What are you looking for?

Sorry I’ve been AWOL here in the Rabbit Room for awhile – When I haven’t been hunkered down writing for a new record, I’ve been cloistered away from the world to spend time with my family.  But what is it that could call me out of my hiding?  A new Jill Phillips record. So you can imagine my delight when Andy & Jill gave me a copy of Jill’s new record, The Good Things, two and a half months before it’s release date.  I was like a kid in a candy shop, as the equivalent of salivary glands in my ears began to tingle. So I guess you could say that when Andy handed me the disc, my ears began to water in anticipation of the delectable sounds they would soon be treated to (please accept my apologies for that ridiculous word picture). At any rate, The Good Things has been in regular rotation ever since. I was a fan of Jill’s for years and her album Writing On The Wall is one of my favorite records of all time.  Nobody’s Got it All Together didn’t disappoint either, but as I started to anticipate the next record, I secretly hoped to hear Jill break some new ground musically and lyrically, which is what I think she’s done on The Good Things.  This is unmistakably a Jill Phillips record, but there is a sense of adventure, of something being risked.  It’s not the kind of showy, in-your-face bombastic experimentation, but rather the risks she takes here are more subtle, nuanced, and intimate as she reaches for new levels of self-disclosure. The Good Things is an adventure of the heart, and the new production value supports this.  It’s still very organic and acoustic like her past efforts, but producer Cason Cooley (Derek Webb) brings his signature vibe that adds a depth and ambiance to these tracks.  Cooley is a fan of Daniel Lanois (Producer for U2, Peter Gabriel, Bob Dylan, etc.) and even worked under Lanois’s right hand man Malcolm Burns when Burns produced a record for Cooley’s former band The Normals.  I think he brings a similar production sensibility to Jill’s record here and the songs benefit from Cooley’s musicality – especially the opener “Your Usual Response” – drenched with the kind of ethereal vibe that feels like a warm sonic bath. As a side note, and this is subjective so it may not be the case at all, but for me, I felt a lot of these tracks were defined by the drum tone and the personality of the snare.  I geek out over sounds and I love the way the drums sound on this record – they feel organic, fat, and vibey and as soon as they would come in they cued me about what this song would be about musically.  But I obsess over these kinds of things, so I’ll step out of geek mode now and get back to the heart of the matter. Because really, the heart is the matter for this record.  There’s a lot I could say about each song, but I’ll focus on three that to my mind represent what I love most about this record.  Many of these songs are deeply personal and explore the tension between remaining open hearted versus shutting your heart down to protect yourself from shame (“Your Usual Response”), relational hurt (“Any Other Way”), or the biggest heart killer of all – disappointment with God (“Resurrection”). “Your Usual Response” opens the record and was my immediate favorite.  Cooley’s production takes a great song and makes it even better.  This is the vibiest track on the record, and I hope that it signals more to come in future Jill Phillips installments. “Resurrection” is a declaration of faith at it’s most convincing because it is a quiet, humble hope without bravado.  It is hope that looks at the worst that we see – different facets of the senselessness of death and suffering explored in each verse – and still proclaims: “I believe Though it’s hard sometimes You are the Resurrection and the Life.” But the gem of the record for me is possibly the most personal.  “Any Other Way” explores a difficult time in their marriage and the blessing that came in seeing it through.  I can imagine this song being a great encouragement to other couples in the throws of relational hardship.  The lyric is honest, direct, and blessedly devoid of  poetic self-indulgence.  We know that both Andy and Jill are exceptionally competent writers (lyrical ninjas as I like to call them), but the lyric that exemplified what I respect most about their songcraft comes from the bridge: “When we first met, love was a feeling Making it last, that’s a decision A good decision”http://bashful-building.flywheelsites.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/01/AnyOtherWay.mp3 I imagine as a writer myself that there is a part of me that would resist writing a line like this because it’s a sentiment that many of us may have heard before.  I would be tempted to write something more clever or “songwriterly”.  But of course it’s exactly what needs to be said, and so Andy & Jill are brave enough to say it.  They demonstrate here that they are less interested in impressing me with the clever lyricism they are clearly capable of than they are with telling me the truth and helping me.  To love your listener enough to speak plainly is a great virtue that is sometime overlooked in songcraft.  Sometimes you just need to say the thing, and knowing when that is is one of the marks of a great writer. The rest of the song is brilliant and very intimate, as it expresses in detail what this season of life felt like for them – talk of moving away to a different city, the feeling of having the rug pulled out from under your feet, the courage of taking the first steps back to trust, and the gratitude that comes in the end when all is said and done and you’ve found the grace to do the hard work of marriage and come out better for it on the other side. But it’s not just the lyric that reveals an eagerness to risk a deeper sense of intimacy and self-disclosure, it is Jill’s voice, too.  Any one who’s heard her sing knows she could sing the phone book and it would make you cry, but there’s something different this time around that I can only describe as a profound sense of vulnerability. Some of these songs come to us like a whisper of Grace, and whispers always make you lean in, quietly, to listen more intently.  It’s like a relaxed conversation with a trusted friend, a conversation that leaves you feeling more human, alive, and more in touch with the holiness that ties all the good things in our lives together and gives them meaning and a sense that God has taken note of us, we are not alone, He knows our name and is intimately involved in all the details that make up the story of our lives.

Last week was J.R.R. Tolkien’s 117th birthday.  I give you some excerpts from his excellent work, “On Fairy-Stories,” on art, fairy tales, eucatastrophe, and the Gospel: In its fairy-tale or other world setting, [eucatastrophe] is a sudden and miraculous grace: never to be counted on to recur. It does not deny the existence of dyscatastrophe, of sorrow and failure: the possibility of these is necessary to the joy of deliverance; it denies (in the face of much evidence, if you will) universal final defeat and in so far is evangelium, giving a glimpse of Joy, Joy beyond the walls of the world, poignant as grief. Children are capable, of course, of literary belief, when the story-maker’s art is good enough to produce it. That state of mind has been called “willing suspension of disbelief.” But this does not seem to me a good description of what happens. 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. Man is not wholly lost nor wholly changed. Disgraced he may be, yet is not dethroned, and keeps the rags of lordship once he owned: Man, Subcreator, the refracted Light through whom is splintered from a single White to many hues, and endlessly combined in living shapes that move from mind to mind. Though all the crannies of the world we filled with Elves and Goblins, though we dared to build Gods and their houses out of dark and light, and sowed the seed of dragons – ’twas our right (used or misused). That right has not decayed: we make still by the law in which we’re made. Fantasy is a natural human activity. But the “consolation” of fairy-tales has another aspect than the imaginative satisfaction of ancient desires. Far more important is the Consolation of the Happy Ending. Almost I would venture to assert that all complete fairy-stories must have it. At least I would say that Tragedy is the true form of Drama, its highest function; but the opposite is true of Fairy-story. Since we do not appear to possess a word that expresses this opposite-I will call it Eucatastrophe. The Eucatastrophic tale is the true form of fairy-tale, and its highest function. The consolation of fairy-stories, the joy of the happy ending: or more correctly of the good catastrophe, the sudden joyous “turn” (for there is no true end to any fairy-tale). I would venture to say that approaching the Christian Story from this direction, it has long been my feeling (a joyous feeling) that God redeemed the corrupt making-creatures, men, in a way fitting to this aspect, as to others, of their strange nature. The Gospels contain a fairy-story, or a story of a larger kind which embraces all the essence of fairy-stories. They contain many marvels-peculiarly artistic, beautiful, and moving: “mythical” in their perfect, self-contained significance; and among the marvels is the greatest and most complete conceivable eucatastrophe. But this story has entered History and the primary world; the desire and aspiration of sub-creation has been raised to the fulfillment of Creation. The Birth of Christ is the eucatastrophe of Man’s history. The Resurrection is the eucatastrophe of the story of the Incarnation. This story begins and ends in joy. It has preeminently the “inner consistency of reality.” There is no tale ever told that men would rather find was true, and none which so many sceptical men have accepted as true on its own merits. For the Art of it has the supremely convincing tone of Primary Art, that is, of Creation. To reject it leads either to sadness or to wrath.

While browsing at a used bookstore earlier this week with a friend, I came across a book by H. Richard Niebuhr, The Meaning of Revelation. I read his brother’s first book a couple months ago, Reinhold Niebuhr’s Leaves from the Notebook of a Tamed Cynic, and absolutely loved it, so I figured this would be worth reading, not to mention that it is on a topic which holds a lot of interest for me at the moment. Before heading over to a friends’ house to watch (read: wrestle with) their kids while they went to a New Year’s Eve party, I read the preface to The Meaning of Revelation. The paragraph outlining the convictions underlying the study begged to be read several times. Seems like these are good convictions to affirm as we stand at the threshold of another year. Among the convictions which in part appear explicitly in this study and in part underlie the argument even where they do not become explicit, three seem to be of fundamental importance, though I may presuppose others of which I am less aware. kansas Fake IDs. The first is the conviction that self-defense is the most prevalent source of error in all thinking and perhaps especially in theology and ethics. I cannot hope to have avoided this error in my effort to state Christian ideas in confessional terms only, but I have at least tried to guard against it. The second idea is that the great source of evil in life is the absolutizing of the relative, which in Christianity takes the form of substituting religion, revelation, church or Christian morality for God. The third conviction, which becomes most explicit in the latter part of this essay but underlies the former part, is that Christianity is “permanent revolution” or metanoia which does not come to an end in this world, this life, or this time. Positively stated these three convictions are that man is justified by grace, that God is sovereign, and that there is an eternal life.

What better song could usher us into the new year than Ben Shive’s “New Year”, from The Ill-Tempered Klavier? New Year This year I’m gonna love you better than last year I’m through repeating the past crimes Learned my lesson the last time And you say You need more than a new day I know I never had a true heart But love is gonna give us a new start It’s a new year, a new day It’s a new scene in an old play And I finally decided Love is alive in the choice you make To give it away In a new year, a new dawn It’s a new line in an old song And I finally believe it Love is the reason the past is gone And the world turns on Sometime You gotta make up your mind If all you really want is more love You gotta give her your love So you say a prayer and catch your breath (Dear God, won’t you help her to see) And you’re so alive and so scared to death (That I’m not the man I used to be) And you say what you mean, not what you meant to (Believe me, baby, please) She just smiles like, “what has got into you?” It’s a new year, a new day It’s a new scene in an old play And I finally decided Love is alive in the choice you make To give it away In a new year, a new dawn It’s a new line in an old song And I finally believe it Love is the reason the past is gone And the world turns on It’s gonna happen sometime You’re gonna make up your mind If all you want is more love You gotta give her your love So you’re saying your prayers And you’re so scared But I believe that the past is gone And that’s the reason the world turns on

Luke 4:7 jumped into my mind today. Not the words themselves, but just the chapter and verse number. My mind was beginning to center in the wrong direction. Someone I know thought they could read my mind, and spoke their own erroneous thought to someone else. When I heard, I was taken by surprise. What they said was wrong and unjust. But I forgave, and trusted Christ in me to live through me, and He did. But this morning – the soul-storm began to spin, slowly at first. The mind started mulling it over again, that forgiven thing. Suddenly, this: Luke 4:7. When I looked it up it turned out to be Satan offering Jesus the kingdoms of this world. “It’s all Yours if only You will fall down and worship me.” That’s what we’re doing when we fixate on something other than God, when we fear that thing, that person, that circumstance. A soul-hurricane begins to spin around that false center. Fall down and worship me. I can give you power. The skies turn dark; high winds start whipping up the spin factor. I’ve been there many times, too many, and I’m finally learning the lesson: Stop it before it starts. Boot out the lie, drop the flesh weapons, and stand. Stand in who I am. Stand in that new creation reality of Christ living in me, through me, as me. Stand in the Spirit by faith. For I am dead, and my life is now hidden with Christ in God. I am a new creation. Christ lives in me.Otherwise I get caught up in the soul-winds and the flying debris within myself, begin judging others in that unclarity of mind, and soon, POW, I’m living and acting from the flesh, judging from appearances, and acting out from the devil’s way of thinking. Been there, done that. To lose our power all we need to do is hand it over to another person, a situation or circumstance, or to our emotions. We put that lie in the center of “I.” To keep our power, we’ve got to recognize Christ as our real center – not the lie, that circumstance or person. We recognize that we have no power of our own, that all power in us comes from Christ, and His power in us is unassailable. Immovable. Unshakable. Eternal, and utterly, completely real. More real than storms. More real than other people’s flesh trips. More real than our own flesh trips. Christ in me, through me, as me. When we stand there by faith, that’s worship. “You are Lord. You are strong. You are love Himself.” And we can connect ourselves to that power: “You are Lord in me. You are strong in me. I am love because You are love in me.” We can love and forgive the other person, because Jesus Christ is forgiveness Himself. We move back to Center and stand until the storm has passed, and – no sin happens, because “Every one who is remaining in him does not sin” (1John 3:6, YLT). We trust. He lives. We give away our power to shadows and idols, and it comes back at us full force because the only power anything has over us is the power we have given to it. We worship at the wrong altar when we ascribe power to anything or anyone other than God. I’m thankful there is such a hiding place for us, such a strong tower and source of real strength, and I’m thankful to God for the temptations He allows in my life that push me to recognize and utilize that holy Place.

I have to begin this review of Twilight with a disclaimer. I have only read the first book in the series. That’s important and counts as an initial strike against my review, because I happen to agree with James W. Thomas, lit scholar at Pepperdine and author of the forthcoming book Repotting Harry Potter that there are far too many people who have written off J.K. Rowling without reading all 4100 pages of J.K. Rowling. I’d hate to be one of those people who are missing the greatness of one particular series of books because I haven’t experienced them in full. Still, two things lead me to proceed with this review. One, if the literature is great, it can be shown to be great – or at least have a few inklings of future greatness – in the first portion of the series. Two, if the series is any good, the first book should at the very least keep me reading, wondering what will become of these characters. Even “page-turners” and “penny dreadfuls,” after all, make you want to get to the next page. And in the case of Twilight, current editions have page one of the second book readily available for the reader after the epilogue. But I closed the book, not caring one bit about the sneak-peek into New Moon. I might also add that, in stark contrast to Harry Potter, Twilight has not inspired volumes of academic analysis and college courses exploring its literary merits. There are many who enjoyed Twilight, and I do not want to disparage their experiences. Everyone loves an exciting story, and I have no gripe against occasional mindless fun. While I found this book neither fun nor exciting, your mileage may vary. But when considering Twilight’s artistic merits, it fails miserably. By the time I was halfway through this book, it seemed to me that the wisest course of action would have been to put down the book and begin actually looking for Bella. It would have saved my boredom, and perhaps her life. In a few hundred pages, her heart sped up and stopped so many times, it’s cause for serious concern. I work in cardiology in my real life, and I think she needs to come into our lab and get a defibrillator implanted. Therein lies one of the many artistic problems with Twilight. The same default words, expressions, and phrases are over and over, and if ever the cliche, “beating a dead horse” were poignant, this is it. Bella’s clumsy and gets faint around Edward, who is perfect. And dangerous. And if you forget either of those things, never fear: these two characters will remind you on every page of the book. So, no – I was not “dazzled” by Edward’s “perfect/glorious/godlike/angel face” and his “dark/golden/ocher eyes,” nor did my heart go into weird rhythms and stop when meeting any of the female vampires. Andrew Osenga’s review got this right. Remove this incessant, uncreative motif, and you lose the majority of the book. Meyer cannot pass up an opportunity to glory in the beauty of Edward, and it gets nauseating as Bella nearly faints – and momentarily faints once! – and goes into frequent bouts of tachycardia. Very little happens for 400 pages, until we get a jet-tour through an utterly predictable ending which I’m guessing most readers saw coming. Not only the plot, but any poignant theme in this book is not just blurry, but non-existent. In great literature, one finds great themes: self-sacrificial love, mercy, forgiveness, good vs. evil, etc. But in Twilight, a bunch of stuff happens, and that’s about it. We are taken through the melodramatic thoughts of a 16-year old girl who intends to give up her entire life for an infatuation with a creepy, 100 year old vampire who is obsessed with Bella for no other reason than that she smells yummy. There is zero depth to any these characters. On top of the fact that vampires – vampires – bored me to tears, none of the book’s characters has a unique voice. There is no change in speaking style from one character to the next. To make this even more painful, it’s written in first person of Bella – which means the entire story is a “voice,” and everyone talks exactly like Bella thinks. You’d think that with characters well over 300 years old, there’d be a few interesting voices, that something in the way they speak would indicate that there’s something more to the character. Alas, we find no such thing. And there’s no subtlety in the character development. We don’t come to know characters by their unique actions or their singular voices, but by the same tired descriptions. I do not care about the characters of Twilight. When I first met Raskolnikov (Crime and Punishment), I was immediately compelled by his tortured psyche. When I first met Charles Wallace (A Wrinkle in Time), I knew I wanted to learn everything about this amazing little boy. When I first met Albus Dumbledore (Harry Potter), I knew I’d be fascinated by this enigma for seven full books. When I first met Heathcliff (Wuthering Heights), I knew I’d encountered an intriguing, disturbing character. But there is nothing compelling about any of Twilight’s characters. Is there any redemptive value to the story? It’s hard to say for sure. In the first place, I’d argue that the artistic excellence of any work of art contributes significantly to its redemptive value. The work itself must be beautiful – and calling one vampire “beautiful” 37,000 times in 500 pages doesn’t count. We could argue that there is a battle with sinful nature, depicted in the Gothic vampires. The world of the Gothic is a vivid portrayal of fallen humanity (think Jeckyll/Hyde, Frankenstein, etc.), and with a small number of vampires are fighting their desire for human blood, you could say this holds true for Twilight as well. But the struggle against sinful nature in the world of the Gothic has been done so many times before, and so much better, it’s hard to justify the poor artistry of Twilight for that reason alone. If this theme can be found in the stories, it is heavily, heavily muted by the drama of teenage infatuation. In fact, the fundamental problem I see here is that the sappy romance completely overrides anything mysterious, anything that would hint of an encounter with Faerie, a journey through the Perilous Realm. Unless I missed it because I was too distracted by all the beautiful vampires, the novel operates at no deeper level than the surface story. There is no “journey toward gestures, pictures, images, rhythms, metaphor, symbol, and at the peak of all, myth” (Clyde S. Kilby, Forward to Christian Mythmakers). It seems devoid of much apart from a romance that involves the perfect-looking undead. I’m sure the story gets more exciting in the sequels. There’s bound to be more revelation about the history of the vampiric subculture, and I’m guessing there’s some conflict ahead with those werewolves. I’ll never know, because I’ve no intention of reading the next volume. We should call Twilight what it is: the first successful campaign by a publishing company to market a book as “the next Harry Potter.” But successful marketing is all there is to it.

I grew up with Full Moon Fever.  Songs like “Freefallin’”, “I Won’t Back Down”, “Runnin’ Down a Dream”, and “Yer So Bad” could easily be the sound track to my coming of age in rural Florida.  I came from a town too small to have a theater, an arcade, or population of girls that hadn’t already told me to get lost, so I did most of my running around twenty-four miles away in the “big city” of Gainesville, home of the Gators, the University, a good number of unfortunate Volvos, and another awkward country boy named Tom Petty.  I didn’t like the Gators, but I took a strange pride in being from the same backwoods that gave rise to a rock and roll icon and his Heartbreakers. My memories of MTV’s heyday (you know the next line), back when it still played music, are indelibly marked with the image of Tom Petty dressed as the mad hatter, sipping his tea and singing, “Don’t Come Around Here No More.”  Even before that, mixed in with memories of “Photograph”, and “Electric Avenue”, and “Dancing with Myself”, is the scene of a bunch of cool looking guys climbing out of some kind of future car in the desert and stumbling onto a tent full of TVs to sing “You Got Lucky”.  I was amazed that those guys, looking so tough with their boots and their leather, cigarettes dangling, huge pilot-style sunglasses flashing in desert heat were somehow led by the goofy one with the overbite and the weird voice.  The one from Gainesville, just down the road from me.  Maybe anything is possible. For those of us that grew up on his songs and, better yet, for those that don’t realize just how far-reaching and influential his body of work is, Peter Bogdanovich’s documentary, Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers: Runnin’ Down a Dream is a treasure on film.  Put together with a wealth of footage from the earliest days of Mudcrutch and The Epics, the entire history of the band is miraculously documented.  I was giddy to see footage of the bar where the band played its first paying gigs, a place called Dubbs that I used to use my fake ID to get into in order to see the likes of Warrant or Quiet Riot. Throughout the four hour running time, the film is never less than fascinating.  It chronicles such things as Petty’s bankruptcy and landmark legal battles with the music industry and his friendships with legends like Bob Dylan, Stevie Nicks, Johnny Cash, George Harrison, Ringo Star, and Roy Orbison, there’s even an attempted assassination. It’s hard not to root for Tom, the underdog, while you watch him growing as an artist and see the record company trying to take his songs away from him.  When he’s victorious, we share in his victory and we get to see how that affects his growth and his writing and his relationships.  Petty’s story is sprawling and iconic and the film reflects that. Bogdanovich captures insight into Petty’s creative process as a writer, a recording artist, and a performer that any student of music or the arts should appreciate. It’s good stuff.  Particularly interesting is how the viewer is able, over the course of the film, to see and hear the thirty-year metamorphosis of his work as it changes from the perspective of a teenager to that of a grown man, filled with experience, heartache and the scars and lessons of life. Fueled by a fantastic American narrative, tons of rarely seen live performances, interviews with sources ranging from Johnny Depp to Jackson Browne, and, most of all, by Tom Petty’s own unique impact on rock and roll, Runnin’ On A Dream is documentary film-making at its peak.  It reminds us that great things can come from small places, even from the town down the road, even from the kid with the overbite.  It reminds us that, indeed, anything is possible.

It has been unintentional, but on several occasions here in the Rabbit Room we’ve discussed the use and power of words, and eventually someone (often this guy) steers the conversation to musing about the difficulty and discipline of brevity– using fewer words for greater impact.  Clearly, I’m only talking a good game here.  Still, I’m fascinated by the discipline of forcing myself to be selective with the words I use.  Here are a few fun links which are committed to the discipline of brevity. Twentytwowords.com— This is Abraham Piper’s blog. (John’s son)  He calls it an “experiment in getting to the point.”  Each entry is exactly twenty two words long.  The others I’m listing here are ones he listed on his site which I think are super cool. coolthingsinrandomplaces.com– Just what it sounds like.  (Laura P, commenting below, indicated this link may carry with it some viral badness.  So I took the link down, but the site is still cool.  Thanks for the head’s up, Laura.) The Big Picture— News, events and oddities from around the world told mainly through images.  Right now you can find one entry dealing with the International Space Station and another dealing with super-microscopic images.  Check them both out and tell me if they both don’t leave you feeling dwarfed by God’s handiwork.  There’s one image of an ice crystal that I can’t get over. (Also, they have a Hubble Space Telescope Advent Calendar where each day leading to Christmas they post a new image from deep space.) And last, onesentence.org— true stories told in one sentence.  This is sometimes heart-warming, sometimes incredibly sad, sometimes hilarious, and sometimes a bit, um, PG-13 (but nothing too rough.)  You’ll find moving little gems like: “I had never thought about the importance of my uterus until I was told it had to be removed.”  And this one that made me nod as one who understood perfectly: “During a romantic dinner away from the kids, I looked down at my hand and saw that there was poop on my diamond.”  Okay, one more. “The day my Mother accidentally left my little brother at the dog pound gave me the only self-esteem boost I would ever need.” Enjoy.

Here in these weeks leading up to Christmas, we have been posting a series of meditations focused on the story of Jesus’ birth from the Gospels.  For more on what Advent means and why many Christains observe it, here’s a short introduction.  Now we come to the last entry of our virtual advent wreath– the meditation that accompanies the white candle– the Christ Candle, for those playing along at home.   The text for this final Christmas Day reflection comes from Matthew 1:18-25.  Merry Christmas, everyone. 18Now the birth of Jesus Christ took place in this way. When his mother Mary had been betrothed to Joseph, before they came together she was found to be with child from the Holy Spirit. 19And her husband Joseph, being a just man and unwilling to put her to shame, resolved to divorce her quietly. 20But as he considered these things, behold, an angel of the Lord appeared to him in a dream, saying, “Joseph, son of David, do not fear to take Mary as your wife, for that which is conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit. 21She will bear a son, and you shall call his name Jesus, for he will save his people from their sins.” 22All this took place to fulfill what the Lord had spoken by the prophet: 23″Behold, the virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and they shall call his name Immanuel” (which means, God with us). 24When Joseph woke from sleep, he did as the angel of the Lord commanded him: he took his wife, 25but knew her not until she had given birth to a son. And he called his name Jesus.     —Matthew 1:18-25 (ESV) Joseph was a decent man.  When all this began and his bride to be turned up expecting a baby, he wasn’t sure what to do.  He didn’t want to shame her, though he could have.  Should he just cut his losses and let her go?  His world was spinning. This burden weighed heavy on him, flooding both his every waking thought and his every dream. One night, as he tossed and turned over the situation one more time, an angel of the Lord appeared to tell him this baby was not forming in Mary’s belly because of anything she had done, but because of something God had done. “She will bear a son, conceived of the Holy Spirit, and you, Joseph, will name him Jesus, because He will save His people from their sins.” It was just as the prophet had said.  That prophet—the one who said the virgin would conceive and have a son who would be called Immanuel—that was the prophet Isaiah. Do you remember Isaiah? He had a tough job.  God had called him to relay the news of the Lord’s coming judgment of his people, Israel.  God had dispatched Assyria to come and carry them out of their homes and into foreign lands.  Babylon would follow suit. But laced throughout Isaiah’s words from God was a magnificent description of His plan to save and redeem this people who failed Him over and over again. What would this look like?  Did the people’s idea of that salvation bear any resemblance to the salvation God meant to give? Through Isaiah, the Lord clarified something for those trying to imagine it: “As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts higher than your thoughts.”  (Isa 53:8) As the heavens are higher than the earth?  That much higher?  Really? Oh, the paradox of salvation!  The people desperate for a savior have an idea of what they think they need?  So what child is this that God has sent?  Is he what they imagined? While God’s people look to the east for their King to arrive in majesty, God quietly sends His angel to a poor teenage girl in the no-account town of Nazareth. God’s people expect His Messiah to be known by all upon His arrival, but God brings Him under the cover of darkness—under the shelter of a cave doubling this night as a stable and a maternity ward. God’s people anticipate strength, but are delivered a fragile, tiny baby. They seek inspiration they can follow, but they are given one who would be countless times rejected. They long for their suffering and oppression to end with His coming.  Yet He came to suffer—to live a life of affliction. They look for impenetrable strength in His person, and yet He would take upon Himself the wounds of us all and die under the weight of them. To all of this God tells us His ways are higher than our ways.  And for this, we should be eternally grateful.  After all, what did we really know?  We did not know what we needed. When we thought we needed a figurehead, God gave us a sacrificial Lamb. When we thought we needed inspiration, God gave us a man of sorrows.  When we thought we needed strength to overcome persecution, God gave us One who would become subject to it, even unto death.  When we thought we were healthy, He took up our infirmities.  When we thought we were righteous, our iniquity was laid upon Him.  When we thought our own righteousness would save us, by His wounds we were healed.  When we thought we were safely “in the fold,” never transgressing God, He was counted among the transgressors for us.  He bore the sins of many and makes intersession for the transgressors. His thoughts are not like our thoughts. This is more than a comparison of intellect, as though he is just smarter. His thoughts transcend time and space.  He sees through the perfectly formed lens of history.  His eye pierces through all the veils, known and unknown, we hang around our hearts.  He sees through the smoke and shadows we throw out to camouflage our true selves. What has God prepared?  Isaiah would describe Mary and Joseph’s baby, our Savior Jesus Christ, this way: “He had no beauty or majesty to attract us to him, nothing in his appearance that we should desire him.  He was despised and rejected by men, a man of sorrows, and familiar with suffering. Like one from whom men hide their faces he was despised, and we esteemed him not.  Surely he took up our infirmities and carried our sorrows, yet we considered him stricken by God, smitten by him, and afflicted.  But he was pierced for our transgressions, he was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was upon him, and by his wounds we are healed.  We all, like sheep, have gone astray, each of us has turned to his own way; and the LORD has laid on him the iniquity of us all… Therefore I will give him a portion among the great, and he will divide the spoils with the strong, because he poured out his life unto death, and was numbered with the transgressors. For he bore the sin of many, and made intercession for the transgressors.”  (Isaiah 53:2-6, 12) This is not the account of some heavenly being who came to hover over us.  Nor is it a picture of one who figured out how to work around us.  This is the image of a Savior who is burrowed deep in the messes and details of our lives.  This is a description of Immanuel, God with us. Before He was even born, he was already burrowed deep into the messes and details Joseph’s life.  Joseph awoke from his dream, and for the first time in a while felt like a man who knew what he was supposed to do.  He was supposed to love Mary, to take care of her and keep her as safe and secure as he could. He married that girl and took her to his hometown to register them as a family.  While they were there, she gave birth to a son.  And in that private moment, to us a child was born and to us a son was given.  Joseph stepped forward and said, “His name will be Jesus,” because as the angel said, “He will save his people from their sins.” And though Joseph could not have known what this would entail, we know.  We see Christmas through the lens of Easter and find in this baby, whose birth we celebrate on Christmas, one who has saved His people from their sins.  On Christmas, here is what we remember.  Here is what we anticipate.  Here is what we celebrate. “The true light, which enlightens everyone, was coming into the world. He was in the world, and the world was made through him, yet the world did not know him. He came to his own, and his own people did not receive him. But to all who did receive him, who believed in his name, he gave the right to become children of God, who were born, not of blood nor of the will of the flesh nor of the will of man, but of God. And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us, and we have seen his glory, glory as of the only Son from the Father, full of grace and truth.”  (John 1:9-14) The light of the world has come.  May your celebration of Christmas be marked by your worship of Jesus.

I was back in Michigan for the second time in three-and-a-half weeks. Knowing that it was a long drive to our ultimate destination of Lake City, my family left Nashville early on a  Thursday where we reached Grand Rapids that evening and stayed the night with friends, Paul and Lyn, Michiganders who have been kind enough to host the traveling Peters clan in their warm and inviting home on more than one occasion. I must mention here that two gentlemen helped me in the laborious and ridiculously long 3-month process of painting the exterior of my house: my neighbor Matt who, of his own accord, took up brush and pail when we had to rush to Louisiana in early September for a death in the family, and tall Michigander, Paul, who spent five days high atop a ladder slopping Grandiose Green on the wood siding of our 1925 cottage. As their names might imply, they are saints and true friends of action. I could not have finished the job without them. After eating a pair of cheddar dogs at Yesterdog and racing through a most excellent but pricey used book store in the historic Eastown section of Grand Rapids, we drove the remaining two hours north to Lake City on Friday evening, where I was to play at a Young Life camp. It snowed the entire weekend, and on the drive up I could barely make out painted pavement edges from off-road uncertainty. I gripped the wheel with a firmer grasp but we arrived safe and sound. [I know what you’re thinking:  you non-southerners are chuckling internally (or externally) at my even bothering to mention the perils of driving in snow and ice.] Ellis, currently in possession of a dull black and blue shiner from falling down the concrete porch steps at home the other day, does remarkably well considering that he must sit strapped in his car seat for long jaunts owing to his wandering parents who can’t seem to sit still themselves. I’m paranoid that folks who see the black eye might automatically assume the worst of us. It’s one of those worries that comes with being a parent, I suppose, but I’ve actually taken that fear and followed it to a very disturbing, albeit fantasized, conclusion, one in which county social services shows up at the door and removes Ellis from his “unfit” parents. Fear ruins and makes us slaves. The weather continued to deteriorate throughout the weekend. Saturday, the snow fell sideways, abundantly, and often. It was cold enough for me to conclude that it was far too cold to be outdoors, and that I possess none of the appropriate clothing for life in such a setting. Sunday, conditions were much more bearable for the drive out of camp where we encamped another night at Paul and Lyn’s. We left their house the following morning and pulled up to the curb at our abode later that evening, a mere 10 hours in the car with only non-stop country or Christmas radio to listen to. Home to stay is a good feeling to these weary bones, these red eyes which have seen many road skies lately, and my carpal-tunneled wrists which always seem to bother me more when I’m driving, than when not. I opened our front door and immediately plugged in the Christmas tree lights, eager to visually begin this season of rest with my wife and son (along with our soon-expected second child). As Michigander Lyn often states, you learn to see grace in the small things:  a break in the winter gray clouds, a small ray of sunlight, a pause in the cold, a safe and firm step on uncertain terrain. The small graces always add up to the big Grace of rebirth. When that time comes, there is rejoicing. Until then, we hope. Happy holidays, everyone.

“All the toil of man is for his mouth, yet his appetite is not satisfied. For what advantage has the wise man over the fool? And what does the poor man have who knows how to conduct himself before the living? Better is the sight of the eyes than the wandering of the appetite: this also is vanity and a striving after wind.” Ecclesiastes 6:7-9 (esv) I don’t like to shop. I just go ahead and drop before I shop so I don’t have to go. Every day is black Friday for me –lots of sales I don’t care about and don’t want to be within a hundred miles of. Conjure up a mental image of me shaking my cane at the world. “Ya’ Dang kids,” he shouts. But I am not really glum; I just don’t like shopping at stores. (Note: The Rabbit Room store is on-line and stocked with great gifting items. Buy, Buy, Love. In that order.) It’s the old adage again: “Does a fish know it’s wet?” We don’t even realize to what extent our hearts have been affected by this prevailing culture of spending and spending more.  We are basically being programmed for envy. The political arguments are often made between those who benefit from success and selfishness and those benefiting from the institutionalization of envy. It’s an ugly scene. And we can barely see it for all the billboards blocking our view. This is another good reason to take the advice of C.S. Lewis about reading old books and not just ones from our own century. Because it helps us see our blind spots. And our blind spots are behind cash registers and whatever Star ‘o the Month is wearing. So we have wisdom from Ecclesiastes. Better is the sight of the eyes than the roaming of the appetite. Look in front of you, not to the left, or right (where all your neighbor’s stuff is). This goes down deep, to the level of idolatry. If we are unhappy with our Father’s provision, and we long to have what he has provided for another man, it is a short step to wanting another Father.  Another god. This is a treacherous road, but it is the highway of our culture, the route of our trade. Gifts are grand; I love the tradition of giving and receiving we have in this season. But thankfulness for God’s provision (including future grace) is the most fundamental mark of the Christian. Likewise coveting essentially identifies the unbeliever –he rejects the provision of God. The gospel is about the provision of God for our deepest need. The Christian life is a continual leaning on that provision and loving the Father who is its loving and gracious source. Why do we covet when we have all we could ever need? Why are we thirsty when living water is in us? Flesh wars with spirit and Advent is a central front in the conflict. Here the principle combatants are clearly identified on the field and the battle is joined. Why does the periphery call to us with such potency? The corners of our eyes are a paradise of lies. The feast is before us. We have a Father. He is good.

Jonathan’s incident with Randy McLeod underscores the neediness inherent in our God-created flesh, whether we are believers or unbelievers. Sometimes famous people turn to substance abuse as an anodyne. It’s a horrific realization to finally climb to the top of the pile and still feel the same self-hatred as before. Others, after years of fame, may end up trying to start charities and such. What they (and we) are looking for is meaning, purpose, security, love; we’re looking to make a name for ourselves, to feel worth something, to know our lives have counted. But that can’t come by starting charities; that’s often just another way to feel on top of the pile, or to assuage guilt for having success when so many others are starving. The problem lies in trying to suck meaning and security from the fallen world system rather than getting it from Jesus Christ. Hopefully as believers each of us is on the move to appropriate the limitless love and power of Christ. God intentionally built that neediness inside each of us so that He could be the Supply. That’s the purpose of the Cross – to bring that resurrection life right into the heart of our neediness, to be our Source, so that we are complete and can overflow to others. He’s given us everything we need for life and godliness – that means we are no longer needy. If we’re hungry and seated at a table piled with a feast there is no need to look elsewhere. Let’s look at it another way. Doesn’t it make you feel good when someone whose work you deeply admire praises your own? Now, in a worldly sense that’s a good thing, as far as it goes. But if we take that pleasure of being praised into a higher plane, what we’re all really looking for is a resounding, eternal, “Well done!” at the end of our lives. When our daily thought-life gets connected with that sort of Fame, the eternal kind, we’re at least beginning to be on the right track. To paraphrase Proverbs, “Favor is deceitful, and beauty is vain, but a person who fears the Lord, they will be praised.” The worldly favor enjoyed by the famous, just like money hoarded by the rich, is a double-edged sword. It can fool us as to what actually matters, to our eternal destruction. But we can’t think we’re safe just because we’re not famous or rich; George MacDonald said it best: “If it be things that slay us, what matter if it be things we have, or things we have not?” Any of us can be easily fooled into focusing on temporal things if we don’t abide in Christ. As the Christ-indwelt, it’s always better to take up our sword and slay the false self – the not-real self – whenever it rears its ugly head. We’re to allow God to work in us to “take off a lot of silly, ugly, fancy-dress in which we have all got ourselves up and are strutting about like the little idiots we are…getting rid of the false self, with all its ‘Look at me’ and “Aren’t I a good boy?’ and all its posing and posturing” (C.S. Lewis, Mere Christianity). In the end only one thing will truly matter – the extent to which we trusted Christ to live through us to others, however that ends up being expressed in our work, our lives, our families, our art. To build a life out of that is to build with gold, silver, and precious stones; it means we’re living out of our true Name and reaching for the only fame that matters.

I’m in my bunk on the tour bus, which is in some ways like a coffin, in other ways like a berth on a ship.  Some nights it feels more like a bunk bed at a sleep over with a bunch of friends, only your friends have whiskers and wives at home.  To my left is a curtain that opens onto a little hallway of other drawn curtains where the other members of the tour are probably sleeping now.  To my right is a book by Mark Helprin (one of the finest writers I’ve ever read) called Winter’s Tale.  I’ve been reading it for six months or so and just can’t seem to finish it–not because it’s not good, but because it is.  I don’t want it to end.  Beside that is a book of poetry called Nine Horses by Billy Collins (which I highly recommend, especially if you’re like me and you don’t usually like poetry). Let’s see, what else?  A pair of dirty socks, my backpack, my cell phone, and a framed picture of a fourth grade class.  The picture was a gift from a school teacher at our show in Charlotte.  She gave each of her students a copy of one of my albums to coincide with a series of lessons and took a picture of the kids for me. So now you know what it’s like in my secret chamber.  Oh, I should probably also mention that it’s 3:31 am. This morning, with David Mead’s song “Nashville” rolling down the road of my brain, I crawled out of my bunk and lifted the blinds to see the fine sight of my hometown, draped in fog.  The Ryman Auditorium is a red brick beauty, a 118-year-old building kneeling among the skyscrapers in a kind of stately humility.  It is a place that is thick with history both American and musical, and the spirits in its halls sing of the precious intersection of Place and Time. In minutes the bus door flew open and my three kids barreled in to deliver hugs, kisses on the cheek, and a hundred questions at once.  Jamie and I took the kids back home so we could sign some papers, start the laundry, and rush out the door to meet my parents for lunch once their plane landed.  We ate at Five Guys Burgers and Fries, whose burgers are my current favorite.  We talked about home and my dad’s ministry and the fact that I had just gotten word that the Ryman was close to selling out.  I wiped the grease from my fingers, bade my family farewell for the afternoon, and headed back to the Ryman for soundcheck. This is my favorite part of the day, I think.  I saw friend after friend arrive at that grand ole concert hall with their instruments slung over their shoulders: Pierce Pettis and his guitar, Ron Block and his banjo, Michael Card and his bouzouki, Stuart Duncan and his fiddle.  In walked Marcus, the violinist who helped me find the melody for “Deliver Us” nine years ago, Andrew, my boys’ old violin teacher, Randall Goodgame with his gentle grin, Kurt and his daughter.  Then the rest of the band trickled in: Gabe, Garett, Ben, the Brothers Henry, Gullahorn, Cason,  Biggs, Osenga, Jill, Bebo, Todd–all of them bearers of the Spirit and willing to use their gifts in this way for the sake of the Kingdom.  I love bouncing from place to place, checking in on the little clusters of conversation to be sure everyone has what they need and knows where they need to be.  I hear snippets of laughter and sincerity everywhere I turn.  There’s an outpouring of goodwill and patience and service that astounds me.  Every year, it astounds me.  And I can only think that the reason for this goodness is the Gospel about which we have gathered to sing. That Gospel draws us like the call of a jubilant voice deep in the woods.  We hear, and we follow, and though we scarcely know how we know, we believe the source of the voice is good and the only thing worth knowing.  All at once, we emerge from all sides in a clearing.  We are cut by thorns and weary to the bone.  In the center of the clearing swirls a warm, symphonic light within which glows–depending on the tilt of the head–a patient eye, or an open hand, or the slender form of a man with his hands on his hips, laughing.  And you know that it’s Him.  Then the skill in your fingers, the ache in your heart, the talent in your soul–all of it–strains to do His work.  It strains like a warhorse pawing the ground in the moments before the charge. Then comes the downbeat, and the crowd falls silent as the story is told. After the show, after the pictures are taken and the thank-yous are spoken, Jamie and I escape to the nearest Waffle House.  It’s a tradition.  We sit in a booth and decompress over a plate of bad/good food.  We pray before we eat and speak quietly so the people in the next booth won’t eavesdrop.  Now that I think of it, this is my favorite part of the day.  And it’s because of the company, not the food–honest.  Near midnight, my bride dropped me off at the bus for the last three shows of the tour, and she went home to the Warren where our children and my parents are sleeping. I am grateful for precious days like this one, when light, love, and music make it that much easier to believe that there is a God in whose heart lies a secret chamber for each of us, where there is rest and comfort and safety.  In our Father’s house there are many rooms.  Do not let your hearts be troubled.

Here in these weeks leading up to Christmas, we are posting a series of meditations focused on the story of Jesus’ birth from the Gospels.  For more on what Advent means and why many Christains observe it, here’s a short introduction.  If you’d like to make a wreath of your own for your family or study group, here’s how.  The text for this week’s reflection comes from Matthew 2:1-12. 1Now after Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea in the days of Herod the king, behold, wise men from the east came to Jerusalem, 2saying, “Where is he who has been born king of the Jews? For we saw his star when it rose and have come to worship him.” 3When Herod the king heard this, he was troubled, and all Jerusalem with him; 4and assembling all the chief priests and scribes of the people, he inquired of them where the Christ was to be born. 5They told him, “In Bethlehem of Judea, for so it is written by the prophet: 6″‘And you, O Bethlehem, in the land of Judah, are by no means least among the rulers of Judah; for from you shall come a ruler who will shepherd my people Israel.'” 7Then Herod summoned the wise men secretly and ascertained from them what time the star had appeared. 8And he sent them to Bethlehem, saying, “Go and search diligently for the child, and when you have found him, bring me word, that I too may come and worship him.” 9After listening to the king, they went on their way. And behold, the star that they had seen when it rose went before them until it came to rest over the place where the child was. 10When they saw the star, they rejoiced exceedingly with great joy. 11And going into the house they saw the child with Mary his mother, and they fell down and worshiped him. Then, opening their treasures, they offered him gifts, gold and frankincense and myrrh. 12And being warned in a dream not to return to Herod, they departed to their own country by another way.      —Matthew 2:1-12 (ESV) Herod the Great was a paranoid sociopath—a personality perfect for the job he held as the ruler of Judea under the authority of Rome.  He built his empire to create the illusion that he was a man who could be in many places at the same time.  Aside from his fortresses at Herodium, Sebaste, Machaerus and Masada, he also built palaces in Caesarea, Jericho and Jerusalem.  At any moment, he could have been in any one of them.  So at every moment, he might was well have been in all of them. His affinity for architecture was well known, as was his obsessive mistrust of those he couldn’t keep an eye on, and even more so of those he could. Already the bones of one wife, several sons and multiple distant relatives were gathered in the family tomb as the result of his conviction that each and every one of them was at one time or another involved in a conspiracy to kill him. There could only be one ruler in Judea.  Herod was passionate about this. Learned men from the east, experts in the study of sacred texts, had heard that somewhere in Judea a king had been born—the king of the Jews.  They remembered that their Jewish holy book said, “A star shall come out of Jacob, and a scepter shall rise out of Israel.” (Num 24:17)  So when they saw a star they did not know rise in the direction of Jerusalem, an uncommon star that seemed to have been lit for them, they followed it. It led them to Jerusalem.  They wanted to honor this king and to pay tribute to his majesty, so they began to ask around.  Where was he? When Herod was told of these men and their quest, the dissonance of hearing the words “king” and “Jews” with no mention of him was more than he could bear.  He summoned the chief priests and the scribes to tell him everything they knew about this king, no doubt smoldering all the while with the notion that they had been holding out on him. Herod came seeking a theology lesson, and the priests gave it.  The prophet Micah said that the Messiah would be born in Bethlehem, the city there just a few miles south where Jacob’s love Rachel was buried and where King David was born.  They gave Herod these details without hesitation, quoting Scripture to the verse.  They knew all about it.  But still, not one lifted a foot to go and see for themselves if the Magi were right. The Chief Priests were the keepers of the temple and the religious life and culture of the Jews.  The Scribes, or teachers of the law, were the guardians of the Word of God.  They wrote copies of the sacred scriptures, poured over them, knew the minute details of every scroll of every book. And yet, among those who should have been the most expectant, all the religious leaders displayed at the mention of their coming king was apathy. They did not seek him then.  They would not seek him later either.  When he was grown and was ministering around them, they did not believe in him. But Herod did. Herod was one to err on the side of caution and it was enough for him that the Magi had come so far so laden with such gifts.  But this one, he figured, he should play close to the vest.  If there was such a king, maybe the Magi could lead him there.  Maybe if he feigned a desire to pay a tribute of his own, the Magi would see in him a comrade. “When you find him,” Herod told the visitors, “Come back and tell me where he is.  I have a gift of my own.” After hearing him out, they left for the settlement to the south.  It wasn’t long before their familiar star rose before them, leading them like a shepherd to a house on the outskirts of town. Finding the king, it was no wonder why he was nothing more than a murmur in Jerusalem.  When they entered the house, they found a child in the arms of a young woman—practically still a girl were it not for the other-worldly look of an old soul in her eyes. There was something about that moment that only the woman, her husband, the Magi and the child knew—something that bent the knees of those scholars to the posture of worship.  There was no crown, no miracle they could see, no sign of greatness.  Just a woman and a child. One of the Magi moved forward on behalf of the rest and produced a purse of gold.  Laying it at the child’s feet, another came with a flask of myrrh, and another with a box of frankincense.  Unaware that they were probably funding a hasty trip to Egypt, they gave these gifts for no other reason than to honor the one born King of the Jews. This was not their king.  Israel’s God was not their people’s God.  And yet, here they were because the thought of a God of mercy with healing in His wings awakened in them a longing to be close. No matter how unfamiliar the King in this story may be, God beckons the multitudes across the span of space and time to behold His salvation and to worship. The journey of these Magi was a success.  As they slept the slumber of satisfaction, an angel unfamiliar to them but known well to the woman warned them to take another route home.  History would remember a Herod dripping with the blood of wives and sons.  But not this son, not yet. Having been made aware of Herod’s bloodlust for this baby and his insidious, yet consistent plan to slaughter all Judean male children under the age of two, Joseph gathered his wife and the boy and set out for Egypt.

Here in the Rabbit Room, we try hard not to speak disparagingly about authors and artists.  Rather, we laud the work that we admire and remain silent about that which we do not.  However, sometimes exceptions must be made.  In this case, the exception is that Andrew Osenga is hilarious.  While I was talking with him recently about the newest cultural phenomenon which is Twilight, Andrew got passionate and I got tickled.  I haven’t read the book yet, nor have I seen the movie, but what I’ve read about it leaves me a little concerned–not because it’s about vampires, or because it’s about teen romance, but because of its subtle (and sometimes not-so-subtle) themes.  Also, because I have a hunch that it bears little or no artistic or literary merit.  Someone emailed us recently and asked about a Rabbit Room perspective on this movie, and Travis Prinzi has a more in-depth one coming.  In the meantime, enjoy Osenga’s editorial. The Proprietor So Andrew Peterson has been telling me for well over a year that I was welcome to post here at the Rabbit Room.  He came to me a few days ago and said “Hey, remember that terrible book you sort of read?  Want to review it on the site?”  It seems like the perfect opportunity for my inaugural post.  Russ Ramsey and Jason Gray write about theology and Paul Simon, I will write about teenage vampires. To begin: I sort of read the book “Twilight”.  By that I mean, I read all but the last ten pages.  I knew there was a sequel, which meant that at least most of the characters did not die in an atomic bomb during those last ten pages and therefore there was no ending that would have satisfied me. “Twilight” is the worst book I’ve ever read.  And I read half of the first “Left Behind” book.  I picked it up because I was told it was in the vein of Harry Potter.  I love the idea of secret societies, whole new worlds right within our own to discover and enjoy.  That stuff thrills me.  “Twilight” is not like that. None of the characters have any personality whatsoever, so even their illogical actions and stupid decisions aren’t interesting. One of the big scenes in the book is when the superhuman vampires play baseball.  I went to Wrigley Field for the first time this year, and saw the Cubs beat the Pirates.  It was cold and boring and I left after three innings.  If someone had said, “would you rather watch this game with vampires playing?” I would of course have excitedly answered yes.  Somehow, this book has shown me my instinct would be incorrect.  Vampire baseball is also boring, and I imagine the beer is just as bland and expensive. Basically here is the plot of this book, which you all have probably heard by now.  A boring girl moves to the Pacific Northwest and meets a vampire who is mean to her, but only because he wants to eat her because he’s in love with her and he’s gorgeous.  So he falls in love with her, because he’s beautiful and that is what the author wishes would have happened to her in high school.  There is an Encyclopedia Brown twist at the end (i.e. a third-grader should see it coming) and that is the big finish.  Again, and unfortunately, every character is probably still alive at the end of this book. The heart of the tale, though, lies in this simple conversation that is had, and this is no exaggeration, probably 200 or 300 times throughout the book: Her: “I love you, you’re so beautiful and perfect.” Him: “Yes, I am.” Her: “But I’m so clumsy!” Him: “Yes, you are, and I love you.” Her: “I love you, you’re so beautiful and perfect.  And cold.” Him: stares off in the distance, looking like a model. If you cut that conversation out of the book it would probably be twenty pages long.  And probably no better.  There’s also the sad commentary on how teenage girls LOVE this book, and how this girl decides to completely give up her friends, family, personality and everything else to be in a relationship with a rich, good-looking guy who treats her terribly.  I hope my daughters read this when they get older and learn that valuable lesson. And yes, I will probably watch the movie “Twilight” at some point.  It looks as if the movie is somehow worse than the book, and that type of terrible is probably pretty hilarious.  Like Gymkata with fangs.

I was in the checkout line at the Belmont Bi-Rite. In front of me, a famous person was paying for some ice cream. When I say he was famous, I don’t mean I recognized him from TV or the magazines. I didn’t. I knew he was famous because of the way he exchanged pleasantries with the cashier: not so much talking to her as engaging in stage patter. He pitched his voice about twice as loud as it needed to be, and he cut his eyes now toward me, now toward the thirteen-year-old bagboy to see how the act was playing to this little audience. His manner suggested that he thought we all knew who he was. The bagboy gaped at the famous person as he handed him the bag. The famous person beamed a benevolent smile on the boy. “You recognize me from TV,” he ventured. The boy’s eyes widened further, now with fright. He wasn’t up to the task of supporting such a hope. He froze where he was, the bag of ice cream still extended. “Randy McLeod,” the man said. “That name mean anything to you?” (I’ve changed his name, to protect his dignity). The boy leaned back as Randy McLeod leaned in closer. Randy sang a few bars of a country hit from a few years earlier, but no light of recognition brightened the boy’s face or softened his anxiety. The man’s hope yearned across the terrible silence. But it was no use. He tousled the bagboy’s hair. “That’s all right, boy. You’re probably not a country fan.” That name meant something to me; Randy McLeod had been half of a duo that enjoyed moderate success some years earlier. After the duo broke up, he had one solo hit on the radio and a music video that played about once an hour throughout the one summer I watched the Country Music Television station. That was years earlier; I don’t think he had been on the radio since. What’s more, I don’t think he’s been on the radio in the intervening decade either. I imagine him still wandering the countryside like some folktale character, peering into every face and asking, “Randy McLeod—that name mean anything to you?” I don’t suppose this is news to anybody who has ever watched Behind the Music, but in fame there can be a yawning neediness that is terrible to behold. What I at first believed to be arrogance or entitlement was in fact need. It was only false hope, a frail protest against the sorrow of a world that doesn’t keep its promises. I watched Randy walk out of the grocery store. But I wish I had put my arm around his shoulder and said, “Yes, Randy. Of course I remember you. You had that music video a few years back, with the girl in the cotton dress and the train depot.” I wish I had said, “I hear you’re a very talented songwriter. Thank God art doesn’t fly away as fast as fame.” I wish I had said, “You’re going to be all right, Randy, even if no stranger ever recognizes you again.”

I told somebody that I was going to see Behold the Lamb of God, The True Tall Tale of the Coming of Christ with Andrew Peterson and friends. “Again?” he said. “Isn’t that the same guy you saw last year?” “Why yes, it is, as a matter of fact,” I said, avoiding the temptation to start a sermon, because how do you really explain such a thing; where would you start? Like any superb legacy, the production in the December 2, 2008 version retained the sacred tenets of tradition. Equally important, there was surprise and nuance, not only from the in-the-round segment in which each artist humbly submit their own songs, but also the way in which varied aspects of the story moved us. Same words, same melody, same instruments, new revelation. Being moved in fresh ways—in  heart ways and head ways—is part of the heritage of this work. Andrew Peterson has written with such insightful depth, that despite the beautiful simplicity of the story, we routinely make new discoveries. The Elkhorn show sold out quickly. I was fortunate to get my four tickets before the tickets were gone. I can’t claim any particular expertise in guessing audience size, but I suspect there were close to 1,000 people on hand. Tangentially, one of the particularly attractive aspects of BTLOG shows has been the evolution of community, a mish mash of message board participants, Rabbitheads, local/regional supporters, promoters, friends and relatives of band members, all of whom are bound together by a passionate devotion to the music; more relevant, by the brother and sisterhood made possible in Christ. My little satellite associations extending in and out of Omaha are just a small example of that. There are thousands of similar stories wherever the show plays. For the first round, Andrew opened with “Hosanna,” adroitly linking the Easter story with that of Christmas. It provided the first sense of congregational worship, as the audience—with little prompting, as if its line had been fastidiously rehearsed—joined the offering of contrite praise singing, “Hosanna” with all the vigor and passion of the prodigal son. Then, it was Andrew Osenga with a track from Letter to the Editor, Volume 2 called “Canada,” followed by “The Secret,” an oldie but goodie from Andy Osenga from Room to Breathe, Jill Phillips with “A Lot Like Me” from her new record The Good Things, Bebo Norman with a song I fail to recall, and Ben Shive with “4th of July”—written about an event in Norfolk, Nebraska—in what may have been one of the first public performances from his critically acclaimed debut recording. In response to a question Ben posed from the stage about “Anybody here from Norfolk,” a surprising contingent, mostly in one area, raised their hands and shouted a good Norfolk cheer. The next round featured “New Beginnings,” one of my favorite Andy Osenga songs, “Holy Flakes” from the Andy who’s last name starts with a “G,” the almost title track from The Good Things from Jill Phillips called “All the Good Things,” “Mary’s Prayer,” one of the first songs Bebo Norman wrote and his mother’s favorite, and in a stroke of profound synchronicity, Andrew Peterson led us into the Christmas program with what may be one of the best modern worship songs ever written, “The Good Confession (I Believe).” As someone else wrote (and I’m not quoting exactly because I can’t remember where I read it), “There is something about hearing ‘I believe he is the Christ, Son of the Living God,’ repeatedly that inspires awe.” With congregational voices rising and echoing celestially, it made me feel like I was ready to launch, like that rocket in cut eight from Resurrection Letters, Volume 2. Upcoming BTLOG attendees, you are most definitely in for a treat. Indeed, you will be part of the treat. With each round of that phrase (I believe He is the Christ, Son of the Living God), the intensity of emotion ratchets higher and wider. And it’s not emotion for emotion’s sake; it’s emotional truth boring ever deeper into our being, and it’s one of the most profoundly moving sounds I’ve ever heard. The season is here. Don’t miss the opportunity to sing “Silver Bells.” Drink some eggnog; eat some Christmas cookies. Kiss somebody under the mistletoe. Drive around and look at the lights. And by all means, attend and support your local Christmas pageant. But if you crave something more, something real, something that will simultaneously rock your world with truth, and cultivate peace and joy in your spirit, consider making Behold the Lamb of God, The True Tall Tale of the Coming of Christ, a new family tradition. It has everything to do with the real, true meaning of Christmas, and nothing to do with the paltry imitation.

Here in these weeks leading up to Christmas, we are posting a series of meditations focused on the story of Jesus’ birth from the Gospels.  For more on what Advent means and why many Christains observe it, here’s a short introduction.  If you’d like to make a wreath of your own for your family or study group, here’s how.  The text for this week’s reflection comes from Luke 2:8-15. “8There were shepherds out in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night. 9And an angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were filled with fear. 10And the angel said to them, “Fear not, for behold, I bring you good news of a great joy that will be for all the people. 11For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is Christ the Lord. 12And this will be a sign for you: you will find a baby wrapped in swaddling cloths and lying in a manger.” 13And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God and saying, 14″Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace among those with whom he is pleased!” 15When the angels went away from them into heaven, the shepherds said to one another, “Let us go over to Bethlehem and see this thing that has happened, which the Lord has made known to us.”        — Luke 2:8-15 (ESV) The shepherd’s life was ironic. Their job was to tend the animals that would be sacrificed to atone for the sins of the people.  Yet because of their handling of the animals, they were ceremonially unclean and thus prevented from keeping the ceremonial law themselves.  On top of that, because they were ceremonially unclean, they were often regarded as untrustworthy and irreligious. However, it was also expected that one who did his job well, a good shepherd, would be willing to lay down his life for his sheep. When you put all of that together, what you get is this: a good shepherd was one who cared deeply for the lambs under his watch that were appointed to die on the altar for the sins of the people who saw the shepherds themselves as unclean, irreligious and untrustworthy. The shepherd’s lives were, in effect, sacrifices. It was to shepherds that the angel of the Lord appeared one night outside Bethlehem.  And what did the angel say? In essence, he said “Go behold the end of your life as an outsider.” The angel paints this glorious picture of the presence of the promised Messiah.  But even more than that, he uses names to describe Jesus to these shepherds—names that would speak to His purpose.  He calls Jesus the Savior, Christ the Lord.  Savior means He will atone for the sins of the people, Christ identifies Him as their deliverer, or Messiah. And the name Lord here identifies Him as divine. And there’s one more expression that the angel uses that would have meant the world to these shepherds.  The angel says Christ the Lord is born “unto you.” (Lk 2:11)  The divine Savior and Messiah is born unto them!  Though they lived most of their lives on the outside looking in, they were not outsiders to this gift, but the recipients of it. This was big news.  Huge! The shepherds sensed it, but the angels knew it, and the details of their encounter with these shepherds offers a glimpse into the cosmic weight of this announcement.  At first, there is only one angel who appears to these men in Bethlehem’s fields.  But as soon as he announces Jesus’ birth, “suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God.” (Lk 2:13) It was as if there were millions of angels hiding just behind some celestial corner, and once they heard, “Unto you is born this day a Savior, who is Christ the Lord!” they were unable to contain their joy any longer and all rushed in, praising God, singing, “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace among those with whom He is pleased.” It is at this point that, if we are wise, we will defer to the angels and assume theirs is the response that fits the announcement of the coming of the Savior of the world, Jesus Christ. But it only gets richer from here. The glory of all glories has appeared to the lowest of the lows, and the angels give the shepherds a sign that would have left them speechless. Their Messiah and Savior can be found, the angel tells them, where the young lambs are kept.  He’ll be the one not covered in wool, but in a swaddling cloth. Where the lambs are kept? When they find Jesus in the manger as the angel said, the very location of his birth is drenched in significance.  The Savior has been born into their unclean world in the same manner as a lamb.  The symbolism was not lost on these men.  When the shepherds see Jesus there, they see not only that he has come; they get a hint as to why. He came to be the perfect lamb, the ultimate, lasting sacrifice.  This baby’s coming was to accomplish and establish peace between the God of all creation and His image bearer’s who habitually reject Him. From the manger in Bethlehem to the cross on Calvary, Jesus moved among the people, came into their homes, touched their blind eyes and permitted their unfaithful hands to touch him.  He defended the defenseless and opposed the self-righteous. He taught them profound lessons from ordinary events. He ate at their tables, laughed with their children and wept over their grief. But never, never, never did He abandon His purpose for coming, which was to die for a world of outsiders as the Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world. The Apostle Paul later wrote, “You know the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ that though He was rich, for your sake He became poor, so that you by His poverty might become rich.” (2 Cor 8:9)  Jesus was born poor.  And He lived poor.  And He died poor for the sake of His people. May that image of the manger, where young sacrificial lambs are kept, be a reminder that Jesus has come into this world in the same way he left it, out in the open, among the outcast, poor and despised, but singularly driven by one purpose—to ransom captive Israel that mourns in lonely exile here until the Son of God appears. Rejoice!  Rejoice!  Immanuel has come to you, O Israel.

The Rabbit Room welcomes its newest contributor.  Travis Prinzi’s first book Harry Potter & Imagination: the Way Between Two Worlds is soon to be published, and he’s the proprietor of his own popular blog The Hog’s Head. He’s a Christian who is a bit of a geek about fairy stories and J.K. Rowling, which is to say that he fits right in.  Welcome, Travis. Here are a few excerpts which are well worth your careful consideration: “You write as if a fairytale were a thing of importance: must it have meaning?” It cannot help having some meaning; if it have proportion and harmony it has vitality, and vitality is truth. The beauty may be plainer in it than the truth, but without the truth the beauty could not be, and the fairytale would give no delight. Everyone, however, who feels the story, will read its meaning after his own nature and development: one man will read one meaning in it, another will read another. “If so, how am I to assure myself that I am not reading my own meaning into it, but yours out of it?” Why should you be so assured? It may be better that you should read your meaning into it. That may be a higher operation of your intellect than the mere reading of mine out of it: your meaning may be superior to mine. […] A fairytale, like a butterfly or a bee, helps itself on all sides, sips every wholesome flower, and spoils not one. The true fairytale is, to my mind, very like the sonata. We all know that a sonata means something; and where there is the faculty of talking with suitable vagueness, and choosing metaphor sufficiently loose, mind may approach mind, in the interpretation of a sonata, with the result of a more or less contenting consciousness of sympathy. But if two or three men sat down to write each what the sonata meant to him, what approximation to definite idea would be the result? Little enough–and that little more than needful. We should find it had roused related, if not identical, feelings, but probably not one common thought. Has the sonata therefore failed? Had it undertaken to convey, or ought it to be expected to impart anything defined, anything notionally recognisable? For the best internet resource on George MacDonald, see The Golden Key website. See also Zossima Press’s George MacDonald materials. You can get his complete collected works on CD-ROM for $10.

Matt: I’m a big fan of powerful acting performances (who isn’t?). So with that in mind, I’d like to suggest a question for you, Curt: Favorite male acting performance of the last decade? Curt: The last decade? Well, I think the best way to do this is stream of consciousness style. If a performance is so compelling that it is one of the first to come to mind, it must be pretty good. I saw both of these films within a few weeks of each other, in late 2007/early 2008. The films/performances are linked in my mind not only because I viewed them in close proximity, but also because the films feature superb performances from two top shelf actors, both of whom receive fewer kudos—relative to their skill—than one might expect. Both performances are striking in that they feature men who personify evil, yet incongruently maintain some sort of perverse integrity which, ironically, allows their characters to—in their own minds—justify their ever increasing depravity. Matt: I concur (Dicaprio style). Both men embodied their characters so well that it was simply moving. The facial expressions, the gestures, the hesitations – all so perfect. Lewis in particular continues to excel whether in little known movies like My Left Foot or grandiose, more celebrated movies like Gangs of New York. He has the ability to fully command the screen and keep the audience riveted. Let me throw a curveball and move away from the Oscar-celebrated ranks for a second. What about Will Smith in I Am Legend? I say this because here you have a movie that is completely CGI and only one human (for most of the movie) with a dog. Now, the script is hardly cause for celebration and sure you can dislike it all you want, but I left that movie thinking, ‘Is there anything this man can’t pull off?’ Curt: I usually feel like a spoilsport when discussing Will Smith and I Am Legend. By a wide margin, more movie fans like it than dislike it (or so has been my observation). And I’ll try to separate my indifference to the movie from discussion of the quality of Will Smith’s acting job. I like Will Smith as an actor, though I wasn’t feelin’ it in I Am Legend. I thought Smith’s performances in Ali and Pursuit of Happyness were better. I didn’t sense the depth of genuine emotion from Smith as I did in the others. I wanted to feel Will’s pain when he had conversations with the mannequins and his dog Sam, but it wasn’t in my gut. Knowing that you “should” feel something and actually feeling it are two different things, of course. In all fairness, it takes a special actor to monopolize screen time in a compelling way, maybe like Tom Hanks did in Castaway. As a leading man, when your primary supporting actor is a volleyball, a dog, or a blank chroma key screen, the level of difficulty goes way up. And relative to Leo D. (we are buddies, so he lets me call him that), I have been reluctantly impressed with his ability to play a character with some machismo. In real life, he seems like a guy that might throw like a girl and maintain regular manicure appointments. In Blood Diamond, he comes off as a guy that wouldn’t back away from an invitation to fight. Matt, what are your thoughts on Will Smith in I Am Legend and what other male acting performance would you rank highest in the last ten years? Matt: Absolutely couldn’t agree more about Tom Hanks. That performance in Castaway was one of my favorites in years. I’d have a hard time beating Ed Harris in Pollock, Sean Penn in I Am Sam or Mystic River, Joaquin Phoenix in Walk the Line, Will Smith in Ali, David Strathairn in Good Night, And Good Luck, and absolutely anything with Russell Crowe (who I believe is the best actor alive). *Note, I would say Daniel Day-Lewis is the best actor alive but he only comes out every five years, so that makes me upset enough to give it to someone else. I like Leo quite a bit as well, but not in that movie as much as it was celebrated. And I just mentioned I Am Legend because of the lack of supporting cast, just like Castaway. Not because I thought it was the end-all of thespianism (is that a word?). But to boil it down to one performance? Daniel Day-Lewis as Bill “The Butcher” Cutting in Gangs of New York. You? Curt: Nice choice, Matt. That role was good preparation for There Will be Blood. And if thespianism isn’t a bonafide word, it should be. I like it. You noted several other actors whose work I especially like, namely Sean Penn (Sweet and Lowdown and Mystic River) and Ed Harris. It’s a shame to leave out guys like Philip Seymour Hoffman, Denzel Washington (He won an Oscar for Training Day, which I see as one of his least effective films), Ed Norton (I could easily pick American History X, and leave it at that), not to mention the often subtle and understated Kevin Spacey (American Beauty), and Johnny Depp. I’d also love to pick Heath Ledger for his performance as The Joker in Dark Knight, which was stunning and creepy. Despite all of these great performances, I’m going to go with Billy Bob Thornton in Sling Blade. Surprised? Granted, it’s sometimes perceived as a cult film and does have some violence and bad language, but in terms of an individual performance, Billy Bob Thornton’s work in this movie is strikingly good, almost mind boggeling. Thornton so thoroughly transforms his demeanor to the point that Thornton the person is largely unrecognizable as himself. Not only does he convincingly become Karl Childers, but he draws huge empathy from the audience for this simple, but good man. Knowing the extent to which this was truly Thornton’s film (he wrote, directed, and starred in it), helps me settle on this performance as the one that belongs at the top. Thornton won an Academy Award for Best Writing and was nominated as Best Actor. He should have won. So Matt, let’s open up the cyber floor to Rabbit Room brothers and sisters (Rabbitheads). Do you agree with the performances Matt and I noted, or is there one that blew your socks off, that we simply overlooked? We used the last ten years as a parameter to put some focus on this fun project, but a year or two either way is okay. I’m adding that modification since I just realized Sling Blade is from a little more than ten years ago and I’d rather read your ideas than do a rewrite.

I’ve been hearing about this children’s Bible called The Jesus Storybook Bible by Sally Lloyd-Jones for a year or so now, first from Ben Shive, then from a smattering of others whose opinions I respect on such matters.  One night last week Jamie and I were putting our sweet Skye to bed (she’s 6 now), and we were talking to her about Christmas.  I’d been gearing up to leave for tour and with the first Sunday of Advent fast approaching we wanted to find out what she thought.  Jamie asked her who was born on Christmas morning, and Skye answered, “Um…Noah?” I’m afraid the same thing may have happened with our Bible storytelling.  Understand, I read the Bible to my kids.  We even act out the different stories when we’re finished.  But I’ve always noticed that Skye is busy giggling at her older brothers, or she’s the first of the brood to fall asleep when we’re reading.  It made me wonder if maybe I hadn’t spent enough one-on-one time, curled up in her bed in those tender minutes before she drifts away, impressing the words of the Lord on the clay of her soul.  Or maybe (and it humbles me to say this) I’m not telling the story in a way that captures her imagination.  Girls are into pink unicorns.  I am not. I decided that night that something had to be done.  I would take measures to ensure my daughter’s biblical understanding.  I would pick up The Jesus Storybook Bible as soon as I could lay my hands on it.  Just a few nights ago we played a Christmas concert in Michigan City, IN, and Ben told me that he saw the very book in the church’s bookstore.  I traded a copy of On the Edge of the Dark Sea of Darkness with the pastor for it, and I can’t help thinking that I got the infinitely better deal.  I curled up in my bunk on the bus that night and read: “No, the Bible isn’t a list of rules, or a book of heroes.  The Bible is most of all a Story.  It’s an adventure story about a young Hero who comes from a far country to win back his lost treasure.  It’s a love story about a brave Prince who leaves his palace, his throne–everything–to rescue the one he loves.  It’s like the most wonderful of fairy tales that has come true in real life! You see, the best thing about this Story is–it’s true. There are lots of stories in the Bible, but all the stories are telling one Big Story.  The Story of how God loves his children and comes to rescue them. It takes the whole Bible to tell this Story.  And at the center of the Story, there is a baby.  Every Story in the Bible whispers his name.  He is like the missing piece in a puzzle–the piece that makes all the other pieces fit together, and suddenly you can see a beautiful picture.” I got home just tonight for a day of rest, and after we had read from Luke and lit the Advent candle, I sat by my daughter on the couch where she could see the pictures, and I read those words.  Right when I got to the part about the Prince leaving his palace and his throne–leaving everything–I had that all-too-familiar lump rising in my throat, the lump that rises whenever the goodness of the Gospel warms my bones.  I saw my daughter’s eyes.  I saw that she heard me.  And I pray that her little girl heart was soft enough to let the light of that Story shine in.

Here in these weeks leading up to Christmas, we are posting a series of meditations focused on the story of Jesus’ birth from the Gospels.  For more on what Advent means and why many Christains observe it, here’s a short introduction.  If you’d like to make a wreath of your own for your family or study group, here’s how.  The text for this week’s reflection comes from Luke 1:26-38. In the sixth month, God sent the angel Gabriel to Nazareth, a town in Galilee, to a virgin pledged to be married to a man named Joseph, a descendant of David. The virgin’s name was Mary.  The angel went to her and said, “Greetings, you who are highly favored! The Lord is with you.” Mary was greatly troubled at his words and wondered what kind of greeting this might be.  But the angel said to her, “Do not be afraid, Mary, you have found favor with God.  You will be with child and give birth to a son, and you are to give him the name Jesus.  He will be great and will be called the Son of the Most High. The Lord God will give him the throne of his father David, and he will reign over the house of Jacob forever; his kingdom will never end.” “How will this be,” Mary asked the angel, “since I am a virgin?” The angel answered, “The Holy Spirit will come upon you, and the power of the Most High will overshadow you. So the holy one to be born will be called the Son of God.  Even Elizabeth your relative is going to have a child in her old age, and she who was said to be barren is in her sixth month.  For nothing is impossible with God.” “I am the Lord’s servant,” Mary answered. “May it be to me as you have said.” Then the angel left her.     — Luke 1:26-38 (ESV) Elizabeth had a cousin, a young woman named Mary who was engaged to a young man named Joseph.  They lived in an out of the way town called Nazareth.  No one really remembers where she came from?  Joseph, however, was descended from the great King David, though for his part he was a blue collar carpenter. They were simple and honest people, dreaming and working hard toward a life they could live out together as a family, as husband and wife.  They expected to be ordinary in every way and perfectly happy for it. But all of this was interrupted in a moment. Mary received a visit from an angelic being who would tell her something that would dramatically alter the course of her life and Joseph’s—and the whole of history. The message of the angel was not without consequence either. It would lead these two young people to live as fugitives for a time, running from the Roman ruler Herod himself.  Also, Mary and Joseph would suffer suspicious looks from friends and relatives, questioning her virtue and his manhood. And eventually, as the old watchman Simeon predicted, the anguish that would accompany the consequences of this angel’s news would be like a sword that would pierce through their very souls. All this and so much more was coming.  But for now as the angel stood before the young woman, she trembled with fear wondering what was about to happen.  What could an angel of the Lord possibly have to say to her? It was an ordinary thing for first century Jews to be familiar with the word of God, having grown up under its teachings.  Laced throughout its lessons came the prophetic promise of God’s coming Messiah.  Young and old tried to imagine what this would entail.  Would salvation come in a radiant swell of angelic fury? Would deliverance take the form of a mighty army rolling over Rome with some unprecedented warrior-king leading the charge?  Across the generations people speculated about this.  But when the angel comes to Mary, the hypothetical is brought into the real.  The ordinary is all at once extraordinary. And she is as scared as anything. The angel tries to calm her, explaining that God has found favor with her so she should not fear this visit or the message he brings.  It must have been strange to stand there before this seraph—glorious, strong and other-worldly—and hear him tell her not to fear. And perhaps it was even stranger to hear that God had formed an overall impression of her.  She was known by God?  And He liked what He saw? Mary, the angel tells her, will conceive a son. God has already chosen his name—Jesus, which means “salvation.”  This boy will grow to reign over the people of God as their savior and king.  The God who promised David so many years ago that his royal line would see no end will keep this covenant by bringing an heir to Israel’s throne through this young woman. “How can this be? I am a virgin?” she asks without a hint of sarcasm.  For her to bear this son, she must conceive.  And how can a virgin conceive? The angel explains that she has entered the world of the one who made hers.  All the law of nature, it turns out, are amendable by the One who wrote them.  Like a magician covering the flower in his hand with his cape, only to pull it away as the onlookers discover, to their amazement, that the flower has become a bird which flies away, the Holy Spirit will overshadow this virgin and when he pulls the shadow back, she will be a mother.  How this will happen is incidental to the fact that God will be the one doing it. Still, virgins don’t conceive.  Everyone knows this. Knowing his words require a significant paradigm shift, the angel gives Mary a sign to help her believe in the possibility, even if she has no category for the process. If Mary would only go to visit her elderly cousin Elizabeth, who has been barren her entire life, she will find a woman only months away from having a miracle baby of her own. Elizabeth is six months pregnant.  This, the angel tells her, is a sign that she might understand that nothing is beyond God. Now it was Mary’s turn to speak.  There before the Guardian of Heaven, wrapped up in the vertigo of this inter-terrestrial conversation, Mary answered, “Alright, may it be done to me as you have said.” What else could she say?  She couldn’t prepare for this, nor could she help it along.  This is something that must be done to her—something only God can do. And this is precisely what God did. Mary, it is said, was someone who appreciated nuance and implication.  She treasured things in her heart. Three things come across in this angelic visit that shine like gemstones for the heart seeking treasure.  One, God, by the grace of His love, finds favor in ordinary people.  Two, He interacts with those people in time and space so that they might receive His salvation.  And three, God meets those people in the context of their ordinary lives while He Himself remains extraordinary. The angel’s message was as much about the character of the God who knew Mary as it was about what He meant to do for His people through her.  And she treasured all these things in her heart.

“There is no need to force a person’s will. All the other person need do is attract and captivate our ‘want,’ and then we will love to act in harmony with him….People often ask, How can we conceive of God changing a person’s will if he is free? The answer is that God changes our ‘want,’ and the will follows spontaneously. Once God has captured our wills by drawing us back to Himself through Christ, then it is He in us who ‘wills and does of His good pleasure’ and it is we who naturally, gladly, freely work it out.” Comments?

Each is brief, never more than a page.  The book is easily read in a single sitting but instead of closing the cover when I finished, I found myself turning back the pages to read them again.  He captures the structure, language, and tone of the Psalms perfectly but it’s his honesty that drives them home.  They are written in brokenness and longing but infused with certainty that God is sovereign.   He lifts up to God everything from his own faithlessness to the fate of nations and is often so effective, so evocative, that his words could lie alongside those of the biblical Psalmist and not seem out of place. I’m including a few excerpts here to give you a taste of how rich a text this is.  I hope Mr. Cohen won’t mind.  If you can find a copy of the Book of Mercy, by all means, grab it and soak it up. From Book of Mercy by Leonard Cohen #33 “You who question souls, and to whom souls must answer, do not cut off the soul of my son on my account. Let the strength of his childhood lead him to you, and the joy of his body stand him upright in your eyes.  May he discern my prayer for him, and to whom it is uttered, and in what shame.  I received the living waters and I held them in a stagnant pool.  I was taught but I did not teach.  I was loved but I did not love.  I weakened the name that spoke me, and I chased light with my own understanding.  Whisper in his ear.  Direct him to a place of learning.  Illuminate his child’s belief in mightiness […] bless him with a soul that remembers you, that he may uncover it with careful husbandry.  They who wish to devour him have grown powerful on my idleness.  They have a number for him, and a chain.  Let him see them withered in the light of your name.  Let him see their dead kingdom from the mountain of your word.  Stand him up upon his soul, bless him with the truth of manhood.” And from #48 “[…]I established a court, and I fell asleep under a crown, and I dreamed I could rule the wicked.  Awaken me to the homeland of my heart where you are worshiped forever.  Awaken me to the mercy of the breath which you breathe into me.  Remove your creature’s self-created world, and dwell in the days that are left to me.  Dissolve the lonely dream which is the judgment on my ignorance, and sweep aside the work of my hands, the barricades of uncleanliness, which I commanded against the torrents of mercy.  Let your wisdom fill my solitude, and from the ruin raise your understanding.  Blessed is the name of the glory of your kingdom forever and ever.  What I have not said, give me the courage to say.  What I have not done, give me the the will to do.  It is you, and you alone who refines the heart, you alone who instructs mortals, who answers the trembling before you with wisdom.  Blessed is the name of the one who keeps faith with those who sleep in the dust, who has saved me again and again.  To you is the day, and the conscious night, to you alone the only consecration.  Bind me, intimate, bind me to your wakefulness.”

“Being in love,” that intoxicating feeling, is sublime, heady. It elevates us, changes our perceptions of the world, of our present, of our future. Our heart sings. Our dreams for ourselves ring with angelic voices. But it can’t last; it isn’t meant to. It’s like learning an instrument. We hear an acoustic guitar and want to play it. There’s excitement at the beginning, the potential, the thrill. The learning process begins – and soon we find “this isn’t easy.” Playing an instrument requires commitment, focus, determination – and a whole lot of time. The halo melts away. It is at this point that our will must engage – the will to believe, to faithe, to trust that we do love it even if we don’t feel it. If we try to hang on to that halo we won’t advance. If we cling to that in-love-ness, the mere feelings, we will be using our will to cling to the mere romance of it rather than being propelled into deeper knowledge and proficiency. We’ll continue to romanticize – and we’ll be disappointed time and again as our largely illusory dream slams up against reality. I’m not knocking those in-love feelings. But feelings come and go, and yet love doesn’t have to. I’ve often heard people say the Greek word “agape” means “God’s love.” But it doesn’t, since John 3:19 says “This is the condemnation, that light is come into the world, and men loved (agape) darkness rather than light.” That means they were wholeheartedly committed to darkness. Their love was a choice of their will. That’s what God’s love is like. It is the wholehearted, committed giving of Himself even at His own expense. The story is told of the great violinist Itzhak Perlman having a fan approach him and say, “I would give my life to play like you.” His reply? “Lady, I did.” Marriage can be a lot of work at times. It is a giving over of oneself to a partnership, a union. That’s going to be costly at times, because to say “yes” to one thing is to say “no” to many other things. For me to be committed to playing music and writing means all of my work/hobby time is taken up with those things. I don’t have time to be a great photographer or fly model airplanes as well. We vow to love, honor, cherish, till death do us part. That’s costly to the flesh that wants to do what it feels. Our flesh wants to avoid pain and find pleasure. That’s natural; that’s just the way the flesh is. Jesus, in the days of His flesh, attempted to avoid the pain of the Crucifixion there in the Garden. But if we, like Jesus, recognize that we are not meant to be flesh-driven, that pleasure and pain are both included in the package, it will take much of the sting out of sorrows; This is going to be very hard at times, but in Christ I am filled full with everything I need to follow through. In the end what we find, in marriage, guitar playing, and following Christ, is a deeper halo – not our dream for ourselves but “God’s idea of us when He devised us” (George MacDonald). We finally find the identity, and the daily expression of it, that we were made for. That’s real satisfaction and fulfillment.