What are you looking for?

Last weekend I was in Champaign, IL, a place that felt like it should be dead-center in the middle of a cast-iron pancake griddle. On one side of the interstate were rows of new construction homes, while on the other, ploughed fields reaching out to the horizon with deep, dark tendrils. I find it hard to believe that this state, as rural and authentic as it is, has (or apparently will have) both of its past two governors serving time in the clink. Such strange un-midwestern values. An hour later, I arrived at my friend Phil’s place where he was finishing polishing his black Yamaha (before it got rained on), and two of his boys were shooting basketball in the driveway. We proceeded to play a quick game of Fog (not to be confused with Pig) where I completely dominated the match. I believe my sky hook ultimately won it. What can I say, short people were born to be point guards. It was a bachelor pad weekend, since Phil’s wife (and amazing chef) Bethany was out of town. Saturday night we ate brats, drank Newcastle and watched 80’s freaky-strange film, “Big Trouble in Little China”, a movie I somehow never saw while growing up. Turns out, it was probably for the best. Someone please tell me the point of the greasy monster that appears in a grand total of three brief, senseless scenes? Also, were all 80’s movies over-acted? Or was it just John Carpenter at work? Sunday morning I played a song at the morning services in hopes of luring folks out to the free concert that night. Though I didn’t completely scare everyone off, there were around 30-40 folks out on a damp, chilly evening.  And they were a quiet crowd. That threw me off, and I just got plain weird as the night wore on. I had a great time, but I’m sure my oddities left a few folks scratching their midwestern heads. Folks were gracious in their giving, and since these were the first shows I did as part of my new “I’ll play for any amount, including free” proposal, I’d say it was well worth my time away from home. Faith sometimes feels like murder, but these days it is good to wither to self. Duly noted.

In my tattered copy of a book simply titled Good Poems (selected by Garrison Keillor), this page is one of many that are dog-eared (gasp!). I think I remember a librarian in fifth grade telling me that this was the unpardonable sin, so each time I feel that crunch of paper fibers beneath my thumb, it thrills me. Renegade behavior, I know. There’s not much I need to say about this poem, except that I thought it appropriate that it be shared with my Rabbit Room friends. “The Grain of Sound” by Robert Morgan A banjo maker in the mountains, when looking out for wood to carve an instrument, will walk among the trees and knock on trunks. He’ll hit the bark and listen for a note. A hickory makes the brightest sound; the poplar has a mellow ease. But only straightest grain will keep the purity of tone, the sought- for depth that makes the licks sparkle. A banjo has a shining shiver. Its twangs will glitter like the light on splashing water, even though its face is just a drum of hide of cow, or cat, or even skunk. The hide will magnify the note, the sad of honest pain, the chill blood-song, lament, confession, haunt, as tree will sing again from root and vein and sap and twig in wind and cat will moan as hand plucks nerve, picks bone and skin and gut and pricks the heart as blood will answer blood and love begins to knock along the grain.

“Do it again.”  Three words that make kids laugh and make parents go insane. Those repeated words, “all things new,” are what caught Sophie’s attention.  Everyone with kids knows that they’re in for some annoyance when you’ve done something funny, and they want you to “do it again.” And again.  And again.  And again.  And again.  That’s not anywhere near enough “and again”s But there might be some wisdom in the child’s repetition that we’re missing.  G.K. Chesterton wrote, Because children have abounding vitality, because they are in spirit fierce and free, therefore they want things repeated and unchanged. They always say, “Do it again”; and the grown-up person does it again until he is nearly dead. For grown-up people are not strong enough to exult in monotony. But perhaps God is strong enough to exult in monotony. It is possible that God says every morning, “Do it again” to the sun; and every evening, “Do it again” to the moon. It may not be automatic necessity that makes all daisies alike; it may be that God makes every daisy separately, but has never got tired of making them. (Orthodoxy, Chapter 4) Or, as Rich Mullins wrote, Well we are children no more, we have sinned and grown old And our Father still waits and He watches down the road To see the crying boys come running back to His arms And be growing young Growing young Perhaps our inability to abide repetition, our constant looking for something “new,” has a lot more to do with our weakness and failure than it does our becoming “mature.” Lately, I’ve been trying to gather the strength to “do it again” as many times as Sophia requests it, and I’ve been trying to summon the wisdom to find joy in the repetition. The new song Sophie was singing is paradoxically older than the universe.  When Scripture refers to a “new song,” it’s not referring “a song recently written,” but a renewed song, or a song of renewal.  “All Things New” and every song that conveys enternal truth is the repetition of the ancient paths which will one day be fully renewed.  It is, most definitely, a song worth repeating.

I picked up my banjo this morning to practice. Lately I’ve been working on speed, and correcting deficiencies in my technique that have crept in as a result of tension. The first thing that happened was my plastic thumb pick snapped in half when I put it on. With an irritated sound which could easily be mistaken for a cuss word, I found another thumb pick. Now, get this. I have a good capacity to stick with things; bands (17 years with Alison Krauss and Union Station), marriage (20 year anniversary last year), a primarily raw food way of eating (seven years). That’s a good thing. But that capacity can also be misused; it can deteriorate into the realm of “It’s comfortable and familiar, so I’m sticking with it.” That’s why I was irritated at my thumb pick. I hate changing picks; new picks take awhile to get used to. I use the same tortoiseshell guitar pick for month after month until it wears down; then I reshape it and use it more. But I put on the new thumb pick. It wasn’t so bad. I played for a bit, and then thought, “What if I changed out my finger picks, too?” I play Scruggs-style banjo with the thumb and two fingers, using two metal finger picks and the plastic thumb pick, and for the past six months I’ve been using a modern pair. I dug into my cache of old National finger picks (probably from the 1940s-1960s) and found an unused pick for my middle finger. It fit perfectly. I hit the string. Clang. The tone was remarkably better than the newer, more modern picks I’d been using, with a nice zing in the high-end,. So I put another old National on the other finger. Clang – again, better tone. Well, that was even more annoying in a sense. Here I’d spent months with these modern finger picks with less tone simply because they were comfortable, and I was used to them. But they weren’t optimal. How many things do I continue to think, or do, or say, or allow in my life because they’re  more comfortable than change? How much of the world’s thinking has infected my own because it’s more comfortable than following Christ? How many things could I change with just the smallest adjustment? Faith steps out of the comfort zone looking for “Optimal.” These picks will take a little getting used to. But faith says I can get used to them quickly, and the extra tone is worth it.

I recently attended the Festival of Faith & Music at Calvin College in Grand Rapids, Michigan. Famed painter Makato Fujimara was there to present at the initial keynote session and he did a fine job setting the stage for the weekend’s proceedings. Within his message, mostly tuned in to the passage on ‘extravagance’ found in Mark 14 where Mary unloads the jar of perfume on Jesus, Makato gave this quote: “Every act of creativity is directly or indirectly an intuitive response to the Creator.” When I heard that, I wrote it down. There was an instinctive response that said what he was saying was true, that this was some quote that would be used for inspirational quote books or something other quick buck-making gift book. I’ve turned this phrase over in my head a few times since that fateful Friday night, wondering what that means for me. I guess the key question is: does this acknowledgement change the way that I go about creating? Does believing that as I’m creating make a difference in how I choose to apply myself in that moment of creating? Is it just a phrase I’m intended to nod and affirm as a “hrmmm….” moment? Or, does that create or affirm a level of artistic responsibility? In other words, to personalize it, as as a writer, should I be focused on writing more of God has put within me to write versus writing for a magazine’s deadline and making the paycheck? Of course, there’s a never-ending tension there, but I have to admit that I can’t even remember the last time I wrote what *I* wanted to write. Is that a slap in the face of a statement like this? I guess these are things I’m wrestling with. I wonder what to make of this statement, but, even more importantly, the consequences of this. I’d love to hear some thoughtful responses on this.

There is such a thing as an ERB test. Don’t ask me what those letters stand for, but they are the standardized aptitude test currently used in the school where I work. I, personally, just love to call them the “erb” tests. As in “herb.” As in parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme. As in Peaches and ____. I most definitely digress. At the lunch table I asked the kids, ages ranging from grade 3 to 5, how the morning’s tests went. One third grader who is famous for the bows which always sit perfectly atop her cute little head, said “This is going to be the longest week of my liiiiife.” A fourth grade ragamuffin who likes to call himself “Heinz Cowguts” (which I think is quietly brilliant) said “Oh that stuff’s so eeeeeasy for me! I finished so fast!” I assured Monsieur Cowguts that there were many fellow students for whom this test wasn’t “so eeeeeeasy” and that he might want to use a bit more tact at the lunch table, and that the correct grammar usage would actually be “I finished so quickly.” And then there are the mature, erb-savvy fifth graders for whom this test is old hat and something they merely endure. There are also certain students who require a bit more time and TLC during this testing and, at times, the supply of teachers for proctoring purposes runs low. I gladly accepted the call for reinforcements last week and this morning I went and picked up a couple of third grade girls. One exception: I refuse to be called a “proctor.” Sounds too clinical and a little creepy. They had their razor-sharp No. 2 pencils, their “good luck” notes from their moms, their bright eyes and bushy tails, and their thinking caps were pulled on, straight and tight. In addition, they had bags of candy and were allowed to choose a piece for each break between tests. Uh, where were these bags of candy when I was in third grade? In my recollection, all we got was a sip of water and the satisfaction of knowing we hadn’t yet fainted from the pressure and fallen to the cold linoleum below. After reading the instructions silently over and over again — I think I was as nervous as they were — I finally said those fated words “You may now open your booklets. Begin.” Three sections of the test were to be given today and one of the students, naturally, worked more quickly than the other. I don’t have to tell you how this affected the slower of the two, and you can well imagine the feeling of panic that crept up in her poor, frustrated little mind and body. Test-taker #1 was almost finished with section #2 while test-taker #2 was still in the throes of section #2. Confused? Yes, so was I. Moving on, test-taker #1 moved on to section #3, after her piece of candy, of course (an Andes mint, I think it was). Soon enough, test-taker #2 looked up at me, her sweet, big brown eyes brimming with salty tears and said “Miss Coates my stomach hurts.” And the poor girl broke down. She sobbed but tried with all her might to pull it together. I excused her to the restroom and told her to take some deep breaths and drink plenty of water. What do we need as humans? Air. We need air. And we need water. Everything else is fluff. Except, of course, for the blue raspberry Jolly Rancher I allowed her to enjoy, even though it wasn’t an official “break.” I’m not a big proponent of “official,” if you hadn’t already guessed. After completing section #2, and after test-taker #1 was long gone, test-taker #2 had breakdown #2. I stood up and got her out of her chair and put my arms around her and held her while she cried. Heart-breaking. The pressure this child felt was too much for her to bear. I didn’t handle it all too well either, my poor, poor proctoring self. I asked her if she was overwhelmed and really frustrated and tired of reading all of those millions of words. “Yes ((sniff))” she replied through her tears. I wasn’t going to subject her to any more of the bubble-filling nonsense and I made an executive decision to call it a day. After we both pulled it together and shared a last piece of candy (Lemonheads), I walked her back to her classroom. While walking down that long hallway which must have felt like both freedom and imprisonment to her, I said “You know, as differently as we all learn, we take tests differently too. If you had a different kind of test, say someone put a piece of blank paper and crayons in front of you and said ‘Here is your test: draw a pretty girl with a rainbow above her. You may now begin…’ you’d pass that test with honors!” She offered a weary smile.

A society which rejects a moral imagination (the artistic aspiration toward right order in the soul and right order in the commonwealth) will not necessarily abandon imagination altogether (though the way modernism has treated the fairy tale, that has sadly happened to some extent in our culture).  Instead, we will turn toward what Russell Kirk called “the idyllic imagination” – “the imagination which rejects old dogmas and old manners and rejoices in the notion of emancipation from duty and convention.”  It’s the false freedom that rejects the very need for “right order” in the soul and commonwealth.  It’s the liberty we sinners think we have when we try to live free of God’s loving law. But we quickly get bored and disillusioned with the idyllic imagination, Kirk says.  This makes sense: we weren’t made for that kind of freedom, which is no freedom at all; so its promises are false.  “You will be happy apart from right order in your soul.  You will be miserable having to obey God.  You are your own, and you will be happier as the captain of  your own destiny.”  All lies; all false promises. But having been convinced and then disillusioned, we’re more likely to turn to an even darker form of imagination – what T.S. Eliot called “the diabolic imagination” – “that kind of imagination which delights in the perverse and subhuman.” Eliot writes: The number of people in possession of any criteria for discriminating between good and evil is very small, the number of the half-alive hungry for any form of spiritual experience, or for what offers itself as spiritual experience, high or low, good or bad, is considerable. My own generation has not served them very well. Never has the printing press been so busy, and never have such varieties of buncombe and false doctrine come from it. Woe unto the foolish prophets, that follow their own spirit, and have seen nothing! Not the most encouraging words you’ve ever read. “Right order in the soul” is an important phrase, especially when paralleled with the definition of the diabolic imagination: it delights in the “subhuman.”  There are a lot of ways to define evil, but one of the most potent and oft-used in imaginative fiction is that of dehumanization.  Evil is turning away from created intent.  Aslan told the talking beasts of Narnia that if they behaved like the beasts that do not talk, they would become like them: The Dumb Beasts whom I have not chosen are yours also. Treat them gently and cherish them but do not go back to their ways lest you cease to be Talking Beasts. For out of them you were taken and into them you can return. Do not so. (The Magician’s Nephew 140) George MacDonald’s goblins and humans-turned-creatures in The Princess and Curdie fit the same picture of dehumanization.  Gothic literature portrays evil in the same way: distorted humanity.  Think Jeckyll and Hyde, or Frankenstein’s monster. Eugene Peterson writes: When we say “soul” we are calling attention to the God-origins, God-intentions, God-operations that make us what we are. It is the most personal and most comprehensive term for what we are – man, woman, and child…. “Soul” is a word reverberating with relationships: God-relationships, human-relationships, earth relationships…. “Soul” gets beneath the fragmented surface appearances and experiences and affirms an at-homeness, an affinity with whoever and whatever is at hand. (Christ Plays in Ten Thousand Places 37) Hence, right order in the soul and in the commonweatlth (society/relationships) is vital, and they are related to one another.  (The next two entries in this series on moral imagination will explore how.)  And a society which abandons a moral imagination for the idyllic and diabolic will distort both the soul and the commonwealth. Part 1 Part 2 Forthcoming – Part 4: Ancient Desires; Part 5: The Golden Rule #diabolicimagination #MoralImagination #RussellKirk #idyllicimagination #TSEliot

I see myself in Moses, and in Gideon, arguing with God. “Who am I, that I should go to Pharaoh?,” asks Moses. “How shall I save Israel? My family is the poorest, and I am the least,” said Gideon. And to both God says, “I will certainly be with thee.” After that argument-ending statement by God they both still argue. “They won’t listen to me. I’m not a good speaker.” “Oh, Lord, give me a sign.” God replies to Moses: “Who made man’s mouth? I will be with your mouth and teach you what to say.” To Gideon He gives signs. And still they struggle with the apparent, the seen, the contradiction of a weak humanity that is told to go and do great things. Even more familiar, yet strange, is to see Deity make concessions to their weakness and arguing. Their faith-struggle came from being beaten down, from having their natural faith in themselves put to death. Murder brought the proud Moses, raised in all the wisdom of the Egyptians, to the backside of the desert. This man who thought he could deliver Israel singlehandedly by his own devices had to be hidden, tending sheep for year after year. In Gideon’s days, the Midianites oppressed Israel seven years, and finally Gideon was reduced to hiding in order to thresh out enough wheat to barely get by. They both started slow in their walk of faith. “But…but…but.” My life is mirrored in that. For years I followed, trusted, relied on, obeyed God in some ways. I said, “But this, but that,” in many others. I started slow. There is comfort in knowing the stories of Moses and Gideon. But now their names resonate as God’s heroes of faith, rich with implication, full of years and meaning. Gideon, according to the end of Judges 8, may have fallen short of his revelation as a hero. But he is still given a mention in the hall of faith in Hebrews 11. How did Moses and Gideon jump from Alpha to Omega? It was a process, yes. But the main attitude I see in them as they grow in faith is a blossoming disregard of circumstance for the solidity of Promise. God said it. I believe it, and I’m stepping out on the Word spoken. I say, “Whatever the circumstance, and my human perception of it, it can all go to hell if it contradicts the Word; God has spoken.” Why did God use Moses and Gideon? Why did He persevere with men who argued with Him? They knew they were weak, helpless, unable. And only such men, hammered in the furnace of affliction, can give God the full credit. “Not by might, nor by power, but by My Spirit,” saith the Lord. Only in the knowledge of our weakness are we safe with God’s empowering. So I see myself in Moses, and Gideon. I’ve wrestled, and sometimes still do. But I have a settled knowledge of my total weakness, my inability to be and do anything apart from God’s imparted, indwelling Divine Life in Christ. And yet, “He is able, He is able, He is willing, doubt no more.” I’m to move from weakness to Strength. My ability or my upbringing or my circumstances never have to be the deciding factors. That makes me look forward to a future lit up with a sunrise of potential and possibility, of peril and rescue, of fathering and husbanding, of people and music, of intercession, of faithfully borne sorrows free of self-pity. It is the sword of the Lord – and of Gideon – slicing through demonic lies, fears, oppression, and bondage to free captives after the clay jar is broken, revealing the Light that conquers and sets foes to flight. Obedience has become just another word for trust.

Heaven knows why it has taken me so long to write a little something about this album, the newest EP from friend and soul sister, Julie Lee. Julie and I met several years ago at a friend’s house and found immediate ease in conversation and a unique connection; sparks of light and magic hung lightly in the air around our collision. It was one of those instances where you know for sure that the God of the Universe meant for you to meet this one particular human being out of the millions that He created. I know that sounds a little dramatic, but I like drama (the good kind only, please) and am grateful when I find it happening in my little life. Julie is a consummate artist. She makes cornbread, she makes aprons, she makes songs that make me feel all brand-new, she makes art out of other rusty, splintered and otherwise used/aged things. If I ever knew a kindred spirit in “Truth for Twine.” Unique, evocative, rich. I ran into Julie at the Americana Folk Festival back in October. I slid unsuspectingly into a tent in the Artist Village (what a nice place that would be to take up residence) and there she stood, in all of her handmade-aproned-glory — just the cutest sight you ever saw. She’s got dimples which I covet deeply, sweet, clear blue eyes, and a lilting, musical, Dear reader, had I known what this music would do for my heart and soul, I’d have wrestled her to the dirt floor, hog-tied her (gently) and pressed a fresh fifty into her palm….but really, how can I put a price on such enchanting creations as Julie has wrought? The record’s opener, “Petit Bebe,” twinkles and dances with windchimes, echoing guitar, and Julie’s ethereal, soft cooing. I imagine a sunlit morning, a mother with long ropes of chestnut hair twisted about on her head and dressed in light linen. She cradles her small child and prances barefoot through the dew beneath boughs of bright, new green growth in a grove of birch trees. I sound like a complete loon. Track two, “Morning,” is a gorgeous, more deliberate continuation of the peaceful lull of the previous track. The lyrics are from an Emily Dickinson poem, and among my favorite lines from the album are these:“Oh some scholar, Oh some sailor, Oh some Wise Man from the skies! Please to tell a little Pilgrim where the place called ‘Morning’ lies!” The tune meanders delicately in and out of intensity. It glitters. She advances further into Dickinson territory with track three “Hope’s The Thing With Feathers.” “And sweetest in the gale is heard; and sore must be the storm, that could abash the little bird that kept so many warm.” What a comfort is found in these words, and what a beautifully rendered portrait of Hope, set perfectly to an ardent melody by Miss Lee. The gem, the real darling of this record in my estimation, is track five, “The Other Half.” It diverts from the warm-hued opening songs and takes me to a dark wood shadowed by verdigris, ultramarine and indigo. It breaks my heart and makes me ache in a place where I’ve never been wounded. It’s a song about the anguish of divorce. In her words, melody and instrumentation, she brings me a sense of sorrow that I hope I never have to feel in earnest. A plaintive tune, a single horn, low and soft like an old friend’s reassuring tone, and her lyrics: “The memory makes me cry, makes me think of you, of your kiss so slow, of your eyes so blue; What you said to me, whispered in my ear, made my knees go weak, filled my eyes with tears…” It is difficult to write about music like this without finally just saying with much conviction and a dash of frustration, “Just listen to it. You’ll feel it all.”

On second thought maybe I won’t start Twittering. Not yet. Not unless someone can convince me that it’s more than just… “… the telegraph of Narcissus. Not only are you the star of the show, but everything that happens to you, no matter how trifling, is a headline, a media event, a stop-the-presses bulletin.” From Nicholas Carr, via Justin Talyor. Ouch. The “telegraph of Narcissus.” That’s good copy. Also, I still haven’t taken the time to really understand what Twitter is, or how it works. Is it basically like the old Status Update on Facebook? Mostly like the ones which say “…is taking a nap,” “…is making dinner.” Wow, awesome news. Dinner. But we could analyze that stuff all day and I think we can all rest assured that the government is spending trillions on studying this stuff as we speak. What am I turning into, a curmudgeonly critic of modern superfluity? I like hearing those kinds of updates from some people -especially when it’s entertaining. Otherwise, there’s the “hide” feature on Facebook at least. Use it and save precious minutes. Someone who has really good Status Updates is our very own Eric Peters. He had a recent one that went like this: “Eric Peters pities the poor, rotting Easter eggs forgotten and undiscovered in lawns across the USA.” S.D. Smith likes this. I saw where Ashton Kutcher beat Larry King and CNN at getting a million Twitter followers. That is a lot of twits. I mean tweets. It is also making it extremely easy on the dude who writes that feature in Sports Illustrated called “Signs of the Apocalypse.” I feel like I wasted time taking ten seconds to hear the news about it reported. How much worse would it be to actually hear anything that Ashton is doing unless he is Punking Andrew Peterson. AP: What do you mean I’m a drug mule for Compassion International? AK: Ha, Ha! You got Punked. AP: Oh. Hold on a second, let me send a tweet about this. AK: No way, I’m already doing it. I have a million followers. AP: I think you’re actually Punking all of them, then. Because that is a joke. Maybe I’ll start an even quicker and more immediate social connection medium: Twitcher. Every three seconds or so all of your bodily movements, “Twitches,” are recorded and broadcast to all the people who think you’re a big deal. I see money in my :::back spasm::: future.

From The Saving Life of Christ: The only ultimate source of divine activity in all spiritual life is God Himself – “Christ in you the hope of glory” (Col 1:27). The Church is so slow to learn. It admires and seeks to emulate the example of the mighty but so seldom takes the trouble “to turn aside and see” the reason why. You read the lives of men like Hudson Taylor, George Mueller, Dwight L. Moody, A.B. Simpson – men whose lives have made spiritual history. You would like to be like them and do the things they did, and yet maybe you have never taken the trouble to find out why it was they were what they were, nor how it was they did what they did! Instead, you mobilize your own resources and seek to emulate the example they set, and are constantly buffeted by a sense of frustration because of your hopeless failure in the endeavor. As some have sought to introduce you to the principles that made these men what they were, and enabled them to do what they did, you have been impatient, and said, “Don’t interfere! I’m too busy trying to be like them, and I don’t have time to listen to you!” Now is that not stupid? Why was Hudson Taylor what he was, and how could he do what he did? Why was A.B. Simpson what he was, and how could he do what he did? Were they God’s favorites? Of course they were not! They were simply men who had qualified in the school of failure and despair. They were men who came to the end of themselves and discovered that what they were apart from God was nothing! Moses began by being a failure! That was the school from which he qualified! Abraham began by being a failure! That was the school from which he qualified! Jacob was a hopeless failure! David was a hopeless failure! Elijah was a hopeless failure! Isaiah was a hopeless failure and “a man of unclean lips,” but it is in the school of destitution – the bitter school of self-discovery – that finally you graduate into usefulness, when at last you finally discover the total bankruptcy of what you are apart from what God is! These men made this discovery, and were blessed.

In our desire to be effective expressions of Christ we often fall prey to a subtle trick of the enemy. A temptation arises; we feel the pull of flesh-desires. It doesn’t matter what it is; a thought to use our hatred against a person instead of against evil; sexual desire being stirred to wrong use; the pull to verbally dishonor our parents. This temptation is not yet in itself sin. But here’s where the Devil’s trickery  comes in. He gets us to respond to the temptation by pulling back from it in our own human thinking, strength, and will. Let’s pretend that I’m the devil, like Peter O’Toole in the original Bedazzled. I am standing in front of you, and I pull you toward myself. Your natural response is going to be to pull back in order to keep your balance. The strength of my pulling will be matched by the strength of your reactionary pull; this, in your  mind, will keep your balance. But here’s the devil’s trick: He pulls, subtly at first, then as we resist he begins to pour on the strength. At the height of our pulling he suddenly lets go. He is pulling us hard toward license. We pull back hard in our own effort; he releases us to our own pulling energy, and we fall stumbling backward into Law. Now, this fall back into Law is very effective for Satan’s purposes. We can stay there and we will begin to feel pride at our “defeat” of the devil. We’ll think, “Wow, I did it. I resisted temptation.” That wonderfully leavening feeling will begin to lift us up (we sometimes mistake this for edification). There we’ll sit in pride, not knowing it. But pride goes before a fall. The leaven of pride pushes us further and further into self-satisfaction and independence from God. This pushing is really the pull-back of a gigantic slingshot into sin. “The power of sin is the Law,” says 1Cor 15:56. The Greek word there for power is “dunamis” from which we get “dynamite.” This “me for God” independent effort thinking is what gives sin its explosive power over us. To live according to Law is simply to think we are a human self trying to be “like Christ” with God’s help. But if God merely “helps” us, that means we do some of it for ourselves, hence the attractive power of Law. The further and deeper we go into Law, the more likely it is to explode us into sin. A popular preacher in the 1980s was preaching Law-sermons  against immorality, prompting people to strive in their own effort to avoid sin. The gigantic slingshot pulled further and further until it released and  snapped him into the backseat of a car with a prostitute. So what should be our proper reaction to this devilish tug of war? We first prepare by suiting up. We fight by simply standing. “Put on the whole armor of God, that ye may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil” (Eph 6:11). The word for stand is histemi which means “to make firm, to fix (in place), to establish,” among other things. We falsely believe we must resist by our force because our minds have been programmed with the world; we believe we must keep ourselves, that we must do something to be Christ-like. But if Christ is our Rock, then we’ve got a weight in us that is too heavy for Satan to move. He is our Keeper. Our Fortress. Our Stronghold. All we’re to do is stand in Him by faith. That’s why we put on the full armor of God. It is a burden that is light to us, a yoke that is easy. But to the devil it bears the weight of the Eternal God.  He can pull and push all he wants, and if we rely on Christ, we’re not moving a bit. We can feel the temptations come and go, desires in us rise up and fall, the winds of feeling and circumstance spinning around us like a typhoon, and yet we stand. “I am in Christ, and out of Him I will not go.” We’re not to respond with effort and fall into Law, but to stand by faith.

For the last few years there has been a lot of speculation about the future of publishing.  The downturn of the economy coupled with the already in-decline publishing industry has been the impetus for all sorts of debate about the rise of self-publishing, the viability of on-demand publishing, the madness of digital rights management, and the inevitability of electronic book readers. For the largest part of all this talk and ado I’ve been of the mind that there is only one thing I know for certain: I’m not going to start reading on any kind of electronic device and you can have my traditionally bound books when you pry them from my cold dead hands. There is more to reading a book than just the words on the page, right?  There’s the beauty of the paper, the typesetting, the bindings, even just the weight of it in your hand.  Things that just aren’t there if you’re staring at a computer screen. It goes even deeper than that for me as a writer.  I can write and edit something all day long on my laptop but when I see it in print and hold it in my hand it inevitably reads differently on paper.  The physical presence of it in your hand gives it import and substance and finality, doesn’t it?   So to the revolutionaries and prophets of the coming electronic age I have said, “No, thank you.” Now it’s time for me to offer them my apologies.  I was mistaken. After a great deal of hem-hawing around and curious investigation I finally managed to talk myself into buying an Amazon Kindle.  I’ve been using it for a month or two now, long enough to develop some solid opinions and I have to admit that it’s the real deal.  In many ways I now prefer it to an actual, physical book. I can already hear you shaking your head as you read that.  You’re thinking to yourself, like I did, that there’s no way you’d switch from actual books to reading off an electronic screen.  But before you discount me entirely let me tell you why I changed my mind. I’m the sort of person that typically reads four or five books at a time.  Depending on my mood I might pick up Hugo, Buechner, Lewis, Berry, or maybe even Barry.  This presents a sizeable problem to a man that travels often and has to weigh the packing of his suitcase against the weight of the many books he’d like to have with him along the way. The Kindle did away with that problem in one swift stroke.  It lets me have a quarter of a million books at my fingertips no matter where I am.  That’s because included in the purchase price of the Kindle ($250) is access to Amazon’s Whispernet 3G network that allows you to purchase a book wirelessly, from the Kindle Store’s library and download it in about thirty-seconds flat. That means that when I’m sitting in a restaurant talking to a friend and he recommends a book that I can, right there, on the spot, pull my Kindle out of my backpack, buy the book, and be ready to read it without ever leaving the table. On top of that, new books that are currently on bookstore shelves in hardback only and selling for $30 usually sell for about $10 on the Kindle.  So a few weeks ago as I was perusing the shelves at Barnes and Noble and came across Outliers by Malcolm Gladwell, I remembered Matt Conner’s review of it and decided I needed to buy it.  But when I picked it up and realized it was going to cost me $24 I put it back on the shelf and walked away.  Then I remembered my Kindle.  I pulled it out and bought the book for $9.  I downloaded it right there in the Barnes and Noble and went to the coffee shop to enjoy it, $20 richer than I’d have been otherwise. Now I don’t go to the bookstore without it.  This makes bookstore owners want to put out a hit on Kindle-carriers, I’m sure.  But wait, just because I buy a book on the Kindle doesn’t mean I won’t buy a hard copy later.  I will certainly still pick up a hardcopy of a book, even if I’ve already read it digitally, simply because I want it on my shelf. So the Kindle undoubtedly simplifies the buying of books but what about the reading of them? One of my biggest aversions to the idea of digital reading was the eyestrain that results from reading off of a screen.  That’s not an issue anymore.  The Kindle uses a technology called digital ink that, in my opinion, is actually easier on the eyes than reading a physical book.  The best way I can describe it is that it’s sort of like looking at an etch-a-sketch.  The screen produces no light so the eye fatigue that usually results from looking at a computer isn’t a factor.  You will, however, need ambient light to read, just like reading any other book.  The lettering is rendered in very high resolution and is black on a light grey background.   You can even size the font to please your own eye. Do you like to make notes and highlights when you read?  Me too, and that’s all built into the Kindle.  So is a dictionary.  Not sure what that obscure word means?  Just move the cursor to the word and the definition instantly pops up.  Any notes you take or highlights you make are copied to a personal file on the device that you can reference later and link to via your own personal footnotes. I can also email Word and PDF documents to the Kindle and read them like any other book (though there are a few file translation issues that result in imperfect formatting at times.) Battery life?  About a week.  Size and weight?  About the same as a trade paperback. The device isn’t perfect, though.  It is still very much an emerging technology that the publishing industry hasn’t quite figured out what to do with.  Some of the buttons and functions are a bit clunky and there is a lot more that could be done with the software when it comes to hyper-linking and searching. Overall though, it is quickly becoming something that, like my iPod, I wonder how I ever got along without.  I can buy newspapers and magazines and have them delivered directly to my Kindle the moment they come out.  The same applies to blogs.  Blogs are available via a subscription price of usually a dollar a month (the Rabbit Room should be available in Kindle format soon.)  There is some doubt about the future viability of the blog subscription model though because the Kindle comes with free internet access and a crude (thus far) browser with which you could easily circumvent the fee. At this point it’s foolish to think that digital readers like this are not going to play a major part in the future of the written word.  Remember carrying around all those school textbooks?  No more, they’ll all fit on your Kindle.   Want to look up that quote but you left the book at home?  No problem, your entire library is in your backpack.  Lost a book?  Not an issue, you can re-download anything you’ve bought from Amazon at any time for free (unlike iTunes.) Imagine books that hyperlink to video and audio clips.  Imagine books with soundtracks or even sound effects (that’s right, the Kindle has speakers, it’s an MP3 player, and will even read the book to you.)  Is this all this possible with the Kindle in its current incarnation?  No, but anyone that’s lived through the last couple of decades knows that technology moves at a frightening pace. Remember what I said about a book being about much more than just the words on the page?  I was wrong.  I was wrong and it seems so obvious to me now.  I haven’t yet read a book on the Kindle and wished I had bought the physical book instead (although I have thought that I would like to go buy a physical version much in the same way that movie geeks love to buy a special edition DVD.)  A book is about the story.  It’s about communication.  I love cover design, and paperstock, and the feel of a unique book in my hands just as much as anyone else, but when it comes right down to it, when it comes to the reading, all that other stuff disappears into the background.  What matters is the story. I submit that if while reading a book you find yourself marveling at the texture of the paper or the quality of the binding that you are perhaps not lost in the storytelling and isn’t that where a reader really wants to be?  The transportation to the realm of Other isn’t something that can be stopped by the digitization of the words upon which the traveler wends his path. Is the Kindle for everyone?  Certainly not.  Niether are iPods, nor cell phones, nor laptop computers but the days when the idea of reading books electronically was relegated to the world of Star Trek are gone.  Electronic books are coming and while I’ll always enjoy a good old-fashioned book, I’ll enjoy the new-fangled electronic ones as well.

A few years back I read Humphrey Carpenter’s excellent, sad, and thrilling biography of John Ronald Reuel Tolkien. I don’t intend to here review that book, but I do recommend it for fans of the creator of such epic masterworks as The Lord of the Rings and one of my favorite little stories, Farmer Giles of Ham. Tolkien is a storm on the horizon in the life of many writers (especially of speculative fiction). He threatens to overwhelm us in our imaginations. Aware of this, my tendency is to want to overcorrect. While I was writing my first novel (for now, unpublished –what’s up, Pete) I was very careful not to read anything by Tolkien, or any of my favorite authors. I did not want to fall into mimetic tripe. I think I also suffer, like many would-be authors, from the popular prejudice that lives on in the snobbish comments of so many literary sages who say things like, “Oh, no. Not another sword and sorcerer book.” But I sympathize with them as well. I agree that it appears that every fantasy-lover thinks he must write a story and inevitably falls into the patterns and clichés that are so familiar. I won’t call them orcs, I’ll call them “G’orcs.” Wow, good job. Big difference there. Doubtless there a thousand crude knock-offs of Tolkien, and no doubt English teachers, agents, and publishers tire of the tedious heaps of it. I hope I am not guilty of that charge, and have tried to be careful to avoid it. I now believe that I have been, perhaps, too sensitive to this charge –too concerned that people not think of my story as just another knock-off. I believe that it very definitely is not. I think it has its innumerable sources in the deep I don’t care how common, or how unsophisticated, it is. I love J.R.R. Tolkien. I have since the moment I first cracked open The Hobbit, and I believe I shall till I live inside that blessed Light of which Tolkien presented such a delightful, and serious, reflection. Here is the man himself on writing as sub-creation. “What really happens is that the story-maker proves a successful ‘sub-creator’. He makes a Secondary World which your mind can enter. Inside it, what he relates is ‘true’: it accords with the laws of that world. You therefore believe it, while you are, as it were, inside. The moment disbelief arises, the spell is broken; the magic, or rather art, has failed. You are then out in the Primary World again, looking at the little abortive Secondary World from outside.” “Every writer making a secondary world wishes in some measure to be a real maker, or hopes that he is drawing on reality: hopes that the peculiar quality of this secondary world (if not all the details) are derived from Reality, or are flowing into it.” -John Ronald Reuel Tolkien

“Anyone can revolt. It is more difficult silently to obey our own inner promptings, and to spend our lives finding sincere and fitting means of expression for our temperament and our gifts.” Georges Rouault, a French Expressionist painter from the nineteenth century wrote down these words. Or spoke them. Or spoke them and then thought he should write them down, lest they become lost forever. Bottom line, this meaning-full and beauty-full thread of words made it all the way from his mouth to a piece of green construction paper next to the door of my art classroom, hand-written in Sharpie. It has hung there, heavy with truth, for alm But I thought it’d be neat to hear what you all think it means. Maybe I will gain new insight and wisdom to share with the young artists who are in my care.  What significance does this statement have for us as creative and faith-alive humans? Anyone? Bueller, Bueller…Let the dissecting begin.

I was tired this morning when the bus rolled in. The last night of the tour left me somehow wired and sleepy at the same time, so when I crawled into my bunk I read a few pages in a book until my eyes drooped, then clicked off the light and looked at my phone to see the time: 2 am. I prayed a little, quieted that familiar discontent that always murmurs after a show, then fell asleep with the happy thought that in the morning I would be home. A little less than five hours later the bus stopped, the diesel engine rattled to silence, and I heard the footsteps of the rest of the band packing their things and bidding one another farewell. I squinted at my phone again: 7 am. I was deliriously sleepy, and the thought of seeing the family was the only thing strong enough to get me out of my bunk. For four weekends the eight of us told the Resurrection story, hoping our songs would lead people to a deeper appreciation of it. Now the day had finally come and I was too tired to feel a thing. Jamie and the kids arrived in my old truck, we hugged, I loaded the guitars, the bouzouki, the tubs full of CDs and books into the pickup. I looked at the sky and made myself consider its color, reminded myself to imagine that first Resurrection morning. Still, I felt nothing. It’s okay to feel nothing, I told myself. The stories are true, whatever I may feel about them. The kids always treat me like a new toy when I first come home. They laugh and tell what happened to the doll’s hat, or about how Moondog’s collar slipped off at the park, or about the next chapter in The Goblet of Fire. I nodded and tried to sound excited, but I was struggling to keep my eyes open so I told the kids Papa was really tired and could they tell him about it later. An awkward silence ensued for most of the ride home. I imagined putting on Fernando Ortega’s In the Shadow of Your Wings, reading from the Gospels after breakfast, having a Special Moment with the family before we drove to church. But I fell asleep on the couch, and Jamie couldn’t find her purse at first, and things got busy, and “if we don’t leave NOW, kids, we’ll be late.” The whole drive to church I fought to keep my eyes open and wondered why I didn’t fix some coffee for the road. We found our seats, bowed our heads, then stood to sing. I raised my voice and sang the words to one of my favorite songs, “In Christ Alone”: There in the ground His body lay, Light of the world by darkness slain; Then bursting forth in glorious day, Up from the grave He rose again! And as He stands in victory, Sin’s curse has lost its grip on me; For I am His and He is mine— Bought with the precious blood of Christ. The sermon was stirring. It was good to see my church family, to see good friends and to sit in our usual spot. It was good to end the service with “Christ the Lord is Risen Today”. Alleluia. And yet, though my heart was moved, and the truth was sweet, I couldn’t wrap my heart around the Resurrection. I wanted to celebrate it with more than my intellect, to sense in a profound way the significance of this astonishing event. I wanted an experience, and I expected it to happen at the assembling of the saints, with the spiritual equivalent of pyrotechnics. But in the end, glad as I was to be there, it was just church. And I don’t mean that as a bad thing. “Just church” is about as holy a thing as you’re ever likely to experience–like the slow growing of a daffodil at the base of the hackberry tree; it happens quietly and faithfully, and its gift is precious. I acknowledged all this in my mind and settled in for an Easter Sunday without much pomp. Maybe, I figured, that’s to be expected after weeks of concerts. After church we gathered with some friends at a house for a big dinner. I found an out-of-tune upright in an empty room and sang a new song called “Risen Indeed” to myself. The kids played kickball, we drank sweet tea while the lamb and asparagus cooked, and finally we sat around the table and shared a meal together. As I said, I resolved to expect no great emotion, but to savor the peaceful and quiet way my Easter Sunday unfolded. Then one of the women at the table suggested we gather the children and read Walt Wangerin Jr.’s story “The Ragman”. Now, I’m a fan of Wangerin’s work, due in large part to the musical quality of his writing. His sentences bounce like the stanzas of a 6/8 hymn, and I find myself reading his books aloud just to feel the words on my lips. I so hoped our friend might suggest I be the one to read it, but I didn’t want to presume. She asked me if I’d read, and I accepted a little too quickly between bites of cheesecake. We cleared the table, herded the twelve kids and as many adults into the living room where people sat in laps, on couches, cross-legged on the floor, and waited. For the first time that morning, I felt the Resurrection. I looked around at the women, men, and children. I thought of Wangerin’s particular gifting, his love for Christ, the wonder of a world in which a piece of writing can travel from the author’s imagination, to the book that carries it across the years, to my mind, out of my lips, and into the imaginations (and hearts) of those listening. The Ragman encounters a woman of great sorrow. He dries her tears and takes them upon himself. As I read I thought of one of the women in the room who has borne much sorrow and wept many tears, but whose heart is hid in Jesus’ hands. He is risen. The Ragman in the story heals a man’s drunkenness, takes it upon himself, and staggers on. I thought of the men in the room who are sick with self-loathing, who have been intoxicated with it, but who at least once have felt their chins lifted by a strong hand, looked into the eyes of the Son of Man, and believed they were loved. He is risen, do you hear? I read of the Ragman curling up on a trash heap, crippled, sick, weeping, and alone, and I prayed the children in our company saw that picture in their minds. I prayed it would trouble them. But he is risen, young ones. Listen. Then the dead Ragman, on Sunday morning, comes to life again. He shines with a violent light, and when the narrator of the story pleads to the risen Lord, “Dress me,” I believed the Gospel and the Resurrection and the Return of Christ, and it was as if I were just waking up and the sun had just cracked the horizon. He is risen indeed. I looked around the room and marveled that all these years later the Resurrection story is still told. It is told by Russ Ramsey as he preaches in Kansas. It is told by Walt Wangerin Jr. through the words of his story, it is told by Jill Phillips and Andy Gullahorn on our tour as they sing again and again, “Christ has died, Christ is risen, Christ will come again,” and when Ben Shive sings, “The chains of death will fall around your feet, and you will rise up in the end.”  It is told by the new leaves of the hackberry tree on the front lawn, by the repeated alleluias of that grand old Easter hymn, by Aslan’s roar and the breaking of the stone table–and it is told most sweetly in the pages of Scripture, where we encounter this ancient, astounding, mysterious story. How could it be that this outlandish tale could reach so far if it were not true? How is it that rational men and women the world over gathered today to celebrate this happening? How is it that I find myself in the company of others who have put all their hope in the fact of the Resurrection–a story thousands of years old, and yet, we break bread and raise our glasses in victory and declare to each other and to all who will listen, “He is risen! He is risen indeed!” Join the ranks of the fools of the world who believe the stories are true. Let the people rejoice. Let the heavens resound. Let the name of Jesus, who sought us and freed us, forever ring out. I may not feel so sure tomorrow, so let me remember that today–today–I believed. Oh, I truly believed, and I could not have believed it more if the heavens peeled back and the High King galloped through. May I remember tomorrow, when I doubt again, that today I believed. “But these are written that you may believe that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of God, and that by believing you may have life in his name.” John 20:31

Note: This selection is from chapter 10 of The Indwelling Life of Christ, one of my favorite books. Thomas’s easygoing, simple, yet clever style gets the surgical point of the knife deep into the heart. You may have harnessed the energy of the flesh in an otherwise quite genuine desire to honor the Lord Jesus in your life. The flesh, which has its origin in Satan, will go along with you; to survive, it is quite prepared to engage in every form of Christian activity, even though this may seem to honor Christ. The flesh will sing in the choir, teach Sunday school, preside at a deacons’ meeting, preach from the pulpit, organize an evangelistic crusade, go to Bible college, volunteer for the mission field, and a thousand other things, all of which may in themselves be otherwise legitimate, if only it can keep its neck out of the noose. The flesh will threaten, shout, strut, domineer, sulk, plot, creep, beg, pleased, or sob, whatever the situation may demand in the interests of its own survival. By any and all means it will seek to cause every Christian to live by his own strength instead of by the power and grace of the Lord Jesus, and to conclude that doing so is actually a good thing! The characteristic of the spiritually immature is that they are unable to discern between good and evil (Hebrews 5:13-14), and the baby Christian, like the foolish Galatians, “having begun in the Spirit” still tries to be “made perfect by the flesh” (Galatians 3:3). We must be particularly patient with those whose lack of understanding allows a genuine love for the Lord Jesus to be satisfied with, and sometimes to be quite enthusiastic about, Christian activities involving means and methods which are heavily contaminated by the flesh. These are more deserving of instruction than rebuke, for they are still in their spiritual babyhood. True spiritual conviction is an activity of the Holy Spirit within the human spirit, and when the Holy Spirit begins to convict you of your immaturity, bearing witness to your conscience that the Lord Jesus Christ is being denied His rightful place in your life, the old Adam-nature within you becomes irritable and edgy. At the same time it will seek to produce the most plausible arguments in justification of its own illegitimate activities, even though these activities are only what the Bible calls “dead works” (Hebrews 6:1; 9:14) and not the “good works” which are truly the work of God. “Good works” are those that have their origin in Jesus Christ, as Christ’s activity is released through your body because you present it to Him as a living sacrifice. You do this only by faith that expresses total dependence, as opposed to Adamic independence. God does not honor men and women and their deeds or their books or their organizations. The Father in heaven delights to honor His Son.  It is only the Life of the Lord Jesus – His activity, clothed with you and displayed through you – that ultimately will find the approval of God.

Growing up in a strict Fundamentalist world, there were many things I was convinced of in my childhood: That God existed. That I – my church – knew exactly what God was like and what he wanted. That rock music (meaning music with drums of any kind) was evil and from the devil. That it was wrong for women to cut their hair or wear jeans or teach in church. That all Catholics were going to hell. And for that matter, so too probably were Presbyterians, Methodists, those liberal Southern Baptists, and any other group that didn’t look, sound, witness, and smell exactly like us. That it was wrong for guys to wear shorts. That a sure sign of being backslidden was drinking, smoking, going to movies, or having any friends who do. That any reading of the Scriptures that didn’t start from a strict dispensational viewpoint was probably heresy. And the list could go on for pages. It is sometimes difficult for me to reconcile the surety with which I held those beliefs with the convictions I have today. But I can trace the beginnings of the theological path I’m on now to two events that took place concurrently. The first was hearing a self-proclaimed “prophecy expert” speak during the Sunday evening service at the church I was in at the time. After giving his highly subjective viewpoint of what a passage of scripture meant – a viewpoint that had only been around for a hundred and fifty years, in point of fact – he said, “And if you don’t agree with everything I’ve said, it’s because you haven’t studied your Bible as much as I have.” At around the same time, I was reading a book on Revelation, Unveiled Hope, written by Michael Card and his friend and pastor, Scotty Smith. In the introduction, Scotty started out by explaining the four or five primary interpretations of the book of Revelations. He then said something like, “While I will, in the end, tell you what I think is the best way to interpret this book, the important thing to remember, before you start reading, is that Godly men throughout the ages – men who have followed the Lord with all their hearts, who have believed the Scriptures and sought to understand them – have come down on different sides of this issue.” Two fundamentally different starting points. One characterized by pride and arrogance, and one by grace and an awareness of one’s own fallibility. The best articulation I’ve heard of the place I find myself now comes from N.T. Wright and a recent discussion he had with Anne Rice, author of Christ the Lord: Out of Egypt and Called Out of Darkness (reviewed here in the RR by Pete). It is a fascinating discussion on several levels, one well worth the time it takes to listen to, but what I found most helpful was Wright’s statement about humility. “The one thing I want to add to that is humility. And humility includes intellectual humility. And it’s difficult, because within our rationalistic western world, people assume that if you say that, you’re a relativist. I’m certainly not a relativist. Jesus is the Lord, and I worship Him, and He is the center of my life. And that’s non-negotiable, actually. I know I could no more step outside that than I could step outside my own skin. But precisely because it is Jesus who is the Lord, it behooves me to say, as I used to say to my students when I was teaching in the university, “Listen, a third of what I’m telling you is badly flawed in some way. But I don’t know which one third it is.” So you need to live with those questions and puzzles.” I hear in Wright’s words both permission to live with questions, to not think I have to figure out the “correct” answer to every theological question and make sure everyone falls in line behind me, and also a caution to extend grace to those who believe like I used to or who believe differently than I do now. Not an easy mindset to operate out of, to be sure, but one that is absolutely vital for the health of a community that seeks to demonstrate forgiveness and grace, a community that is, as one Teacher said, “known by their fruits.” Here’s a link to the discussion between Rice and Wright.

(Note: This is from The Indwelling Life of Christ: All of Him in All of Me) So long as Christians are busy doing for God what is best in their own eyes, they will never enter into His rest and the true inheritance that is theirs to enjoy now. They will only be sweating it out, and end up weary, discouraged, depressed. They will likely become deeply cynical. They will finally want to quit, and quit they must. They must quit depending on self-effort, and instead recognize the Truth: ‘I cannot – God never said I could; but God can, and always said He would.’ True repentance says, ‘I cannot,’ and true faith adds, ‘But God, You can!’ Then you can reign in life as you let God be God, and you allow Him to show you that He is big enough for the job. Reflect again on this truth: Righteousness is doing right in God’s eyes, and God alone is the author of righteousness. For any activity of yours or mine to produce righteousness, God Himself must be the source of it. Are you allowing Him to do this in your life?

Residing in newborn-baby land for the past month, shy of any alertness or creativity, I am indeed still alive, though my communication has been equivalent to nil. This winter/spring calendar has hands-down been the bleakest I have ever known as far as getting and securing work/shows/income. In some ways for us, it’s not much different than any other month of any other year. We live in a recession each and every month, never really knowing where the next paycheck is going to come from. But church budgets are way down, and since that is where I play the vast majority of my shows, we have noticed a definite slowdown in our little cottage economy. Sweating bullets. But the flipside to all this is that I’ve been home a LOT to help (as much as a male possibly can) my wife in the transition from one to two kids. As a breadwinning male, I have found myself in the middle of a workweek playing with Ellis in the backyard sandbox or fixing peanut butter sandwiches fighting not only the noonday demon of acedia, but the very distinct and cruel head voice saying to me, “So here you are, you lazy sack. You can’t even provide for your family, you worthless loser of a phony artist.” Such are my days of late. Low self-esteem is a plague riddled with guilt. Ben [Shive] has been wrapping up a couple of other projects before we make the final push to finish my ghost of an album. I’ve officially titled the project Chrome, which I will explain in a later post. The release date, obviously, won’t be anytime in March, and April is looking mighty doubtful. I’m still hopeful for a May release, but this train is, and has been, a slow one, so by now I should know better than to make any promises when it comes to these sort of things. What I can give you is a sneak peek at the album cover (or something close):

Since I’ve been paralyzed by a mild case of writer’s block lately, I’m going to rehash–with an edit or two–something I wrote five years ago around this time of year. No doubt, many of you will identify with my experience of having been slain by The Grace Gun: On Easter morning, for the second year in a row, I loaded up Love & Thunder in my car CD player. The ride to mom’s house was almost 40 minutes, just enough time to listen to the entire CD, a most appropriate choice for Easter Sunday.  The thing is, I didn’t make it to the end of the CD. I got stuck on “High Noon.” I should have known; it’s happened plenty of times before. I became so awed by one song, I couldn’t advance to the other songs. Don’t get me wrong; I’ve always thought “High Noon” was a great song, but like certain segments of other Andrew Peterson songs, the depth of truth of certain lines didn’t smack me hard until later. In this case, it happened on one glorious Sunday morning. I nearly drove off of the road when these lyrics came thundering through my car speakers on Easter Sunday, poignantly, as I crossed the river bridge, sun dancing off the water at–you guessed it–“High Noon”: Let the people rejoice, Let the heavens resound, Let the name of Jesus who sought us and freed us forever ring out. All praise to the fighter of the night who rides on the light Whose gun is the grace of the God of the sky. What amazing imagery. The creativity of using this classic film and the parallels it provides were genius. My friend Rebekah Mitchell found a mini-review of the movie, High Noon, from which this song was inspired: This taut, tightly-scripted, minimalist film tells the tale of a solitary, stoic, honor-bound marshal/hero, past his prime and already retired, who was left desolate and abandoned by the Hadleyville townspeople he had faithfully protected for many years. Due to the townspeople’s cowardice, physical inability, self-interest and indecisiveness, he is refused help at every turn against a revenge-seeking killer and his gang. Fearful but duty-bound, he eventually vanquishes the enemy, thereby sparing the civilized (democratic) town the encroachment of barbaristic frontier justice brought by the deadly four-man group of outlaws. There’s Jill Phillips echoing each line with her pure, angelic voice. Then it’s Andrew singing these truths, each one building on the one before, like a crystal pyramid reflecting the light of truth with rainbow beauty: All praise to the fighter of the night. And though I’m not a Pentecostal dude, with each successive line, I’m starting to be concerned about my driving because I begin to feel like I’m–what does Benny Hinn call it–being slain in the spirit? The phraseology of the lyric is potent and powerful, like a jigsaw puzzle, each line providing another piece of the big picture.  Finally, Mr. Peterson punctuates the narrative like this: Whose gun is the grace of the God of the sky. Dig out Love & Thunder RIGHT NOW. If you don’t own it yet, let my words be a gentle nudge in the direction of making the purchase. Just see if you can contain your joy. No matter how horrible your day may have been, let the hope that shines out from this song wash over your pain (or if you are already joyful, let it magnify your joy) and realize that as believers–we have it made! Or more precisely, it has been made for us! Andrew Peterson is an amazing talent, it’s true. God has anointed our friend with communication skills beyond which most of us may aspire. Still, we are all share infinite reserves of possibility, because as believers we can reflect the very essence of Jesus.  He is in us, and we are in him. His creativity, His truth, his character, his Life come pouring forth from a well that will never run dry. What an honor. I see Jesus shining in the music of Andrew Peterson, but I also see Him in you, and sometimes, in myself. It’s concurrently joyful and humbling. And as Rich Mullins wrote many years ago: And I will be my brother’s keeper Not the one who judges him I won’t despise him for his weakness I won’t regard him for his strength I won’t take away his freedom I will help him learn to stand And I will, I will be my brother’s keeper We can’t take credit for the transcendental work that He performs in us.  So, when I say I’m amazed and awed by any of you, including Andrew Peterson, what I mean to say is, All praise to the fighter of the night who rides on the light Whose gun is the grace of the God of the sky… All hail the power of Jesus’ Name! Let angels prostrate fall. Bring forth the royal diadem and crown Him Lord of all. Happy Easter my Rabbit Room brothers and sisters.https://rabbitroom.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/04/HighNoon.mp3

I haven’t written an update to this series of posts in far too long.  For those that don’t remember, which is probably everyone, the posts (part I, part II, and part III) were about the process of publishing a novel I’ve been working on for the last six or seven years. I did eventually find an agent to represent the work and for the past year we’ve submitted it to a number of major publishers and editors.  In the end though, despite a lot of good feedback and encouraging words, none of them were willing to take the project on. The publishing industry is going through a great deal of upheaval right now.  The economy is forcing publishers to take fewer risks and readers are buying fewer titles.  The consequence is that, as an unpublished novelist, it’s an incredibly difficult climate in which to find a publisher.  So although I haven’t wavered in my belief or passion for the book, after a lot of discussion, prayer, and soul-searching, I am changing my tactics. For years I’ve wanted to find a way to function as an independent author much in the same way that an independent musician does.  The trouble is that while a musician can record his album and tour it to generate sales, the musician’s concert has no direct analog in the world of fiction.  No one pays to come see an author read his book (unless that author is Dan Brown or Stephanie Meyer) and there are few ways to get the word out and build readership for an independently published book without the benefit of the resources, distribution, and marketing that a publisher provides. So what’s the answer to that dilemma?  I’m still not sure but I’ve decided to give it a shot and see where it takes me.  Next month I’ll be placing the manuscript into the competent hands of my friend and editor, Kate Etue, for a full copy-edit.  From there I’ll be in the murky waters of the self-publishing world. It’s important to me that the book in its final form be just as professional as anything on the top shelf at the bookstore.  I’d rather the book never see the light of day than have it released in the sad state that all too many self-published authors settle for.  That means that cover-design, paper-stock, binding, typesetting, and many other details need to be attended to carefully and professionally.  I think I’m up to it. Through it all, the hard part will be trying to find a way to make it happen without losing my life savings.  I don’t want to end up living in a van down by the river and God knows it’s happened to better men than I. I’m also interested in taking the coming digital revolution of the publishing industry by the horns and finding ways to make it work for me.  What does that mean exactly?  That’s another one I can’t answer right now.  Maybe it means free chapters online, maybe it means digital downloads, maybe it means getting it published in Kindle format, maybe it means an iPhone app, maybe it means using special interweb powers to deliver it directly into the brains of millions of people all at once.  I’m open to all those possibilities. So while I’m approaching this coming process with a lot of fear and trepidation, I’m also encouraged to be pulling the trigger on something I’ve spent so much time on.  It’s liberating to see it finally on a trajectory that will put it into the hands of readers.

Way back in those salad days of 2007, I was working on the Midtown Project Vol.1 with my manager, Winn Elliott, over at Paul Eckberg’s kickin’ home studio, “The Metropolitan Museum of Modern Paul.” We were taking a break, enjoying some hard-earned Jersey Mike’s and we stumbled into a conversation about the quicksilvery business of music. Specifically, about how artists and musicians would continue to make a living in this brave new world of digital downloads, labels with shallow pockets and a home studio on every corner. Winn had moored his mind on the subject after having met with the Square Peg Alliance – a group of Nashville-based musicians like me & AP who actively support each other’s music. The biggest question was, could these uncharted times actually provide new opportunity for musicians like these to record and distribute new material and still make a living from their craft? And if so, what would that look like? Oh, how I wish I could say that we came up with the bones of Brite Revolution that night. Alas, it was only a few months later that Winn really did figure out a way to possibly change the music business and answer the questions we postulated that cool Fall evening… and the Brite Revolution had begun. Brite is easy to describe, which usually separates the wheat ideas from the chaff ideas. Subscribers pay $4.99/month, and they get access to full ownership of Brite’s entire catalogue. The catalogue goes through a staggered monthly rotation, with each artist releasing one new song every month. Each song is brand new, and exclusively available for two months, and then it is gone. It goes back to the artist to use as they will. From that $4.99, portions go to Brite and to the artists, a portion goes to the artist’s choice of charity, and a portion goes to the subscriber’s choice of charity. So, in one clean electronic transfer, an artist’s music has been enabled, charities have been supported, and a customer gains access to handfuls of quality music. You can go there yourself and check out the roster. It’s killer music on there, and I feel fortunate to be a part of it. If you want to browse around and kick the tires, the first month is free, and you can cancel any time. (I now officially feel like I’m writing ad copy). At any rate, you should just go check it out because the site looks so cool. In all seriousness it is a bold new idea, and the Rabbit Room seems like the perfect place for a conversation about it. Its one click away at www.briterevolution.com.

Read The Moral Imagination, Part 1, as well as S.D. Smith’s excellent reflections on the same theme. There’s a more in-depth discussion of Moral Imagination on the way, but in the meantime, a quote and a question.  First, the quote, from Russell Kirk, back in 1981: In the franchise bookshops of the year of our Lord one thousand nine hundred eighty-one, the shelves are crowded with the prickly pears and the Dead Sea fruit of literary decadence. Yet no civilization rests forever content with literary boredom and literary violence. Once again, a conscience may speak to a conscience in the pages of books, and the parched rising generation may grope their way toward the springs of moral imagination. I don’t want to pretend that there was some Moral Golden Age of the past – say, the 1950s – and that if only we could return to the good ol’ days, like it “used to be,” we’d be OK.  I don’t believe that.  There are things that we did in the 50s that it’s a really good thing we’re not still doing now. But I think it’s fair to agree with Kirk that as far as literature goes, we’re not exactly a culture captivated by a Moral Imagination – one that reads books for the purpose of transformation, of becoming better people: What then is the end, object, or purpose of humane letters? Why, the expression of the moral imagination; or, to put this truth in a more familiar phrase, the end of great books is ethical—to teach us what it means to be genuinely human. Most often, we hear books judged on their “escape value” – whether or not they’re page-turners that allow us to escape from the “real world.”  This is the wrong kind of escape we should be seeking from literature. The question, then, is this: If Kirk is right that even in ages of “literary boredom and literary violence,” a generation might “grope” back toward a “moral imagination,” where, if at all, do you see that today?  What books have you read that were recently written (within the last 10-20 years) that you would point someone to and say, “Here. This teaches you how to be genuinely human.  This book is possessed of a moral imagination”? #MoralImagination #RussellKirk

With the economy tanking, literacy flagging, scalps balding, and my Mountaineers viciously knocked out of the NCAA’s, what else is there to do but cantankerously write something that goes fundamentally counter to the tide of popular culture? Seriously, what else is there to do? Nope, all those ideas are dumb. The only thing to do in such situations is to look for some catharsis in contravention of contemporary convention. Therefore, here I fix my pen to this parchment and make my case: Top Five Reasons Never to do a Top Five List. 1. It’s overdone. I mean, how many top five lists were done on Facebook alone yesterday? (I’m looking at you, Mister Doctor Travis Prinzi, author of Top Five Things I Like About Harry Potter.) Some people are revealing so much about themselves in these things that they may get their identity stolen. And without your identity, who will you become? Unidentifiable? People won’t be able to identify with you. Come on, do something original like starting up a chain e-mail with threats of serious harm if it is not forwarded to ten people and promises of amazing results if it is. Add some pictures of (an unbiblical, wimpy) “Jesus” crying over some tragedy like he is so sorry this happened there was nothing he could do…and some puppies. 2. Like there’s ever exactly five reasons to do anything, or list anything? It’s so imprecise. I usually have my favorites in increments of 11, in keeping with a football team’s legitimate quota of bodies on the field. If I list any more than eleven I immediately flag myself for illegal participation. 3. I don’t know beans about anything, so why should anybody care about my “Top Five Huggable Moments in Care Bear lore,” or my “Top Five Five-foot-five NBA players?” And incidentally, do you know where the expression “He doesn’t know beans about…” came from? It hearkens way back to the time when you were deemed educated if you could count to five using beans. If you couldn’t do it, you didn’t “know beans.” If you could then you were able to do business in an agrarian market. Boy, I’m sure glad we don’t have a rural, agrarian market-base now. Man, this urbanization of people, centralization of power, industrialization of markets, and homogenization of culture is really working out great! 4. It’s unfair to the overwhelming majority of us so-called creative types who are so depressed half the time we strongly prefer to do “Bottom Five” Lists. It’s just prejudicial. Against weirdos. And we Weirdos are considering forming a special interest group and hiring a lobbyist and asking for bailout money and for free merit badges and free mortgages and free range chickens. Weirdos of the world unite, we have nothing to lose but what’s left of our sanity. 5. It gives people the illusion that a bunch of people care what their top 5 of anything is. Sometimes it truly is interesting. I actually would like to know what “Ron Block’s Top Five Favorite Books He Read Yesterday” are, but that’s the exception. If a guy is willing to read one hundred books a day and still have time to play music like that, then I’m interested. But does anybody care what my top five reasons to eat Famous Amos cookies are? Does anyone want to know anything about me? Once you get past the Essential Questions (1. What’s your favorite color? 2. What do you want to be when you grow up?) what else is left to know? Is my insistence on promoting my own top five list an unwanted advance, an arrogant presumption? I mean, who would promote themselves so shamelessly? This concludes my top five-reasons never to do a top-five list. Can you think of more? Or would you like to brazenly reject my thesis and place in the comments section your very own top-five list of…well, anything?  Or we can skip that and go straight to the good stuff: What’s your favorite color and what do you want to be when you grow up? Now forward this post to ten friends and watch the blessings pour in. But let me warn you, if you do not forward this post to ten friends and likewise warn them to do the same, then I will hack into your e-mail account and do it myself. While I’m there, I will probably steal your identity.