What are you looking for?

If you called my dad right now, on Easter Sunday, he wouldn’t say hello when he picked up the phone. He’d say, “He is risen,” and he’d sit there waiting on the phone for the proper reply before you could talk. “He is risen, indeed,” you’d blurt, awkardly, then he’d laugh a preacherly laugh. It’s something the early Christians said to each other, and two thousand years later we’re still saying it. Or, my dad is. I used to think it was hokey, but the older I get the more I wonder if we couldn’t all use a little more hokeyness in our lives. The other day I tweeted a Martin Luther quote about the resurrection: “Our Lord has written the promise of resurrection, not in books alone, but in every leaf in springtime,” and some guy tweeted back, “Show me one person who’s been reserected [sic], MEDICAL verification required, and we’ll talk.” I’m not an apologist, but something tells me no amount of arguing would convince this guy of a thing. I appreciate that he’s a guy after the answers (or, hopefully he is)–but it’s not proof he needs. It’s wonder. Or, if you like, faith. But the early Christians, the ones who greeted each other like my dad will when I call him today, didn’t need faith to believe Christ’s resurrection like I do. They had medical verification. They saw him. They ate fish with him. They walked and talked with the man who just a week ago was strung up like a criminal and dead as a doornail. For them it wasn’t blind faith. And that’s why the word spread like wildfire. Hundreds and hundreds of people laid eyes on the one human being since the beginning of time who kicked down Death’s door and made it out alive again. C.S. Lewis: “The Resurrection is the central theme in every Christian sermon reported in the Acts. The Resurrection and its consequences were the ‘gospel’ or good news which the Christian brought; what we call the ‘gospels’, the narratives of Our Lord’s life and death, were composed later for the benefit of those who had already accepted the gospel. They were in no sense the basis of Christianity: they were written for those already converted. The miracles of the Resurrection, and the theology of that miracle, comes first: the biography comes later as a comment on it. Nothing could be more unhistorical than to pick out selected sayings of Christ from the gospels and to regard those as the datum and the rest of the New Testament as a construction upon it. The first fact in the history of Christendom is a number of people who say they have seen the Resurrection.” I long to see him face-to-face. I long to put my hand in his side, and touch the scars. I want to thank him and to worship him without this confounded veil between us. Just fighting to believe can make you weary, and faith is hard to hold. But we are given moments of reprieve. Easter comes around and the pews are full of every-Sunday sinners and once-in-a-blue-moon saints. The ice melts. The daffodils glow like little suns. We remember the earth-shaking fact of the resurrection of Jesus, and hope comes galloping in from the east, trumpeting the tune of victory. Today, when I walked the hill and saw the buds on the tulip poplar spreading out their little hands, I believed it. When I sat in the dark during the Good Friday service and sang “O Sacred Head Now Wounded” with a roomful of saints who, astonishingly, forsook whatever else they could have been doing to drive across town to mourn the murder of Christ–I believed it. And now, as I write this on Easter morning, when I think of the pain and death and sorrow that surrounds me and my community, I believe it, because I have seen a light the shadow cannot touch. I have seen healing, and unexplainable faith; I have seen quiet mercy stop evil in its tracks. Demand proof if you want. Proof has its place, as it did for the early Christians. But blessed are those who have not seen, and yet believe. The stories are true. Let wonder infect you. ———————————– Here’s an Easter song I wrote last year for the Resurrection Letters tour. It’s the only recording we have, and I must once again apologize for my crybaby tendencies. When this was recorded the song was only about a week old, so I got emotional. It won’t be on Counting Stars because I’m saving it for Resurrection Letters, Vol. I. I hope your Easter Sunday is a good one. https://rabbitroom.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/04/RisenIndeedLive.mp3 RISEN INDEED And so the winter dies with a blast of icy wind Like a mournful cry—it’s giving up the ghost again Another sheet of snow melts away to gold and green Just look at Peter go, he’s racing to the tomb to see Where has my Jesus gone? He is not dead; he is risen, risen indeed And now the flowers bloom like a song of freedom Behold the earth is new, if only for the season And so the seed that died for you becomes a seedling Just put your hand into the wound that bought your healing And let your heart believe He is not dead; he is risen, risen indeed And the rain will fall on the furrow It immerses the earth in sorrow Mary, the sun will rise again Mary, the sun will rise again Daughter, listen, listen Daughter, listen He speaks your name Father Abraham could not have dreamed of this Could never understand the end of all those promises How all the pieces fit, every star and grain of sand Is safely hid in Jesus’ hand Let every tongue confess He is not dead; he is risen, risen indeed Mary, the sun will rise again Daughter, listen, listen Daughter, listen, he speaks your name.

I don’t pay a lot of attention to liturgical observances. I’m one of those folks for whom repetition, ritual, and ceremony are generally detractors from my ability to enter a state of worship or spiritual reflection. I know, I know, I love Lewis’s arguments for liturgy as a trainer of the mind and spirit, and he was a lot smarter than I’ll ever be. But still, for better or worse, it’s just not my thing. I have two exceptions of note. The first, of course, is Communion. I began observing the second about ten years ago. I know others do it but I don’t know whether there’s any sort of official observance. I simply decided one year that I’d fast from Good Friday after lunch until Communion on Easter morning and I’ve done it every year since. I’ve grown to look forward to it. It provides me with a gnawing reminder of the hours that Christ spent in the grave and I’m always hungry, spiritually and physically, for Communion come Sunday. So today I ate a nice, big lunch in anticipation of the fast ahead and went on my way as usual. Then I ran into a problem. I attended the Good Friday service at my church and something happened that I hadn’t seen before. They offered communion. Do most churches do this on Good Friday? I don’t know. So there I sat, wanting Communion, and yet not wanting to break my symbolic fast. My first reaction was something along the lines of, “Well, I’m not doing that! I’m fasting and I can just wait until Sunday morning.” And there I sat. It really began to work on me as I watched others walk to the table. The original communion was a Good Friday meal, Jesus’ last. How could I possibly sit and ponder the awesome event being memorialized and refuse the remembrance enacted before me? Should I sit in the shadows hungry and self-righteous, or was my place at the feast. If I joined the meal and continued my fast from that holy moment on, then in some measure I’d be sustained throughout the remainder of my brief famine solely by the blood and body of Christ–not in remembrance or symbolic spiritual sustenance, but in real, corporeal hunger. Nothing but the blood. Nothing but the body. How rich a feast was this before me and how necessary? And how precious once again come Easter morning? So I had a literal break-fast. I took my place at the table. And now I go my way assured that Christ alone sustains me, in every way possible, until the morning of his glad return.

Literary Agent Steve Laube talks about the hyped-up notion that “print is dead.” In movies, agents end up behind enemy lines spying, wisecracking, and listening for details of what is happening. And getting wounded. So, we should definitely trust them. “I see the royalty statements. I know exactly how many digital versions of my client’s books are being sold. And while there are a lot more sold than there were two years ago (of course there would be) the volume is still less than 1% of the print version sold. LESS THAN ONE PERCENT.” He even notes that CD sales are still strong, even though digital music is (obviously) popular and growing more so. I know we’re all trying to figure out what kind of relationship there is between what has happened/is happening to the music business and book publishing. His article is informative on that front. Read it here. Bottom line: printed books are alive and well, and will be for at least a while. To that I say, “Yay,” and “Pip, pip!” And, lastly, “Tally ho.” OK, may have overdone that. Here’s a picture of a Kindle being made. Oddly enough, they are manufactured using very old printing presses. That is also, in fact, where they get their name: Kindle. The fellow what operates the press is named “Kindle B. Rhinelander.” He has, it might surprise you to learn, a mustache. Do you think printed books are on the way out? If so, do you care one way or the other?Can you name the book reference in the post’s title? The only clue I have to offer you is blood, sweat, and tears. And mustaches. Do you like money? Do you have a mustache?

It’s no secret that all of us here love books. But we happen to be big fans of audiobooks as well, and one in particular. At some point in the past couple of years, we’ve each come across this special piece of work, and though it’s affected each of us differently, those effects have all been powerful. And that awesome power isn’t an attribute of the book itself necessarily, but rather the extraordinary work of the audiobook’s narrator. But don’t just take it from me. Listen to what the rest of our contributors have had to say. Let the praises be sung: “If you are looking for a quirky, breezy audiobook selection for your commute to and from the office, look no further than Flabbergasted by Ray Blackston.  The reader’s charming delivery will catapult you into the scenes (keep both hands on the wheel) and leave the listener “flabbergasted” by oratorical excellence. ” —Randall Goodgame 1. The fact that you can get mother-of-pearl secrets inlaid in the fret board of your guitar in elvish runes. (Not only is this one of the most awesome displays of awesomeness you can imagine, it also doubles as a form of theft prevention.) 2. Tupelo, Mississippi. 3. The amazing tenor of the artist who read the Audio Book version of the recent novel Flabbergasted. I have been a fool to underestimate and overlook the Cracker Barrel’s Audio Library for Traveling Families. Never again, folks. Never again.” —Russ Ramsey “I almost never listen to music in the car anymore because a few years back I started listening to audiobooks instead. Well, now I only listen to one, over and over again: Flabbergasted. Why? Because I’ve never heard such a stunning and marvelous narration in my life. It’s so good, if you ride with me in my car, you’re not even allowed to talk. We’ll just sit and listen.” —Travis Prinzi “Spending as much time as we do on the road, the Grays are always looking for things to help pass the time and redeem the miles.  Our in-van entertainment consists of iPod games, conversations, books that Taya will read to us, podcasts, and more recently: audiobooks.  Nothing helps pass the time like a good audiobook. And a good story is made all the better by a great narration! In fact, great narration can elevate a story to something of Transcendence. Such is the case for Flabbergasted – a story about an agnostic who decides to go to church to meet girls. The rich baritone of the narrator lends a vulnerability and believability to this tale of love and other adventures. It’s almost as if the reader is the lonely protagonist himself – like the first Adam longing for Eve.  The casual confidence and urbane eloquence of “The Voice” make it all too easy to believe that such a character would have no problem picking up girls at church.  Indeed he sounds like a professional, well versed in the arts of attraction and conquest.  It’s maybe too obvious to say this, but Flabbergasted truly left me… well… you know…” —Jason Gray “My wife and I take an annual outing to replace the last year’s Coca-Cola tins and snowflake sweaters around our house. Thus, on the last Saturday morning of every winter, we usually find ourselves at the local Cracker Barrel for a day we affectionately call “Biscuits and Books.” This year, Ray Blackstone’s Flabbergasted became the audiobook of choice as we drove on our search, and this year above others, we found ourselves captivated not only by the material, but how the nasal Nashville delivery of the words brought the events to life. Our only hope is to find more work by this farmer-tinged Patrick Stewart.” —Matt Connor “I love audiobooks. The last one I listened to in my car was The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers. But yesterday I was in Cracker Barrel and got an audio book called Flabbergasted. The guy reading the book is perfect; his diction, timing, and accent combine for an aurally ecstatic experience. If you’re out one night cruising for chicks, just pop this baby in and watch ’em flock around the car.” —Ron Block “I tried to enjoy it.  I really did.  But sitting there in the dark, listening to the world-renowned Shakespearean actor Michael York rehearse William Walton’s “Henry V: A Shakespeare Scenario” with the Nashville Symphony, I couldn’t shake a nagging sense of disappointment.  Honestly, it was a bit flabbergasting at first.  But I think I figured it out.  You see, I’d been listening to this wonderful audiobook I’d picked up at Cracker Barrel every evening for the last couple weeks (chapter eighteen was on repeat for three days), and now all other narration is spoiled for me.  It all falls flat.  But when I put on Flabbergasted, it’s like all of the passion and sadness and joy of those who listened wound into one common strand of feeling that was like homesickness.  There’s just something about the way he reads. It makes me think of when it snows outside, and the fire is warm, and there’s no place I’d rather be – but for some reason I still feel…homesick.” —Stephen Lamb “The Lord of the Rings is such a monumental work that it has spoiled the entire genre of fantasy literature. It is both the foundation of all that has come after and the unattainable pinnacle to which all who contend aspire. It is simultaneously the fount of inspiration and the iron-founded conceptual seed of every ascender to that fantastic sub-creational mount. Those who contend upon its slopes rise, sharp and bold in their intent, yet fall short of the whispering peak. Wracked, they tumble into the yawning valley below and there they mewl and whimper and for eons lay, broken-backed, staring heavenward toward that glimmering peak they sought and, falling, lost. The audiobook of Flabbergasted is a lot like that.” —Pete Peterson “Last Saturday, on my drive back up Charlotte Pike away from the bright beacon that is Lowe’s, I thought I’d stop in at my local Cracker Barrel for a take-out container full of fried okra and perhaps a crunchy-topped blueberry muffin. I put in my order and then ended up sitting a spell in one of their fine rocking chairs and challenging a nice older fellow (who had just finished parking his “Cougar” RV in the back lot) to a game of checkers on those big rugs they have. Well, I beat him to a pulp and boredom with the perfect spring air quickly set in, so I went inside to peruse the marvels that lie within any of these fine establishments which dot the interstate system of our fair land. Now I’m not usually an audiobook kind of gal, but as I twirled the carousel stationed smartly next to the display of rock candy and sassafras batons, one of them really caught my eye. Flabbergasted. What was this? I mean, anything with an old green Caddy on the cover is enough to spark some interest for me, so I took a gamble and put it on the counter next to my box of fried-ness. Little did I know what I was in for when I popped the cassette (yes, cassette) into the player of my 1971 pick-up. This voice, oh….such a voice. It soothed, it tickled, it sparkled, it sang. Dear reader, you owe it to yourself to positively fly to your nearest Cracker Barrel and pick up a copy. You may also need to buy one of those Mary Engelbreit decorative travel-size packs of Kleenex they have at the check-out counter because the perfectly rhythmic, downright lyrical tone that flows from your speakers will render you a mere puddle.” —Evie Coates “If you hate hearing a golden instrument of transcendent articulation breathe verbal sunlight into an eager microphone, then avoid the audio book performance of Flabbergasted at all costs. If you do chance a listen you are, indeed, at great risk of falling victim to the audiological lotus. The only cure, once enchanted, is as follows: Take the transfixed audiophile to a secluded, country home. Play a recording of the afore-referenced vocal wizard reading Old Yeller. When the pertinent moment of the book comes, administer the prescription advocated therein. It is a mercy. After hearing this performance, only heaven can bring him any succeeding joy.” —S.D. Smith “I was pulling tulips out of the ground by their bearded bulbs. Mulching did them no good. Nor did Miracle-Gro. To hell with non-flowering spring flowers, I thought, and thus the exhuming process went on for hours. In order to refocus my abiding consternation into a more creative endeavour, I enlisted the help of my 1989 Panasonic boombox, complete with detachable speakers. Instead of music, however, I decided to listen to a book-on-tape. There, out in the windy front lawn, I figured a cold, sterile, self-important recorded voice would further empower the muscles in my arms and back with enough adrenaline to outlast the tulips’ final grip on earth. But a strange thing happened as those first musical notes echoed beneath the walnut tree, and the narrator’s voice consumed my audible space: I fell fast asleep. This gentle man’s tone, so thick with Florida rain, assuaged my feeble anger, and atop a fescue and bermuda mix, my body consumed rest. I awoke an hour or so later, my cheeks flushed red, pock-marked with the criss-cross of grass blades, and the remnants of a poor, unsuspecting ladybug, now deceased and flattened near the crow’s feet of my left eye. The voice, the voice! My God, that voice! Flummoxed and flabbergasted – a new man! – I swore that day to listen more closely to the whispering angels of my better nature for surely they exist in spirit, in the sky, in libraries and at Cracker Barrel restaurants.” — Eric Peters “I had Homemade Chicken and Dumplings on my mind and in my belly as the overhead crane smoothly lifted me from the dining area to the infamous Cracker Barrel Country Store. The crane operator expertly guided my overstuffed body among the aisles of Rooster Canvas Wall Art, Pecan Divinity Tubs, Honey Nectar Hand Lotion, and the highly touted “Daily and Vincent Sing the Statler Brothers” CD. With so many treasures from which to choose, I was indubitably flummoxed and overcome with verklemptness. Verily, veritably, I say unto you. Then I spotted the audio book Flabbergasted and I made my purchase. Meanwhile, I instructed my crane operator to shift into neutral, delicately rocking me outside the restaurant, like a new born baby, as I listened to the euphonious tones of the narrator. His voice was comically melodious and pleasing, wafting euphonically among the aroma of home cooked food and a gentle breeze, as I drifted off into nap nirvana.” — Curt McLey I long to hear the voice of my Shepherd.  As a shepherd (pastor) myself, how can I lead the sheep in my care unless I know where we are going?  As a preacher, how can I speak the words of God without hearing the Word of God.  As a broken man, how can I be led into green pastures unless I have that voice to guide me?  I trust in Christ’s statement that “his sheep follow him because they know his voice.”  But I strain after that voice.  Sure, I have the Bible to read, the traditions of the Church, the Spirit in my heart, and all the other ways God might speak to me.  But what of that voice?  I have never heard it, but I have imagined it.  In much the same way Denise Chamian might cast a movie, I have been searching for the perfect actor to portray the voice of Christ for me; that voice that might hold, if even in a temporary and earthly way, the voice of my master.  In listening to the audiobook of Flabbergasted, I have found that actor.  Did our Lord read for that audiobook?  No, but he must have inspired the man who did.  Is there something divine in the timbre, the pacing, the diction, the pauses, the color of that voice?  Yes, surely there is.  Thank you, oh reader of Flabbergasted, for being a window into heaven.  You are my vocal icon.  Henceforth, when I read the Gospels, I will hear them in your voice.” — Thomas McKenzie “I was still savoring the toothpick I had taken from the dispenser at the Cracker Barrel cash register when my wife popped in the audiobook she had selected from the rotating rack near the dried-apple granny dolls. Flabbergasted, it was called. And I was. Flabbergasted, that is, when the dulcet tones of the narrator’s voice came wafting through the minivan’s speakers. We fell silent, every one of us. Where did this narrator come from? “Do you hear what I hear?” my wife asked. “Yes,” I answered. “I can hear the tune of truth is in his voice.” Out of the stunned silence came the decidedly un-surly voice of my teenage son. “Mom? Dad? I love you.” —Jonathan Rogers Are you convinced? If so, proceed, nay, quicken to the Rabbit Room Store where one lucky patron will have the honor of purchasing what is quite possibly the only autographed (by the narrator) copy of this earth-shattering work in existence. There can be only one (and it can be yours if the price is right.)

In our sky-high tower by the sea, there was a vacuum. It was a vacuum void of my own computer, and it was glorious. Sure, I checked my email via someone’s iPhone about three times during the week, only emptying the junk and checking for real correspondence, of which there was little. In this void, this newly acquired open space in my heart and mind, I read. I might as well have put these books on plates and gotten out my knife and fork; I was ravenous for words. I devoured them. There was one particularly cloudy, drizzly day when I woke early, hit the little magic button on the coffee pot, lit a candle and cued the low music and got back in my hide-a-bed next to the sliding glass door (I have to be near the waves when I sleep) with an extra pillow. My co-travelers drifted forth from bedrooms, wrapped in blankets and with their respective books, garnered the all-important morningtime nectar from the kitchen and joined me in the cushy confines of our cozy living room. We settled in, spoke our morning greetings, then fell into the most delicious, deep, enveloping quiet. Noses in books, we stayed this way until it was lunch time. When that rolled around, we got out some really good leftovers, popped the cork on a bottle of pink champagne, ate at a leisurely pace, talked about our books, then went right back to reading them. After several hours, I supposed I might need to go ahead and get in the kitchen to begin work on the evening meal. This. This is what vacation means. I read five selections while at the beach, and here they are (in order of consumption): 1. Not Becoming My Mother by Ruth Reichl. A short, bittersweet tale of how Ruth got to know her certifiably insane mother. After she was gone. It was a decidedly burdensome relationship for most of her life, and a simple box of her mother’s letters unearthed in the basement turned the tide in her heart and shifted the understanding of how her mother’s gears cranked in a world she could hardly bear. Poignant. 2. Telling the Truth: The Gospel as Tragedy, Comedy and Fairy Tale by Frederick Buechner. Well, this book blew my mind. I’d quote one of my many underlined passages for you but my sister is borrowing (and loving) it and then brother is taking his turn, I think. I’ll get back to you on this one — it might warrant its very own post. 3. The World to Come by Dara Horn. Uh, seriously? I chose this book for the cover. Thought it’d look smart on the coffee table. Yep. It was just a bonus that it involved a mystery surrounding a stolen Chagall painting and was based loosely on historic events including that of the Holocaust. An interesting read but not delivering the wrap-up I was waiting for. Still worth reading. Got great reviews from all of those other smart readers in all them big cities. 4. A Million Miles In a Thousand Years by Donald Miller. I know this man probably has thousands of women writing him letters and sending him photographs like he’s holed up in Folsom, but isn’t there some way I could get him to notice and perhaps marry me? This is the fourth of his books that I’ve read, and it did not disappoint. He nearly simultaneously invokes instantaneous gasps of realization and opportunities for giggle fits. I don’t know how he does it, but I love him. No, you don’t understand. Like, I love him. Really. The fact that I’ve never met him matters not. Okay, my love fest notwithstanding, this book quietly nudged me in a good direction. I needed what he told me and I don’t know how he knew, but I needed it at this particular time in life. Miller talks of the stories we live and how we can change/impact our own stories with small acts of bravery and a little palm’s worth of faith. That’s a ridiculously thin, lackluster explanation of what these pages offer to the reader. I think I might read it again tomorrow. 5. Endless Feasts, essays from Gourmet compiled by Ruth Reichl. A man spends a harvest time evening with a family in Taos, New Mexico. A couple tell me about a tiny place called the Farmer’s Inn in South Dakota where the pancakes are at once lacy and fluffy and all the food is made by co-opping farm-sustained families and couples. Madhur Jaffrey talks about the Indian picnics her family would enjoy when she was a girl and they spent their summers in the Himalayas. A woman tells about how the perfect roast chicken and Katharine Hepburn’s perfect, one-bowl brownies are still perfectly attainable even after the birth of her third child. I learn about the birthplace of Vichysoisse from the man who created it. Writings from my beloved Gourmet from as far back as 1946 fill this compilation. It’s what kept me warm on the drive back north on a rainy, chilly I-65. Salinger’s Catcher In the Rye is lingering patiently on my bedside table. I am determined not to wait for another vacation to tear into more stories. Methinks that the vacation might well lie inside the pages.

The Spirit-born Christ-abider is not always going to look “right” to human eyes, especially to those caught up in being judgmental and religious. John chapter 3 in the Wuest NT says, “That which has been born out of the flesh is flesh and by nature, fleshly. And that which has been born out of the Spirit, is spirit, and by nature, spiritual…The wind blows where it desires to blow. And its sound you hear. But you are not knowing from where it is coming and where it is going. So is everyone who has been born out of the Spirit as a source.” This means there’s no cookie cutter, no looking, acting, and walking the same as every other believer. Jesus was highly unpredictable, and never quite looked “right” to the leading religious people. But the people who knew they needed Him, who needed their wounds bound up and their wrong ideas of God blotted out and replaced with true ideas, those who needed healing and empowerment – those people benefited from the unpredictability of Jesus. So a believer who is abiding will often be unpredictable in his actions. He will sometimes turn right when religious people think he should turn left; he’ll sit and seemingly do nothing when religious folk think he should do something (especially join in what they are doing). He will withhold his hand when religious people think he should offer it, and offer it when they think it should be withheld. He will break the fence laws of the religious in order to love sinners. He’ll do things in secret so that his right hand doesn’t know what his left hand is doing. He’ll not be working for men’s applause, and not be doing things because he feels he should, but he’ll be loving others because “the love of Christ compels” him. He will be driven by an inner drive, the dynamic energy of God. This love will take many forms in his actions. And because of this dynamic, energetic wind within himself, it’s likely he’ll be judged. Those who consider self-effort as a means to being holy, who look at the outsides of things, will look at him sideways because he is not following the established religious pattern. They will be looking at his outsides, his actions that do not conform to what they think ought to be done. Enduring this judgment of the religious, especially when they are friends, is part of suffering with Jesus. It is dying to the opinions and judgments of men; it is dying to being a man-pleaser and learning to fully rely on Christ within. Paul endured this suffering to a massive degree. He watched his old religious crowd despise him and fight against him, even to the point of stoning him. They tried to kill him, and got him arrested and imprisoned. He saw religious folk, the Christ-plus-Law people, sneak in to subvert his converts to turn them to religion, to put them back under Law and self-effort and shoulds and ought-tos rather than faith in Christ. Paul uses the strongest language for those who twist the Gospel in this way: Regarding those who tried to add circumcision to faith in Christ, Paul said, “I wish they’d go the whole way and emasculate themselves.” He said they were perverting the Gospel. He said the Judaizers wanted the applause of men, that they wanted the Galatians to be zealous for their religious party rather than for Christ. He said if anyone preaches any other Gospel other than the one that he had preached, let them be cursed. In the same way, Jesus saved his harshest words for righteousness that is rooted in human ability, self-righteousness that then seeks to poison others with its world-view: “Serpents, brood of vipers! How can you escape the condemnation of hell?” To be a self-righteous snake, crawling around on the ground, earth-bound, seeing only the little bit of dirt in front of me, poisonous to those around me with my limited religious viewpoint of shoulds and ought-tos – or to fly on the breath of God, limitless, not knowing where He is taking me but seeing that God “works all things after the counsel of His own will,” to love and encourage others with the dynamic energy of Christ. I’ve done both, and I know which path I’ve come to prefer.

Saturday night I had the pleasure of seeing the Resurrection Letters concert here in Nashville.  Jill and her husband Andy Gullahorn sang this song, “Any Other Way”, and I was reminded of how much I love this record. It’s about the struggle and reward of marriage and it’s especially touching to hear them sing it together and be able to hear the sincerity and history coming through in their voices. Truly a beautiful thing.

My creative engine is a stubborn thing. Much like my poor motorcycle (Mr. Miyagi), if it sits too long, going unused and ignored, it takes a significant investment of work to get it back into shape. In Mr. Miyagi’s case, he needed a new battery and a lot of elbow grease. My writing muscle, however, needed me to plant my butt in a chair and crank the gears by hand for a while. And let me tell you, when the gears are rusty, they don’t like to be cranked. Thankfully, things are running smoothly now. I’m hitting and exceeding my writing goals almost everyday and Fiddler’s Green is a real joy to be writing.  In an earlier post I wrote this of the writing of the book: “The road ahead leads through some dark and beautiful country and the miles may leave my feet blistered and swollen. Wish me well; Fin’s gone far astray and I’m anxious to bring her home.“ This is something I suspect might be difficult for people to comprehend. I freely admit it’s a strange thing, this intense personal relationship an author feels for his creation. But from where I sit in front of my keyboard, creating the lives and the world that these, my characters, inhabit, it’s a precious and intimate view. I’ve created them, given them lives and hopes and ambitions, and then I find I’ve put them through hell. I’ve orphaned them, widowed them, tortured and killed them and, worse, I know that I have further horrors yet in store. I make them cry and wail and curse the day they were born and on days when I write these scenes I find that sometimes I have to defend myself against them. Why? Why these terrible things? they ask. And though they can’t possibly understand, my answer is this: I know how it all ends and just wait, just wait. I’ve seen the final scene and it’s worth all I’ve put you through. What a rich communion then to create and know that I am myself created. At times, when asked if I’m going to attend church on Sunday morning, I’ve declined with the excuse that I have writing to do. I’ve even claimed (usually to rolled eyes) that I believe writing can be a form of worship itself. When I can draw near enough to my own created world and see through it into the mind of the greater Author, I’m stricken and awed. I’m broken open because I too lie awake at night, and I curse the day I was born, and I struggle and cry and wonder how long, how long, Oh Lord, will these things go on. And by writing and descending into the lives of my paper creations, I hear the Author calling back to me, “Just wait, just wait.”

One of the great unsung members of the Square Peg Alliance is Jeremy Casella. Our song of the day today is one of my favorites off of his album RCVRY. The title of the song is “Hypocrisy #785” (I’ve heard rumors that songs about Hypocrisies #1-784 are secreted away in a SPA vault deep under the Siberian tundra.) RCVRY is available in the Rabbit Room Store.

Walking out of the theater after viewing Crazy Heart, I knew I needed to write about it, at least to help figure out why I loved it, if nothing else. Knowing that Curt also appreciated the film and for some of the same reasons, I asked him to write a review with me. There are a couple possible spoilers in this review. Stephen: With a film as rich as this one, there are many areas one could spend time writing about. The casting, of course, is probably what has been given the most attention, and for good reason. Jeff Bridges is entirely convincing as the aging country singer Bad Blake, down on his luck, and the movie is worth watching for him alone. The chemistry between Bridges and Maggie Gyllenhaal is great, showing us a picture of a relationship between a “rock star” and a girl who obviously grew up on his music. Colin Farrell is surprisingly good as the hot young country singer who was given his start by Bad Blake. And I loved the scenes with Robert Duvall, Bad’s best friend. Curt: You are so right, Stephen. Granted, Bridges star shines brightly, capturing our attention to such an extent that we may sometimes miss the other performances, but the casting is excellent. Stephen: The music in the film has been talked about a lot too, which should come as no surprise with the incomparable T Bone Burnett in charge. He writes and co-writes some great songs here, and I was glad to hear one song in movie by Sam Phillips, T Bone’s ex-wife and one of my favorite singers. Curt: I thought the music did what it was supposed to do, provide believability. The songs were good enough and hooky enough that it was easy to believe they were once hit records. When I heard the first few notes of Jeff Bridges singing, the not-quite-in-tune gravelly voiced vocal timbre at first made me concerned that the musical element may damage the credibility of the film. But as his first song continued, I realized that Bridges sounded exactly like what I’d expect a damaged, long time alcoholic country singer to sound like. If you’ve ever heard George Jones in a live, late in his career performance, you may have an idea of what I mean. Stephen: I’d have to say, though, there was one thing I liked above everything else about the film, and that’s what I want to spend more time talking about here: the glimpse Crazy Heart gives us into the world of music superstars, both at the height of their career and when they’re down on their luck. Working as an arranger and music copyist in the Nashville music industry, I get occasional glimpses into that world. Watching Bad Blake play for a packed house at a corner bar, seeing how he related to the crowd and how he performed, I thought of the time I was in the studio with legendary rock singer Bob Seger. Seger has a very charismatic personality, filling up every room he walks into, taking everything in, walking up and introducing himself to each new person who enters. The studio we were in, a beautiful old converted church building on Music Row, doesn’t allow smoking, but because Bob Seger is, well, Bob Seger, he was puffing away, seemingly going through a full pack of cigarettes during the string session alone, standing in front of the control board waving his arms, copying the conductor’s motions and losing himself in the music. That album, Face the Promise, was Seger’s first album in 11 years after a long sabbatical to spend time with his family that started after an accident where he was charged with driving impaired, something else I was reminded of during another point in Crazy Heart. Curt: You dog. I love Bob Seger and I am jealous (“On a long and lonely highway, east of Omaha…”). Great story, man. As you know, Stephen, I worked in country radio for several years, which also gave me material with which I could measure the credibility of an on-screen, over-the-hill country singer. At KSO/Des Moines, we annually sponsored “The Great Country Concert,” a free appreciation concert for our listeners, which always “sold out” Vets Auditorium in Des Moines. We always brought in five or six “country stars.” Because we were on a budget, we could only afford those “country stars” that were on the way down or on the way up. We caught Reba McEntire on the way up, but sadly, most were on the way down. For many of these “country stars,” it had been many years since they played in front of 12,000 people. Casual discussions, in-studio interviews, parties, meet and greet events, and all those concerts I emceed at less than desirable venues, provided an up-close view of the insecurities and foibles of men on the decline. Like Bad, people learn how to use “what they got.” Watch Bad in the liquor store, using the perception of himself as a star to score a bottle of booze. Exploiting stardom long after a careful observer knows it’s no longer stardom is part and parcel of this career stage. Partly, I suppose, they do it to reinforce to themselves that they really are a star. And partly, because they really can’t afford the booze. Stephen: I’m sure those concerts were fun, but probably also a bit depressing. I had the chance recently to work on some horn charts for Reba for a performance on the Grand Ole Opry, and she still sounds every bit as good as she did back when she was starting out. Watching Colin Farrell plays Tommy Sweet, a young country star, I immediately thought of the couple times I’ve been in the studio with Big Kenny (of Big and Rich). Farrell, contrary to what one might at first think, is a perfect fit for the role, and I couldn’t help but be reminded of Big Kenny while watching Tommy Sweet, seeing them act and respond to others in a similar fashion. At the same time, watching Bad Blake play with Buddy, the young son of Maggie Gyllenhaal’s character, I thought of the times I’ve watched Big Kenny play with his own son during the breaks in the string sessions, an interaction that has a different quality, to my eyes, when the adult is “famous.” Maybe it has something to do with the adult knowing the kid won’t judge them, that they’ll be accepted as who they are and for simply being there. Maybe that’s why this struck me as very authentic storytelling. Curt: I think it took great vision to cast Colin Farrell in his role, and in retrospect, it was brilliant. Tigerland proved that Farrell could do a credible drawl, leaving his usually thick Dublin accent behind for a Texas drawl. Further, there’s a sort of knowing confidence in his bearing, which is ideal for the role of a rising country star. Plus, the pony tail. In the last twenty years, if a director wants to use a hairstyle that demonstrates the character is hip or is trying really hard to be hip, the pony tail is the obvious choice. None other than Al Pacino, after working with Farrell in The Recruit called him the best actor of his generation. While that may have been a slight overstatement, I can appreciate Pacino’s point. One of the ways in which this film was not predictable: I expected Tommy Sweet to be a half-arrogant opportunist. To the contrary, he was a nice guy that—like us—seemed to truly care about the man that gave him his start in country music. Stephen: Yep. That’s why I was reminded of Big Kenny. The first thing that becomes apparent as you watch the story unfold is Bad Blake’s alcohol addiction, and we know from the start that things can’t continue the way they are. Something has to change, a brick wall will be hit. What could be a bigger cliché than a big star hitting rock bottom because of an addiction and then climbing out of the hole, right? In lessor hands, this movie would have made that the focus of the story and subsequently been relegated to late night showings on the Hallmark channel, but Scott Cooper, in his directorial debut, realizes we don’t need another telling of that story, rescuing it from being a series of clichés and telling a genuinely moving story. I couldn’t help but think, towards the end of the story, of another great musician I’ve had the chance to work with, Trey Anastasio (of Phish fame), doing all the music preparation for several of his recent tours. Trey hit bottom several years ago with an arrest for a drug addiction that resulted in him realizing he had to make changes. Since that time, I’ve sat in a studio on Music Row in Nashville, listening to Trey practice with a string quintet a concerto he cowrote for electric guitar and orchestra with a friend of mine, Don Hart. I’ve hung around backstage at Carnegie Hall after a performance of that concerto with the New York Philharmonic. I’ve heard him play with Phish at Bonnaroo in front of 75,000 fans, with none other than Bruce Springsteen joining him for a couple songs. So I know what redemption looks like in that context. I have seen up close what it means when a rock star realizes they can’t continue on the road they’re on, make changes, and the music they make after that. This movie is the best portrayal I’ve seen of that story on the big screen, and it’s why I’ll continue to recommend it to everyone I know. Curt: Yes. And I think one of the touchstones of Crazy Heart is the extent to which we root for him. We ache for his redemption, knowing that it’s not guaranteed, even in the movies. When Maggie Gyllenhaal’s character’s son Buddy started wandering around in the bar, I remember physically moving to the edge of my seat, seeing what might be coming, and feeling the urge to send up a prayer that Bad won’t let it happen. When a viewer has the urge to pray for a movie character, that says something about its effectiveness. Somehow—and this is the mark of a great actor paired with a great script—we see the good in Bad Blake. And we want him to be better. As a believer, it’s one of life’s honest to goodness joys, observing the recovery of a human soul. Nobody is Bad and everybody is Bad. It’s a human story and Jeff Bridges helps us see that with his performance. Stephen, thanks for inviting me to participate in your review! Stephen: Thanks, Curt!

Tim Burton’s Alice in Wonderland, whatever else you might think about it, is a tale of the importance of imagination. (Beware spoilers below if you’ve not yet seen the film.) Yes, there are many departures from Carroll’s tale; that is, in fact, much the point of what Burton is doing. The film opens with Alice having the dream that we’ve all come to know and love as Carroll’s stories. They are, however, “just dreams,” and with the way we think about truth and fiction these days, a “dream” = “not real.” Burton’s story tells the opposite. Alice has grown up. She’s about to be engaged to a man her family has arranged her to marry. She doesn’t really know how to handle all the confusion relationships with people around her, especially now that her father has passed away. There in the gazebo, as the proposal is about to happen, she sees the rabbit and follows. Her entire journey through Underland is taken up with one particular question: “Is this real, or is this only in my head?” (If you’re a Harry Potter fan, that dilemma should sound familiar, by the way.) The ultimate answer she has to come to terms with is: It’s both; there’s no dichotomy between the two. When she meets Absalom (brilliantly voiced by Alan Rickman), he tells her that she is “hardly Alice,” which everyone takes to mean that the white rabbit has brought the wrong Alice to Underland. This is not what Absalom meant at all. He meant that the Alice standing there was in need of understanding who she was as Alice and to embrace it. Which she does. And the key to understanding reality is her imagination. Her final battle with the Jabberwock is not strength against strength, but imagination against power. The Jabberwock is by far the physically stronger champion in the battle, but Alice has finally chosen to believe in six impossible things. She counts the 5 that she has already come to believe, and embraces the 6th on the spot: “I can defeat the Jabberwock.” In her return to the “real” world, she walks into the exact same situation she left: suitor, gazebo, large audience waiting for the engagement to happen. But this time, she’s in control of the situation, knowing who she is as a human being, and who she is as Alice. It’s a story that vindicates choice, faith, and imagination, and it’s told with stunning visual artistry. Alice’s experience in Faerie (for that is precisely what Underland is) makes her more human and gives her a better grip on reality. This is what the best fairy tales do. They’re not an escape from reality, but an escape to greater reality.

(From the Bench at the Bend in the Trail) Remember: each word is a mystery, A thing to be handled like fire or love. Tramp like a fool through the whispering wood And you’ll never lay eyes on the singer. Carefully, carefully, stand back and wait. Watch where the word goes, behold how it moves: Its nuance and hue, its contour and weight– It flits like a finch, just over the page. Only at last, when it trusts you enough, It alights and allows you to write it.

This song, from Eric Peters’s Chrome is a perfect compliment to the discussion in yesterday’s post about Magnolia. It’s about pain, and anger, and regret. And it’s beautiful. It also features a reference to one of my favorite lines by Frederick Buechner: “The story of any one of us is in some measure the story of us all.” Both that quote and this song, called “I Had To Tell You”, are wonderful illustrations of why art that’s painful and difficult is worth grappling with. Thanks for the great song, Eric. (Chrome by Eric Peters is available in the Rabbit Room Store.) I Had To Tell You by Eric Peters I’ve had chains wrapped around me for the last seven years I crowned myself Messiah since Messiah was not near I shook my fist at heaven, I told God to go to hell There was so much that I had to say but had kept it to myself I had to tell you how I hated you that day But I had to learn how hard it was for me to say It hurts even now to know those words came from my mouth But I had to tell you Though I walked in the darkness, the darkness was disguised All the stars before me were a homemade set of skies Then a window opened and the sky burst into flame I could not bear to face you, I was naked and ashamed So I had to tell you how I hated you that day But I had to learn how hard it was for me to say It hurts even now to know those words came from my mouth But I had to tell you Now standing in the ruins is a lily undisturbed Owning nothing but its life and a humble place on earth Born to bear beauty unto the great and to the small Its story, in some measure, is the story of us all I had to tell you I had to tell you

I’m freezing. I’m hungry. I’m surly. I’ve been scolded, twice in one day. Not the usual average for a girl who avoids confrontation at any and all costs and feels at her lowest after even the slightest sting of a tongue lashing. Both instances were ones where I thought I could get a cheap laugh and ended up hurting, alienating or irking people. See, the thing about avoiding confrontation is that, well, no one confronts you. You breeze through life just barely whispering past any real discourse about your faults in the particular department of relationship. Passivity can be delightful, but it’s just that: passive. And cowardly. And selfish. The woman I hope to be is not crass, nor is she thoughtless, nor, for heaven’s sake, catty. These are all traits I know I am fully capable of. Not only am I capable, I’m well-rehearsed. Family members of mine could attest to this in spades. I’ve got some zingers up my sleeve and I seem to pull them out at the most inopportune, harmful times. (Well, zingers should probably always stay up the sleeve where a serious lack of ventilation will suffocate their potency and vigor.) Have you seen a man who is quick with his tongue? There is more hope for a foolish man than for him. (Proverbs 29:20). Ouch. So when I am scolded, confronted, approached, how then do I conduct myself? What my brain wants is to shake it off and deliver one of my well-crafted zingers right back, to give the appearance that I haven’t effectively been cut down to size, that I’m contentedly cold to the heat of tension. But what my spirit tells me is to calmly pave over the rift, admit to my obtuseness and move on with grace and more awareness, having learned the lesson that was put there for me to learn. I also try to remember to operate under the assumption that if someone cares enough to confront me, it could mean that they care enough about me and who I am forever becoming to step in and help the process along. Iron sharpens iron.

***Now Available in the Rabbit Room Store*** Ladies and gentlemen, our esteemed Rabbit Room contributor, Mr. Jonathan Rogers, has been toiling away for the past year (even going so far as to sequester himself alone in a mountain cabin) to deliver his latest book: a biography of the legendary Saint Patrick. Saint Patrick was, as far as we know, the first Christian missionary ever to take the gospel to barbarians beyond the borders of the Roman Empire. This biography looks at what motivated a son of Roman privilege to minister to the very people who had kidnapped and enslaved him in his youth—and examines why the Irish found his vision of the gospel so compelling Below is an excerpt from the introduction to Saint Patrick.. Read it. And then support Jonathan and his family by buying it. ———————————– Patrick offered a solution that was both surprising and entirely characteristic of the saint of legend. He had with him a stone altar, a gift from the pope himself, which he threw into the sea, and there it floated. He then instructed the leper to sit on the altar. When the ship sailed, the altar sailed beside it, all the way across the Irish Sea. When the vessel landed in Ireland, so did the leper and his makeshift boat. Patrick praised God, and the sailors’ and passengers’ stony hearts were transformed into hearts of compassion and charity. This story is typical of the body of legend that grew up around Saint Patrick. The saint’s compassion for the downtrodden is on full display. A former slave himself, Patrick was more attuned than most—even most saints—to matters of social justice. But even more uniquely Patrician is the sense of holy mirth that pervades the story. It’s funny, that picture of a man riding a stone altar across the sea. There is more than simple humor happening here, however. This is divine comedy. In a comic reversal, the leper enjoys a first-class berth—borne along on the mercy seat, you might say—while those who rejected him look on from the crowded deck…. A remarkable number of the Patrick legends are comic, portraying the saint as a man you would enjoy being around. Consider, by contrast, Patrick’s contemporary, Saint Augustine, with his towering intellect and moral and theological precision. You can’t help respecting the man, but you wouldn’t necessarily want him at your Christmas party. Of the Patrick legends, nineteenth-century Irish poet Aubrey de Vere wrote, “Their predominant character is their brightness and gladsomeness.”… Some of the comic reversals in the Patrick legends are truly outlandish. In one tale, Patrick and his disciples were passing by a sepulchre “of wondrous length,” so big that Patrick’s followers refused to believe that any man could be buried there. Patrick, to prove that there was indeed a man in the tomb, prayed to bring him back to life. “Then stood one before them horrible in stature and in aspect.” This terrifying giant broke down weeping at the sight of Patrick, the man who had released him from the torments of hell. He then begged to join Patrick’s retinue, but Patrick refused him, fearful that no one could stand to look on such a terrifying figure as that “man of gigantic stature.” The saint did, however, invite the giant to believe in the triune God and thus escape hell permanently. The giant believed, was baptized, died again, and was buried, this time to rest in peace. The monstrous, the horrible, the barbaric folded into the love of a God who laughs. The terrible giant weeping for joy at the sight of the saint who released him from his torments. This is the divine comedy that shaped the career not just of the Patrick we know from legend, but the Patrick we know from the historical record. That historical record is admittedly brief. Everything we can reliably know of Patrick the man comes from two letters written by Patrick that, together, are fewer than twenty pages in length. Hard facts—in the form of specific dates and verifiable place names—are hard to come by in these two documents. But what Patrick’s letters lack in details of his outward life, they more than make up for in their portrait of his inner life. He wrote in the Confession, “I want my brethren and kinsfolk to know my nature so that they may be able to perceive my soul’s desire.” And he did reveal himself—his motivations, his doubts, his desires, his fears, his affections—to a remarkable degree in these two documents. Patrick revealed, among other things, that he believed the gospel he preached. He believed that in Christ there is neither Jew nor Greek, male nor female, Roman nor barbarian. He believed that God can utterly transform a human heart. He believed that he could rely entirely on God’s mercy, rather than being compelled to paper over his own sins. And he believed that even in the highly charged political atmosphere in which these letters were written and read, Christ was the defender of the weak—including Patrick himself. … Before Patrick, Christianity had never spread in any significant way outside the Roman Empire. Ireland was the first country ever to submit to the teachings of Christ without first submitting to the sword of Rome. It looked like a fool’s errand, this mission to convert a people as wild and uncouth and violent as the Irish. And yet before he was finished, Patrick had laid the foundation for the near total Christianization of the island. In How the Irish Saved Civilization, Thomas Cahill shows that, thanks to the work of Saint Patrick, Ireland grew civilized even while civilization elsewhere in Western Europe collapsed: “the land of Ireland was rushing even more rapidly from chaos to peace.” The achievements of the historical Patrick were no less miraculous than those of the legendary Patrick. Perhaps the most miraculous thing of all was that, even as he brought the gospel of Christ to bear on the Irish, Patrick left their Irishness intact. The Irish didn’t have to become Roman in order to become Christian; that may seem obvious from where we sit, but it wasn’t at all obvious in Patrick’s time. His was a renewed vision of what it means to be a follower of Christ: just as the apostle Paul brought Christianity out from under the umbrella of Jewish culture, Patrick demonstrated that Christianity was bigger than the Roman Empire.

Each year when I celebrate my birthday, one of the things I love most is to conjure in the kitchen for the loved ones who have gathered on my behalf. I know it seems a little backwards, me being the birthday girl, but I want it that way. And princess gets what princess wants. Sometimes, though, I get a little, well…bent out of shape. But I love being in the kitchen. It’s where I feel most at home. (An aside: At any sort of social function, you will find me trying to jockey my way into a role of importance in the kitchen. I need to be of use. I like to avoid small-talk. Enough said.) I just like a close proximity to food and to the few tools I require to transform it. The potential which exists there and the millions of prospective wonders that lie in wait are almost as delicious as what is delivered after the workspace has been rendered a terrible mess….which happened a lot that weekend. I’d venture that one of the top three most successful culinary endeavors of mine was Saturday’s dessert. I composed the whole shebang on my own, I’m a little too pleased to say. It all began with a bag of arborio rice I had in my freezer at home which I decided to stick in my luggage at the last minute. Pears, red wine and pistachios are something one should always have on hand, so that was a no-brainer. I do have Giada to thank for the easy-as-pie…or pudding…recipe for the pudding. (The only variance was that I used Cointreau instead of rum.) The pudding was chilled (on the back porch, old school style), then dished up and accompanied by citrus and Merlot-poached pears and, for some needed crunch, a very original pistachio and black pepper brittle (which I also created, sans-recipe). It…was…sumptuous. No one really spoke while we ate. It could have been that we were exhausted from a long day of doing nothing and the rousing snowball fight we’d had beforehand, and it could have been just me, but I like to believe we were just silenced by the sweetly sublime.

Can I end every sentence in this post with a question mark? Do you think I can? Is Andrew Peterson’s blockbuster book (which literally busted several blocks with its head) being made into a movie? Is this a movie where Mel Gibson stars as a guy who appears really upset and like to break sundry items? Gibson’s new film, Edge of the Edge of Darkness, is a movie which, I believe, is based on Andrew’s book, On the Edge of the Edge of the Dark Dark Sea of Darkened Darkness, is it not? Even though “the Dark Sea of” is curiously omitted from the movie title, don’t “they” regularly have to cut stuff from books when they’re made into movies? Didn’t “they” do that with such films as: Pride and Prejudice and Zombies (where the movie version I saw had no zombies at all and again the title was cut down to merely “Pride and Prejudice” –talk about prejudice)? Should we be prejudiced against zombies? What about vampires? Is it prejudice if I never buy a book that has anything to do with vampires, or teen angst? What about Twitter? I say again, what about Twitter? Does anyone know who Mel Gibson is playing in the film? Is it Podo Helmer? Is it Gnag the Nameless (who isn’t in the book –but, dramatic license and all that)? Note: Um, Andrew, don’t you realize that you gave Gnag the Nameless a name? Come on, will you? I hope the film is really good and then “they” decide to make a film of the sequel, North? Or Be Eaten? That book asks some really important questions, don’t you think?

I’ve seen people in this game for all the wrong reasons. Heck, I’ve even been at this for those very same ones. And I’m sure it’s the same in other fields as well. I’m talking about pastors and ministry, since that’s a field I’ve learned much about in my last decade or so of vocational ministry. And now as a pastor, I find myself falling prey to the same temptations that drive me crazy about others that I hear in my same position. We recently taught through the first epistle of Peter at The Mercy House, the church I’ve planted and pastored for the last six years. In it, Peter gives a charge that hit rather close to home for me, and it’s one I wish many of my peers could hear as well: “Be shepherds of God’s flock that is under your care, serving as overseers — not because you must, but because you are willing, as God wants you to be; not greedy for money, but eager to serve; not lording it over those entrusted to you, but being examples to the flock.” Here, Peter gets to the heart behind what it is that we do for a living–at least for many of us. Even for those under the “volunteer” category, the motivations can be the same, good or bad. We’re all human. We’re all fallen. And we all lose perspective. It’s interesting, because Peter seems to nail these reasons that are as contemporary as ever. He warns against “doing ministry” for any motivations of power, of money, of obligation. Instantly, I wanted to take down names of those I’ve observed of being guilty of this, even as the very arrows were piercing my own flesh. These things are so prevalent in churches across the country (and I assume it’s a global issue as well). And there are many moments when I’m only fulfilling my job description for these very reasons. How often do we find ourselves doing what we do because we’re too afraid to lose the paycheck? How easy is it to simply go through the motions of ministry because you feel guilty if you even think of doing anything else? How subtle do the promises and enticements of power persuade us to begin to create a religion for people while preaching the freedom that Christ’s blood provides? One minute, we’re in this for the right reasons – as given by Peter in this instance; the next, we’re driven by the control available to us in such positions. Perhaps this isn’t something applicable around these parts. Perhaps it’s too narrow a category for some to really understand. It’s really not something I can know, I just look at what I deal with and think maybe it’s a universal thing at one level or another. I want to do not only the right thing, but I want to have the right reasons as well. I want to love my church because I am willing. I want to serve my church and be an example to the flock instead of hiding behind my schedule, my agenda, my own needs. It’s amazing that these same issues plaguing the early church find their way into my life today, but then again that’s the beauty of Scripture.

When I heard this song I knew Ben was more than just a great musician, but was also a great songwriter. It feels (like many of his songs) like it’s older than he is. The music fits the haunting sentiment and imagery of the song perfectly. I love that it’s a metaphor, and at the same time it’s not. It’s a parable that could have happened (and does happen) in real life. So tell me: what’s this song about? THE OLD MAN The poor old man kept mostly to himself A book unread and dusty on the shelf Seeds in packets, never sown The Oldsmobile he barely drove In the garden down on hands and knees He hurries, taking care that no one sees The money in the rusty tin He lays it in the earth again Unless the seed is sown The flower hidden never opens The bright young soldier came home from the war And built this house some sixty years ago To win the one his heart dreamed of But she could not return his love He wept and swore he’d never lose again And so he laid his seasons end to end Alone behind these quiet walls And old man and a withered heart Unless the seed is sown The flower hidden never opens Be sure and pick up Ben’s acclaimed album here at the Rabbit Room. If you want individual tracks, click here for iTunes.

My friend John accompanied me on my trip to the Kansas City area recently to see a Pierce Pettis concert. It was the first time I had seen a Pierce Pettis show, and it was superb. A few years ago, I bought tickets to the Pettis show that would have been my first, but my wife and I showed up the night after the show–having crossed our wires–another embarrassing moment to add to my list. That red-face moment noted, the concert is a sidebar to the topic of this article. It was just the event that spurred an interesting conversation about art. The show was in Lawrence, Kansas, just west of Kansas City, at a combination book store/art gallery. I love these places. The book store is downstairs and the art gallery is upstairs, which is also where the concert was held. We had dinner at a pub across the street and showed up two hours before the show, with plenty of time to browse the books. Here’s my disclaimer: With the exception of art and music appreciation in college, I have no formal artistic training. I hesitate to admit that in this public forum because I don’t want to get booted out of The Rabbit Room. It’s nice and warm in here. But it’s true. Of course, I know what I like and usually—though not always—have a pretty good idea of why I like it, but I certainly can’t articulate it with the pizzazz of a Francis Schaeffer or Madeleine L’Engle. Pettis played one of the longest folk shows I’ve ever seen, clocking in at nearly 90 minutes in the set prior to intermission. Most shows would be over by then, but not a Pierce Pettis show. John and I used the intermission to check out some of the visual art in the gallery. The theme of the art showing had something to do with the achromatic color of maximum lightness, white. I found some pieces that I liked, but much of the art wasn’t particularly inspiring. In all fairness, I suspect that it was a display in which students and the local Lawrence, Kansas population had the opportunity to show their work. That’s not to say that the art in Lawrence is awful. It’s only to note that when a gallery proprietor can choose the best from a broader region, it’s likely to offer a better overall aesthetic. Nevertheless, simply looking germinated the seeds of conversation about art and beauty which continued for the 45 mile drive between Lawrence and our hotel in Kansas City, on the return trip. My buddy was even less impressed by the art than I. As John questioned the value of art, he asked some penetrating questions. He could have been a blunt jerk. “Why is that old duct work with the peeling white paint considered art?” But he wasn’t. He’s not the kind of guy that was asking tough questions just to get my goat; he had a genuine intellectual curiosity of how and why certain pieces might be considered good art. Though our conversation was stream of consciousness style and covered a lot of territory, two questions were embedded in my friend’s words: 1) What is the difference between great art and bad art? 2) Why is it worth spending time attempting to find meaning in art that may not be immediately apparent? I didn’t spend significant time on the first question, because technically, it’s what I know least. But I do have a lot of experience in seeking out art, so I could speak in detail about my own motivation for persistently panning for great art in the nooks and crannies of the world: movie theaters, used CD bins, dusty old bookstores, college town art galleries, museums, and the great mountain ranges and prairies of the world. To be overly simplistic, I seek great art because it makes me feel something. Pierce Pettis has a song called Hole in My Heart which features this line: Well I’ve been kicking at the stones, Just to feel the shock to my bones. Feeling something is preferable to feeling nothing, even when the feeling may not be what some might call a positive emotion. It reminds me that I’m still running the race. I’m still a participant in this thing called life. Indeed, if a given work of art doesn’t include some conflict or tension, it’s like a positive and encouraging radio format, or a badly penned movie script. Still, that doesn’t completely explain why I seek deeper meaning from art in which meaning may not be readily apparent. “Why waste time on art that initially appears to be ambiguous and unclear,” John seemed to be saying. First, I suppose it’s the way God made me. My sister had three not always kind brothers and when we used to tease her about how and why she did something in a particular way, she used to say, “That’s the way God made me, boyses.” What a great answer. So if there’s something to be experienced or learned, I’m on it. I don’t want to settle for a cliché’ or any easy answer. It’s the way God made me. Secondly, like a collector seeking a treasured item, there’s an unbridled joy I find in corralling a nugget of beauty or truth which resonates like a massive boulder dropped into a pond from 100 yards up. For me—and I don’t mean to suggest this is true for everyone—there seems to be some correlation between the intensity with which the art resonates and the level of difficulty in finding it. Too, though the Bible tells me I am a new man in Christ, and I certainly believe that (lest Ron Block remind me), C.S. Lewis also writes that I am not home yet. This new man navigates the limbo between this world and the next in an earthen vessel. I retain my humanity in this fallen world and great art reminds me that the longing I feel for more is natural—literally. Great artists are great communicators. And when a collector of beauty and truth learns of those artists who communicate most effectively, a trust begins to develop between art appreciator and artist. In hunting for morel mushrooms every year, I remember those patches of prairie, tree stumps, and fallen logs which dependably yield a high volume of mushrooms. Similarly, when I find an artist that consistently offers deeper meaning in his work—meaning that is thoughtfully considered and executed—I trust that my time invested will be well spent as I mine for truth and beauty in his new work. Have you ever participated in such artful discussions? As I chatted with John, it occurred to me that most of the artists, writers, and readers in The Rabbit Room have probably had similar conversations. I’m especially interested in your thoughts and ideas relative to the second question: “Why is it worth spending time attempting to find meaning in art that may not be immediately apparent?” For you, maybe it’s not. It’s one topic of which even art appreciators have disagreement. So, let’s discuss. What are your thoughts?

I prefer Sad David. Sure, there’s Victorious David. King David. Shepherd Boy David. The iconic leader and heroic figure dominates so much of Biblical lore and landscape, but the Psalmist brings other gifts besides some of the most epic stories in Scripture. Indeed, it is David’s raw emotional bursts like the one in Psalm 10 that resonate with me perhaps more than others. “Why, O LORD, do you stand far off? Why do you hide yourself in times of trouble?” I’ve often asked this in some form or another. In moments of cries and crises, I question the presence of God. The silence is deafening, as they say. In need of an answer, we all reach out for something – anything – bigger than us, bigger than our scenario. And many times, there’s nothing but the darkness. I’m glad David says something. It’s the equivalent to someone finally acknowledging the elephant in the room that no one will talk about because they’re all afraid of a confrontation. We all feel it. We all sense it. But usually the church is silent on these things, as if to say that God seems absent is to actually insult him. Yet here this historical figure whose lineage includes the Son of God cowers alone, afraid, confused, frustrated. The same emotions that cloud my judgment and keep me up at night aren’t mine alone to wrestle with. They’re universal and even essential to the journey of faith we’re all on. The beautiful part of this is that David begins with such heartfelt questions marked by defeat and comes out the other side confident in the greatness of his God. That’s the tension we all walk with. We believe, only help our unbelief. We’ll never deny him and then the rooster crows. Our spiritual lives are marked by the tension of a doubt-full confidence, a phrase that only makes sense on this crazy journey of faith. These Psalms are true gifts to us, signs that we’re real people with real feelings that aren’t so distant from what anyone else is feeling at a given time. It’s a natural part of our growing belief in God and learning what it means to walk with Him. And it’s vulnerable heroes like David who shed light on those moments.

So let me go ahead and say, I am a Patty Griffin fan.  Ever since some long forgotten friend introduced me to Living With Ghosts so many years ago, I have been mesmerized by her brilliant lyrical insight, mama-smacking vocals, and stellar acoustic guitar accompaniment. I don’t listen to a lot of music, but I have listened to Patty quite often, and I’ve recommended her more than any other artist since David Wilcox in the 90’s.  So if you’re looking for an unbiased review, look elsewhere.  But if you’re looking for a somewhat informed perspective, that’s me!  So read on! Personally, It was fun to see Ms. Griffin open the record with the old Hank Williams song, “House of Gold”.  I recorded “House of Gold” over a decade ago and I’m thrilled that Ms. Griffin will bring the song to light for more listeners. The theme of humility before God and an awareness of this world’s insufficiency permeates Downtown Church, and Ms. Griffin’s lilting, sparse version serves as an effective intro. When I was in college, I spent the summer in Athens, GA where I joined Timothy Baptist Church as an “honorary member.”  I also felt a little like the honorary white guy, since I was the only one there.   The next song on the record,  “Move Up”, along with “If I Had My Way”, “Wade in the Water”, and “The Strange Man”, feels like the potent and soulful songs I sang that summer with the congregation at Timothy Baptist. Belting over  the tambourine and those thick gospel harmonies, Ms. Griffin seems right at home.  She brings stunning passion and ownership to the chorus of “If I Had My Way”, singing “If I had my way, I would tear this building down” and I imagine her with her headphones on, singing into the mic inside Downtown Pres, every word drenched in meaning.  I had never heard this traditional song (popularized by long time Grateful Dead guitarist Bob Wier) but it is brilliant, and brilliantly interpreted, and was initially my favorite track on the record. Having kept up with some of her interviews over the years, I know that Ms. Griffin keeps her journey of faith mostly to herself, though I gather that she is as much a skeptic as a believer.  This tension in her personal story brings more gravity to the whole project, especially on songs like “The Strange Man”–where Ms. Griffin’s powerful voice soars as Jesus meets the woman at the well and then the woman caught in adultery.  In the rousing bridge, supported by Regina McCrary and Mike Farris,  Ms. Griffin sings “I met that same man.” When the record doesn’t lean toward the stomp and clap of gospel, it leans toward the picking of old country, and that flavor comes out no purer than on “Never Grow Old,” a traditional hymn that longs for heaven as Ms. Griffin blends with Buddy Miller’s weathered tenor. My mother-in-law was just in town for a visit and she recalled playing that song on the piano as a girl growing up in rural Alabama.  It was worth the price of admission just to hear Patty Griffin sing… When our work here is done and the life crown is won And our troubles and trials are o’er All our sorrows will end, all our voices will blend With the loved ones who’ve gone on before Mmm..  gives me chills just sitting here at the computer. Much to my joy, Ms. Griffin penned two original songs for Downtown Church.  Of those, “Little Fire” is a wonderfully simple song about faith where she writes that she would “give back these things I know are meaningless for a little fire beside me when I sleep.”  There are many timeless Patty Griffin songs in her repertoire, and “Little Fire” reaches that bar. However, my only complaint about this record rose up particularly on this song, and that is, I couldn’t understand some of the lyrics on a couple of songs even after cranking the volume and listening over and over. The album closes artfully with one of our oldest hymns, written by St. Francis of Assisi in the 13th Century.  In the hands of Patty Griffin, “All Creatures of Our God and King” rings out wistfully as well as worshipfully over simple piano accompaniment.  Ms. Griffin may not have all her theology figured out, but neither do I, which makes this record that much more affecting for me. To be able to sing Alleluia in the face of confusion and uncertainty is the ultimate hope of earthly faith.  Ms. Griffin does that on Downtown Church, and the record is killer to listen to.  What more do you want?

Numerology aside, this is Part 2 of 2 posts where I am asking 5 questions of 1 Ron Block. Here is Part 1 (questions 1-3). 4.      What is the most important insight you would have for artists who are praying for discernment in how to properly balance imperatives like personal worship, church serving (local), Church serving (the Bride entire), family, art (intake and output), rest, and asking famous musicians really long questions? Balance is not exactly my area. Can’t you ask someone else? All those things are spokes. Christ is the hub, the center. I know when I acknowledge Him as that, and rely on Him as my inner source of goodness, my relationships with family, other people, and work, are put right. When I get out of sync there, everything else begins to wobble and spin. We need to take time to reflect, to be alone with God, to worship Him privately as well as with other believers. God wants us to experience our union with Him, to abide, to walk in reliant trust. Without taking time for that relationship, we’re just setting ourselves up for more self-effort, more frustration, more failure. 5.      What (300 books?) have you been reading lately and how has it impacted you? Since I’ve been in a songwriting deadlock for a couple of years I recently read a book called Art and Fear, a short, easy book but it packs a punch. I also reread a book by Brenda Ueland called If You Want To Write, with some of the same themes. If I could encapsulate both books in a few sentences, it would be “Nearly everyone struggles with feeling inadequate as an artist. Some people quit because of it. But we learn to write, to paint, to play, by doing it – not by theorizing about it. So sit your butt in that chair and get back to work. Stop thinking about quitting, and stop your lame whining and procrastinating.” Similar to Steven Pressfield’s The War of Art, but without the “F” word. I highly recommend all three books. Two more that I’m rereading right now (I have to read things over and over or they don’t ‘take’); Jeanne Guyon’s Intimacy with Christ, a humble, childlike series of letters by Guyon to a friend about various aspects of walking with Christ. And I don’t mean a figurative “walking” with Christ, like “read more pray more give more do Christian crossword puzzles more.” She shows what it is to be walking with Christ as an ever-present, indwelling Lord and Savior, and what it means to take up your cross. And lastly, Dan Stone’s The Rest of the Gospel (When the Partial Gospel Has Worn You Out). Exactly what it says. This book gave me a lot more to go on than merely “Jesus died to pay my sin debt so I can go to Heaven when I die.” I can’t live on money that’s stuck in a trust fund until I’m eighty-five. I need spendable assets right now, every day. Dan Stone shows the pin number for the divine debit card so that I can access what I need, when I need it. Thanks, Ron. Catch Ron at these virtual locations: RonBlock.com Ron on Facebook Ron on Twitter Ron’s brief posts here at The Rabbit Room Ron at Banjo Hangout

Jeffrey Overstreet’s is one of about four blogs I check out regularly. He writes reviews for several publications, including Image: A Journal of Arts and Religion, which is heady and artsy and cool. And those three words describe my impression of Jeffrey pretty well. He tends to laud fringe artists and films and books; most films he recommends are obscure and are only possible to enjoy at home if you have no small children to interrupt you. I say all that to say that he thinks deeper about the art he experiences than pretty much anyone I know. So when he opines, I pay attention. And when he writes his third fantasy novel, I’m happy to blurb it. So I did. Jenni Simmons, who pokes her head in the Rabbit Room on a regular basis, is an excellent writer for a site called the Curator. She recently interviewed Jeffrey about his new book Raven’s Ladder, which released Tuesday. He had great things to say. I hope you’ll check out his stories, and his blog, and his heady/artsy/cool goatee. Here’s the interview.

In the last couple of months I’ve been asked by several people how to go about finding a critique group. I’ve talked a bit about this before and you can read my previous post on it by clicking this link. But here I want to discuss an angle of the subject that I didn’t cover in that post. Specifically, I’d like to talk about what I perceive as the limitations of (largely anonymous) online criticism. There are scads of websites dedicated to the pursuit of writing and most of them offer some sort of peer critique. When I first began my revisions of The Fiddler’s Gun, I dabbled in a few online critique groups and systems and they weren’t completely without benefit. The process usually consisted of posting a chapter or an excerpt and then sitting back to let anonymous people tear into it. While it certainly did open my eyes to a few issues, the greater lesson I learned from it was that criticism by strangers is only useful to a point; it has a glass ceiling. The ceiling exists at the point that your prose is more or less grammatically correct, properly formatted, devoid of easy cliches, and doing a passable job of showing rather than telling. This ceiling marks the place where an acceptable proficiency in the objective nuts-and-bolts craft of writing has been achieved and the quality of one’s work as a whole begins to hinge on the more subjective art of storytelling. Any anonymous internet person can point out why your subject and verb don’t agree but in order for someone’s artistic opinion of your use of pace, symbolism, voice, rhythm, or structure to mean much, you’ve got to understand where they are coming from. That’s not always easy to do via the internet. Here’s an example: a few weeks ago, I was having an email discussion with a fellow author that I’d come into contact with on a message board and we were debating the various artistic merits of a book. This person was disagreeing with me in ways that I simply could not understand and it was becoming clear that there would be no convincing her of my way of seeing things. Then she let it slip that she worked primarily in the genre of ‘paranormal erotica’. Do you hear an awkward silence? That’s the sound of me trying to wrap my brain around werewolf porn. Do you see the problem? I have a difficult time accepting a critical examination of writing from someone who honestly believes that there is lasting artistic value in writing erotic fantasies about werewolves and vampires making out under the light of the full moon. I wouldn’t go to a pornographer for film-making advice and I’m not going to do it for writing advice either. That’s an extreme example but I trust that you see my point. The werewolf lady and I just don’t have any common ground upon which to base our criticisms. For a critique to be meaningful I have to know and respect the sensibilities of the critic delivering it. That is a large part of the reason I believe the Rabbit Room is such a valuable place. It’s a community where readers and listeners are able to develop an accurate sense of the artistic nuances of those who offer recommendations on the site. If you’ve paid attention to my writing, or to Jason Gray’s, or Matt Connor’s and know your own sensibilities line up with one or all of ours, then you immediately have a greater sense of trust, both in what we recommend and what we criticize. Often that trust will extend to what we create as well. That’s not the only reason I’m wary of anonymous writer’s groups, though. The writers within the group need to share some parity of skill and development amongst each other. Critical partners need to be equally yoked. In online critiques I found that quite often whenever I had the chance to read the work of others it turned out that many had a very poor grasp of even such basic elements of craft as grammar and punctuation. How am I to view a critique of my own work from a writer who writes a sentence like: “I stared longingly, into the deeply, dark black pool’s of his coal black eyes filling with they’re passionate seas of dark water’s even as he wistfully blinked into my own innocently baby blue’s, taking smoothly, my hand.” Once again, the problem is that as a writer I don’t have anything in common with someone who writes a sentence like that so it’s very difficult to know how to accept his/her criticism. There’s very little the writer of that sentence can say to me that I’m going to take seriously (whether good or bad) and there’s very little I can offer in return that isn’t going to sound really, really mean, condescending, patronizing, or overly critical. Basically, the extent of the criticism I could offer would be “spend a few years reading the classics, then come back and try again.” See what I mean? That sounds terribly condescending. But it really is the best thing that writer can do to improve. If I’m going to treat others as I want to be treated I need to tell them the truth, not offer empty pacifications. Unfortunately, that kind of critique won’t make you any friends in your online critique group. So what’s a writer to do? I think it’s important not only to find people whose opinions you trust but to find people whose own writing proficiency is comparable to your own, if not better. I think any artist needs to be challenged in order to grow and having a peer group you respect and who will call you to task is a great way to find that challenge. I’m confident there are great online writers’ groups out there and that they’re helping many writers grow and better their craft, but it’s important to know what you’re getting into and who you’re getting into it with. Knowing your critique partners and having a working relationship with them is invaluable. I get a lot of critical input from my brother, for instance. Quite often my first reaction is that he’s dead wrong and, quite possibly, out of his mind. But because I’ve learned to respect his instincts and because I admire his own writing, I usually abide by his criticisms even when I disagree. When I revisit the issue weeks or months later, I nearly always find that he was right. I was simply too close to the work to see it at the time. As I look over this post (critically), it’s obvious that there’s a danger of falling into a trap of thinking that we, as artists, are better than those who offer us their criticism, or that we may begin to pick and choose which opinions we accept based solely on which we agree with. In my own writing, I try to be constantly mindful that I don’t slip into that trap. I know I’ve got a lot of room for improvement and those who know me well know that I’m my own worst critic. If I ever come to the point that I realize I’ve got this whole writing thing figured out, then I’ve probably failed as a writer. So my answer to the initial question of where to find criticism is this: Find it chiefly among people you trust and respect. The act of creation is an intimate endeavor. When we open the door to let someone into a process so precious, we do well to take caution in whom we admit.