What are you looking for?

The carnival has come to our little mid-western town and transformed our main street for Hay Days. I’m usually on the road for this annual event, but this is the first year I got to experience it. We headed down the street with our tickets and rode all the rides. Even 4 year old Gus got himself psyched up for it. “oh man” he slapped his forehead as we handed the carny man our tickets for the Gravitron, “I’m such a dork”. And then he bravely stepped in and rode his first carnival ride – but not his last. He did well and rode every other ride that day – the Ferris Wheel, Fun House, and the Tilt-a-Whirl (or hurl-a-whirl as we like to call it). I guess it goes with the territory of being the youngest, he has to prove himself to everyone else in the family. We also ate our fill of super corn dogs and cotton candy before going home. But that wasn’t the end of the excitement. The day before Gus sent everyone into a panic when he swallowed a water balloon. We called the nurse who told us we just needed to watch for it to show up when it came out the other end, which Jacob (our 11 year old) informed us that it did last night after the carnival when he was helping Gus, er, take care of business. The Gravitron must have forced it through since we weren’t expecting it for a couple more days. “Really?!” Taya exclaimed, “are you sure it came out, Jacob?” “For-shizzle” interjected Gus (yes, that’s what he said) “Yep, it was blue,” Jacob said. Well, that may be more information than you wanted about our family, but on a more professional note… CBN music just featured yours truly with a piece called “The Virtues Of Weakness” that sums up the heart of my ministry. Check it out here

Perhaps you have never heard of Irena Sendler. She kept names. Names were important to her. She died two weeks ago today. Yesterday evening, as a beautiful spring day was drawing to a close, my brother Gary, my nephew Caleb and i took a short walk through a hardwood bottom behind my house, Caleb, newly graduated from Auburn University with a degree in wildlife science, is a catalog of things that grow in the forest. It’s enjoyable and impressive to walk the woods with him, and to quiz him about Latin names of what most of us would simply call “a tree.” We came upon one plant that we didn’t recognize, a plant about 2 feet tall with a cluster of small white blooms on top of the stem. The three of us examined it closely in hopes 1) that its identity would become clear to us or 2) that we could remember enough detail about it to find it in one of my field guides at the house. The cluster of blooms was about 3 inches wide with individual flowers about a quarter to half inch across, flowers of symmetrical petals with purple centers. The leaves on the stem, Caleb observed, grow in a pattern called “decussate.” (i had to look it up too.) None of us could name the plant, nor find it in or field guides. This morning, i walked back to the bottom and found 2 other of the same plant. And i’ve a hunch that, each time i return to that section of the woods, i will pay special attention to them, as though they are new eccentric neighbors. Maybe it’s just me, but the pleasure of a walk in the woods is greatly enhanced by knowing the names and properties of the trees, flowers, and birds that inhabit the area. The generalized “forest” comes when i know that its residents are uniquely designed, capable of distinction, and intended to perpetuate their kind. Sawtooth oak, tulip poplar, white oak, river birch, sourwood, ironwood, beech… Those names, and the unique characteristics that each implies, communicate so much more than “tree” and i find myself, each time i take a stroll, wanting to know more about this locale in which i live. “Everything is a Fingerprint” comes to mind. There is a certain godliness in knowing and wanting to know names. Of the stars, in all their billions, scripture teaches that God “calls them each by name.” (Ps.147:4) And what of all those long lists and Old Testament genealogies that seem so pointless and unfamiliar, not to mention difficult to pronounce. There must be some good reason that they are imposed upon us by the writers of Scripture. Maybe we’re supposed to deduce something about the importance of names. Eugene Peterson observes that, “The personal name is the seed that germinates and grows into the personal story. In this way, story as a way of speech quietly insists that all truth is personal and relational. God deals with persons, named persons, not numbers or abstractions or goals or plans. Language at is best and purest turns on naming and names. Names are important. They save us from the swamps of undifferentiated generality. They protect us from the arid wastelands of abstraction. A name is a lifejacket that keeps us afloat in the ocean of anonymity.” Leap Over the Wall, p. 24, 104. It is one thing to ‘love’ Africa or to care about ‘people.’ It is altogether different to love an individual with a name, a street address, a shoe size. Wendell Berry, with typical eloquence, makes the point this way: “No matter how much one may love the world as a whole, one can live fully in it by living responsibly in some small part of it. Where we live and who we live there with define the terms of our relationship to the world and to humanity. We thus come again to the paradox that one can become whole only by the responsible acceptance of one’s partiality.” Art of the Commonplace, p. 118. In other words, we demonstrate our love of the whole, wide world by loving the ones nearest to us, the ones whose names we do know or should know. It rather begs the question, doesn’t it? Can i ‘love the world’ or ‘care about people’ or ‘walk the Jesus way’ if i don’t know or care to know the name of the lady at the local convenience store where i regularly buy my gasoline, or the bank teller where i transact business each week, or the man who puts the mail in my box each day at the post office? Seems highly unlikely. Names matter. Maybe you’re wondering about her name. Irena Sendler. The field guide description of her might read: “98 years old, barely 5 feet tall, resident of Warsaw, Poland; doughboy face, twinkling eyes. Died in 1944 and in 2008.” Irena Sendler was a Catholic Social worker during WWII and member of the Polish resistance in Warsaw, home to the most infamous Jewish ghetto that the Nazis maintained during the Holocaust years. Irena Sendler would enter the ghetto and, in flagrant but cautious violation of the law, took much-needed food and medicine to the Jewish people. When trains began to deport the Jewish people to concentration camps, Mrs. Sendler began to smuggle the children out of the ghetto however she could – in toolboxes, suitcases, coffins, bags, anything to save the children. When she got the children out of the ghetto, Mrs. Sendler would change the names of the children since conspicuously Jewish ones – Stein, Moskowitz, Levi – would mean re-arrest and probable execution. Names are important. But to make sure that the children would know their real identities and be reunited with their families after the war, she would write their real and their fictitious names on pieces of paper, put them in glass jar, bury them in a neighbor’s garden, and continue her work. In 1943, Irena Sendler was arrested by the Nazis and questioned about her suspected aid to the Jewish people. She refused to turn over the names of the children. The Nazis broke her arms and legs. She still refused to talk. She was sentenced to die, but still remained steadfast in her silence. Her execution was only averted by payment of a bribe to a German soldier by other members of the Resistence. The executioner entered on Nazi records that Irena Sendler had been executed in 1944. By war’s end, Mrs. Sendler and her friends had 2500 names in the garden, children they had saved one at a time. Many years later, in 1979, she was honored by the Pope, at which time she presented him with a small paper card that she had carried during the war. It read, “Jesus, I trust in Thee.” Names matter. A few nights ago, at a senior banquet for high school students and their parents, i shared the story of Irena Sendler and suggested that, in a sense, we each carry a jar through life, one that we get to fill with names – or not – as we have opportunity to help, encourage, sacrifice for and bless others. i ask myself, not for self-congratulation or sake of comparison, but merely to examine how i am spending my days, whose names are in my jar? How safe and cared for are they in my possession? Am i doing my part to know my neighborhood, and to love those in it? Do i call others by name? I’m soon to be home for 6 weeks during which time i hope, Lord willing, to finish a new recording of songs, write some new ones, eat tomatoes off the vine (on white bread with mayonnaise), and go to sleep at the same time every night. January through May have been 5 months of memorable work and pleasant life in the community. Thank you for the part you’ve played in making it possible. That plant? The one with the cluster of flowers on the top? White milkweed (Asclepias variegata) Called by name, Levi

I’m happy to present to you a song from Ben Shive’s upcoming The Ill-Tempered Klavier. The album is nearing completion, and “S” is next in line for the song of the day, so Ben agreed to let us post this one. It’s called ’97, a song about the year his older brother went away to college. Beautiful, sad, and melodic, oh my. 97 Words and Music by Ben Shive The year my brother went away The song got sad And I woke up one day Feeling so funny I forgot to laugh Like I was all up in my head With no way out And sad for nothing, just sad Every day was down It happened overnight The flier on the wall said: Do you feel nothing at all? And do you wonder if you’re even real? Well my feelings exactly ‘Cause where was the old me Who used to be happy Who used to think he was okay? It happened overnight And a little girl was taken We tied a ribbon around the tree And the search went on for ages While the search went on for me And I thought about her mother There was nothing she could do Cause she couldn’t go back and she couldn’t go on And God only knew where her baby had gone The year my brother went away And the song got sad Everything changed And we could never go back Yeah, everything changes, everything dies The year my brother went away It happened overnight

I got to see Andrew Peterson and the Captains Courageous (Andy Gullahorn & Ben Shive) this weekend when their adventuring brought them to Minnesota. They played in a good sized Lutheran Church in Lakeville with a row of peer-admirers sitting in the front. Taya and myself as well as Joel Hanson, Troy and Sara Groves, and a couple of my friends sat rapt with attention as the evening began. Despite a somewhat tepid audience who for the most part seemed too self-conscious to really let loose and laugh (or applaud with gusto, or sing along, or…), and in spite of some sound issues for the first third of the evening (poor Andrew’s voice had more low end than any other instrument on stage), the Captains Courageous soldiered on and put on a great show, with the Andys on guitars and the masterful Ben Shive on piano and keyboard. (As the night went on, they dialed in Andrew’s voice, too, and resolved most of the sound issues.) I wished I’d written a set list, but I wasn’t thinking of doing a review as much as I was just happy to get lost in some good music. But the evening began with four songs back to back as the fellas got a feel for the room and found their footing (lots of “f”s in that sentence). Andy P. introduced himself and a song by way of telling the story of growing up in Illinois in the skater culture of the 80’s and how he desperately wanted a pair of pink converse hightops. When he finally got them (and his brother a pair of purple ones, which they swapped a shoe so each of them had one pink and one purple – go Pete!), they ended up moving to a small town in North Florida. Andy P. and his new hightops now found themselves in redneck country where people hunted, only listened to country music, and beat up kids who wore pink (and purple) hightops. He went on to explain how he used to hate country music and would only listen to mock it, but slowly found himself staying longer on the dial than he expected as he discovered some of the great “country” like Lyle Lovett, Alison Krauss and Union Station, and Bill Monroe. He talked of how grateful he is that Bill and Chet Atkins weren’t preachers, because it forced them to preach with their music, and then he paid homage to their great preachments with a beautiful performance of “Let There Be Light”. After this, Andy P. introduced Andy Gullahorn who introduced himself by saying that he grew up in Texas and that he was the kid who beat up the other kids at school who wore pink hightops. He had the whole audience in the palm of his hands as he told us how he was raised to work with cows and was on a career path to mastering the art of artificially inseminating said cows. “If you don’t know what that means, let me just say that it involves a rubber glove that comes up to here,” he said as he pointed to his shoulder. “So I decided I wanted to be a songwriter.” He obliged my earlier backstage request and opened with “More Of A Man”. The audience never saw it coming as they laughed at the verses leading up to the emotional punch of the last chorus. I think he made some fans that night. He also played a new one about belief in spite of all we see that dares us to not believe. It was a great song that he tells me is on Jill Phillips’s (his wife’s) forthcoming record. Andrew came back and ended the first set with a couple songs from Slugs & Bugs. After a brief break, the second set started strong and Andy P. totally owned it, playing tried and true classics as well as a good number of songs from his forthcoming record, Resurrection Letters, and seasoned with great stories throughout. The stories and the on stage banter are why I go to concerts like these and they were great – giving depth, meaning, and often a good laugh, if not a tear. I was struck, too, by how road ready the new songs are. They were among the strongest of the night. At the end of the evening, they invited Troy Groves up to play percussion on Andrew’s new song “All Things New” and it was the musical highlight of the evening. The room was full of music. Afterwards I talked to Andrew about the evening and how invasive much of it was – but in the best way possible. I don’t know about you, but I often go through times when the tenets of Christian faith begin to seem so unlikely. I’ve been in a bit of a spiritual funk recently, wondering exactly what I believe, why I believe it, and taking stock of everything. Creedal confession was a theme throughout the evening as we were asked numerous times to join in a refrain of “I believe….” Even Andy Gullahorn’s song was like this. Lewis talks about fostering spiritual habits that turn into disciplines and how a child learns to become an adult by playing at being adult. I found that the more I was asked to sing “I believe…” throughout the evening, the more I did believe. It was invasive because at first he was obligating me by asking me to sing such significant words of great consequence – which I did even though my own conflicts were consciously registered. But by the end, through the sheer repetition of it, I found that I do indeed still believe, and was grateful to have been given an opportunity to say so. I told Andy that this was the gift he gave to me that night. As if all this weren’t enough, we were treated to a great hang as we all went over to the Groves’ house, ate pizza, cheese, and ice cream and sat down to play a game that Ben Shive and Andy Gullahorn created the previous night before their show in Green Bay, WI. They call it “Banderdash” and it’s a variation of Balderdash where we all looked at a picture of an unknown band and then had to write a name for the band that we hoped would dupe the others. Like the rest of their creative output, the game was brilliant and we all had a blast going late into the evening. Let’s hope for a version of it to be available in the Rabbit Room store soon!

Oh man, do I love this song. The big last chorus is so beautiful it’s made me cry (though according to my friends, that ain’t saying much). I’m pretty sure Andy Gullahorn wrote this one, but Jill’s voice just knocks it out of the park. THE DOOR (from the album Nobody’s Got It All Together) I come to you with my broken heart in my hands I come to you with my broken heart in my hands Since you brought dead ones to life I know you can do that with mine So I come to you with my broken heart in my hands I come to you with an anxious and troubled mind I come to you with an anxious and troubled mind Just like you did to the seas I know that you will bring peace So I come to you with an anxious and troubled mind I ask I seek and knock I ask I seek and knock I ask I seek and knock That the door will be opened I come to you with the burdens I can not bear I come to you with the burdens I can not bear Your yoke is easy so I Can trade them for one that is light So I come to you with the burdens I can not bear I ask I seek and knock I ask I seek and knock I ask I seek and knock That the door will be opened the door will be opened the door will be opened I come to you with a life that I do not own I come to you with a life that I do not own The door to your kingdom is grace And you gave your own life away That the door will be opened

For all you Harry Potter fans, here’s a link to her recent commencement speech. I haven’t read the whole thing yet, but here’s a paragraph that stood out:

Do you ever feel like God’s punching bag? I do. I’ve felt like that for most of my life, now that I think about it. Whenever I step out on faith, I find holes in the floor. I’ve fallen so many times that standing at all sometimes feels like valor, much less taking another step. But I keep on, out of stubbornness sometimes more than anything as noble as faith or hope, thinking that somewhere down the line, somehow this is going to make sense. Somehow all these trips and falls and bloodied knuckles are going to achieve something one day, right? One day I’m going to follow where he leads me, and it’s going to be somewhere other than off a cliff, right? The past couple of months, a lot of things in my life seemed to turn around. I felt like for the first time in years, I could hear God’s voice loud and clear. The bruises of the past healed and I started walking by faith again, venturing into places I’d never gone before, doing things I’d never do on my own without the direction of the Holy Spirit. I took every step in prayer. Shut my eyes, Lord, so that I will not see the things I want. Place my feet, Lord, on the path you have set for me. And he did, and amazing things happened. I was happier than I have ever been. I was content, at peace, secure in the knowledge that my steps were not my own. Until, the path took me over the edge of the cliff again and unlike those kids in the Sigur Ros video, I didn’t fly.  Everything changed, without any reason or explanation, I fell. Now again, my legs shake when I try to stand. Why should I follow a God that seems to take pleasure in seeing me fail? The rational side of me says that there’s a reason for all this even though I can’t see it yet. But the emotional side of me just wants to scream and rage and curse the day I followed him at all. How are we supposed to learn when we can’t see the resolution? The only lesson I can ever seem to find is that it’s better not to trust at all. How many times can a person follow in faith when those steps so often lead to heartbreak. How do you maintain hope when all evidence suggests it’s folly? That’s the definition of hope, I’m aware, but it doesn’t make it any easier. I don’t have any answers here. I just want to learn the lessons he’s trying to teach me. So why won’t he show me what the lesson is? I’m tired of falling. And I don’t want to be, but right now, I’m tired of following.

For those of you out there holding on for life.

The Bible is a collection of some of the greatest and earliest stories in human history. Love stories, dramas, action-adventures, romantic comedy, war epics, soap operas–you name it and there’s something to fit your bill. Given our love of Story here at the Rabbit Room, I thought it would be fun to hear what There is this strange story … actually it’s just a point within a story in Daniel that I find completely fascinating. Paul mentions that we don’t battle against flesh and blood and instead draws our attention to the spiritual battle taking place around us. In the book of Daniel, there’s a quick mention of an angel coming to attend to Daniel and he says to him something along the lines of “I would have gotten here sooner, but it took me twenty-one days to get to you because a spiritual evil force over the kingdom of Persia withstood me…” I just find that completely profound and absolutely interesting. The second story, and perhaps the one I can more readily make sense of and identify with (I wrote a song based on this on my 2001 album, Land of the Living) is the story, also starring Elisha, of the swimming iron in 2 Kings 6:1-7. In a congregationally-supported new sanctuary building campaign, several Hebrew men, having outgrown their current digs, meet at a point alongside the Jordan River and proceed to cut down some local trees from which they will begin construction of their new state-of-the-art, modern A/V, fully Power-Pointed, plush assembly hall. At one harried, hacking point, one of the tools suffers a manufacturer’s malfunction (made in China?), and the iron axehead falls off the wooden handle into the river below. Being made of iron, it, of course, sinks like a proverbial stone to the bottom of the murky creek. Being a poor man and having borrowed the tool in the first place, this gent probably suffers a bit of a conniption fit since he has no way of recompensing the man from whom he borrowed it. Ob-la-di, ob-la-da, get over it, one might say in today’s non-prophetic world, but not in those non-potable times; not when there were real live God-ordained prophets roaming the sand-laden streets, handing out basketfuls of deliverance and omens seemingly left and right. These scared gentlemen request that Elisha saunter over and help them solve the poor man’s dilemma. Elisha, as to be expected, obliges. He asks them to point out where, exactly, the axehead fell into the river. They point, he picks up a twig, tosses it onto the river at that spot, and, like a Cheerio in milk, the iron swims to the surface. All is well with the world. Great thanks to Charles Spurgeon, I am vaguely able to make a little more sense of this OT snippet. At first glance, this appears to be a story of a miracle – a physical one. It is to my understanding that iron normally does not float on water. But I suspect that it is also the story of the underlying miracle that God – the same God of Elisha, Abraham, Moses, David, the father of Jesus – should daily care for the seemingly mundane, day-to-day occasions of our lives, that it is a miracle that ANYTHING should ever go right in this world, much less go wrong, and, to crown our oblong heads, that He finds us worthy of such mercy and attention. This is no small thing. David brings him in and restores everything he lost to him, except one thing– his independence. David vows to treat Mephibosheth as one of his own sons, and sets a place at the King’s table for him– which means for every meal, Mephibosheth must be carried to his place in the Kingdom and sit at the table of the one who took him from his land of desolation and restored his reputation from being a shameful figitive to an adopted son of the King. It is a hard and glorious picture of grace to be called by the One who holds all the cards and to have to remain in his presence when it would seem much easier if he would just give us independence from him so we could go and make something of ourselves. Part of Mephibosheth’s restoration is the requirement to live as a son of the King, not merely as his subject. The way I see it, either Jonah wrote Jonah, or he told the story and it was written later. Either way, this makes Jonah pretty amazing. I want to be just like the guy who tells this story about himself, the way it is told in scripture. With no self-pity, no sugar coating, and no concern for his reputation, Jonah reveals the depth of his ingratitude and the fathomless depths of God’s mercy. His prayer at the beginning of Chapter 2 is astounding for its dichotomous combination of poetic prophecy and immature sincerity. When I read that prayer, I believe that Jonah has been healed of his selfish ways. Then, only one chapter later, Jonah is revealed to be just like me – full of contradictions. Jonah is not afraid to question God, and God is patient with Jonah. And though Jonah’s personal story reveals God’s power, grace and mercy, there is a much bigger story being told that gives my own struggling journey of faith a proper context. God is always up to something much greater and more wonderful than we can imagine. And, since Jonah told this story sometime later, I draw encouragement from his transformation from a confused and self-centered prig into a selfless testifier of the Greatness of God. I love this book. I named my son Jonah Goodgame. It’s an up and down story, the paradox of a strong God using our weak humanity to accomplish His purposes. I’ve not heard many sermons on the divine use of sarcasm. “…All the families of the Earth will bless themselves in you and your descendants. Yes. I’ll stay with you, I’ll protect you wherever you go, and I’ll bring you back to this very ground. I’ll stick with you until I’ve done everything I promised you.” And so it goes with Jacob, he lies, he cheats, he steals and leaves in his wake a trail of broken and befuddled people. And yet God blesses him and continues to direct him surely down the path that was always set for him. Much later, Jacob encounters the Angel of The Lord Himself, and has the gall to wrestle with him and demand to be blessed yet again. He is blessed with a new name and a wound he would carry in his walk for the rest of his days, this wild horse of a man broken at last. It’s a mysterious story that has such a ring of truth to it because of how difficult it is to make a nice and tidy morality tale out of it. It reminds me that those who are broken and walk with more of a limp than a swagger have most likely met with God. It reminds me, too, that God’s will for my own life has less to do with my own virtues than I would like to think. That is both humbling and a relief. However they knew each other, Paul sent Onesimus back to Philemon to face the music. But he did more than that. He wrote Philemon a letter on behalf of Onesimus. He said, in effect, “I’m not going to tell you what to do, but I’m sending Onesimus back to you, and I hope you’ll find it in your heart to receive him, not as a slave, but as a brother. Receive Onesimus as you would receive me. And if he has wronged you, charge it to my account.” Here is the gospel at work–making brothers out of slaves and slavemasters. We don’t think of there being a lot of narrative in Paul’s epistles, but this particular one seems like part of an epistolary novel. I’d love to know what happened when (or if) Onesimus got back to Colossae.

Well, it’s Monday and here we are at the P’s. Technically, it’s Eric Peters’s turn at bat for the song of the day, but I’m in a Super 8 motel room in Wausau, Wisconsin and all of the EP music I own is on my home hard drive. Never fear, Eric Peters fans. Tomorrow is his day. I chose this song because we dusted it off and included it in our set this weekend in Wisconsin and Minnesota, reminding me of how much I love to play it, and why it was written. My friend Joel Caldwell flies around in Alaska, bringing much-needed encouragement to the many missionaries braving that fine country’s harsh-but-beautiful conditions. And when I say harsh, I don’t just mean the rugged landscape and the brutally long, cold winters. I’m also talking about the stoic, quiet, strong people who live there. Of course I don’t mean everybody, but during the week I spent in northern Alaska I encountered some of the toughest people I’ve ever met. Wonderful, warm, gracious people, but tough. This lyric is peppered with images and metaphors that I knew would be a little vague to the casual listener, and when I perform it I have a hard time not explaining the minutiae of each line, knowing that it’s too much for an audience to digest in one listen. I trust that the repetitive chorus is enough to latch on to, enough to help the listener fill in whatever blanks are left by the images flitting by. But I thought I’d tell you a little about what’s behind some of these lines, just for fun. ALL SHALL BE WELL Words and music by Andrew Peterson (Matthew 16:18, Matthew 5:16, Luke 15:20-24, Luke 15:4, Isaiah 40:8, Hebrews 12:1) We touched down on the sound (1) At the top of the world In the land of the midnight sun Where the frozen river melts away And breaks into a run (2) Into the sea, into the mighty waves That waited just to see it From a long way off that river thawed And the tide ran out to meet it “Welcome home, unfrozen river, welcome home” (3) ‘Cause all shall be well, all shall be well (3) Break the chains of the gates of Hell Still all manner of things will be well (4) See the quiet hearts of the children of The children of this land (5) They have stayed alive in the day-long night By the fires that warm their hands There is a wilderness inside them It is dark and thick and deep And beside the fire at the heart of that wood Is a precious missing sheep (6) So go on in, hold your torch, let it shine Cause all shall be well, all shall be well Break the chains of the gates of Hell Still all manner of things will be well All shall be well, all shall be well The Word of God will never fail And all manner of things will be well There’s a light in the darkness There’s an end to the night (7) I saw the sun go down on a frozen ocean As the man in the moon was rising (8) And he rode the night all full and bright With his face at the far horizon And the night can be so long, so long You think you’ll never get up again But listen now, it’s a mighty cloud of Witnesses around you (9) (They say) Hold on, just hold on Hold on to the end All shall be well, all shall be well Break the chains of the gates of Hell Still all manner of things will be well All shall be well, all shall be well The Word of God will never fail And all manner of things will be well ——————————————- The Norton Sound. The towns we visited were mostly coastal, the farthest north of which was Nome. Those of you who live in cold climates know about the “river going out”. I remember seeing in a town in Minnesota an old car parked on a frozen river where everyone could see it. The town held a yearly raffle to predict what day of the spring thaw the car would finally sink through the ice. Well, in Alaska there’s much speculation about which day of spring the ice on the rivers will break apart and pour into the ocean. It apparently all happens in one raucous moment, and we missed it by two days. It was the talk of the town. I couldn’t help thinking of the thawing of the heart of the prodigal son and his eventual return to the arms of his father. “All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.” –Julian of Norwich Which is to say, all Hell may break loose, but in the end things will be made right. Many of the Native Americans I met in Alaska were quiet, stoic, intimidating. But behind those fierce eyes was much kindness, and much that needed kindness, too. The landscape of that wild country was much like the inner terrain of that country’s people. Dark, dangerous, but with the bright, warm fire of a soul burning somewhere inside, a lost sheep waiting to be found and loved and carried home. This of course refers to the long night of winter. The occurrence of depression and suicide in Alaska is many times that of the lower states, which is part of why I wanted to write a song of encouragement. On the shore of the coastal village of Unalakleet I sat by a fire and watched the sun slide at a 45 degree angle into the sea while behind me a fat yellow moon lifted over the mountains. I thought about the mighty “cloud of witnesses” in Hebrews when I saw that moon surrounded by clouds on its long journey into the night.

This is the song that made me an Andrew Osenga fan.  It’s almost unbearably honest, so beautiful, so contrite. It expresses so eloquently the way I’ve felt in the wake of sin that I have more than once muttered this song as my best prayer for forgiveness and help.  On this note, have a great weekend and be thankful that you are loved. TOO FAR TO WALK  (from the album Photographs) Jesus, Jesus, Jesus I did what I planned to do And I feel like I knew I would feel Now I want to come back to You My mind is thick and it’s dirty My heart, it ran to hide My plans proved I don’t know what I’m doing Cause I used to feel alive [Chorus] There’s an angel on my left shoulder And ten devils on my right Jesus, you’ll have to come get me Cause it’s too far to walk tonight Jesus, Jesus, Jesus How can I explain These promises scattered ‘Round the floor by the bed Like dinner clothes after a date I get scared that forgiveness Is for better people So I give up trying to fight Jesus, you’ll have to come get me Cause it’s too far to walk tonight Jesus, Jesus, Jesus How precious is that name And while you’re forgiving I’m sorry I forget That you came for sinners to save [Chorus] There’s an angel on my left shoulder And ten devils on my right Jesus, you’ll have to come get me Cause it’s too far to walk tonight

One day, all dumbness will vanish from my life and my goofs will haunt me no more. Until then, I must reconcile myself to the fact that on some days my elevator doesn’t go to the top floor. In high school, I once drove my car to school–backwards. Then there was the time I gave a speech to a room full of people–with my fly down. And the time as a young adult when I put my foot in my mouth so far, I had to call Roto-Rooter. I once told a man who was dying of cancer that he looked great (he did), which would have been fine if I’d left it there. Unfortunately, I continued, “I can’t believe that everybody says you look so sick.” Yikes. Have you ever cringed so deeply that your whole body twisted? I can forgive myself for slips of the tongue though. In fact, it’s quite easy to forgive myself for situations in which I was forced to make a quick decision, but simply chose wrong. But when I engage in what I call premeditated dumb, well that is where I want to literally kick my own butt. On Friday of last week, I had one such day. It started on such a sweet, positive note. My wife bought me a new gas grill as an early Father’s Day present. In the last five or six years, I’ve developed the recreational hobby of cooking and it was a very thoughtful gift. We actually shopped together several days prior, something we don’t often have time to do. We visited four different stores, and settled on a unit with the best combination of features and sale price. Friday was the day I chose to transport it home. With a little forethought and wisdom, at this point I could have averted impending trouble, but it was on this day that had you wired my brain for sound, you might have heard an echo between my ears. After another errand, I stopped at Menard’s to pick up the new grill. The unit that was on sale was sold out, so I had to drive to the next closest store, which had several in stock. It was inconvenient, but these things happen. No problem. Despite the inconvenience, everything was going well until–like a fool–I tried to transport the grill home in my car. This is truly one of the downright dumbest things I’ve done in awhile. I ask the young man that helped me take the grill to the car if anybody had ever tried to fit a grill of this size into a car. Get this; He said, “No, except for one guy that opened the box and put the whole thing in by individual parts!” So at that point, I began to sense (hello, anybody in there?) that the odds were not stacked in my favor. I think statisticians call this scenario “low probability.” The grill was obviously too large for the car. Never one to be deterred by the obvious, I tried to force the issue. After twisting and turning the massive box like a fat lady trying on a pair of shoes two sizes too small, my assistant and I managed to squeeze the box into the passenger seat of the car. But there was one problem. The box hung out from the side of the car about six inches, nothing a little muscle power couldn’t fix! So with the raw strength of–oh, say two of the Three Stooges–we huffed and puffed until we heard a loud, POP!!! And with the POP!!! the grill easily slid in enough to close the door. Upon careful investigation, I noticed that my rear view mirror was hanging from my car roof by strands of wire, which control the auto dimming function of the rear view mirror. The rear view mirror had been unceremoniously ripped from the windshield, which in turn cracked the windshield in one of those star patterns. So because we have a high deductible on our insurance, I’ll be footing the bill for this one. The windshield replacement will probably cost more than the grill! One of “those” days? That’s positive spin. It was much worse than that, especially on my psyche. To add insult to injury, I discovered that I couldn’t shift into drive. So now, with part of the box stuck out of the passenger side window and part stuck out of the moon roof, I couldn’t drive because the box was wedged up against the automatic shifter. Finally, I muscled the box another two inches, enough to shift into drive. At that point, I was wedged in between the grill and driver’s side door, and I suddenly realized that my Diet Coke and peanuts–which I bought as a snack for the trip home–were in the back seat. Though my body was immobile, I confirmed the location of my snack by turning my neck. I just wanted to confirm that they were still there. Hey, I needed some cheering up at that point! But then I had another problem called visibility–or lack thereof. Not only did I not have the benefit of my rear view mirror, but I couldn’t see out of the right side of my car because–you guessed it–the grill was blocking my view. As this point, you may be thinking, “Why didn’t he just call his wife?” And if that’s what you are thinking, I’m quite sure you are female. Men think differently. I could have called my wife, of course. But I didn’t. Yes, I could have rented or borrowed a pick-up. And yes, I am stubborn like you wouldn’t believe. I got the thing in the car and wasn’t about to change my plan at that point. So, v-e-r-y carefully, I drove home. The worst part? Explaining the whole thing to my wife. And yes, she laughed, thankfully in a gentle way. Sometime I’ll tell you all about some of the other dumb things I’ve done in my life, but this one is enough humiliation for one day. As I type this, I keep hoping that tomorrow will be a better day. Unfortunately, tomorrow is the day that I assemble the grill.

From Gullahorn’s website: “I say this is the love song to my hat. It was also a way to complain about lazy music industry people – but that is not as endearing.” NOBODY WANTS TO WORK It took me ten good years to break in this old hat It has a black sweat ring and the bill is cracked It’s all frayed in the front and duct taped in the back There’s so much that this hat has been through In the window of the Abercrombie store There’s a product line I’m sure you’ve seen before Brand new baseball caps made to look already worn What is this world coming to Nobody wants to work Nobody wants to work for it If it don’t come easy, it ain’t worth the wait Nobody wants to work Nobody wants to work for it Welcome to the new old-fashioned way I love the music that I grew up on When the business was all about the song These days it’s just one throw up against the wall If you don’t stick, that’s it – you’re through Nobody wants to work Nobody wants to work for it If it don’t come easy, it ain’t worth the wait Nobody wants to work Nobody wants to work for it Welcome to the new old-fashioned way I see it all the time In the cardboard sign That says I won’t work for food But I’d be happy to take your dime Or the billboard for A quick and cheap divorce We don’t try to fix anything anymore Nobody wants to work Nobody wants to work for it If it don’t come easy, it ain’t worth the wait Nobody wants to work Nobody wants to work for it Welcome to the new old-fashioned way

I spoke with Jason on the phone today and when I told him that he was next in line for the song of the day, he pleaded that I not post his song after Goodgame’s Peanuts goodness. But I have no choice, I told him. I’m posting the songs of the day in alphabetical order according to artist, and Gray comes after Goodgame. Besides, though his great humility may tell him otherwise, Jason has nothing to worry about. His songs are honest and well-crafted, not to mention excellently produced. Check this one out, for example, sung with his musical compadre Sara Groves: THE CUT Words: JG Music: JG & Matt Patrick Psalm 119:67-77 My heart is laid Under Your blade As you carve out Your image in me You cut to the core But still you want more As you carefully, tenderly ravage me And You peel back the bark And tear me apart To get to the heart Of what matters most I’m cold and I’m scared As your love lays me bare But in the shaping of my soul They say the cut makes me whole Mingling here Your blood and my tears As You whittle my kingdom away But I see that you suffer, too In making me new For the blade of Love, it cuts both ways And You peel back the bark And tear me apart To get to the heart Of what matters most I’m cold and I’m scared As your love lays me bare But in the shaping of my soul They say the cut makes me whole Hidden inside the grain Beneath the pride and pain Is the shape of the man You meant me to be Who with every cut now you try to set free CHORUS… …With everyday You strip more away And You peel back the bark And tear me apart To get to the heart Of what matters most I’m cold and I’m scared As your love lays me bare But in the shaping of my soul The blade must take it’s toll So God give me strength to know That the cut makes me whole

Do you ever find an album that so inexplicably captures you for a season that it’s all you can listen to? That’s what has happened to me with a recent little EP I discovered by Thad Cockrell called “To Be Loved”. Thad is a Nashville transplant who writes songs that feel like modern day gospel hymns. His songs are part folk, part alt-country, part Americana, part gospel, and even part ambient, but in the end the songs always add up to more than the sum of the parts. My first gut reaction was that it reminded me of a blend of Chris Isaak, Paul Simon, Martin Sexton, Daniel Lanois and Ryan Adams. There is a disarming simplicity to the songs. I’ve heard the ideas he sings about many times before, but the sentiments that ought to feel threadbare find a quiet revival in Cockrell’s unassuming voice. What I love about it is how comfortable he seems to be with himself and what he does. These songs aren’t trying too hard to be anything other than what they are – simple testaments to the truth, beauty, and longing that Cockrell has known. I found this little record refreshingly earnest. Let me say that I usually recoil from earnestness in music – it distracts me and leads me to suspect that the artist probably takes themselves too seriously. This is especially true in Christian music. And yet, there’s no denying that Cockrell is earnest. However, there’s an invisibility to his earnestness that registers more as a winsome humble sincerity. It seems to be less about him and more about the truth of what he’s singing about and feels refreshingly devoid of an agenda. If an overbearing earnestness is one of the ditches that runs along the well worn path of this kind of gospel music, then the ditch on the other side is what we hear when the performer doesn’t mean the song at all, but sings the songs he sings for aesthetic reasons, like: “Hey look, I’m singing old-timey gospel songs!” Cockrell manages to avoid both ditches. It’s because of this that Cockrell’s music captured my attention. It did more than that: it made me present again to the goodness of the good news that I’ve all but grown too accustomed to. When he sings “There’s Going To Be A Great Rejoicing” I was brought to tears by the lyric: “One day you will find me guarded in his fortress Open heart and wings that never touch the ground One day we will gather in a grand reunion Debts to this old world are nowhere to be found…” And it was like hearing it for the first time when he sang “O To Be Loved By Jesus” “He knows the name of my sorrow…” What a comfort to hear that thought and be given a chance to believe it again. I love, too, the simple clarity of “The Master’s Calling” with it’s Lanois like production of swamp gas ambient electric guitar tones set against the old-school country sensibilities of the melody and lyric. “Listen while you still can hear Listen while you still can hear the Master’s call… Bow down while your knees still bend Bow down while your knees still bend, the Master is calling…” This track I think would appeal to anybody who loved Emmy Lou Harris’ “Wrecking Ball.” My favorites are the first three tracks, starting off with “Pride”: “Pride won’t get us where we’re going It’s made a life of standing in the way Of all the beauty this world has worth knowing Pride won’t get us where we’re going…” Next is the hymn-like “There’s Going To Be A Great Rejoicing” whose warm electric guitar tones wash over you like warm water, followed by “A Country Of My Own” with its Paul Simon-esque delivery of lyrics like: “I’ve been looking for a country of my own When I see her face I know I’ll finally be home Full of mystery and kept surprises A vast expanse where a rich man pays, but to me she sympathizes I’m searching for a country of my own…” I don’t know a lot about Thad Cockrell and I couldn’t find much on the internet, but I understand that he comes from a family of pastors in North Carolina and that he started playing coffee-houses while he was going to Liberty University. Somewhere I believe I read that he’s one of the only men in his family who didn’t become a preacher, but I think the truth of it is that his songs preach plenty and his winsome delivery is bound to win many converts. While not all of his lyrics are self-consciously clever or ambitiously original (compared to some of the progenitors of the new folk movement like Sufjan Stevens, Damien Rice, etc.), I think in Cockrell’s case that would be a great detriment. The beauty of this record is in its unassuming and humble simplicity. In Thad Cockrell I was treated to sweet spirited anthems of truth and beauty that stirred my deeper waters and reminded a jaded music listener and world-weary Christian like myself not only of why the good news is good but also that it can still sound fresh to someone who thought they had heard it all before. Besides, with a name like Thad Cockrell you know you’re going to get something good. Listen to Thad or purchase his new record at www.myspace.com/thadcockrell

I chose this song because I was was around during its pregnancy. Randy started with the first few verses and played them for me one afternoon while we were cowriting (working on a song of mine called “Alaska or Bust”, in fact). Charles Schultz had just died, and Randy wasn’t sure if the verses were good enough to turn into anything. I loved the verses, I said, and asked if I could try my hand at finishing the song. He agreed. To my delight, one of my lines made it to the final version: She always wore that same blue dress ‘Cause she fancied Schroeder liked that color best My own personal connection to what I consider to be a truly Great Song. A song for the ages, Randall.

Matt: We ended our last conversation with the ‘sleeper’ category and it got me thinking – what is my favorite absolutely sleeper pick out there? Now, let me clarify what I would say a sleeper pick is. I don’t mean an Oscar winner that didn’t make much at the box office. I’m not talking about a cult movie. So when I write sleeper, I’m talking about a movie that wasn’t a critical fave, a commercial fave or really anyone’s fave at all. And yet it’s on your list. So with that said, I’d love to talk about cinematic sleepers with that as our definition. This should be an interesting back and forth in the comments. And if someone says something like English Patient or Spider-Man, I’m done. Curt, do you have your top ‘sleeper?’ Curt: I have many, but the first that comes to mind is Timothy Burton’s Edward Scissorhands, from 1990. It made money, but not much. While there were a few critics that embraced it, it was decisively pummeled by critics overall. Edward Scissorhands is a movie that touches me, but in ways that I can’t easily define. It’s not that I understand why and can’t communicate it effectively; it’s that I simply can’t put my finger on why it touches me so deeply. I’ve considered dissecting and sorting my thoughts about it, but always choose to let the aura it gives me remain somewhat vague. I can tell you that Danny Elfman’s soundtrack provides the most amazing mood music I’ve ever heard in a film. Do you remember the Proprietor’s post, Sigur Ros Makes Me Cry? Many were deeply stirred by this video, but couldn’t explain why. That’s how it is with me and the film Edward Scissorhands. What about you, Matt? Matt: Okay, this is a bit off-the-wall, but… Event Horizon. Probably most have never heard of it or even seen it. It’s a horror movie in outer space from 1997 which should relegate it to b-movie status. But Laurence Fishburne and other recognizables pull this off wonderfully (in a horrifying, creepy, sci-fi way). It’s Paul W.S. Anderson who directed Resident Evil and Alien vs. Predator (neither movie I even care to see), so it’s not like I have a ton going for me by recommending this movie. But horror movies are so stupid and predictable and this movie could have went the wrong direction. Instead, I couldn’t sleep well for five days. So this movie does what it should and fits the ‘sleeper’ category perfectly for me. Do you have any others, Curt? Curt: Yes, here’s another one, Matt: Love Song for Bobby Long. Most critics were indifferent or unapologetically hostile towards this movie. It was a big fat box office belly flop. It’s a character driven movie in which plot is secondary to the lives of its characters. Unexpectedly, it drew me in and though in retrospect it sometimes wandered aimlessly, I was riveted by the characters. For a variety of reasons, including salty language and alcoholism personified, I don’t recommend it to those that are sensitive to such. Still, in my mind it’s an excellent piece of moviemaking. Here’s a quote from one of the characters, Lawson Pines, which provides a tidy little summary of why this movie appealed to me: “Some people reach a place in time where they’ve gone as far as they can. A place where wives and jobs collide with desire. That which is unknowable and those who remain out of sight. See what is invisible and you will see what to write. That’s how Bobby used to put it. It was the invisible people he wanted to live with. The ones that we walk past every day, the ones we sometimes become. The ones in books who live only in someones mind’s eye. He was a man who was destined to go through life and not around it. A man who was sure the shortest path to heaven was straight through hell. But the truth of his handicap lay only in a mind both exalted and crippled by too many stories and the path he chose to become one. Bobby Long’s tragic flaw was his romance with all that he saw. And I guess if people want to believe in some form of justice, then Bobby Long got his for a song.” Not to get all weird with theolo-vision ™, but read that paragraph again, with the thought–other than the part about jobs and wives–that it’s about Jesus, not Bobby Long. And I don’t mean that Bobby Long is contructed as a Jesus figure. Only that Jesus looked at the world and life through divine eyes. And though Bobby Long ended up on the wrong path, it wasn’t because he didn’t see right. It’s because he didn’t choose right. Here’s a movie that simply assumes its viewers are well read. I was intrigued by John Travolta’s Professor Bobby Long. He loved literature and art and used them as a vehicle to seek truth. Despite that, though he flirted and danced with truth, it was often too painful to embrace, so he was usually paralyzed by the romance of it all. Indeed, in his life, the romance prevailed over raw truth. More to the point, he embraced form rather than substance. I thought about choosing Flatliners as another sleeper–as a very bad joke–but decided the better of it. What else do you have up your sleeve, Matt? Matt: One movie that I still believe to be absolutely endearing, charming, graceful and quite stunning is In America. It chronicles the tale of an Irish family immigrating to New York and the struggles for the father of two young daughters to make a new life for themselves. It will make you laugh and cry and absolutely nobody has seen it. Curt: That includes me, but not for long. I’ll check it out based on your recommendation (believe it or not, I have seen Event Horizon). The number of books and movies I’ve experienced as the result of Rabbit Room recommendations continues to grow. As we continue to learn, our readers and fellow Rabbit Roomers never come up empty when it comes to recommendations, so let’s open up this thread for discussion. Remember Matt’s criteria for a Sleeper–not an Oscar winner that didn’t make much at the box office or a cult movie. Matt wants us to take it a step further. To qualify the movie should not be a critical or commercial favorite. Nor anyone’s favorite. Except yours. Bring it on!

Take a few minutes and listen to this pretty, sad, hopeful song by Jeremy Casella. It was hard to choose just one song from his newest album RCVRY, but I landed on this one because of the story it hints at. I’m intrigued by songs like this–songs that convey an emotion, paint pictures of a time and place, but don’t come right out and smack you in the face with their deeper story. Not only does it give you something to think about, it allows you to superimpose your own story into the song, and sometimes it helps you to feel less alone. Listening to this record today reminded me all over again what a great piece of work it is, from start to finish (it’s available in the Rabbit Room store and on iTunes, not to mention Jeremy’s website. BORN AGAIN Words and Music by Jeremy Casella I never thought too much about it It didn’t seem like it should matter all those years ago It was buried under Florida sand And frozen under Pennsylvania snow I was fine to leave it all undone Until I looked in the eyes of my own son And everything was born again… Promises get broken Still too young to know the difference Oh but time would tell What was lost in all those silent years Uncovered in some secret fear I’ve known Facing the past to understand My father’s voice, my mother’s hand And everything is born again… What does it mean to give and live and lose and win Then end up dying to preserve a vow you made? Sometimes it helps to name what marks you most of all The things that shape your deepest places And I’m not taking sides I just think it’s sad that’s all That’s all

My wife hates my desk. And this is completely understandable. My personality type is “Selfish”. The test results may tell you I am a ‘Lion’ or ‘ENFP’ but one quick look through my actions on a daily basis and it’s clear I was raised an only child. When I am working (or playing for that matter), I hate to be interrupted. Headphones on, laptop bright, fingers pressing all point to a world meant for one. And my talented, multi-tasking wife wonders what my problem is. It happens all the time: she peeks her head around the corner wondering what I think about a certain issue and I respond as if I was writing the Magna Carta. The ensuing arguments and hurt feelings aren’t worth the quick lapse in work and you would think I would know this lesson by now. The latest form came through a neighbor. I live communally with four married couples (my wife and I being two of the eight) and some of our housemates had agreed to help a neighbor move some old junk from his basement. Some old, heavy junk. So I am busy writing and studying when they come in saying they need help. And my response was, well, predictable to say the least. I ended up helping. And it ended up not being so bad. But that doesn’t mean that I wasn’t completely upset and ticked off at everyone involved. Which is silly… I end up more upset at myself than anything else. Why? Because I realize that we’re all called to the interrupted life. I am the disciples or religious leaders constantly urging Jesus to keep going toward the mission that we’re all in together. “Jesus we need to get going.” “Jesus, we’re going to be late.” And yet time and again, whether it was an old woman who touched the edge of his garment or some children drawing near, Jesus’ life was one full of interruptions – living in the beauty of a moment and allowing that to be the place where he was most present. I get tired of my selfish attitude and yet nothing seems to have changed much in the last 30 years. Perhaps it’s being continually cognizant of my own issues and asking God to change things. But it has to start somewhere…

Ron Block has written several of Alison Krauss’s most popular songs. In 2003 the two of them were a part of the annual Behold the Lamb of God Christmas show, and played “There is a Reason,” one of Ron’s finest. I wish you could have heard the way the audience gasped when the first notes of Alison’s voice rang out–she really is a rare treasure, and there was no denying it that night. But without great songs, like Ron’s in this case, her great voice would only be that. The combination of excellent, meaningful writing, impeccable musicianship, and that angelic voice are enough to level a room.https://rabbitroom.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/05/ThereisaReason.mp3 Notice how solid and tasteful Ron’s guitar playing is. When someone like him is capable of cutting loose (see the video below, for example), it makes you appreciate the simple, intentional undercurrent his playing provides. It may not sound like it, but trust me–the simple stuff is the hardest to play. That’s the difference between a Ron Block (or a Buddy Greene or an Adam Steffey or a Stuart Duncan) and the bluegrass band in a Kentucky bar. They can tear it up, sure, but reigning it in takes work, and talent, and taste. I love this music. I’m including the video below because it’s hard not to smile and tap your foot while you watch. That’s Sierra Hull sticking her tongue out and playing the guitar (and here I just thought she was a mandolin ninja–or ninjette). Not sure who the rest of the ninjas are–can you help with that, Ron?

Last night I had the pleasure of attending (with novelist and Rabbit Room contributor Jonathan Rogers) the second taping of Tokens, a journey through books, music, humor, and theology in the spirit of A Prairie Home Companion. This week the special guests included Buddy Greene, band leader and consummate musical genius Jeff Taylor, Annie Moses Band, Native American singer Bill Miller, and the excellent Julie Lee. I visited the website today to see if they had posted any of the clips from the show (they haven’t yet), and stumbled on this great performance by Buddy Greene and company from the first show. I know this Mark Heard song from the Pierce Pettis album State of Grace. It’s such a rousing song that it’s easy to miss how great the lyrics are.https://rabbitroom.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/05/RisefromtheRuins.mp3 RISE FROM THE RUINS Words and Music by Mark Heard Nobody asks to be born Nobody wishes to die Everybody whiles away the interim time Sworn to rise from the ruins by and by The engines are droning with progress The pistons are pounding out time And it’s you and me caught in this juggernaut jaunt Left to rise from the ruins down the line We will roll like an old Chevrolet The road to ruin is something to see Hang on to the wheel For the highway to hell needs chauffers For the powers that be Go and tell all your friends and relations Go and say what ain’t easy to say Go and give them some hope That we might rock this boat And rise from the ruins one day Ever try to carry water in a basket Ever try to carry fire in your hand Ever try to take on the weight of the everyday freight Til you find that you’re too weak to stand Why so pale and wan, fond lover Why so downcast and desperately sad We can walk, we can talk We ain’t yet pillars of salt And we will rise from the ruins while we can

I write and speak for a living. Sometimes it is my own story that I communicate while many times it is the stories of others – of friends, Biblical characters, interesting people past and present. It is honestly a fun way to spend my time and I enjoy what I do. But every job hits a wall and I recently retreated from my own life to the wonderful countries of England and Ireland. During my two weeks there, I found myself writing and reflecting about my own job and my role as a storyteller. I began to think about the health of a storyteller and what I am finding to be true. Here’s part of what made its way into my journal: “I’m reading in a cafe. NLA. No Laptop Allowed. This is nice. I’ve watched four movies in four days. I’ve spoken with total strangers and made new friends. Other people’s stories. It’s nice to step into them. I need to step into them. After all I am a storyteller by trade and my own story isn’t nearly enough to propel the heart of a storyteller. “I’m learning that the health of a storyteller is directly tied to his or her (in)ability to move both inward and outward. To move inward is to move into my own desires, motives and behaviors enough to understand them. It’s asking the Spirit to search the heart and then actually opening the heart up instead of leaving the door secretly closed at the same time (which is my normal routine). “To move inward is also allowing the deeply seeded dreams to bloom, to tap into the river flowing underground. It’s as if the world of ‘Me’ was already created with fossils under the surface, waiting for the external busy archaeologist to actually start digging. “The move outward means for me to step into the lives of others, to become unselfish and find beauty and whole-ness in the community I have been blessed with. It is spending time with my wife, my family, my neighbors and finding their story as interesting as my own. It is also helping them to find their story as we share life together. “Balance is needed for both and I usually move too far in one direction or the other, later wondering why I am feeling so disjointed. I hope I can return with a fresh sense of the importance of each and make the proper time to live in both worlds.”

If there ever was a fan of Narnia, it’s me. I first read the Chronicles as an eight year old boy, and I have read and reread the books so many times I can’t even begin to count. What those books awakened in me was longing, a longing for I-knew-not-what, a longing I could not shake or rationalize or hide, a burning desire that turned into a lifelong search for truth as I spent my teens and twenties devouring the C.S. Lewis catalog. I’ve said that to make it clear that I completely understand the comments of others who are irritated and frustrated at the changes made to the story by the moviemakers. I agree with all of that and could easily list the changes. It is frustrating to go to a movie that is supposed to be an adaptation of a dearly loved book and find that it’s only loosely based on the story. When I saw The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, I had many of the same expectations as everyone else and was duly frustrated. I went to see Prince Caspian for the first time on Monday, with a friend who had never read the books, and I went with a completely different mindset. I knew it would be loosely based on the book, so I tried a different approach; I received it as a stand-alone movie, not as an adaptation. On Tuesday I saw it again with my kids, then yet again on Friday with my wife and both kids. The benefit of doing so was that I was able to truly receive it, rather than constantly battling the comparison in my mind between book and movie. One of Lewis’ books, An Experiment in Criticism, was especially helpful in this regard as it has taught me to make the effort to fully receive a work before evaluating it. That’s hard to do, but this time I did it. I received Prince Caspian for the most part without evaluating. And in receiving it so openly a strange thing happened. I was seriously moved by it. At many points in the movie I was prompted – no, driven – to commune with God. When Edmund comes up to Peter at the end as all looks dark, tosses away his spent crossbow, looks sideways into Peter’s face, unsheathes his sword, and they both run forward yelling “For Aslan.” Edmund’s character throughout this movie, in contrast with the dark, selfish Edmund of LWW, is beautiful all the way through – and I love how it is performed. When Peter’s self-effort attitude, his trying to be a king, fails. It’s the same thing I see when Neo fails the jump program, and when Morpheus says, “Stop trying to hit me and hit me!” and when Yoda says, “Try not. There is no try. Do – or do not.” And the Apostle Paul: “When I will to do good, evil is present.” Self-will, striving, trying to be, is not the same as Christ-reliance (or Aslan-reliance), resting/abiding, stepping out in faith, and knowing who you are in Christ. I also love the contrast at the end of Caspian when Peter really begins to live in the “faith which works by love.” His motivation at the end is not to prove himself or “be somebody,” but to simply do what must be done for love’s sake. He starts shouting, “For Aslan” when he leads a charge rather than “For Narnia.” He is really stopping the nonsense about “I am a king, can’t everyone realize that?” and is simply being one. I loved the moment where Lucy says to Aslan, “The others wouldn’t listen to me” and Aslan replies, “Why would that stop you from following me?” and Lucy repents immediately without any rationalization. But the biggest thing that happened was that as I watched the credits roll, as I walked out to get in my van for some errands, a huge and inconsolable sense of longing came rumbling up from my inmost being. It was a question that has no answer in this world, an ache with no balm, a desire with no fulfillment in this world. It was a grown up version of what I experienced reading the Narnia books as an eight year old boy. As I drove to Costco I wept. I wept in sheer desire for this world’s paradigm to be totally over and to have a reigning King established – a King I can see, touch, love, worship face-to-face. I wept for the battle of faith to be cleared away, the devil shut down, and total unity established between all. I gave myself over to God in a more complete way because I watched this movie unguardedly, as a child, with no preconceived notions of what it should or ought to be. What rose up in me after, as the longing quieted, was battle-perseverance – based on the unalterable fact that this world’s paradigm, Satan’s dark masquerade, will come to the guillotine, and all creation will be set right again in beauty and simplicity. I want to take as many people with me as I can. I want to cut a wide swath in the enemy lines. I want Jesus to say, “Well done, good and faithful servant.” I want to fight the good fight of faith and finish the race well. Back to the movie. We naturally desire things that we love and adore to remain the same. But things in this world change. Times change. Human consciousness has changed. For one thing, American audiences in general are not as literate as they used to be. I remember after the first Narnia movie going into Borders and seeing lame Narnia rewrites in the children’s section. Some dullard parent there said, “I’m so glad they put these out for children” and I thought with no small irritation, They were written for children in the first place, you dufus! If you check the difference between the BBC and American versions of Pride and Prejudice you’ll find the American version to be a lot more about great camera shots of the achingly beautiful Keira Knightley in various gorgeous settings; the BBC version is much more about the dialogue. I love both versions, but my point is that to some degree moviemakers are considering the American audience and changing things according to their perceptions of that audience. I’ve often encountered people’s desire for things to stay the same – in bluegrass. Bluegrass is a music form that for some people is very nostalgic and moving, and for that reason they want every band that has a banjo in it to play it like Bill Monroe and Flatt and Scruggs. Thus, reviews in bluegrass mags and blogs sometimes read like this: “Here are my expectations. Did your record meet my expectations? No. Therefore I’m giving it two stars out of five.” What they don’t realize is that human consciousness changes. There is no way to truly recreate Bill Monroe’s music. We can have the outer form down. We can learn from it, learn deeply. But his music was from a consciousness that went through the Depression, early Jazz, a low tech world with no iPods or TVs or cell phones, community music and dances, cabins in the hills, model T Fords, early radio, roots blues, and fiddle tunes brought over from the British Isles. It was the era of the Waltons. For most people these days, songs and emotions about horse-drawn buggies and the little cabin home on the hill are mere nostalgia rather than real life. Back to Narnia. It’s not that the original Narnia books aren’t relevant exactly as they are. But society has changed; perseverance in reading and the ability to read complex sentences are dropping in America like a Yukon thermometer in late October. Many people think Lewis’ books – his grown-up ones written for the average reader in the mid 20th century – are too hard to read. But they’re not too hard. We get better at hard things by doing them persistently. But for the most part we’re a microwave society, and reading is just too much work; TV and video games are a lot easier than having to actually think. As a result we’re seeing an imprecision in language, lazy speech, and many words changing meanings entirely. It’s ironic that in a nation more and more obsessed with “Expressing Myself” people are less and less able to do so except by listening to music that is “cool” and wearing the “right” clothes, buying the hippest new gadgets and vehicles, and imitating the banalities of godless, empty, but famous people. Like, they’re all, like, so “” and so I’m all, like, going, “Know what I mean?” and stuff and everything. I hope the next director sticks closer to Lewis. I’d love to see real adaptations of the books. But expectations and preconceived notions have to be set aside in order to receive, experience, and truly evaluate any work of art. I managed to do that with Caspian, and had a beautiful experience – and I’ll be doing the same with the next.

One of the first times I stayed at Andrew Peterson’s house, he insisted I watch Band Of Brothers and made me take his DVD box set of the HBO miniseries home with me, assuring me “It’ll change your life.” He was right. World War II veterans are currently dying at a rate of more than a thousand a day, and it was in the interest of honoring and remembering their extraordinary courage and sacrifice that this series came to life. Even if you’re not a fan of war films, there’s much to love about Band of Brothers – just ask my wife, Taya, who refuses to watch these kinds of films but loves it as much as I do. I think that’s because the series is less about the war than it is the personal stories of individual people and the deep bonds of friendship that carried them through one of the darkest times of the 20th century. Band of Brothers is more than just a film, it’s an experience and an invitation to be witness to the kind of community, brotherhood, and love I think we all long for, but rarely know. You can get more in depth information on wikipedia, but in short the series focuses on the exploits of Easy Company whose men were among the first paratroopers in military history. They dropped behind enemy lines on D-Day to help take Normandy, fought the Battle of the Bulge, and engaged several other high profile missions including the taking of Hitler’s “Eagle’s Nest”. The most rewarding aspect of the series is the depiction of the relationships between the characters and the lengths they go to to watch out for each other. When given an opportunity to leave the front line, many of the soldiers would insist on staying – even in the face of imminent danger and suffering – in order to be there for their fellow soldiers. There are some characters that you come to know a little better than others, but the real star of the series is the brotherhood that these young men shared and still share to this day. Before each episode you see snippets of interviews of the soldiers as old men, and their deep love for each other is still apparent as many of them are still choked up as they share their experiences. With a running time of nearly 12 hours over the course of 10 episodes, there is time to develop these characters and bring them to life. The film maker’s canvas is colored subtly and blessedly absent are the broad strokes of red white and blue nationalism. Instead we’re treated to unexpected and nuanced colors, even as we witness some of the callous cruelty of our own troops while dignity is given to our enemy. It’s been said that one of the spoils of war is the right to record the history, and the film makers have done so empathetically. While the film’s rendering of World War II is uncompromising in it’s depiction of the evils of Hitler’s Germany, it also lends an occasional humane eye to some of the young German men who were caught up in a war that was theirs to fight by virtue of living in the wrong place at the wrong time. A moving speech by a General in the German army towards the end is one of the more memorable moments in the series. This filmic empathy is mirrored in many of the interviews with the real life soldiers now as they look back on the war. “Under different circumstances, I might have been friends with some of those young men” says one veteran. Speaking of veterans, another reason I love this series is because I’ve been blessed to become an acquaintance of one of its more prominent heroes: Buck Compton. Buck’s character looms large in the episodes he’s in, and we learn that his exploits during the war are only the beginnings of an extraordinary life as he went on to be the lead prosecuting attorney in the trial of Sirhan Sirhan. Though he’s been depicted in at least three different films (at different stages of his life), he’s a humble and gracious man and I’m grateful to know him. I was inevitably moved to tears in every episode of Band Of Brothers, as much for the story on the screen as how the story revealed a poverty in my own life of the deep kinds of friendships that the series pays tribute to – friendships that I have failed to cultivate (because I’m on the road all the time? Because I’m afraid to let others get too deep inside my life?). In spite of the hardship these men endured, I still couldn’t help but feel they were somehow blessed to need each other the way they did. I could be in danger of romanticizing their adversity, I know, but in the interviews with the actual characters that we are treated to at the end of the series these men bear witness to the fact that they have an unusually deep friendship with one another that lives on to this day. It makes me want to work harder to forge deeper friendships and to be a better friend myself. I think of Andrew Peterson’s song “Tools” and the lyric: “it ain’t war, but it’s a fight…” I don’t mean to be melodramatic, or in any way diminish the sacrifices of the soldiers of Easy Company by equating their battles with my own, but the truth remains that each of us has our own battles to fight – the fight to be faithful and true in our own adversity, the fight to tell the truth and not lose heart, the fight to not fall back into complacency or be ruled by our fear and insecurity, The fight to remain hopeful, and maybe most importantly the fight to not give in to cynicism and hurt, letting our hearts harden when in fact God has given us hearts that were meant to feel, to break, and to love – especially when it hurts to do so. Band of Brothers reminds me that we are not meant to fight alone, and that the Kingdom of God is made up of brothers and sisters who fight together, and in whose weakness and brokenness God’s strength is perfected. Against this Kingdom the gates of hell will not prevail. This memorial day weekend, you could do worse than to pick up this DVD, engage these men’s story, letting it speak into your own story, and remember that nothing worth living for comes without a fight. And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by, From this day to the ending of the world, But we in it shall be remember’d; We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; For he to-day that sheds his blood with me Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile, This day shall gentle his condition: And gentlemen in England now a-bed Shall think themselves accursed they were not here, And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day. – Shakespeare, King Henry, V (PS – for any who’ve already seen Band Of Brothers, I’d love to read what some of your favorite moments were in the series.)

A few days ago, we had our first Weaklings meeting in more than a year. If you’re not familiar with the Nashville Weaklings, it’s a collective of songwriters not much less diverse than the group of contributors here in the Rabbit Room. Randall Goodgame and I decided a few years back to try and emulate the Oxford Inklings by meeting with other singer/songwriters for the purpose of…what? Well, for one thing, for the purpose of getting off of our rear ends and really working. There were other considerations, like community, encouragement, critique and the like, but for me at least, having some kind of accountability on a regular basis was a big plus. Knowing that a Weaklings meeting loomed on the calendar meant that I’d better stay up that extra hour or two to make sure I had my newest song in the best shape possible before I sat in a circle with these formidable songwriters and laid it out for inspection. One of the fun aspects of the meetings is the Uncle John’s Bathroom Reader writing assignment. We open a Bathroom Reader to a random page and read it aloud. Then we all have until the next meeting to write a song tied some way, however tenuous, to the article. I wrote a song called “Love is Blind” in response to a Bathroom Reader article about the infamous Maginot Line (if you’re wondering what it is, Google it. It’s a pretty interesting story). Eric Peters wrote a song inspired by the same article, and it ended up on his record Miracle of Forgetting. (You can buy the song here, at iTunes.) Our next assignment was on the Legend of Pope Joan (again, Google it). I wrote a song called “Over My Head” (a live version is on Appendix M), Ben Shive wrote a fun Lyle Lovett-like song called “I’m Your Man”, and Randall Goodgame wrote, of course, “The Legend of Pope Joan”. There were others, but you get the idea. So a few days ago when our friend David Wilcox was in town, we arranged a Weaklings meeting so he could take part in our little community. The call went out. The call was answered by myself, Eric Peters, Andrew Osenga, Randall Goodgame, Ron Block, Andy Gullahorn, and David. The article from the Bathroom Reader was about a telephone repair man who on a random house call discovered a valuable piece of furniture underneath piles of newspapers and dishes. He called the landlady and asked her to sell it to him, but she declined, saying that she needed the furniture for the tenants. Ten years later, the phone man (an antique hobbyist) finally convinced her to sell it, and the furniture fetched a million bucks. Eric, Randall and I all made attempts at writing a song about it, and while none of them were really finished (or very good–yet), they all were the result of our talent and time being put to good use. I was up until 4 am working on mine, and had the distinct and horrible honor of playing first. It was kind of a nightmare, given the company I was in. When I was writing the song I thought about Jesus’ offer of abundant life, and how we balk and make excuses, unable (or unwilling) to believe that he’s as good as his word. I remembered the C.S. Lewis quote about our desires and how they aren’t too strong but are too weak. “We are half-hearted creatures, fooling about with drink and sex and ambition when infinite joy is offered us, like an ignorant child who wants to go on making mud pies in a slum because he cannot imagine what is meant by the offer of a holiday at the sea. We are far too easily pleased.” Then I thought about the famous Walt Wangerin, Jr. story called Ragman. In it, Jesus walks through the streets trading his fine clothes for the rags of the homeless, trading his health for sickness, his joy for tears and so on until he’s so ragged and wounded and broken that he dies. I thought about the way I cling to worthless junk, refusing to believe that Jesus’ offer of his love in exchange for our broken lives actually yields new life. Here are the words that came out: Get out of my kitchen Get out of my life I don’t want to sell what you’re buying no more I don’t want to listen Don’t care if you’re right Just what kind of fool do you take me for? (I don’t want to let go) Oh Ragman, how can you come here Telling me things too good to be true? Oh Ragman, how can you come here And make me an offer that I can’t refuse? I know it ain’t pretty It’s charming at best But the spell that I’m under is appealing to me So spare me your pity I know it’s a mess But it’s mine from the floor to the ceiling, you see (And I don’t want to let go) Ragman, how can you come here Telling me things too good to be true? Oh Ragman, how can you come here And make me an offer than I can’t refuse? Your love is a loaded gun So hard to deny I’ll give you what you want But please, I don’t want to die So take all the chaos All the clutter and crap Take all that’s left of the life I have Even if you have to pry it from my cold dead hands (I don’t want to let go) Ragman, how can you come here Telling me things too good to be true? Oh Ragman, how can you come here And make me an offer than I can’t refuse? When a song is only a few hours old it’s hard to know what to think about it. I played it (shaking like a leaf) and the reaction was…silence. Maybe it was because it was the first song and folks hadn’t loosened up enough to feel comfortable offering any critique. Or maybe it was because I played the song so badly they couldn’t really listen to it. It is what it is. But my point is, whether or not the song will grow into anything I’d ever perform, I learned a lot in the process. I was forced to think about grace. I was forced to exercise my imagination. I wrote a song that I never would’ve written otherwise. And hopefully, I’m a better writer because of it. Later, Eric and Randall played their songs about the article, coming at it from two other angles. Wilcox didn’t write anything new for the topic but played a cool version of “A Touch of the Master’s Hand” because it fit so well. Osenga and I talked about it on the phone tonight, laughing at how horrifying it is to play something new for someone, especially when that performance exposes the glaring problems with the song. But that’s the most valuable part of the experience. He played a new one and after our comments went home and rewrote the whole thing. So if you’re a creative type, I’d highly recommend tracking down a bunch of artists who are better than you, meeting with them as often as you can, and welcoming their criticism. It has to be people you respect, otherwise you’ll ignore their advice. Of course, sometimes you ignore their advice even then.