “…God from God, Light from Light, true God from true God, begotten, not made…” and I started thinking about how the Father’s “creation” of the Son is perfectly efficient, that there is no God-ness lost in the “transfer” of power. This is because there is no real “transfer” of power. The Son does not borrow anything from the Father. He is the Father, and the Father is Him. They are one being, perfectly efficient—if it’s not too crass to say so—with all energy conserved. By contrast, this got me thinking about normal human communication, and how often the speaker’s intent is lost on the listener. The meaning is not equal to the message intended. I’m talking, for instance, about drive through transactions: “I’ll have a number three with a medium Pepsi,” you say. “A number three with a medium Dr. Pepper?” the attendant says. “No. A medium Pepsi,” you say. “Okay. A medium Pepsi. Will that be all?” “No. A NUMBER THREE with a medium Pepsi?” You say, and, even though it’s happened plenty times before, you can’t believe it’s happening again. Or arguments between two people: “Why do you always say that about me when it’s clear that I’m making an effort?” he said “Well, first of all, I don’t ALWAYS say anything, and second of all, I don’t know what you call an effort, but that doesn’t look much like one,” she said. “Oh. Okay, so it doesn’t count that I stayed up late the other night working on that thing for you?” he said, the sarcasm fairly obvious, at least to him. You get the idea. It also happens in art. As a musician, songwriter, and producer, I work hard at creating delicate little songs that suffer an encoding process that gets them shuffled around from one device to another. They tumble out of speakers and headphones at the most inopportune times: between breaking up with your girlfriend, and making your big pitch to the new client, and showing up unprepared to the final exam, and picking up your kids at soccer practice. The agony and the ecstasy of the song is treading water in the ocean of your life, but it’s sputtering, taking in gulps of water with the air. The song often doesn’t get the time it wants from you, and when it does, you misunderstand lyrics, musical intent, and even, sometimes, the overall point of the artist. Again, hardly a 100% transfer. Yep. Everybody misunderstands everybody all the time. We all superimpose our own stories on one another. We hear what we want to hear. We placate Hitler. We crucify Jesus. We ignore the poor. We give no time to our own dreams and visions. We are half-conscious at best. And then we stumble into church, and hear “…God from God, Light from Light, true God from true God, begotten, not made…” and it’s kind of unbelievable. The Father begets the Son, and there is no intent lost between them? Well, yes, because there is no intent between them; they’re one. No intent. No misunderstanding. Just one-ness. I like that quite a bit. It makes me want to go order a #3 with a Pepsi all over again, and, on the way, to listen to Steve Perry sing, and not to stop believin’, but to hold onto that feelin’.

Last week? Aliens. This week? Pirates AND Aliens! If you haven’t heard, Randall Goodgame is on the road these days with the Slugs and Bugs Live show and that taken in concert with Andy O’s sci-fi folk-rock last week told me there wasn’t a better song to feature today than “Dreams”. Why is it my favorite Slugs and Bugs song, you ask? Easy. Because it’s got dinosaurs, pirates, spelunking, and stun-rayed Zorbian fiends.

Listening to Walter Brueggemann, it is impossible not to feel a sense of history. At 76 years old, as arguably the preeminent Old Testament scholar of our day, Brueggemann has written more than 58 books, many about the prophets of old. To hear him talk is to become convinced that you’re listening to one of those prophets, someone delivering a message directly from God. At a recent conference at Truett Seminary in Waco, TX, where the topic was prophetic preaching, I sat under his teaching for two days with a sense of reverence and gratefulness for the opportunity, and a growing understanding that what I was hearing would shape the way I approached the scriptures in future readings. My first introduction to the work of Dr. Walter Brueggemann was back in 2003, with the release of a collection of his prayers, Awed to Heaven, Rooted in Earth. I was helping out with Michael Card’s radio program at the time, and Mike had bought a stack to give copies to his friends that were coming by to do interviews for the program, friends like Sara Groves and Steve Green. After flipping through a copy, I immediately ordered one for myself, along with several copies to give away. I have since used it in various studies I’ve been a part of over the years where something different is needed to start us off, and am always moved by his words, always find a glimpse of the kind of person I want to be in the space between his words. The second Brueggemann book I bought was The Threat of Life: Sermons on Pain, Power, and Weakness, and it has resided on my bedside table for the last four years, providing frequent encouragement and nudgings toward truth, a means that God has used to help me realign my priorities with His. Last Sunday morning, with a hot breakfast of farm-fresh eggs whipped and baked into a frittata in front of me, fresh mozzarella grated over the top of it, and a cup of espresso in my hand, I reread-for the tenth or twentieth time-one of my favorite sermons in the book, “What You Eat Is What You Get.” The text Brueggeman starts with is Proverbs 15:17, Better is a dinner of vegetables where love is than a fatted ox and hatred with it, and with its discussion of the far-reaching impact of the choices we make, I thought the end of this sermon was an apt passage to highlight here on the Rabbit Room, particularly in light of our discussions of movies like Food, Inc. and the work of Wendell Berry. We live between the nostalgia of what might have been, and a promise of what will surely be, when all are invited, the poor, the maimed, the blind, the lame, the unacceptable, and us. All are welcomed, all at peace, all rejoicing, all loved, all fed, and just greens.The wisdom teachers dare to assert that one of these meals is better than the other. There are choices to be made about diet, and one choice is not as good as another. Maybe we will conclude that herbs are not better than ox. In the world of social reality, however, what the proverb knows is that you cannot have only herbs or only ox. You get a whole world with each food, because food is a social reality in a social context. You cannot have just herbs or ox. You will get beef and strife, or greens and love, because what you eat is what you get. In choosing food we choose our style, our context, and our company, and our way in the world. In selecting our food, we act out our hopes and our yearnings. We tilt our life toward some satisfaction. One is better than the other-herbs with love, ox with strife-because herbs with love lets us be who we in fact are, lets us live as God would have us live, lets us be who we most yearn to be, in peace, safe, in love.The choices of ox and herbs, of greens and beef, of love or strife, are not little family choices made in private when you go into the kitchen. They are big, far-ranging public choices concerning foreign policy and budget and land reform and dreams. We do not pick our food just before dinner. We pick our food by how we value life, and how we build policy and how we shape law, and how we arrange money, and how we permit poverty and hunger in a land of abundance. The proverb might envision life in the palace with too much meat, and the peasants with none. Perhaps the proverb is a picture of the wealthy man and Lazarus, or of wealthy North Americans overfed and Latin Americans at risk without land. Perhaps the image is of empty tables in the dust of Soweto and luxury stores in Johannesburg, perhaps of kosher affluence in Jerusalem and empty rice bowls in the Gaza Strip. We choose our food and we choose our life. We sit at the table, somewhere between nostalgia for the good old days and hope for what God has promised, somewhere between what might have been and what will surely be. And we make a choice. Mostly we choose our future not with our minds thinking clearly, but with our stomachs and appetites and ambitions, making or not making time to care, or time to love, or time for strife.

Yesterday my son heard a story. This is not unusual. I am one of those writerly dads who fills his children’s minds with many different tales. Poor babies. I’m sure many of you do the same. Our stories include The Girl with Golden Wings, The Rabbits at Jupiter Crossing, A Polar Bear Named Fray, Clive the Mouse, and many, many more. I tell them these little stories (usually works of immediate improvisation, sometimes not) mostly to delight. Now, I don’t see stories as merely a vehicle for communicating truth. In fact I have been one who has argued against allegorical, message-infested stories. They often really stink. But I’m beginning to be less and less certain about what might be an impossible divorce of story and meaning. And meaning means truth. And truth is not neutral. It is from an actual, particular God. The God who is there. I have no less disgust than I’ve ever had with trite stories that are merely vehicles for preaching –as stories. But I am coming to see that everything we do, including tell and listen to stories, is deeply meaningful. At the back of all meaning is God. In fact, he is not silent anywhere good exists. His word is even there in every lie, in every sin –these are all distortions, perversions of his world, his voice. In the tales I tell my children I find myself inevitably communicating truths, values, morals and wisdom. Service is exalted, obedience to rightful authority honored. Bravery is portrayed as noble. Characters are not praised for their pride and selfish acts. Actually, they sometimes are –in the story- but that serves to illustrate another truth –the truth that sometimes that’s what happens in life. Truth is inescapable, even in a silly era where autonomous creation of “truth” is exalted. So the idea, it seems to me, is to tell the truth about the way God’s world really is, and tell a delightful story while we’re at it. I consider myself to be one who is on a journey towards being able to tell good stories, with some hopeful and some discouraging signs. And it almost goes without saying that anyone who loves and follows the Lord Christ will increasingly love and be saturated in his Word. I think it might come down to telling the truth while we are telling whatever it is we are telling. This goes for fiction as well. In all your telling, tell truthfully. But trying to tell the (actual, knowable) truth, while we are telling whatever we are telling, has big implications. I discovered this when I began telling my son his story. It was his birthday, he turned four, and I was recounting his life and telling him what he is like. His story. “The night you were born you slept on my chest all night and didn’t move,” it began. When I wanted to talk about his courage, I found things he understood about courage in our little stories, and in the other stories we love. “You are like Robin Hood, courageous and loyal, committed to the true authority, even when it’s hard and doesn’t get you an immediate reward. You love to protect your sister, like Gawain, the noble knight. You have a humble heart, like Abraham, believing Yahweh.” On and on, truth after truth, story after story, identification with what is noble and worth thinking about and being like. So we cannot help but be shaped by the stories we hear and identify with. It’s not neutral. The world God made is full of meaning. Every story teaches. But what do the stories we write teach? What about the ones we live?

A couple of weeks ago at a Square Peg Alliance house show here in Nashville, Andy Osenga asked the following question: “Would you guys rather hear an old song about spaceships or a new song about spaceships?” People laughed. Andy added, “No really. That’s a serious question.” The new song about spaceships won. And it was awesome. Today’s song of the day is the old one, “Anna And The Aliens” (unless he’s got another that I don’t know about.) The Rabbit Room is proud to be the one stop source for all your Science-Fiction Folk-Rock needs.

Since I was a kid, I’ve had a great fondness for documentary filmmaking. I think this love of mine must have been parented by an early draw to weekly natural documentaries like Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom and Nova coupled to a fascination with behind-the-scenes and making-of vignettes (which were fairly hard to find in the pre-DVD era.) Whatever the cause, I love a good documentary and it seems there are a lot of great ones around these days. But for a lot of folks, documentaries are way off the radar, and understandably so. They rarely get wide theatrical releases. They seldom benefit from a marketing campaign. And they are rarely aired on cable television. Basically, the only engine of market penetration that a documentary has is its word-of-mouth. So consider what follows as my attempt to pass along words from my mouth in hopes that they find their way to your ear and trigger whatever mechanism in your mind is necessary to effect the further life of these films. These are films that document true stories. They are sometimes harrowing, sometimes hilarious, sometimes thought provoking, and sometimes enlightening. They are all worth a couple hours of your time and if you’ve got favorites that I haven’t mentioned, let’s hear about them. Spread the word. The documentary film is an artform that deserves its due. (Note: Most of these are available via Netflix Instant-View for those of you who have Tivo, an Xbox, or a PS3.) Old Man on Bench 2: “…which it was.” I hesitate to call this a ‘great’ documentary, but it does document some of the most hilarious and bizarre people you’ll ever meet. The story goes that the filmmaker (Errol Morris) learned Vernon, FL was the nation’s leader in ‘accidental’ amputees and there was suspicion that the townsfolk were lopping off their own arms and legs and living it up on the insurance money. Morris went to Florida to document that story but when he got there he found a town even stranger than he imagined. Due to alleged death threats, he abandoned his documenting of the amputees and let his camera roll on the townspeople merely being themselves. It’s strange, funny, and, if you grew up in rural Florida like me, disturbingly familiar. If you can find it, check it out. What follows is a story so surreal in its developments and plot twists that had it been written in fiction, no one would believe it. It’s a tale that travels not only the deep seas of the world, but the troubled waters of the human mind. Donald Crowhurst’s is a haunting story that stayed with me for days if not weeks afterward. Unforgettable. (view trailer) This is a shocking documentary that manages to shine a relatively objective light onto the actions of individuals without taking the more easily travelled road of demonizing the church as a whole. Some of the best interviews are with Catholic priests who are fighting passionately within the church for justice. (view trailer) Fast forward thirty years. The band members are in their 50’s, they’re construction workers and school lunchroom employees by day but they’re still hopeful that their time will come. As the tagline says, “At fourteen, they made a pact to rock together forever. And they meant it.” The thing that makes this such a great movie is that, yes, the story of Anvil is ridiculous, but after watching them try and fail so many times and because of the passion and love that the players have for each other and their music, you can’t help but cheer for them by the end. I bought their new record as soon as the movie was over just because I felt like they’d earned my ten bucks, even if I never listen to it. (Strong Language) (view trailer) But I’ve found myself rethinking a lot of things since watching Food, Inc. The film is about the way our food has been industrialized in the last hundred years and the unintended consequences we’ve brought upon ourselves. This film isn’t just about health, though, it’s also about government policies and trends that are downright scary. Since watching the film, I’m far more inclined to buy organic food, even when it’s more expensive, not so much because I think it’s healthier, but because I think it’s the moral thing to do…and because I want Wendell Berry to stop making faces at me. (view trailer) If that right there hasn’t convinced you to watch this movie, I don’t know what will. It’s about a cranky old lady truck driver who buys a painting at a thrift store for $5 and sets out to prove to the world that it’s an actual work by Jackson Pollock, and therefore worth upwards of $50 million. Evidence suggests she’s right but the snooty art community isn’t having any of it. Fireworks ensue. The result is an interesting and entertaining look at how we value art and judge its worth. (Despite the title and opening quote, that’s really about the only strong language in the film.) When the filmmaker, Mark Moskowitz, was a teenager he began reading a book called The Stones of Summer that was heralded by critics as one of the major works of his generation. As teenagers often do, he got sidetracked and didn’t finish reading it. But when he returned to it as an adult, he fell in love with the book and was astonished to find that the author had apparently fallen off of the face of the earth, never publishing another book. The film is about Moskowitz’s quest to track down the author and find out what happened to him. Along the way we’re treated to a celebration of the novel as an artform and some interesting pontifications on other such “One and Done” author’s like Harper Lee (To Kill A Mockingbird) and Joseph Heller (Catch 22). The film, though flawed, is a fascinating story and since watching it, I always look for one of those rare first editions of The Stones of Summer when I’m in a used book store. (view trailer) Steve Wiebe is our hero, a nice family guy that one day decides he’s going to be the best Donkey Kong player on earth. But little does Steve suspect the vast evil that will attempt to prevent him. King of Kong is the tale of the rivalry between the lovable Steve Wiebe and he of the impeccable hair: Billy Mitchell. Whether you want to or not, you will learn a fantastic amount of trivia surrounding 80’s style arcade games and the strange sub-culture that still exists around them. The real charm of the film, though, is in its characters. Billy Mitchell is perhaps one of the most memorable ‘bad guys’ to ever enter a story. No matter how despicable you think he is, he continually finds ways to sink lower, and he does it all with flawless hair. It’s pure genius. You’ll laugh, you’ll cry, you’ll want to play some Donkey Kong, and you’ll never forget Steve and Billy. (view trailer) The best (and sometimes worst) thing about all these films, is that they are true. These are things that really happened, to real people, with real emotions, struggles, and dreams. A good documentary, as the word suggests, is a record of life here on planet earth. For good or evil, this is who we are: a strange and restless bunch all tangled together with stories to tell.

Note: We’ve completely sold out of these. Zounds! You guys are mug nuts. I’ll be placing another order next week so look for another set sometime in June. We’re happy to announce some new arrivals to the Rabbit Room. If you will, say hello to “The Chesterton“, “Old Jack“, “O’Connor“, and “The Professor.” Alas, we haven’t resurrected four greats of 20th Century literature. But we have named a brand new set of Rabbit Room mugs after them. The good folks at Sunset Hill Stoneware have turned each one individually on a pottery wheel (sans Swayze) and finished them off with an official Rabbit Room logo. We’ve only got a dozen of each style (and six of each variety within that style) so if you want a matching set, you might want to act sooner rather than later. Without further ado, meet the mugs: The “O’Connor” (SOLD OUT) is one of the finest mugs to come out of the American South in the last century. It might look like a sweet, innocent, little cup that you’d find in the hands of a small town Georgia grandmother but rest assured, it’s much, much more. There’s a lot of depth and flavor here that shouldn’t be underestimated. Be sure the check out the mugs in the store for a look at the secondary color options and if you would like to order 4 or more, send an email to orders@rabbitroom.com for details on free shipping.

A Reflection on the Cost of Digital Content, with 10 Suggestions to Fellow Christians “ ‘Information wants to be free.’  So goes the saying. . . I say that information doesn’t deserve to be free.”  — Jaron Lanier, You Are Not A Gadget Jaron Lanier is one of the foremost computer scientists in the world, and the man who coined the term “virtual reality.”  He has spent more time reflecting on the implications of the internet than most anyone else on earth.  In his recent manifesto, You are Not a Gadget, he argues persuasively that the movement towards free information on the internet has choked creativity, dumbed down innovation, and led to a popular culture of nostalgic malaise.  In order to make his point, he looks at most modern music and its apparent inability to do much more than rehash, mashup, and remix the songs and styles of previous generations. Lanier points out that the economics of free information were supposed to unleash a generation of new artists, writers, musicians and craftspeople who would be unfettered by the need to seek corporate sponsorship or wealthy supporters.  Unfortunately, I believe we have seen a morass of inadequate and amateurish products and a deficit of excellence in the artistic fields. Of course, there are also excellent artists doing excellent work, but these brave souls find themselves in an environment in which it is increasingly difficult (if not impossible) to support themselves on the proceeds of their art. Further, the economics of the internet have led to the bankruptcy of many journalistic institutions and the severe degradation of the free press.  While there are untold numbers of celebrity-hunting bloggers, there are fewer and fewer credible journalists with the backing to go after the most important stories.  Democracy needs a substantial press, Edmond Burke’s “fourth estate;” we are in grave danger of losing ours. I believe we have done enormous damage by refusing to pay for content simply because it is in digital form.  By stealing music, we have prevented musicians from operating creatively; and hindered music business people from encouraging and producing new talent.  By pirating photography, we have cut the legs out from under artists.  By refusing to pay for journalism, we have devastated newspapers and network news.  Those of us who consume free internet content have made it increasingly difficult to produce high quality movies, television, journalism, fiction, poetry, art, music, travel guides, cookbooks–the list is endless.  Yes, there are more videos to watch than ever before.  But the best of these are still being produced by the movie studios and cable networks of the old economy.  These studios and networks are being financially starved to death. “Who cares?” some say.  After all, NBC and EMI and HBO are just big corporations.  Fight the power, screw the Man!  They deserve to burn.  The problem is that they are burning, but there is no one to replace them.  Will rich bankers rise up to sponsor the next Sopranos?  Will the Church take contributions to bankroll the next U2?  Is it Bill Gates or the Pope or the Sultan of Brunei who will save us from an endless stream of cat videos and 80s remixes?  I am amused by basketball tricks on YouTube, but I fear that I will never see another Godfather. All of these concerns are pragmatic, and ultimately selfish.  I want to be well informed and well entertained.  But I have other concerns as well.  I am a Christian, the pastor of a church, and a priest of the Anglican Communion.  It is my duty to speak to my fellow Believers, especially those in my care, about the moral cost of free internet content.  I do not intend to moralize to those outside of my faith; but I would like to speak to those inside of it. On one hand there is the moral principle against theft.  A great deal of digital content is stolen simply because it is digital.  Most people in the Church would not break into someone’s house to steal a DVD from a shelf or a picture from the wall.  However, many of us might pass along movies or pictures which we have illegally copied.  In so doing, we are violating one of the Ten Commandments: “Thou Shall Not Steal.” (Exodus 20:15)  We have also violated Christ’s command to “love your neighbor as yourself.” (Matthew 22:39) Stealing from another person is not loving.  Further, in many cases we may be going against Christ’s final commandment to “love one another as I have loved you.” (John 13:34) When we steal from Christian artists, many of whom we worship with on Sunday morning, we ignore the instructions that Jesus said would set us apart from the rest of the world–“by this will all know that you are my disciples, that you love one another.” (John 13:35) I am speaking to myself.  I have personally stolen digital content.  While I have never illegally downloaded music, I have ripped CDs and passed them on to others, and I have received digital music that other people did not have the legal right to give me. I have no idea how many times I may have misused digitized art to spice up powerpoint presentations at church functions. It is easy to steal digital content, as it is easy to view digital pornography or gamble illegally online or send anonymous messages of hate to those who differ from us.  It is all done so privately, so effortlessly.  There is little or no danger of being reprimanded by any outside source.  However, these behaviors are deadly to our souls; and God is always present.  There is no moral difference between sinning with a computer and sinning without one. On the other hand, there is the more complex question of using content that is available both free and legally.  There are no laws against consuming much of what we might find on the internet.  In many cases, this content may be distributed under specific conditions, such as a Creative Commons License (as this essay is).  The site where we find the content may be trying to pay for itself through advertising, for instance, or through private investment. The problem is that most high quality content found on the internet (music, video games, stories, illustrations, etc.) costs significantly more money to create than it is making on-line.  There is a huge gap between the cost of production and the price of consumption.  Some organizations, such as the New York Times or the makers of the game Spore, complain about this gap and seek to correct it.  When they do, they are endlessly mocked on blogs and many consumers refuse to pay up.  This results in such organizations either backing down or finding themselves with far fewer customers.  In either case, the degradation of content continues, professional people are laid off, and the public gets more and more Beyoncé mashups to feast on. Certainly many people produce content simply for the love of it.  I am personally in that camp.  I record film reviews solely as a hobby.  But I can afford to do this.  If I wanted to set aside all other work to become a serious film critic, the current on-line economy guarantees that my family would starve.  Thousands of professionals are losing their vocations because of the high cost of “free” content. While most Christians agree (theoretically) that stealing is wrong, I want to challenge our moral principles still further.  When St. Paul was writing to the churches, there was a question as to whether pastors should be paid.  In addressing this question Paul quoted both the Old Testament and Jesus himself when he wrote “the Scripture says, ‘Do not muzzle the ox while it is treading out the grain,’ and ‘The worker deserves his wages.’” (1 Timothy 5:18)  Paul is speaking of our need to pay ministers; he is not speaking about digital content creators.  However, there is a principle here I would suggest we consider.  Notice his use of the agricultural example used by Moses. (Deuteronomy 15:4)  As an ox tread grain the Israelites were instructed to leave its mouth free.  Why?  So that the ox could eat as he worked.  Paul then associates this with Jesus saying ‘a worker deserves his wages.‘ (Luke 10:7) If a dumb animal should be allowed to make his living off his own labor, why not those who preach?  And why not those who create intellectual and creative content?  Just because their content is digitized and placed on the internet, are they less deserving than animals or pastors of reaping reward for their work?  Should we pay our pastors for their helpful words, but not our musicians and reporters and poets? I believe that it is a Christian duty to pay laborers for the work they do on our behalf.  If we run a business, we should pay our employees.  We should pay the people who we might hire to mow our lawns or care for our animals while we are out of town.  We should pay our taxes so that the police and firefighters and teachers on whom we rely may be compensated for their efforts.  We should do our part to pay those whose digitized content we both use and value.  This seems to me to be a reasonable application of our Lord’s declaration that “a worker deserves his wages.”  This sounds like justice. With this in mind, I offer these suggestions to my fellow Christian Believers.  They are not commandments, as I refuse to lay down any law.  Rather, these are thoughtful and godly ideas.  These are not suggested laws or market practices.  They are meant for individuals.  I would ask that my readers consider these suggestions and pray about putting them into practice.  I would also encourage others to comment on this essay, challenge my ideas, and make other suggestions. 10 Suggestions for the Christian’s Use of Digital Content 1) Do not steal, even if you can.  Do not download or share files which are being offered illegally. 2) Do not receive stolen merchandise, even if it is digital.  If content was taken illegally, or is being offered to you in violation of the law, politely refuse to accept it. 3) If you have stolen content in the past, delete it and buy it legally. 4) Do not violate the terms of use of digital material.  If a file is offered for non-commercial use, do not use it commercially.  If a picture is available for use if you attribute the artist, attribute it to her. 5) When in doubt, do your best.  Some files have been copied and re-posted so many times you may have no way of ever finding the original terms of use.  There is no perfect system; do what you can. 6) If you regularly use content and that providing site gives you the ability to contribute, do so.  For example, if you listen to the “This American Life” podcast, visit their website and give them some money. 7) If you visit a site and you see a link to interesting and legitimate advertising, don’t be afraid to click on it.  While I don’t personally like advertising on websites, it is a large source of income for many content providers. 8) If you like a site or service that does not receive contributions, write them an e-mail and ask them to give their users the opportunity to contribute.  For instance, if you read a blog three days a week and there is no way to financially support the blogger, ask her to provide a way to support her site. 9) This may be my most creative and crazy suggestion.  Pick ten of your favorite providers of free on-line content, whether large corporations or non-profits or individual artists.  Get their addresses, and send them some money with a letter (even just a couple of dollars).  Tell them that you are sending them this money because you have consumed their content for free, and you believe that they deserve to be compensated for the benefit that they have provided to you.  Yes, this is radical.  Yes, it is counter-cultural.  Remember the story of King David and Araunah in 2 Samuel 24:18-25?  David wanted to build an altar on Araunah’s land, so Araunah offered to give him the land for free.  But David replied “No, I insist on paying you for it. I will not sacrifice to the LORD my God burnt offerings that cost me nothing.” (2 Samuel 24:24)  Paying for something even when it is offered to you for free is a principle found in this story. 10) Pass this essay on to others.  Yet, it is almost 2000 words long.  But these ideas may spark thoughtful discussion, dissent, and debate.  Even if you totally disagree with what I’m saying, consider engaging with this material. Respectfully, Fr. Thomas McKenzie

It pains me to admit this but Andy Gullahorn grows a much manlier beard than I can. That has nothing to do with “In My Bones” being the song of the day. Neither does the fact that he’s from Texas but I’ve told you so many times about how great a songwriter he is that I thought I’d mention some of his other notable attributes. Here’s the complete rundown on the song in Andy’s own words: “A song about marrow. Kind of.” –Andy Gullahorn Listen to the song. Buy the record. Be happy.

I’m working on a re-read of The Hobbit, and I’m reminded that it was not the Baggins side of Bilbo that spurred him on toward adventure. It was his mother’s side: Belladonna Took. Upon first meeting the wizard, the Baggins side wanted to leisurely sit with Gandalf outside and smoke all day. Gandalf meant to wake up Bilbo’s Took side. There is nothing particularly wrong with either side, of course. On most days, I wish I could be a Baggins, sitting around reading, eating, smoking a pipe. (Yes, smoking a pipe. Sorry.) But you know if you’re familiar with Tolkien, you know you’re not allowed to ignore the Fallen world in which we live. Before Bilbo knows it, he’s got 13 dwarves and a wizard in his home telling a tale of a dragon who destroyed and killed and pillaged and plundered. The peace of the Shire is a wonderful thing, but ultimately an illusion. Or perhaps better: a glimpse of our final peace, but not something that can be enjoyed uninterrupted in this fallen world. Fairy stories often do to us exactly what Gandalf did with Bilbo: they awaken in us a desire for adventure, for quest, for danger, for carrying swords and righting wrongs and rescuing people in distress. So, questions for discussion: Are you inclined more toward your Took side or Baggins side? If you’re a Baggins, what brings out your adventurous Took side? If you’re a Took, where do you find the peace of the Shire in the midst of your adventures?

I’ve been re-reading Andi Ashworth’s beautiful book Real Love for Real Life: The Art and Work of Caring with a great group of women from my church. There are a million books on parenting and motherhood but I’ve never found any quite like this one. Andi focuses on caregiving and how that manifests itself in different ways depending on our gifts and season of life. She talks about the ways care giving enriches lives and allows us to build a life and make a home “with a heart”. In one of my favorite chapters Andi discusses how caring in our society goes against the flow. Most of our domestic tasks are outsourced–from childcare to cleaning and cooking to caring for the elderly. Time is money and people have so little to share. She writes, “As we give in to the standards society sets for us, we gradually internalize what our culture values: efficiency, speed, control, and quantity over quality. In this paradigm, caregiving seems very much out of place. Caring does not “maximize” our time. Its richest rewards are not tangible. Its results are not quantitative. Caregiving needs are unpredictable, and sometimes meeting them is a slow process.” I was able to witness a master caregiver a few weekends ago on a retreat with a youth group from Huntsville, Alabama. When I think “youth retreat” I think crazy, fun, skits, and lack of sleep. I do NOT think great food. Teenagers tend to eat without discretion and most would happily eat Kraft macaroni and cheese, pizza and chicken tenders. Yet, Debbie and her team of cooks came ready to make this experience extravagant for each and every student. Debbie is an amazing cook and it is one of the ways she shows love and care for those around her. She set out to make those kids feel loved and special by the time and attention she put into every meal. Her breakfasts were huge spreads of quiches, homemade cappuccino muffins, blueberry French toast, yogurt parfaits and cayenne maple bacon. Her lunches were gourmet grilled fish tacos with homemade guacamole and corn salsa. Her Valentine’s dinner was beef tenderloin with twice baked potatoes, roasted asparagus, homemade rolls and white chocolate bread pudding. I would watch the faces of these gangly fourteen-year-old boys light up with each new meal, each new feast. These sometimes awkward, often unappreciated and underestimated members of society were treated like royalty. It was beyond what anyone would ever expect. Just one of the dishes would have been enough to sing her praises. But Debbie was not doing it for praise. She truly wanted the kids to feel loved and ultimately to accept God’s extravagant love. I couldn’t get Debbie and the kitchen team out of my mind all weekend. They were awake before anyone and still cleaning long after we had left the building. From time to time I would see them in the corner quickly eating a meal long after everyone else had eaten. They were back at work moments later, preparing our next feast. It was so impractical, so inefficient. It was an entire weekend, their time to rest after a week of work. They could have made it so much easier on themselves. No one expected that kind of food, yet they spared no expense and took no shortcuts. Why? I mean, I adore cooking and appreciated every bite but I still had to wonder why Debbie wouldn’t just put in some Sister Shubert’s every now and then to save time. She was like the woman who poured the expensive perfume at Jesus’ feet, generously giving out of the overflow of her heart. Some called it foolishness, but Jesus did not. In a chapter about the art of caring Andi writes, “In small and large ways, when we create beauty–in our environment, relationships, music, cooking, poetry, and celebrations–we push back the effects of the Fall and express our hope for the new heaven and new earth that God promises. When we give artful attention to detail, we point people to a truer and better reality. When we offer beauty, we touch something in the human soul. We remind others of who they are and what they were made for.” When these kids are grown they may not remember the specifics of the weekend, what was said or sung, but there will be a memory of care and love that was a thread woven into the fabric of their lives. As Sara Groves sang so beautifully, beauty matters. Our small acts matter. Let us continue to push back against the effects of the Fall with the way we love and care for each other impractically and inefficiently.

It’s 2:27 AM and I just got home from a little cabin in the Tennessee mountains, where a logger taught me something about art and writing. We were there because we had a lot of work to do on a story, and we needed a secluded place to work. A place with no distractions. No cell service. Our host grinned, hitched up his jeans and pointed across a 1,000 acre valley. “See that loggin’ road yonder? The one on the opposite ridge?” We peered into the distance and nodded. “I built that one.” He was a big, tough man with a kind face. It was clear that he took pride in his work, and joy, too. He asked us a little about our music and writing, then said, “What I do when I build roads isn’t that much different from what you do. I have to figure out how to get from here to there. I look at a place and imagine a road. Takes a fair bit of creativity.” Well, that was about as fine an analogy as I could have asked for. And then it got better. “You’d be amazed at what I find down there in the valley. You find ruins. Old houses and stone walls. Homeplaces that have been out there Lord knows how long. I don’t know what those people were doing so far out, or how they ended up there, but those fields at the bottom of the bowl were farmed once. And most of this forest’s already been logged. You can tell. And back then they did it with mules. So when I’m looking for the best route for my road, for the easiest way to get down the mountain, I just look for the old mule trails. Every single time, the mule trails are the best possible route.” What does that tell you about stories? Songs? Art?

Last night I had the pleasure of attending a fantastic ‘house’ concert featuring a whole slew of Square Peg folks. Notably absent was Randall Goodgame but that didn’t stop the other Pegs from telling some hilarious stories about him. Although it’s tempting to repeat those stories here, I won’t. You’ll just have to be sure to make your way to Nashville the next time the Pegs get together. Instead, Randall gets the Song of the Day today and I’ll let him tell you a story with this song. It’s from his most recent recording Bluebird and it’s called “All The Years.” Enjoy.