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by Micah Hawkinson A few years ago at Hutchmoot, Pete Peterson said something that has been enriching the leaf-mould of my mind ever since. Quoting Walt Wangerin, Jr. , Pete talked about how the Sanskrit word cinoti “makes of the poet ‘a heaper into heaps, and a piler into piles.’” In that essay, Wangerin goes on to write: We artists, we writers—we come upon the stuff of our crafty attentions already there. But we find it a mess. Hopeless. A meaningless chaos. Our job is to organize. To order. To heap certain things with certain things over here, and to pile other things over there. To declare associations and differences and relationships. To make of this chaos a cosmos, which we do by translating things into language, and language into character and episode, and episodes into whole stories. —Walt Wangerin, Jr., “Story and History, Shaping the Day” There is a shelf in my library labeled “Programming and Other Poetry.” On it, T. S. Eliot, Gerard Manley Hopkins, and Anne Bradstreet sit nestled among books on algorithms, data structures, and business analysis. Every weekday morning, I go to work at a fluorescent-lit office full of standing desks adorned with rubber duckies, computer screens, 3D-printed desk toys, coffee mugs, and printouts of programming memes. (“It was the data,” sobs First World Problems lady , ”Just like always.”) There, for eight hours, sometimes punctuated by lunch if I remember to eat, I immerse myself in wreaking order from chaos. I shape the vague longings of pharmacists into clearly worded statements of work. I ponder business requirements and conform them by imagination into my software’s existing architecture. And, most glorious of all, I use words to breathe new worlds into being, or to reorganize worlds that have grown chaotic. Writing poetry is the closest thing I know to writing code. Every word, every line break, and every punctuation mark has enormous significance. Micah Hawkinson In the beginning, there is a blank screen, ominous and full of promise all at the same time. I know that my first effort will almost certainly be wrong. I will probably even break the rules of the language, causing the compiler to scream errors at me. But I will fix my mistakes until the code compiles. Then I will run it, and find problems, and fix them, and run it again, until I can’t find anything else wrong. Then, I will move on to the next piece of the solution and start the whole excruciating process over again. Finally, when the code is as done as I know how to make it, I will beautify it. I will remove duplication, make logic more elegant, and straighten out the crooked lines, until it is ready to be reviewed and merged into the trunk of our code-tree. It is a long road to my destination, but I have a general idea of how to get there. The cursor on the blank screen flashes at me, daring me to type the first word. And with fear and trembling, I do. Writing poetry is the closest thing I know to writing code. Every word, every line break, and every punctuation mark has enormous significance. Each decision must be carefully considered, weighed, and fixed or thrown away if it is found wanting. In poetry, as in code, large mistakes are irritating, but subtle errors can be disastrous. I am not the first person to observe these similarities. In The Mythical Man-Month , Frederick P. Brooks, Jr. writes: The programmer, like the poet, works only slightly removed from pure thought-stuff. He builds his castles in the air, from air, creating by exertion of the imagination. Few media of creation are so flexible, so easy to polish and rework, so readily capable of realizing grand conceptual structures. —Frederick P. Brooks, Jr., The Mythical Man-Month As beings made in the image of the Great Maker, we delight in shaping the world around us, in forming a cosmos from the chaos. Sometimes, while I wait for my code to compile, I write poetry on my PC’s other screen. I choose my words carefully, line them up in order, read them aloud, and savor their taste on my tongue. Occasionally, my co-workers give me funny looks and turn their headphones up. After I’ve written a stanza or two, I rethink the lines, revise them, play with them, seeking out lovelier ways to tell a truer tale. When I increase my automatic test coverage, or rewrite a block of code in half the lines, or rename a cryptic variable to something clearer, I feel the same thrill that I get from writing the perfect final couplet of a sonnet. I am working on this world in my hands, shaping it through wisdom until I can sit back and call it very good. In this, I reflect my Maker. I’m not really suggesting that code is a sub-genre of poetry, or even that it is equally important. After all, poetry is the pursuit of truth by way of beauty. Computer science is, as Aristotle said of money , “merely useful and for the sake of something else.” In my case, the “something else” is providing for my family, giving to build God’s kingdom, and supporting other sub-creators as much as I can. But this much is true: Our God-given hunger for a beautiful, well-ordered world touches every area of human endeavor. I’m thankful to have a job where I can serve others by building worlds of pure thought-stuff, even if those worlds are merely useful. And I trust that my code, like my poetry, echoes God’s Word that called His good world out of the formless void.

by the Rabbit Room This week on The Habit Podcast, Jonathan Rogers interviews memoirist and essayist Amy Baik Lee. Amy writes essays and short memoirs for The Cultivating Project and on her own blog, A Homeward Life . She is also the co-director of the Arts Guild of The Anselm Society . Amy and Jonathan Rogers talk about the discipline of noticing small splendors, the ways that art reminds recipients that they mean something to someone, and the ways that time and distance unpack our memories to show us meaning that was there all along. Click here to listen to Season 4, Episode 2 of The Habit Podcast. Transcripts are now available for The Habit Podcast. Click here to access them. Sponsorship on the Podcast Network Are you interested in teaming up with us to support the work you love? Send an email to our Head of Development, Sarah Katherine, at sarahkatherine@rabbitroom.com if you are interested in becoming a sponsor of our Podcast Network . Rabbit Room Membership Special thanks to our Rabbit Room members for making these podcasts possible! If you’re interested in becoming a member, visit RabbitRoom.com/Donate.

by Shigé Cla rk One of the reasons I love fantasy as a genre is because of the inclusion of magic. In fantasy stories—the good ones anyway—magic can reveal the spiritual realities that we all sense in life but can’t see, and have no material frame to express. The trees of Fangorn Forest groan, and shudder, and come to life, and we the readers call it “magic,” but we know the truth. There is something alive when you walk in a forest—something deep, something old, and sometimes dark. Leeli Wingfeather’s song reaches out to her family in shimmering strands that burn through the earth, and we call it “magic”—but many a mother I’ve heard tell how she sat up in the dead of night knowing that her child was in trouble, and many a friend I’ve called with a sudden burden to pray for them, to find that they were facing a trial and needed help. We know the truth. Something deeper connects us than blood and bone and dirt and stone. The stories that do it well gesture to the reality that’s beyond our sight, bringing it to the forefront so that we can ponder it together. Encanto is such a story. Set in the mountains of Colombia, it follows the multi-generational Madrigal family, blessed with a miracle that brings their house to life and bestows each child with a magical gift. Except, that is, for our protagonist Mirabel, who never received a gift. Here, I expected the familiar ugly duckling tale, where the overlooked kid resents her special family and heads out on a journey to prove her worth, only to discover “that the real gift was inside her all along!” I was delighted to find that wasn’t the story at all. Instead, we’re given the story of a girl inextricably interwoven with and impacted by her place and history, even and perhaps especially the parts she doesn’t know. Perhaps I ought to have known that immediately, since the movie opens with Abuela telling Mirabel their family’s story—how they were forced to flee their home and lost her husband, but in their darkest moment were given a miracle that allowed them to start a new life. Abuela took up the literal and figurative mantle as head of the family and the village, and guides the Madrigals to use their gifts in service of the community. As she sings in the opening song: We swear to always help those around us And earn the miracle that somehow found us The miracle that the Madrigals have been gifted is represented by a glowing candle that never goes out. It gives them a magic house and special gifts, and unites them in purpose. But we quickly learn that all is not well. The magic is dying—seemingly beginning with the absence of Mirabel’s gift. The story centers on Mirabel and Abuela both trying to protect the magic, and clashing in their differing approaches on how best to do so. Abuela wants to present a strong front to the family and town, believing that if they all just buckle down and use their gifts to the right ends, then they’ll be safe: The town keeps growing, the world keeps turning But work and dedication will keep the miracle burning And each new generation must keep the miracle burning —”The Family Madrigal,” Encanto Removed from the upbeat melody of the song, which is sung before we know that the magic is in danger, the stress in those lines is more easily apparent. “The magic is strong,” Abuela repeats over and over again to the town, in defiance of the cracks they can all see working their way through the foundation of their home. Mirabel’s approach is to dig deeper and deeper into what’s going on, believing that if she can find the source of the cracks then she can stop it. As she digs, she unearths family secrets, hidden shame, and the pain and insecurities behind the strong and happy facades of each of her family members. The cracks continue to spread; the family’s gifts start malfunctioning. We who are following Mirabel in her quest can see how each member of the family is fighting in their own way to protect and preserve what they’ve built and how Mirabel’s connections with each person are strengthening the magic. But Abuela comes to believe that Mirabel’s digging is what’s causing the cracks to spread, which leads to a confrontation between them where they each accuse the other of breaking the family and killing the miracle. In that moment, the earth splits between them, their home crumbles around them, the new generation scrambles to save the candle, and Mirabel—who alone manages to reach it—cradles it in her hands amidst the dusty wreckage of their united lives as the flame flickers out. We the viewers call it “magic,” but we know the truth: that there is some burning core at the center of a family that connects each member to another, and which we fight to preserve. It’s a tangible thing with its own gravitational force, and when something’s wrong—when that central connection is unraveling and something is dying—we can feel it, as surely as a sickness in our own blood. We know it can be threatened. We know it can die. And seldom do we understand what kills it. During the peak of their confrontation, the mountains that guarded their home split, opening for the first time the way back to the place from which Abuela and her village fled. At the entrance there, Abuela finds Mirabel, who has run away from her family in shame. In the aftermath of the destruction of all she tried to protect, Abuela Alma sits beside her granddaughter on the edge of the river where she lost everything. “I’ve never been able to come back here,” she says. “I thought we would have a different life. I thought I would be a different woman.” Set to Sebastián Yatra ’s spectacular “Dos Oruguitas” (fittingly, the one song in the movie completely in Spanish), we watch Abuela’s story unfold in a new light. Alongside Mirabel, we receive the full picture of the struggle and loss that led to the creation of their family’s miracle—the depth of Abuela’s grief, and the weight of the burden she shouldered in raising three children and leading a town all alone. We see the mountains rise between her and the river, obscuring the source of her grief and shielding the town and her family from it in the new life she builds for them. “I was given a miracle,” Abuela says, “A second chance. And I was so afraid to lose it, that I lost sight of who our miracle was for.” What feels irrevocably lost can be reclaimed, and what waits beyond the hard work of conflict, growth, and understanding is even better than what we cling to in fear. Shigé Clark If you listen again to the movie’s opening number “The Family Madrigal,” you’ll recognize the melody of “Dos Oruguitas” in the bridge where Abuela says that the family must keep the miracle burning through work and dedication. (If you speak Spanish, you’ll be one step further, since you’ll hear in “Dos Oruguitas” the story of two caterpillars who have to let go and break down in order to be reborn into new hope.) Our first introduction to Abuela, which sets the stage for her character, actually turns out to be a reprise to the moment of her loss. Much like Mirabel would, we never question where Abuela got the idea that the family must earn their miracle through work and service. We take for granted that it’s true simply because Abuela says it. But the music gives us the answer before we know there’s a question to ask—that this belief comes from the fear born out of her loss, and her resolve to keep it from happening again. During that first song, we’re just like Mirabel; the key to the story is already playing out before us, but we don’t yet have the context to understand it. We know this story well, or we should. Anyone who was raised with a strong sense of family duty, grew up in a pastor’s home, or has worked in a ministry or nonprofit has seen how easy it can be to get so swept up in the concept of the “mission” that you lose the entire point. How often do believe we have to earn through service the gifts that God freely gives us? How often do we destroy the very things we feel called to protect because we’re operating out of fear? How often is the true hero the one who does the work of facing and healing the wounds among a group, quietly patching the cracks without recognition or appreciation? How often is the one creating the cracks unable or unwilling to see it, and how rarely does that person come to see their flaws and apologize? How often is blame cast on those trying the hardest to help because they’re “stirring up conflict,” and how rarely do the ones in the right turn and offer empathy and grace to the person who created the rifts? I’ve seen responses from people criticizing the character of Abuela. One lady called her “toxic” and said that she couldn’t enjoy the movie because of how angry she was at the character. I lament that someone could miss the mark so much. I’m sure her response comes from having an Abuela in her own life, and I wished I could grab her by the shoulders and say, “Don’t you see, this story was for you .” She missed the point—and I was so proud, so grateful that Encanto didn’t. It would have been easy to vilify Abuela Alma, to paint her only as the controlling family leader who needed to bow to the new generation’s better way of being. “You’re the one who doesn’t care,” Mirabel says during their confrontation, “you’re the one breaking our home. The miracle is dying because of you.” The story could have ended at the river, with Abuela’s apology, and realizing that Mirabel was right all along. “We are broken because of me.” If it did, it would have still been a pretty good story. Being willing to self-reflect and admit when we’re wrong is a difficult and vital thing to learn, and it’s necessary to what comes next. The fact that it doesn’t end there, though—that there is something that comes next—makes it great. Earlier in the movie, Mirabel comes away from a vision of how to save the family believing she must reconcile with her sister, and she does—but the observant viewer will recall that the first part of that vision doesn’t come to pass until this scene at the river, after Abuela’s apology. Those who would condemn Abuela for her failures have missed the entire point of the story. Every one of them is a part of this family; none can be ignored or discarded for the core to survive. In response to her loss, in fear of losing the “family” as a concept, Abuela Alma ignored the care of the individuals that make up that family and nearly destroyed what she was trying to protect. If Mirabel were to vilify her, she would be repeating the same mistake. But she doesn’t. She is the realization of all that her family has worked and struggled toward—what Abuela Alma couldn’t be as the one who started the journey. Mirabel listens to her abuela’s story as she has done throughout the movie for each family member, and when that story is finished, she takes her grandmother by the hands and stands with her in the place of her greatest loss and deepest pain. “We were saved because of you. We were given a miracle because of you. We are a family because of you.” Empathy. We’re literally dying for lack of it. And I don’t know if I’ve ever seen a story that handles it so well. Mirabel returns with her family to their shattered home and leads them in a new start. “Look at this home. We need a new foundation.” Reunited, they set about rebuilding—this time not on a foundation of fear, but one of openness and empathy. The community they’ve served comes out to care for them in their brokenness. At the end, Mirabel—who has been in the background her entire life, quietly keeping the family connected through her empathy and compassion—is given the doorknob to open the new house. “We see how bright you burn,” her family sings to her, “We see how brave you’ve been.” Is there a human born to earth who doesn’t need to hear that? When she adds the doorknob, after they’ve done the hard, inescapable work of rebuilding together, the door lights up, and life comes back to their home. We call it “magic,” but we know the truth. Redemption is real. What feels irrevocably lost can be reclaimed, and what waits beyond the hard work of conflict, growth, and understanding is even better than what we cling to in fear. Encanto is a rare and wonderful story. An incredibly nuanced depiction of family dynamics where everyone, everyone cares and is trying, yet there is conflict and heartache because the world is broken, and it’s difficult work to hear and understand each other. There is no external villain—no outsider who seeks the family’s downfall to band against. The villain is fear, and miscommunication, and the expectations we place on ourselves and each other in pursuit of the ends we think will protect us. There is far, far more to celebrate about Encanto that I simply can’t get into here. It’s not a perfect movie, but I can’t believe it manages to pack in all that it does in such a balanced way. At its heart, though, is the invisible impact of generational trauma and a hero who saves her family through empathetic leadership that extends even to those members who’ve hurt her most. I can’t think of a more hopeful story to tell about family than that.

Imagination is absolutely critical to the quality of our lives… Without imagination there is no hope, no chance to envision a better future, no place to go, no goal to reach. —Bessel van der Kolk, The Body Keeps the Score by Hannah Mitchell I had an imaginary friend when I was little. I don’t remember his name, but I remember what he looked like. He was green, about the size of a Smurf, with a round nose and a mushroom-cap instead of hair. He lived in my fireplace, which was always empty due to my mom’s asthma. As a lonely only child, he helped me pass the hours when neighborhood friends couldn’t play. He used to send me on missions around my house to save the world from Rita Repulsa, the villain from my favorite show, Mighty Morphin Power Rangers. By the time I came back from my missions, the ache of loneliness was forgotten. I was the hero, and the hero is never alone. My imaginative nature in my childhood eventually grew into a soul that channels its wounds into story. I wrote two novels after my friend’s death because sometimes writing felt like the only way I could keep breathing. But once the grief had cleared from a cloud to a gray haze, my curiosity got the best of me. Why did writing feel so much like healing? It wasn’t just writing, though, it was reading books and listening to songs and watching movies. I found my grief was known by a nameless man wandering beyond the maps. And that a young boy named Kubo knew there was still joy within this consuming ache. My search for understanding drove me to read about how painting, writing, singing, dancing, and even playing are used in counseling to work toward healing. But as I read, I quickly learned that it’s imagination that is the agent of healing in creative expression, not the act of creating. Making something doesn’t stitch the wound. It’s imagination’s waking that begins to staunch the bleeding. If it is imagination that does the healing, then why doesn’t all art heal? Why doesn’t every book I read ease the pain of my wounds the way others do? Why doesn’t every song echo in my veins as the chords roll? What makes some art healing and other art simply pleasing? The answer, I think, has to do with both the creator and the recipient of the art. Artists are not always healed people, but they can teach us how to engage the transformative aspects of emotional upheaval rather than experience the madness that occurs when imagination turns against itself. Art shows how the difficulty can contain its cure if channeled into life-affirming expression. —Shaun McNiff, Art Heals: How Creativity Cures the Soul Those who create healing works of art are those who have learned to commiserate with themselves, who see the broken parts of themselves and do not flee, but grieve. They walk this life-long cycle, actively engaging in self-compassion with each new wave of sorrow that seeing one’s own brokenness brings. And in this grief, the imagination works to heal as the artist creates. Their work does not need to reflect a hint of the pain from which it is was born. Imagination only cares about the process. But the artist’s work must be forged in honesty. It must be born of commiserating with wounds of the soul instead of intellectualizing or distancing. It is a generous, hospitable act by the artist, one that works to mend the fissures in both the creator and the recipient. If there be music in my reader, I would gladly wake it. Let fairytale of mine go for a firefly that now flashes, now is dark, but may flash again. Caught in a hand which does not love its kind, it will turn to an insignificant, ugly thing, that can neither flash nor fly… The best way with music, I imagine, is not to bring the forces of our intellect to bear upon it, but to be still and let it work on that part of us for whose sake it exists. We spoil countless precious things by intellectual greed. —George MacDonald, “The Fantastic Imagination” Have you ever gone from simply drinking in a work of art to suddenly feeling known by it? There is a moment when a line from a story slips from our brain to our soul or a little flower in a painting reminds us that we’re not alone. And when this happens, something shifts. We are no longer looking at something but are watching something happen—we are bearing witness to imagination’s mending. It’s never been a panacea; a story has never cured anxiety and a song has never halted grief. But sharp edges are dulled. Joy feels less daunting. A micro-mending occurs, leaving us far from healed, but better than before imagination did its work. The imagination plants the inconceivable in our minds and makes our hearts long for it to be true. Hannah Mitchell In his essay “The Fantastic Imagination,” George MacDonald speaks of the necessity of each person taking their own meaning from his fairytales, that the reader’s meaning may be even better than his own. I think, though, that there’s more to it than each person simply taking their own meaning. There is truth to be felt when imagination is awakened, truth that is unique to the heart that is aching. What if the reason that favorite quotes from a book or lyrics from a song vary from person-to-person is that the imagination knows what it needs in order to do its healing work? Just as the brain pulls blood from the limbs to survive when the body is dying, what if the brain knows what it needs to heal through art? What if some art makes us feel known not only because of the creator’s hospitality and generosity, but because we know deep in our soul that we are bearing witness to a sacred healing—a healing we often did not know we needed, but our imagination did? One sentence lurking innocently in MacDonald’s “The Fantastic Imagination” captures both the glory and the terror of art’s healing. MacDonald states that “everyone…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.” The glory of art’s healing comes in our imagination knowing what we need and seeking it to begin the mending within us. It grabs at sentences or brushstrokes or chords that can bind our unique wounds with a tenderness no other can know. But sometimes before the gauze is unrolled, terror can overtake us and halt the work imagination has begun. Because when pain has been raging endlessly inside, it can feel nearly impossible to trust that anything that comes from within us—that a thought, a dream, or even a hope—can be good and might even be true. It is a brave thing indeed to trust there may yet be good amongst the broken parts of our souls, to believe that maybe a part of ourselves still holds beauty. A body fighting to live on through life’s pain wants to shrink into the safety of what is already known. But the imagination is not safe. It drags us through cloud-fields where raindrop horses prance. It lets us think we can smell the sun and that fairies surely live in the flower garden down the street. It plants the inconceivable in our minds and makes our hearts long for it to be true. In the moments when we feel most lost, the imagination can speak to us in the secret language meant just for our soul. It gives us hope that our pain has been seen by another and known. It makes us feel the impossible: that we are not alone. Click here to read “Imagination as a Spiritual Practice (Part 2 of 3)” and here to read “Imagination & Kubo and the Two Strings (Part 3 of 3).”

by the Rabbit Room New to the Rabbit Room Podcast Network is Call It Good: Conversations on Creative Confidence . Hosted by Matt Conner (host of The Resistance), Call It Good is a limited series of conversations with authors, artists, and pastors about the invitation before us to join with the Spirit in the act of re-creating the world. We’re excited to share with you not one or two but FOUR in-depth interviews on creativity, the Creation story, and what it means to bless the work of your hands. Read on for a word from Matt about each of these guests and what they bring to the conversation. Click here to listen to Episodes 1-4 on Omny , here to listen on Apple Podcasts , and here to listen on Spotify. Transcripts are now available for Call It Good. Click here to access them. Thomas McKenzie From the moment I had the idea for this podcast, I knew I needed to sit down with my friend Thomas McKenzie as the cornerstone conversation. Thematically speaking, as a podcast exploring what it means to create in the image of a Creator, it felt very important for me to begin with some theological guard rails in place, so to speak. After all, if we’re talking about the image of God, inspiration from God, and our interaction with God, then we’ve got to establish some theological norms pretty quickly. What made Thomas the ideal interview subject was easy: I trusted him. Not only was he a longtime friend but he was also my pastor at Church of the Redeemer for the years that my family lived in Nashville, Tennessee. And while I knew he was beloved by so many, it wasn’t until his recent funeral after a horrific car accident that claimed both his life and the life of his daughter, Charlie, that I learned just how many others had trusted Thomas the same way I had. Listening back to this interview stirs so many emotions in me. But one of those is certainly gratitude. He was always filled with so much wisdom and love when speaking on matters of the spirit. Thomas was such a beautiful co-creator with the Spirit and was a man who understood Genesis 1 as an invitation to join in the same process of calling forth beauty from chaos. Even now, it’s a gift to hear his voice and receive his words in this episode. And I’m so glad we were able to carve out the time to make this happen last summer. We certainly hope it’s helpful for you too, as we begin to explore what it means as Christians to call it good. Helena Sorensen If you’ve hung around The Rabbit Room over the years, then you’ll likely recognize the name and wonderful work of writer and speaker Helena Sorensen. She’s a frequent contributor to The Rabbit Room site as well as a presenter at Hutchmoot. She’s often featured with our friends at the Story Warren as well. As the author of the Shiloh series as well as The Door on Half-Bald Hill , perhaps her meaningful prose has found a home on your shelves, too. After charting a theological course with Thomas McKenzie (which you shouldn’t miss in our first episode), I wanted to continue the conversation with Helena because I had been privileged enough to see her creative journey up close. I knew that she’d become a fountain of wisdom about this whole process. When I first met Helena, she was a disciplined writer who was obedient to her craft and devoted to excellence. But she was also completely in the closet. Over the years, it’s been so heartening to watch the ways in which she’s grown to find an audience, and then to serve that audience with encouragement, coaching, and the authentic sharing of her own story. I’ve watched Helena walk through this very process of partnering with the Spirit to bring something to the world. And I’ve watched her offer it with open hands. On this episode, I asked Helena about her journey to date and what she thinks about the idea of chasing excellence, finding her worth in what matters, and this whole idea of calling it good in the first place. Russ Ramsey Talking to Russ Ramsey made sense from every angle. As a practitioner, Russ is an excellent author and writer who just released his fifth book, Rembrandt Is In the Wind . As a pastor, he not only shapes sermons each week for his Presbyterian church plant in Cool Springs, which is just south of Nashville, but he also shepherds his congregation toward those same sorts of endeavors that we’re interested in discussing. Even more than that, Russ has a lifelong passion for art and beauty. And if you follow him on social media you know exactly what I’m talking about. For quite some time, Russ has been publishing Art Wednesdays, as he calls it, a simple infusion of beauty into our social feeds in the form of hourly posts that showcase meaningful works and their context. That’s also the subject of Rembrandt Is In the Wind , by the way. On this episode of Call It Good, Russ reminds us how some of history’s greatest artists struggled with their own work and how he’s learned to apply the idea of creating in the image of a Creator to his own life, work, and congregation. Malcolm Guite We can’t venture very far into our exploration of Genesis 1 without contending with the form in which it’s been given to us. The creation narrative isn’t something to analyze and apply like a textbook. Instead, there’s cadence and meter, there’s rhythm, repetition. It’s a poem after all. It was clear to me fairly early on that I wanted to discuss the creation narrative—imbued as it is with themes of creating in the image of a Creator, rest and reflection, and participating in the Spirit-led recreation of all things—with someone who could approach it for the poem that it is. And I knew of no one better suited for that task than Malcolm Guite. To be quite honest, I was very nervous to sit down with Malcolm, although that’s not anything to do with his own posture. Rather, as a man so well versed in poetry and literature, a captivating author and speaker, I knew all my insecurities would rise to the surface. And then the idea of having those permanently imprinted on a podcast episode just made me feel a little ill. However, I also knew he would be the perfect interview subject to carry us further, to help illuminate the action of calling it good. Talking to Malcolm about Genesis 1 turned out to be like drinking from a firehose. Even in our pre-interview banner before we started recording, he was quoting off the top of his head Shakespeare, Keats, Wendell Berry, and George Herbert. Malcolm is a poet and priest, author, and chaplain of Girton College at the University of Cambridge. He’s written several books on theology and the arts and several more of his own poetry anthologies. In short, we needed a poet to appreciate the poem. And that’s exactly what you’ll find on this episode with the wonderful Malcolm Guite. Sponsorship on the Podcast Network Are you interested in teaming up with us to support the work you love? Send an email to our Head of Development, Sarah Katherine Woodhull, at sarahkatherine@rabbitroom.com if you are interested in becoming a sponsor of our Podcast Network . Rabbit Room Membership Special thanks to our Rabbit Room members for making these podcasts possible! If you’re interested in becoming a member, visit RabbitRoom.com/Donate.

by Leah McMicheal I was a little dizzy when All The Wrecked Light livestreamed during the last week of Lent in 2021. As a grad student, I couldn’t afford to do just one thing at a time, so I was roasting discount vegetables as my wireless headphones negotiated with the Wi-Fi. I only caught snatches of the dove over the water and breath taken back again. Two months into long Covid, that sounded familiar. The internet and headphones sorted themselves on the wish that there be no prophets and no priests. “This is the way the world ends”—but who hasn’t shrunk from that sacred shadow, especially at the edge of the glory and terror of Holy Week? Yet the story unspooled through sinking sand and scattered ash. Then breath came back to dusty bones. “And I know something of how it shall be,” Cardiff State sang, and I fell in love. I listened to the concert again as I waited for the peppers to roast and my breath-short dizziness to ebb. Lent tipped toward Holy Week. My church celebrates resurrection with vigils and dancing and trumpets, and when all that was still safely distant, it seemed like a good time to pray for healing. But when we came to Good Friday and Holy Saturday, it was terrifying. What if God didn’t answer? What if he did? On Saturday night, my friends and I prayed a rambling earnest request for the return of breath and strength. I woke on Easter morning with my lungs aching as they had for weeks. But my thought was threaded with All the Wrecked Light ’s final refrain: “This is the way the world begins again. This is the way the world begins again. This is the way the world begins again, though all I hear now is a whisper.” To me it came like a word of openness, expectation. The effort of song still left me coughing at the outdoor Easter service. But we made Christmas bell bracelets and rang in resurrection till the twine broke and the bells scattered golden across the grass. “This is the way the world begins again . ” For two months, every exertion had taken a toll in cough and weariness. I’d learned to pare daily walks down to a block or less, driving even between buildings on Wheaton’s small campus. I expected to pay for Easter on Monday and possibly the rest of the week as well. But I didn’t wake up worse. In faith or foolishness, I decided to walk to campus. Slowly. The magnolia trees were a wonder. The sky was sparkling a little by the time I got to work, but a few minutes on the bench outside put that mostly right. The next day, I walked to class and took out the recycling on foot. “This is the way the world begins again . ” Every venture across campus was at least a minor act of faith. When you speak the world, I will be healed— in an instant or a season, slow as the budding trees. A week after Easter, I walked over a mile on the local trail, listening to All The Wrecked Light yet again. It was the first time I’d walked so far, the first time I’d seen the spring’s wildflowers at the golden hour. The sky was vast behind gilded trees and the grass burned green. “And the first words we must say are ‘the world’s wrought in grace’” sang Cardiff State, and it rang true through and through. All the Wrecked Light came down from YouTube the day after that. Being musically challenged, I struggled to hold on to the melodies, though I soon had breath enough to sing the fragments I remembered. Life got better: from convalescence and grad school to long walks, work, and a home with friends. And then came Hutchmoot. The announcement that All the Wrecked Light was being produced as an album sent me careening around the apartment in delight. The concert on Sunday kept me close to tears. This music that companioned me, this story told in breath—it’s back to stay. I’m so grateful to enjoy it and support it. I hope you do the same. Click here to listen to All the Wrecked Light on Spotify and here to listen on Apple Music.

by the Rabbit Room This week on The Habit Podcast, Jonathan Rogers talks with Nashville singer-songwriter Sandra McCracken. Sandra released her first book in 2021. Send Out Your Light: The Illuminating Power of Scripture and Song is a memoir of a creative life and a meditation on the creative process. Click here to listen to Season 4, Episode 18 of The Habit Podcast. Transcripts are now available for The Habit Podcast. Click here to access them. Sponsorship on the Podcast Network Are you interested in teaming up with us to support the work you love? Send an email to our Head of Development, Sarah Katherine Woodhull, at sarahkatherine@rabbitroom.com if you are interested in becoming a sponsor of our Podcast Network . Rabbit Room Membership Special thanks to our Rabbit Room members for making these podcasts possible! If you’re interested in becoming a member, visit RabbitRoom.com/Donate.

by the Rabbit Room We have an exciting update on an album we’ve been looking forward to since it was funded through Kickstarter last fall: Drew Miller’s There Will Be Surprises. You can hear the whole album today—months before its release—when you pre-order a limited edition vinyl or CD through the Rabbit Room Store. Read on for more details. cover art by Kyra Hinton Vinyl Details Vinyls are being made to order and will not be ready to ship until October. Each order comes with a free digital download of the entire record, months before its release (August 5th), complete with a few digital surprises. Only 250 copies are available. Click here to view vinyl options in the Rabbit Room Store. P.S. Drew is giving away five copies of his vinyl record. Sign up for his email list by May 20th for a chance to win one! CD Details CDs will ship when the album releases on August 5th. Each order comes with a free digital download of the entire record, months before its release, complete with a few digital surprises. Only 150 copies are available. Click here to view CD options in the Rabbit Room Store. Although Drew’s album won’t be fully available for several more months, you can stream a few singles right now. Click the images above to listen , and click here to learn more about the project at his website .

by Leslie E. Thompson My name is Leslie, and I built the Hutchmoot: Homebound experience . This could easily be an essay about the Rabbit Room staff giving their time to make the experience a reality (and we could regale you with stories worthy of such an essay!), but it’s actually a blog about how, after months of work, I stepped away from preparing the feast of Hutchmoot: Homebound in order to serve another feast altogether. When we dreamt of an online Hutchmoot event in the early months of the COVID-19 pandemic, I threw my hat into the ring to build the infrastructure—a fancy word which for the purposes of this piece I’d rather replace with “feasting table.” We did not know what this digital table would look like, we did not have a plan, nor did we want to use anything else as a reference point. We wanted to build an entirely new table. The building of the Hutchmoot: Homebound experience is documentary-worthy. One long discussion at a time, the team dreamed up a feast of goodness for those who arrived at the website to dine, and by the grace of God, it was able to be completed on time. Each day presented new challenges, each page requiring coding and intricate configuration, each feature requiring immense amounts of creativity to fit it into the tools we had at our disposal. We were one month from the event, in the heat of preparation and development, and my family experienced a particularly tragic event in the form of miscarriage. The Rabbit Room staff held me up as my knees were weak with grief, not only through emotional support and prayer, but through stepping into the website development while I took time to regroup. The site became a true team project. I was whisked away to an entirely different table to make a meal only I could serve. The new table is much smaller. And there’s one guest who is a different kind of beloved stranger. Leslie E. Thompson On the morning of the first Hutchmoot: Homebound, I sat in North Wind Manor with my laptop and huge external monitor ready for a train wreck. My palms were sweating the entire weekend while running on fumes to get to the finish line. At the completion of the event, I realized I was mostly disconnected and on the fringes both because I was anticipating disaster (which much to our surprise, never occurred!) and because I needed to get through this one event so I could grieve properly. With the final “amen” of the doxology, my knees buckled at the weight of my loss just weeks before. I crashed and rushed home. I was tired, grieving, coming off the tracks. I didn’t experience the feast I had helped to prepare like I had hoped. A few months later it was decided that the event would be happening again in 2021—a decision that was made just days after I discovered that I was pregnant again. Hutchmoot: Homebound would commence during the first month of my maternity sabbatical; I would not be there for it. In a private meeting, I disclosed my secret to leadership and agreed to work until the literal moment I couldn’t any longer, training others in the meantime to take over “the feast” when I went into labor. Then, baby Alice Denali arrived two weeks early, and I had to let go of Hutchmoot: Homebound much earlier than expected. It was out of my hands, and I watched from a distance as the event was finished by all the other capable hands that helped prepare it. It took a team to make the dinner feast, and it took a team to serve it. I just couldn’t be a part of that team anymore. On the weekend of the event, I brought two-week-old Alice for a few hours to watch this thing we made together take its final form. Though I was there, I felt like I did in 2020. Still working to establish a healthy eating routine, I would settle myself in a quiet room alone to feed her every hour and a half. I could only smell the feast I had helped to prepare as it wafted from under the door, while I was physically serving a small feast for one (this is not just an analogy—I was also smelling the literal feast Rachel Matar was preparing for the staff as Alice and I were by the kitchen at the Manor). What a grand feast it was. And yet, I had missed being able to serve the meal for a crowd of beloved strangers each time I had prepared it. It was like I had escaped through the back kitchen door before ever entering the dining room to help serve the meal. I never saw all the faces of those who were to receive the food of the larger meal—but I had to trust that they were taken care of, knowing they were always in good hands with or without me. In my departure from the larger meal, I was whisked away to an entirely different table to make a meal only I could serve. The new table is much smaller. And there’s one guest who is a different kind of beloved stranger, although her face is one I was always supposed to see—one who was always meant for my hands, whose heart was created for me to hold next to my own. There were ways I got to see the larger table from my new perspective. Momentary glances out of my window into the picture window of the other, quick pop-ins as I stuck my head in to say hello, hearing the laughter from the dining room and catching smiles as the swinging door (of course it’s a swinging door!) glides open. Only I could make the dinner for the one, and only I can serve it. I just count myself lucky that both dining rooms have windows. I was reminded of a book included in the Homebound 2020 experience: Leaf by Niggle , a short story written by J. R. R. Tolkien. Mr. Niggle spends his life painting a tree—he has high hopes for this work, but he is constantly interrupted to do other things, never finishing the painting before he is swept away to an allegorical heaven. Once in this afterlife, he sees the tree completed and real: “All the leaves he had ever laboured at were there, as he had imagined them rather than as he had made them; and there were others that had only budded in his mind, and many that might have budded, if only he had had time.” His feast, left incomplete in his lifetime, was served and perfected without his own doing. To prepare a meal without enjoying its splendors is a theme of the Christian experience. Like Niggle, we may spend our years on this earth setting in motion glorious trajectories whose ends we will likely never see. Parenting provides a fine example of this, when in the wee hours of a sleepless night we gaze into the eyes of a baby, wondering what their years will bring long after we’ve taken our last breath. This is right and good, as evidenced by the wrong and unjust experience of losing a child to death. It is a sacred thing to watch one’s child grow and explore and leave; it is a desecrated thing to watch a child die. In no way do I dare compare the loss of a child to the loss of a dream (though, for some, this is one in the same), but there is a similar conclusion to be made from both. When a child is lost, a feast has been discarded before being tasted. For us to lose a dream or stop making a feast is to cease the possibilities of those things after our hands no longer hold them. The outworkings of our feasts may never be enjoyed by us in the time we have on earth. But for those of us who believe in life after death, in the redemption and renewal at the end of all things, we have hope that the things God has set forth in us will be completed—will be contextualized, will be perfectly finished—and we will see it. We will see the reach of our children’s grasp, the stretch of our own hands and work, and the satiated bellies after the feasts we so diligently prepared, even if we were unable to serve them ourselves.

by the Rabbit Room This week on The Habit Podcast, Jonathan Rogers talks with author, professor, and theologian Esau McCaulley. Esau McCaulley is a Bible scholar and Assistant Professor of New Testament at Wheaton College. He’s a contributing writer at Christianity Today, the Washington Post, and the New York Times. His book Reading While Black won the 2021 Christianity Today Book Award for the category “Beautiful Orthodoxy.” His most recent book is a picture book called Josey Johnson’s Hair and the Holy Spirit . Click here to listen to Season 4, Episode 19 of The Habit Podcast. Transcripts are now available for The Habit Podcast. Click here to access them. Sponsorship on the Podcast Network Are you interested in teaming up with us to support the work you love? Send an email to our Head of Development, Sarah Katherine Woodhull, at sarahkatherine@rabbitroom.com if you are interested in becoming a sponsor of our Podcast Network . Rabbit Room Membership Special thanks to our Rabbit Room members for making these podcasts possible! If you’re interested in becoming a member, visit RabbitRoom.com/Donate.

by Pete Peterson Jennifer and I are taking something of a sabbatical this month and walking the Camino de Santiago, a 500+ mile pilgrimage from France, across northern Spain, to Santiago de Compostela, the traditional resting place of St. James. I’m writing a bit about the experience along the way. 28 April (Mile 0 / KM 0) – We arrived in St. Jean Pied-de-Port, France, today. We’re staying at the Beilari Hostel (Beilari is Basque for “pilgrim”) and I’m writing from a “meditation room” on the rock terrace behind the hostel. It’s a little stone room about six feet by eight feet that feels like a shrine to…everything? Or nothing, depend on how you look at it. It’s pseudo-religious, as if it wants to be a meaningful place, but in navigating itself around any particular faith, it’s become something of a no-place, a place of all faiths—and therefore none. There are sconces in the walls filled with a shell, a sacred-looking vial of perfume (with the brand sticker still on it—something French, of course), tea-light candles (one of which I’ve lit), a couple of angelic figures, a Sedona-style crystal, and several other assorted trinkets. There are two rosaries strung up and a couple of large, flat stones set in the center of the room asking to be knelt upon in prayer. Maybe I’m just being cynical, but I’m bothered by the world’s readiness to become a no-place instead of a some-place or a one-place. I’d rather visit a Buddhist shrine than one that makes no risk at all toward something grander than mediocrity. But that’s just the room I’m in. And to be honest, it’s a good place to write. We had a seven-hour flight from New York that began the evening of April 26th and ended at 7am on the 27th in Madrid. The next step of the trip, our goal being to make it to St. Jean Pied-de-Port, France, to begin the Camino, was to catch a train to Pamplona and from there to overnight and then catch a bus to St. Jean. The train from Madrid wouldn’t depart until 3pm, so we were left with seven-odd hours adrift in the city before leaving. We set out from the airport, taking the local train from the terminal to the train station, and then wandering the streets. We ended up spending much of the day in the Royal Botanic Garden, a gorgeous maze of gravel paths through acres of greenery, dotted with monuments to kings long-past. The chestnuts were blooming and gorgeous. They reminded me of the story of how America lost all its great chestnut forests due to a blight in the 19th and early 20th century and it made me sad (read Bill Bryson’s A Walk in the Woods , if you haven’t). It’s so easy to look at Europe and think how much more beautiful it is than the US. I know that’s not accurate—after all, I’ve seen the wild and varied glories our continent has to boast of—but when I consider the chestnuts, I have to admit some truth in the feeling. We’ve lost them, and we won’t get them back, at least not in my lifetime. But here in Madrid they flourish, and I’m grateful. Due to jet-lag, and little real sleep on the plane, by the time we boarded the train for Pamplona we’d been awake for around 36 hours and were exhausted. The train was an oasis of space and quiet and we dozed through most of the trip. Three hours later we arrived in Pamplona and found our hostel. After a quick dinner of Dominos pizza (yes, Dominos…it was right next door and we were too tired to wander), we collapsed at the wonderful Aloha Hostel and slept till 10am. This morning we boarded a bus and took the winding road across the Pyrenees to our destination, the beginning of the Camino de Santiago—St. Jean Pied-de-Port. After 48 hours of constant vehicle travel and exhaustion, we joked about how tiring it was just to reach the starting point of our trip, and how ready we were to be done with engines for the next six weeks. We walked cobblestone streets lined with shops and cafes until we found the Pilgrim Office. Inside, several volunteers attended to pilgrims from all over the world. There were volunteers helping in English, Spanish, and French, so we waited for one of them to call to us, finally answering to: “American people?” Yes, ma’am. She seemed impressed that we’d done our research and planned to stop at Orisson tomorrow and even more impressed that we already had a reservation. “You don’t need me at all,” she said, laughing. She stamped our pilgrim passports and wished us well. Beilari Hostel was right across the narrow street. We checked in. Lovely place. Immediately met a German woman, Ana, who had just arrived after hiking 800km from Arles, France, on her way to Santiago. I think she thought we were cute in our innocence of everything, a strange opposite to the Pilgrim Office volunteer. And then we immediately met an American couple, Gary and Joan. They arrived from the Boston area and seemed just as out of place as we felt ourselves. Joan is animated, friendly, eager, and just as Bostonian as you can imagine. Gary is quietly tolerant, as if he’s been dragged here solely at his wife’s request (we’d later learn that was exactly the case). Another man, Dave from Kansas, joined us for our welcome to the hostel. Once done, a quick walk to the market for a few items, then back to our room for a quick siesta. Jennifer is asleep now. Dinner with the whole peregrino group is downstairs at 1930. It smells delicious. I’m grateful for each of the members of that one-night family. To these gathered together I say thank you. Thank you for allowing Christ to play in 18 of his 10,000 places around our table tonight. Pete Peterson We’ve only just arrived and have had a couple of pre-Camino days in Spain (and France), but I’ve already gathered an overwhelming feeling of helplessness, displacement, and weariness that amounts to a unique humility. The first because I can’t communicate well. We studied our Spanish every night before leaving (a whopping 53-day streak on Duolingo!), and I swear I felt confident in it when we boarded the plane, but whatever false-confidence had accumulated via our iPhone teacher melted away in a hurry the first time I walked into a cafe and tried to order coffee. “Quiero una taza de cafe.” I said. The waitress ( camarera ) gave me a polite nod and then said something baffling and looked at me inquisitively. I still have no idea what she said, but I got my cafe con leche and enjoyed it anyway. That fairly describes every interaction since getting here. I feel like I know SO many words, but no one else seems to be using any of them, therefore: helplessness. As someone who generally moves through the world with confidence, it’s uncomfortable, and, frankly, oddly refreshing to find myself having to rely on the kindness and understanding of others even to order a coffee. As for displacement, that’s obvious, we don’t belong here. But it’s a displacement beyond that of merely traveling to an unknown place. It’s a displacement that’s peculiar to being a pilgrim; we walk everywhere, with everything, and we have to rely on what we find along the way to sustain us. I don’t want to romanticize the situation of a refugee, but there’s a similarity in situation if not in measure or seriousness. It’s a state of being in-between, of being en route . Our homelessness is by choice, of course, and not of necessity, but the rub is still there and you feel it in every stranger’s glance. Weariness explains itself by virtue of the other two. And when all three are taken together, they amount to a real sense of joy when encountering another human who’s kind and helpful and understands what you need. In light of that, I find myself wondering how I’m to go about being Christ in my small ways to the people I meet. And I’m realizing that maybe I can’t. Maybe that’s not my place right now. Maybe all I can do is reflect back the Christ they are being to me. To wit, immediately after writing that last paragraph, we went down for dinner. We joined 19 other pilgrims and our two hosts who had been cooking for hours. Joseph, a Basque Frenchman in whose home we were sheltered, assembled us all around a single table. The room was small and the table filled most of it. There wasn’t much, if anything, in the form of elbow room. Once we were all seated, he polled the room for names and nationalities: 3 French, 2 Swiss, 6 American, 5 German, 2 Brazilian, 1 Canadian. Between us, we almost had a shared language, but Joseph ended up needing to translate everything into either English or French. Most remarkable of all, though, were Lori and Russel, a couple in their 60s, both blind. Yes, you read that right: blind . A married couple walking five hundred miles across mountains and deserts, cities and rivers and the length of Spain itself, all without the benefit of sight. And get this: it’s their second Camino. Talk about humility. Both of them smiled from ear to ear for the whole meal. We passed around the wine and toasted one another as our “one night family,” as Joseph called us. Then followed a homemade lentil soup for an appetizer and fresh bread, then salad with fresh-mixed balsamic dressing and vibrantly colored slaw with eggs. After that Joseph brought the main course to our table and asked if I would like to serve. I would. And I liked. It was a vegetable entree of carrots and mushrooms and other delicious things atop steamed rice. I stood and served, and each person watched as I loaded up their plate and motioned when the portion was just right. So when Russel’s plate came around, I realized he couldn’t see the portion size and I called aloud to him, “Russel, are you a little bit hungry or a lot hungry?” And Reinhardt, a big German man seated next to him cried out, “Such a man is very hungry !” So it was. May we all be such men as Russel. He had light in his eyes. When the dinner had concluded with a picture, we retired to rest for the day ahead. I’m grateful for each of the members of that one-night family. No matter how ragged and scattered a remnant of humankind we are, we assemble, perhaps, in search of a some-thing, a one-thing. We resist the pull toward becoming no-thing, and a sacred presence shines through us each, calls us toward one another, toward itself—himself. Even the Sedona-style crystal in the meditation room glimmered with the brilliance of its maker. Even the blind shine forth in light. To these gathered together I say merci beaucoup, danke sehr, muchas gracias, muito obrigado , thank you. Thank you for allowing Christ to play in 18 of his 10,000 places around our table tonight. Tomorrow, we climb the Pyrenees. “As Kingfishers Catch Fire” by Gerard Manley Hopkins As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies draw flame; As tumbled over rim in roundy wells Stones ring; like each tucked string tells, each hung bell’s Bow swung finds tongue to fling out broad its name; Each mortal thing does one thing and the same: Deals out that being indoors each one dwells; Selves — goes itself; myself it speaks and spells, Crying Whát I dó is me: for that I came. I say móre: the just man justices; Keeps grace: thát keeps all his goings graces; Acts in God’s eye what in God’s eye he is — Chríst — for Christ plays in ten thousand places, Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his To the Father through the features of men’s faces. Click here to read Pete’s second journa l entry from the Camino and here to read his third. Pete Peterson is the author of the Revolutionary War adventure The Fiddler’s Gun and its sequel Fiddler’s Green. Among the many strange things he’s been in life are the following: U.S Marine air traffic controller, television editor, art teacher and boatwright at the Florida Sheriffs Boys Ranch, and progenitor of the mysterious Budge-Nuzzard. He lives in Nashville with his wife, Jennifer, where he's the Executive Director of the Rabbit Room and Managing Editor of Rabbit Room Press.

by the Rabbit Room The Last Sweet Mile , Allen Levi’s memoir of great loss and enduring faith, is re-releasing in paperback edition through Rabbit Room Press this summer. When Allen Levi’s brother Gary was diagnosed with inoperable brain cancer, neither realized they were about to embark on the best year of their lives. More than mere brothers, Allen and Gary were best friends, life-long bachelors, one a lawyer turned singer-songwriter, the other a globe-trotting missions worker. Their relationship was one of rare and powerful beauty, and in this rich memoir, Levi captures the small yet telling details of a life lived to the fullest—right up to the finish line. Like Sheldon Vanauken’s A Severe Mercy , The Last Sweet Mile gives us a tale of both great loss and enduring faith, demonstrating that love is a refining fire, brotherhood a holy gift, and death itself a doorway to a wedding feast. The Last Sweet Mile is not only a testament to the life of Gary Levi, it is a testament to the hope that shaped and sustained him. The Last Sweet Mile releases in paperback on June 3rd, 2022 at the Rabbit Room Store, and pre-orders are now available. You’re invited to join Allen Levi in Nashville on June 24th for a book release event, to be held at the Rabbit Room’s North Wind Manor. Click here for tickets . Click here to order the paperback edition of The Last Sweet Mile in the Rabbit Room Store.

by Malcom Guite Tolkien has rightly described the world of story, and especially the mysterious world of fairy tale, myth and legend, as being like a great branching tree: deeply rooted in the past, rooted in the very origins of language and the earliest mysteries of our creation as human beings, but branching out from the past into the present as each new generation absorbs the sap of the old tales and puts out branches, unfolds leaves—which are themselves new creations, new developments and yet rising out of the earliest stories, organically related to the whole, not so much inventing novelties as teasing out and opening up seeds of potentiality hidden in the earlier telling. Every storyteller is part of a long lineage of storytelling adding to something which is still unfolding, still becoming a great, many-voiced marvel. Nowhere is this more true than of the great body of stories that has grown up around the figures of Arthur, Merlin, Lancelot, Guinevere, Gawain, Perivale, and of course Galahad, known collectively as “the Matter of Britain.” The first reference to Arthur by name goes back to a 7th century chronicler called Nennius, who tells us in the Annales Cambriae that “in 518 occurred The Battle of Badon, in which Arthur Carried the cross of our Lord Jesus Christ, for three days and three knights on his shoulders and the Britons were victorious.” So from the outset, Arthur was a Christian figure, recalled here in a battle between Christian “Britons” (Celts, probably Welsh) against the then pagan Anglo-Saxons. It is only by the time of Geoffrey of Monmouth in the 11th-12th centuries, in his Historia Regum Britanniae , History of the Kings of Britain, that Arthur is mentioned as a King, that we meet the mysterious figure of Merlin and hear the story of the sword in the stone. After that there is a great flowering of stories and romances about Arthur and his knights of the round table, across Europe. And it is in the twelfth century, just as the church was beginning to reflect more deeply and attempt to divine the great sacramental mystery of holy communion, that the deepest motif of the matter of Britain, the legends of the holy Grail come to the fore. Writers like Chretienne de Troyes and Robert de Boron give us the marvelous backstory of the Holy Grail, the sacred vessel itself: how it was the vessel that held the wine at the last supper; how it also held Christ’s blood from the cross; how it was given by the risen Christ to Joseph of Arimathea, who had given Christ his own tomb; how, driven out by the first persecution of Christians, he came with the sacred vessel and with the spear of Longinus, the spear that had pierced Christ’s heart, to Britain, to these strange islands at the very edge of the known world; how these sacred relics were kept hallowed and apart by Joseph’s kin, the keepers of the grail, until a Christian King should arise, how that King was Arthur. And even as this tale grew and deepened in all its meanings and implications, reaching its roots into both the Christian Mysteries and the pre-Christian myths and legends of these islands, so many other tales began to gather around Arthur and his knights: tales of magical adventure, of love, enchantment, and transformation. And soon, as in all true storytelling, these stories began to explore great themes of our exiled humanity, bereft of Eden, yet full of hope. That story of loss and recovery began to find expression in the joyous attempt in Camelot to found a true Edenic community; how the tragic flaw, the crack in the lute manifest in the doomed love of Lancelot and Guinevere, and the power-lust of Mordred, began to unravel that fellowship; and how in and through it all Christ stayed present in the grail, how the spear which wounded him became in the end a means of healing, how the numinous and mysterious figure of Galahad, himself the son of Lancelot, was able, in the achievement of the grail, to bring healing and grace even to the sins of his father. And so we too can come to the tree of tales, climb out on one of its branches, and begin to unfold some new leaves. Malcolm Guite Many storytellers, named and anonymous, contributed to the gradual exfoliation of this legendarium. In the course of that telling, many of the beautiful and suggestive myths and legends of pre-Christian Britain—the magical woods, the ladies of the lake, the wizards and dragons and shapeshifters—were all brought into the story, and ultimately into the light of Christ to find their transfiguration and fulfillment. In the fifteenth century the great storyteller and compiler, Sir Thomas Malory, bequeathed a gift to every English speaker and reader by drawing these disparate strands of story together from French, Anglo-Saxon, and Latin, translating them and weaving them into a single astonishing narrative: a many-voiced Romance published by Caxton in 1485 called The Morte d’Arthur . This became the great, prime source for subsequent writers, but still the tale unfolded, still the new branches and leaves kept growing. In the nineteenth century poets like Swinburne and Tennyson took up the tale, in the twentieth century writers as diverse as T. H. White, Charles Williams, David Jones and even in his own strange way T. S. Eliot all touched on, drew from, or retold the Matter of Britain. Not only Charles Williams, but the other Inklings like Lewis and Tolkien all drew from, reflected on, and retold the story. Indeed, the best and most beautifully written account of how the story grew and developed and how it might develop further is to be found in The Arthurian Torso , a book written by both Lewis and Williams which Lewis published after Williams’s death, containing Williams manuscript for “The Figure of Arthur,” the book he was writing about the Matter of Britain and never lived to complete, followed by Lewis’s own commentary on Williams’ two volumes of Arthurian poems. And so this central tale, this great Christian romance, this mysterious baptising of the imagination of Christian and pre-Christian Britain continues to unfold today. I was delighted to hear that the Rabbit Room would be publishing The Lost Tales of Sir Galahad and honored to be asked to contribute to it. Indeed, the invitation extended to me by the Rabbit Room really comes from Malory himself, for he goes out of his way to invite new stories: he tells us that “Galahad had many further adventures in the wild wood which have not been told.” And so we too can come to the tree of tales, climb out on one of its branches, and begin to unfold some new leaves. Indeed, for me personally, the invitation to contribute to The Lost Tales of Sir Galahad has a special significance. I had for many years been contemplating taking up the tales of the Matter of Britain myself, but I was not sure how to begin or what form to use. Writing my ballad of Galahad and the Naiad for the Lost Tales suddenly gave me the key—the ballad form would be perfect for my project, and since writing that piece I have embarked on the bigger project and am well into a full retelling of Galahad and the Holy Grail. There is, I thank God, no “authorized version” of the tales of Arthur, no definitive text from which no one can depart. There is instead a myriad of stories, a myriad of approaches, tones, styles, and possibilities, and the Matter of Britain remains for every writer what it always was for every knight: an open invitation to Adventure! Click here to learn more about The Lost Tales of Sir Galahad . Featured image by Ned Bustard Malcolm Guite is the Chaplain of Girton College, Cambridge and author of various books on contemporary spirituality. In addition to this, he is a poet and singer-songwriter and fronts the Cambridge-based band Mystery Train. Visit www.malcolmguite.com where you can read Malcolm's blog, some of his poetry, or find out more about his music and media appearances.

by Ashely Artavia Novalis [Editor’s note: Our friends at Square Halo books have a brand new collection of essays called  Wild Things and Castles in the Sky . Together, these essays form one cohesive guide for choosing books for children. Today, we’re grateful to share with you an essay from the book written by Ashley Artavia Novalis, in which she demonstrates how stories of suffering provide safe, creative spaces to experience empathy and process pain.] When we were young, my sister and I couldn’t wait for our weekly trips to the public library. While our mother worked on the library’s computers, we set off to work of our own. Wandering through the rows of books, starting in historical fiction and then rounding the corner through fantasy and adventure, I took careful inventory before making my week’s selection. And each week, I ended my search in the same spot. After I had chosen a few new books for the week, I would circle back to the bookshelf closest to a large, round window facing the main road. My finger would scan a few rows up from the bottom and land on a gold-foil spine that read The Easter Story . This beautifully illustrated book by Brian Wildsmith tells the story of Jesus’ last week of life on Earth from the perspective of a little donkey that carries him around Jerusalem. I checked out The Easter Story every chance I had. As a sensitive and creative child, I was captivated by the colors and details of Wildsmith’s illustrations and moved by watching the donkey observe the final days of this good man’s life (I had never learned the story of Jesus’ death, so I was especially amazed). I resonated with the little donkey, encountering this terrible thing happening to this fascinating person in a strange, unknown world. Tracing my fingers across the gold foil parts of each picture, I would turn to the page of Jesus being put to death on the cross and cry. Thinking back, I’m sympathetic toward that young, eager reader. The story of Jesus’ death means something much different to me now, but at the time, I was a child making sense of the hard things in the world around me, and this story of injustice, death, and betrayal gave me an avenue to do that. From an early age, I was aware of the profound impact storytelling could have. Having spent nearly a decade working with children across professional and social settings, books have been some of my greatest resources. I have particularly come to value stories that depict suffering and hardship in deeply honest or creative ways. I’ve seen these kinds of books generate meaningful discussions, encourage empathy, and provide safe, creative spaces to process pain. From the time children learn to sing about Humpty Dumpty falling off the wall and how none of his friends were able to help him, they are acutely aware that there are cracks in creation. Ashley Artavia Novalis Understandably, we sometimes hesitate to introduce books with heavy topics to children, or we desire to limit their exposure to stories about loss, death, fear, or poverty. We would love to be able to protect them from some of the darker realities of this world. While age-appropriateness is certainly important here, stories of adversity are a meaningful part of a child’s library and not as far from the child’s imagination as we would think. From the time children learn to sing about Humpty Dumpty falling off the wall and how none of his friends were able to help him, they are acutely aware that there are cracks in creation. Beautiful children’s stories do not hide that truth or offer cheap fixes. Instead, these stories give room for children to explore the heaviness of pain and the goodness of hope. The Christian Scriptures also give us examples of honest stories that don’t shy away from brokenness. They present us with opportunities to work through the tension of the beauty of creation and its fall—to wrestle with the permeating effects of sin and the reality of hope. Good stories of adversity give children a framework that helps them make sense of the world around them. From picture books to young adult series, stories of adversity are not limited to a single genre or age level, and even the term “adversity” could refer to anything from divorce to deep sadness, from bullying to homelessness, injustice, disease, or abuse. Often the Christian tradition generalizes these kinds of life experiences as “suffering” or “brokenness;” I use all of these terms interchangeably here. My goal is not necessarily to make a case for which specific elements make a good book on suffering, but to show what a good story that includes suffering does for the child—how it can teach, encourage, guide, and enrich a child’s mind and life for years to come. In the last few years, childhood development icons like Fred Rogers and Margaret McFarland have resurfaced in the spotlight. This well-deserved recognition, along with decades of research in the childhood development field, has brought us to a place where the importance of social-emotional learning is increasingly on the minds of those who love, teach, or serve children. In Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood , the child’s mind was at the center of every decision: the way Mister Rogers entered the room, stared into the camera, or paused to listen. In the memorable episode about the assassination of Robert F. Kennedy, there is a noticeable shift in the neighborhood. Daniel Tiger and Lady Elaine have a sincere conversation about what “assassination” means, and how the characters in the neighborhood are all coping differently with the scary news. “When you feel sad, sometimes you don’t feel like a picnic,” Lady Elaine reassures Daniel Tiger when he just wants to stay home. Another somber moment happens when Lady Elaine explains to X the Owl that thinking about doing a bad thing, like shooting someone or getting very, very angry about something, is different than doing it. This episode is a masterclass in how families can help children grieve and serves as a prime example of one of Mister Rogers’s key philosophies behind the neighborhood: “Anything that’s human is mentionable, and anything that is mentionable can be more manageable.” In the same way, good stories of adversity provide a language for suffering. Children experience emotions deeply; just like adults, they have many ways of naturally expressing those emotions. Unlike most adults, however, they are still in the process of developing the ability to express themselves through words. This relationship between language and emotion is a key component in social-emotional health, and children’s books are an abundant resource here. This can be learned through metaphors (Harry feeling “as though he too were hurtling through space” after watching someone he loves being murdered in Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince ), illustrations (a monster following a boy around in Jonathan James and the Whatif Monster ), or mindfulness of the body (Digory’s “lump in his throat and tears in his eyes” in The Magician’s Nephew ). Play—often referred to as the work of children—is crucial in developing and practicing this kind of language. I would suggest that reading is a type of play that encourages imagination, requires participation, and creates a playground (in the pages of a book) for rehearsing their growing emotional vocabulary. And in providing children with the ability to put words to their big emotions, we offer a way to begin to manage them. When Digory, on the journey given to him by Aslan in The Magician’s Nephew , is preoccupied with thoughts of his sick mother, he blurts out, “But please, please—won’t you—can’t you give me something that will cure Mother?” Aslan responds, “My son, my son. I know. Grief is great.” Digory’s worry and grief is not solved in his conversation with Aslan, but through this acknowledgement and shared language of suffering, he becomes more certain he can complete his journey with “new strength and courage.” This scene shows us another way stories of adversity teach children: they provide a way forward, a means of hope. This isn’t to say that every story with hardship or evil must have a happy ending where each conflict is neatly resolved. On the contrary, those kinds of easy fixes can lead to unhelpful or misguided conclusions about the realities of our world, thus minimizing the effects of suffering. True hope doesn’t overlook suffering; it perseveres in the presence of it. In some stories, this hope is obvious, like a man once dead coming back to life or peace being restored to a kingdom. Other times, hope comes through more subtle images, like the flags hanging through the streets at the end of the Second World War in Lois Lowry’s Number the Stars . The reader is left with questions unanswered, and this is where hard conversations about the world begin: where are all the people who had to flee for safety? How will the Jews be treated now that the war is over? Will their country be able to rebuild, and will life be like it was before? We are often tempted to avoid these conversations with children because we want to keep thoughts of the evil in our world away from the child’s imagination. But the child’s imagination is one of the first avenues through which they process those evils and think through those unanswered questions. By providing hope and a way forward amidst adversity, good books add to the child’s imagination the idea that, as G. K. Chesterton writes, “these limitless terrors [have] a limit, that these shapeless enemies have enemies . . . that there is something in the universe more mystical than darkness, and stronger than strong fear.” Good stories of adversity also build self-awareness, develop understanding for others, and give opportunity for empathy and neighborly love. Stories that reflect hardships or pain that a child can personally relate to can help build crucial identity and belonging, while seeing another’s perspective of suffering grows a child’s ability to sympathize with an experience unlike theirs. Dr. Rudine Sims Bishop asserts that the best books go even further and ask for participation from the reader. Rather than simply looking into another’s world, a child is invited to enter in, to feel as another would feel, and, I would add, to respond in neighborly love. Though this essay is far from a comprehensive list of the benefits of including stories with adversity in a child’s library, the most meaningful stories that I have read share these common threads: they provide language for suffering, give a picture of hope, and encourage empathy for one’s neighbor. The Christian Scriptures themselves demonstrate this framework for responding to the cracks in creation. Through the psalms, we’re given ample language for suffering: from “My tears have been my food day and night” (Ps. 42:3) to “Why, O Lord, do you stand far away?” (Ps. 10:1), God constantly provides a way forward for his people, a hope for the future through the promise of all being made new. We are given individual stories of suffering throughout biblical history that we can see ourselves reflected in or use to understand others. Finally, the reader of the Scriptures is challenged to “weep with those who weep” (Rom. 12:15) and “to love your neighbor as yourself” (Mark 12:31). And God enters into our pain with us: in the story of God, the response to all the suffering, violence, doubt, and death is the incarnation of Jesus. As participants in the incarnation and those given the sacred task of stewarding the imagination of children toward goodness, truth, and beauty, we gain much when we invest in stories of adversity that help children make sense of the world around them. Curated and edited by  Leslie  and Carey Bustard with  Théa Rosenburg ,  Wild Things and Castles in the Sky  explores topics like classic literature, imagination, art history, race, poetry, young adult novels, faith, and more. The aim and hope is that these essays would encourage parents, grandparents, teachers, and friends to share the power of a good story with a child they love. Click here to learn more about the book. To learn more about the book from its editor, listen to  Leslie Bustard’s conversation with Jonathan Rogers on The Habit Podcast. Want to dive deeper into the subject of children’s stories with heavy themes, like grief and death? Check out this beautiful Hutchmoot session with Sara Danger and Walter Wangerin, Jr. Ashley Novalis has spent a decade working in early childhood settings through non-profits and public school programs. Most recently, she works in child and adolescent behavioral health through a local counseling agency. Ashley is passionate about mental health advocacy, social justice, and good empanadas. She lives with her husband, Joshua, in the East Side of Lancaster City, PA, where they love reading books, watching Netflix, and attempting to garden.

by the Rabbit Room Every once in a while, the Rabbit Room team has the good fortune of crossing paths with someone whose creative work is shockingly aligned with our own. These moments re-invigorate us not only in our own mission and vision, but in the desire to share the good and lasting work of kindred spirits far and wide. Most recently, this wonderful convergence has taken place with Andrew Brumme, who is directing a new documentary series called Taste and See that will blow your mind and change the way you think about breakfast. If, in some blessed alternate universe, Robert Farrar Capon had decided to make a documentary with Terrence Malick, guided by the foundational wisdom of Wendell Berry, then they would have made something like the pilot of Taste and See. Yes, it’s that amazing. Put more succinctly, and in the words of the official website , Taste and See “explores the spirituality of food with farmers, chefs, bakers and winemakers engaging with food as a profound gift from God. Their lives in the fields, in the kitchen and around the table serve as a meditation on the beauty, mystery and wonder to be found in every meal.” The first and most obvious thing to do once we got in touch with Andrew Brumme was to host a special preview screening at North Wind Manor. We held that event in March, and its success indicated to us that we weren’t the only ones who were smitten with this entire project—tickets to the event sold out swiftly and those in attendance fell in love with the film. And now, we’re inviting you to see it as well. You see, one of the most exciting parts about this new documentary series is the way the filmmakers have chosen to go about sharing it. In keeping with the spirit of the project, they have opted to premiere the pilot film in a series of virtual screenings beginning June 3rd and lasting two weeks. But these screenings consist of so much more than just sitting in front of your TV—the Rabbit Room has partnered with Andrew to create an event guide for your own Taste and See evening with your friends and family, in person or virtually. With your virtual ticket, you’ll receive several discussion questions to explore with your friends after the screening as well as a simple and thematically significant recipe you can try out together as a way of embodying the core values of the film. Plus, each screening will be followed by a panel discussion with director Andrew Brumme , author Norman Wirzba , and Rabbit Room founder and president Andrew Peterson , moderated by Lindsey Patton . Expect to hear plenty more from us about Taste and See over the next few weeks leading up to the screenings. We’ll be sharing an in-depth interview between Andrew Brumme and our content developer Drew Miller, a sneak peek into the panel discussion mentioned above, a lovingly crafted review of the pilot film, and more. Stay tuned! Click here to order your virtual screening event tickets, on sale today for screenings beginning June 3rd .

by the Rabbit Room This week on The Habit Podcast, Jonathan Rogers talks with singer-songwriter, podcaster, and essayist Matthew Clark. Matthew Clark  is exceedingly thoughtful and well-read, and all that thinking and well-reading makes its way into everything he makes—and every conversation. His most recent project is an album called  Only the Lover Sings , and a companion book of the same title–a compilation of essays by various writers inspired by the songs on the album. Click here to listen to Season 4, Episode 20 of The Habit Podcast. Transcripts are now available for The Habit Podcast. Click here to access them. Sponsorship on the Podcast Network Are you interested in teaming up with us to support the work you love? Send an email to our Head of Communications & Development, Shigé Clark, at shige@rabbitroom.com if you are interested in becoming a sponsor of our Podcast Network . Rabbit Room Membership Special thanks to our Rabbit Room members for making these podcasts possible! If you’re interested in becoming a member, visit RabbitRoom.com/Donate.

by Sarah Bramblett A Jennifer Trafton print of a quote from Andrew Peterson’s Wingfeather Saga adorns a shelf in my daughter’s room. Vibrant colors speak over the nursery, “It’s a story the maker has always told, and the story, my child, is true.” The Rabbit Room celebrates that beauty; good stories echo the True Story. Some of the best stories I’ve discovered in my daughter’s first year-and-a-half have been shared in seven-minute segments by a family of animated dogs. Bluey is a kids’ show from Australia that landed in the US in 2018 and quickly became a sensation. There’s an Airbnb that resembles the characters’ home, celebrities make guest appearances (I’m particularly excited to see Lin Manuel Miranda’s cameo in Season 3), and the show has won well-deserved awards. While I don’t know much about the show’s creator, Joe Brumm, or his beliefs about faith, I do know that for our family, Bluey echoes the story the Maker has always told because the story centers on love. Bluey highlights the beauty in ordinary, everyday love. The jaunty music and charming animation work together to enhance the stories of the Heeler family: sisters Bluey and Bingo, their dad Bandit, and mum Chilli. Kathryn VanArendonk compares Bluey to other children’s TV shows: “All of it is about imagination, but almost none of it is all that imaginative. Bluey is the only one that knows how hilarious play can be, how silly and intense, how trivial but life-changing.” Some episodes seem to be created primarily to celebrate beauty in storytelling. In “Camping,” Bluey meets Jean Luc, and though they don’t speak the same language, they imagine together. They build a mansion from plants, plant a seed as “farmers,” and hunt a wild pig (Bandit). Jean Luc’s camping trip ends before Bluey is ready. Ever insightful, Chilli counsels Bluey through her sudden sadness (all during a middle of the night “bush wee” for Bingo). Bluey asks if she’ll ever see Jean Luc again and Chilli responds, “Well, we’ll never know. The world is a magical place.” The episode concludes with a time-lapse of the planted seed’s growth, and every time I watch, I’m better able to see the world’s magic. Similarly enchanting, in “The Creek”, the kids venture far enough outside the playground to stretch beyond Bluey’s comfort zone. Her bravery is rewarded with the simple and refreshing beauty of a creek. I love when children’s literature (and television) trusts the kids to enjoy the splendor of creation and creativity. The plot in “The Creek” is not the most profound. Kids aren’t directly handed a moral. But the point of the episode is so seamlessly delivered: beauty is a worthy risk. The reward often cultivates imagination. The point of the episode is so seamlessly delivered: beauty is a worthy risk. The reward often cultivates imagination. Sarah Bramblett In Bluey, love is the fuel for imagination, even when imagination becomes the “villain” in the story arc. Bluey’s colorful imagination drives the family’s adventures, creates hilarious games for friends, and writes stories, but it often distracts her from important things. The Heeler family plays “Hide and Seek,” knowing that Bluey tends to lose focus. As predicted, Bluey’s mind wanders and she is entertained by a toy called, Cheeky Chattermax. Parents of small children are given a nugget of empathy—the toy is really annoying!—and a nod of truth: distractions have downsides, even when the diversion is imagination. Despite the occasional drawback, Bluey’s family doesn’t shame her for her imagination, and one of my favorite features of the show is that it echoes the idea that love doesn’t shame. The rule-follower in me strives to follow and respect the recommendations that my child shouldn’t be exposed to any screen time at such a young age, but the story-lover in me knows that I need quick, good, true stories. Our modern parenting culture seems to thrive on shame. The internet should be a trove of helpful advice and community for parents. When I google questions like “how to keep my toddler from climbing?” or “can my child overdose on blueberries?” I should get helpful “here’s an idea” or “you too?” responses. Instead, every search leaves me with the overwhelming sense that I’m doing everything wrong. By merely asking the question, by watching the show, by ever feeling tired, by not letting myself feel the whole spectrum of emotions about being tired, I’m a failure. Instead of creating a culture that fosters friendship, many of the answers and algorithms feed shame and competition. Bluey is different. Bandit and Chilli have phones, and the Heeler family asks great questions about technology in “Bob Bilby.” Bluey’s parents get tired (“Mount MumandDad”), and they don’t always want to play with their kids. In my favorite episode, “Baby Race,” Chilli reminisces about Bluey and her friend Judo as babies racing to walk. In a flashback, a more experienced mom, Bella, comforts Chilli: “There’s something you need to know.” Chilli hesitantly asks, “What?” Bella replies, “You’re doing great.” Remembering the scene, Chilli tells her daughters, “From then on, I decided to run my own race.” There is a principle that’s commonly taught to young writers: “Show, don’t tell.” Mommy Blogs tell me I’m doing everything wrong; Bluey shows me that truth and beauty are abundant in the parenting adventure. In the same way, the first few Hutchmoots I attended made me want to devour the Bible, not because someone was telling me I needed to read more Scripture or humble-bragging about their own quiet time rituals, but because I saw people genuinely love the Word and I wanted Life in the Big Story . Shameful places make us feel alone, but when I watch Bluey , I feel comfort and the courage to be authentic. The episodes of Bluey offer me the hug of friendship, and I’m reminded of C.S. Lewis’s quote “Friendship … is born at the moment when one man says to another “What? You too? I thought that no one but myself….” Bluey asks “you too?” Good art reflects a life we can relate to while encouraging us to become better versions of ourselves. Lucy Pevensie makes me want to see Aslan, even when the other children cannot. Star Wars compels me to resist the empire. The Great British Bake Off actually lures me to believe I can efficiently create an exquisite seven-tiered cake (I can’t). Bandit and Chilli invite me to enjoy playing with my daughter. Bingo and Bluey inspire me to love as I grow into my emotions. Bluey isn’t always a perfect show, and it doesn’t always reflect a perfect family. Watching Bluey won’t turn me into a perfect mom. But the magic of good stories is that they seep into the heart. Bluey reminds me to imagine. I picture life lived with a whimsical soundtrack. I’m encouraged to delight in everyday happenstances. The best elements of Bluey then become true, or as Bluey and Bingo would say, “for real life.” Sarah Bramblett has a PhD in English Rhetoric and Composition and resides in Kennesaw, Georgia with her husband Lane and daughter Shiloh (a "joy tornado"). Sarah was an intern for the Rabbit Room while in undergrad and still believes in the life-giving power of Story; she loves passing on that power to college students who don’t think they can write.

by John Barber In Drew Miller ’s aptly titled new album There Will be Surprises , unexpected delights lurk around every corner, and the result is a musical and lyrical feast. From the opening phrase, “Father, your world’s on fire,” to the powerful closing track, Miller takes us on a winding journey that explores the complexity of God’s providence and His goodness. Miller is a powerful lyricist whose songs strike at the core of our deepest fears and longings, yet the album’s beautiful melodies underscore its themes of hopefulness and light. With shades of James Taylor in his vocals, Miller adds a plaintive winsomeness to these songs. Adding to the balance of thematic heaviness with Miller’s beautiful vocals is Evan Redwine’s delicately layered production. This is a great album to listen to on headphones. The opening to “Hidden,” for example, has a gorgeous stereo mix that complements the lyrics perfectly. While Miller sings about a God who feels hidden, Redwine punctuates the song with hidden details that require unearthing. Thematically, Miller zeroes in on the topsy-turvy nature of the true world, such as on one of the album’s highlights: “Nothing’s Right Side Up.” In the song, Miller contends that the world we’re living in now is the one that’s upside-down. He sings, “When they tell you to fast, feast / and when they tell you to weep, you’d better laugh / ’cause the story isn’t over, and we hardly know the half.” This is the album’s closer, and it’s equal parts hymn and dirge with a sprinkling of Tom Waits. Miller compounds his subterfuge in “This House is Burning Down,” which contains metaphor after metaphor about the world around us coming down, but, about halfway in, it makes a wonderful turn: “And as our voices drown in death’s deafening churn / and blood cries from the ground, repentance and return / there will a light be found.”  You see, in Miller’s estimation, there is so much more than what we can see right now. This album is not about surprises for the sake of surprises; it’s about finding redemption among the wreckage. Like Miller sings in “New Wine”: “The old sign at the dead end is where the next life begins.” Though the album begins, “Father, your world’s on fire,” it ends with this beautiful directive: “When they say all hope is lost, dance.” Miller’s exploration of truth is at turns serious, clever, and deeply theological, but, without fail, it’s always hopeful . If you’re struggling to understand or come to terms with the world as it is, this is a record for you. It’s not enough to simply acknowledge the reality of our fallen world. We need to look for the surprises that God has in store for us in the middle of it all. “Father, your world’s on fire/ and look how it shines.” VISIT: Drew Miller

by Pete Peterson I’ve read the Lord of the Rings so many times I have sizable swaths of it memorized. It doesn’t require much to get me reciting lines about the sound of horns echoing dimly in dark Mindolluin’s sides, or to call out a foul dwimmerlaik for his deeds and trespasses. I’ve loved Tolkien since I first read him. I always will. And I know I’m not alone. That kind of love for Tolkien is behind a lot of the anxiety I hear when people talk about Amazon’s forthcoming Rings of Power series. To be fair, they come by their anxiety honestly. Everyone has seen at least one story they love treated poorly, and the experience often leaves a scar. It hurts. I get it. I’m optimistic though. My wife will tell you I’m positive to a fault when it comes to these things. But the disappointment doesn’t deter me. I’ve got to steel myself against it if I want to find the rare wonder. And despite evidence to the contrary, I believe there’s always a new wonder out there waiting to be found. Tolkien would agree with me, I think. He championed the idea of humans as sub-creators—images of God who take creation and reshape it into endless lesser creations. In this new Lord of the Rings series, people are doing exactly that. They’re borrowing from the master’s legendarium and fashioning new tales and new characters and new visions of the world they love. In his essay “On Fairy-Stories,” Tolkien gives us the “Cauldron of Story”—a great kettle into which all our tales and histories are tossed and boiled. They stew and combine, and in each generation, new flavors are added, and new soups are tasted and served up for the good of those who gather. Sometimes what boils up might only taste like a faint trace of the original bones in the broth. But often, a storyteller pulls out of the mix something that tastes familiar and satisfies. That’s the wonder I wait for. You can read the rest of Pete Peterson’s essay “ Forge the Ring, Pass the Soup ” at Christianity Today’s website. Reposted with permission.

by Carolyn Arends My first experience with a book club of sorts was more like a boot camp. It happened over 25 years ago when, much to my delight, I found myself serving as one of the opening acts for Rich Mullins on a 63-city tour. Rich was enormously generous. I would later learn that there is a certain hierarchy to almost all tours, an appropriate and respectful deference to the headliner. Typically, an opening act’s sound is quieter, the lights less bright. Everyone follows these implicit rules—everyone except Rich, apparently. Every night he wandered out on stage, usually barefoot (so he wouldn’t disappoint the fans who had come to count on his shoeless-ness), to introduce me to his audience, command for me their attention, and generously ease my way into the spotlight. Alongside this open-handedness, however, Rich insisted on a simple but demanding rule: If you wanted to be his friend, he had a list of certain books you were required to read. He was not negotiable on this. That’s how the Brother’s Keeper Tour became, for me, the Rich Mullins Book Boot Camp . Over the three-month tour, I worked my way through Rich’s list. Dakota by Kathleen Norris. John Irving’s A Prayer for Owen Meany . There was a third book—the title eludes me now—set in the pioneer west. And then the fourth and most important title in the Mullins canon: Orthodoxy by G.K. Chesterton. I was only a few pages into Orthodoxy when Rich charged into the green room one night to read one of his favorite sections aloud, struggling to get the words out over his guffaws. “Huh,” said one of the players in Rich’s band. “I’ve been trying to read that book for weeks and I didn’t realize it was funny.” It’s likely we never would have discovered Orthodoxy’s riches without both the insistence and the guidance of a friend who had learned to love it well. Carolyn Arends Orthodoxy , written in 1908, is truly as witty as it is profound. But for me and a bunch of the other ragamuffins in Rich’s orbit, we needed help to really get Chesterton. It’s likely we never would have discovered Orthodoxy’s riches without both the insistence and the guidance of a friend who had learned to love it well. That’s the potential magic of a Book Club—whether one joins voluntarily or is conscripted. These days, it brings me much joy to help oversee the Renovaré Book Club . This year, which happens to be the 25th anniversary of Rich’s passing, one of the four books of the season will be Orthodoxy. While the Renovaré Book Club selection process is committee-based and rigorous, I confess I campaigned for Chesterton with unabashedly-biased vigor. It makes me smile to know that the hundreds of folks in the Club this season will be, at least indirectly, beneficiaries of the Rich Mullins Book Boot Camp. You are warmly invited to be one of those beneficiaries. Each year, we’re delighted when the good folks at the Rabbit Room invite us to reach out to you about the Renovaré Book Club, because we believe our communities overlap in some beautiful ways. So let me tell you just a little more about the titles we’ll be reading from October to May: Book One: Seeking God: Finding Another Kind of Life with Dallas Willard and St. Ignatius , written by South African pastor and author Trevor Hudson. In this just-released book, Hudson draws upon his close friendship with Dallas Willard and his long experience with the Ignatian spiritual exercises to invite us into transforming, real-time encounters with the risen Christ. It’s powerful stuff, and we’re thrilled that Trevor himself will be facilitating our journey through the book. Book Two: Orthodoxy , by G. K. Chesterton. In a 2015 piece in The Atlantic , James Parker describes Orthodoxy “as a masterpiece of Christian apologetics … ontological basics retailed with a blissful, zooming frivolity, Thomas Aquinas meets Eddie Van Halen.” Renovaré staffer and Chesterton aficionado Justine Olawsky will help us get the jokes and mine the treasures. Book Three: Learning Humility: A Year of Searching for a Vanishing Virtue by Richard Foster. This book comes out in December, just in time for the third slot in our season. Using the Lakota calendar as a framework, Foster (Renovaré’s founder) provides us with a look into the insights he gathered from sources ranging from Native American culture to Julian of Norwich to Scripture to personal friends. Richard himself will be facilitating our reading, alongside his friends Brenda Quinn and Bob Fryling. Book Four: The Narrative of Sojourner Truth, by Sojourner Truth and Olive Gilbert. First published in 1850, this book gives us access to the powerful faith, perspective, and experiences of Sojourner Truth, an African American preacher, abolitionist, and women’s rights advocate. Renovaré team members Tina Dyer and Grace Pouch will guide us through this remarkable narrative and its associated history. We begin October 3rd, and registration is open now. (In fact, if you register by September 9, you’ll get Early Bird Pricing.) Membership in the Club includes weekly podcasts and exclusive resources from the authors/facilitators, online community, and the option to join or start an in-person or video discussion group. In the spirit of our old pal Rich, we sure do hope you’ll join us in the Club.

by Lisa Dean The LORD is my shepherd, I lack nothing. He makes me lie down in green pastures, he leads me beside quiet waters, he refreshes my soul. He guides me along the right paths for his name’s sake. -Psalm 23:1-3 Last April, my family of four returned from the sun-warmed beaches of South Carolina to our home in East Tennessee. Refreshed by a week of sitting on the shore with a book in hand, I tackled the chores waiting for me—washing laundry, filling the fridge, and tucking suitcases out of sight. As the week passed, my renewed vigor for the tasks of motherhood and homemaking dwindled along with my motivation. “Why keep up the pace when there’s always more?” I thought. One afternoon, I abandoned the dishes in the kitchen sink and stepped outside the backdoor to look up at the trees, a sea of greenery waving in the wind. Feeling unfulfilled by the mundane work of the day, I sought comfort in the idea that there was more to come—more to learn, become, and do. For years I had hoped that God would make plain to me the tasks or type of work he wanted me to accomplish. He gave me a beautiful family and fulfilling relationships but I craved clarity about my future. Was God ever going to communicate the specific calling he had for my life? I prayed as I had countless times before and asked God to direct me. I longed for another way to contribute to his kingdom work even as I felt guilty for not finding complete contentment in everything he’d already given me. Standing in my backyard on that April afternoon, my eyes drifted down to the novel I’d left out on the picnic table: Jayber Crow by Wendell Berry. I remembered the lessons I’d learned when weeks earlier I tucked the book into my beach bag, staked out a spot to sit by the water, and relished one character’s journey to understand his calling. He didn’t agonize over the impact each job would have on his future. He didn’t stay still in one spot waiting to receive supernatural direction. And he didn’t pass over an opportunity because he considered it too insignificant or lowly of a task. Lisa Dean When I considered what it would look like to live out God’s calling on my life, I expected events to happen in a certain order. God would make plain his desires for me, and then, with a renewed sense of purpose, I would work to follow his instructions. Before reading Jayber Crow I hadn’t considered that these steps could be reversed. It was many years after starting his job as a small-town barber when Jayber reflected and recognized his calling to the profession. “Surely I was called to be, for one thing, a barber. All my real opportunities have been to be a barber… and being a barber has made other opportunities.” As Jayber took on the role of barber and later that of gravedigger and church janitor, I took note of what was absent in his decision-making. He didn’t agonize over the impact each job would have on his future. He didn’t stay still in one spot waiting to receive supernatural direction. And he didn’t pass over an opportunity because he considered it too insignificant or lowly of a task. When God called Abram to leave his home, Abram began packing. God called Noah to build an ark, and Noah got to work. The Bible shows us how God gave certain people special tasks, but I began to wonder how this infrequent occurrence of call and response had shaped the expectations I held for my own life. What if, more often than not, God’s people find their calling by looking for evidence of how he has guided them in the past? As he contemplates his life, Jayber would seem to agree: “I have had my share of desires and goals, but my life has come to me or I have gone to it mainly by way of mistakes and surprises…. I am an ignorant pilgrim, crossing a dark valley. And yet for a long time, looking back, I have been unable to shake off the feeling that I have been led…” I understand Jayber. I’ve harbored my share of desires and goals too, and I join with him in marveling that many of the best things in life have come not as the result of rigorous planning and preparation, but as surprises. And still, I attempt to draw a roadmap from here to contentment. Sitting in church, I’ve heard more than one pastor say, “Do you want to know God’s will for your life? Okay, here it is…” Without fail, I sit up straighter and poise my pen to take down the direction I’ve longed for. “…that you give thanks in all circumstances” (1 Thess. 5:18) or “…that you should be sanctified” (1 Thess. 4:3) or “…that you act justly and love mercy and walk humbly with your God” (Micah 6:8). The disappointment of not receiving direction about a specific college major, job, or mission tends to overshadow the gravity of the instruction I do receive. Confessing my inability to control the future or what it will bring, I’m persuaded to believe that how I follow God in the present moment should be of more concern to me than the desire to know where I’m being led. Lisa Dean I’ve been guilty of tossing aside the words of wisdom that tell me how to live out my calling. Instead, I search for advice that will help me make plans for what I’m called to do. Reflecting on his life, Jayber recognizes that he has “never lived by plan.” He says, “…when I have thought I was in my story or in charge of it, I really have been on the edge of it, carried along.” Confessing my inability to control the future or what it will bring, I’m persuaded to believe that how I follow God in the present moment should be of more concern to me than the desire to know where I’m being led. When his last living relatives died, Jayber went to live in an orphanage. Sometimes he would wake early, set his eyes on the horizon, and see “a good old brick farmhouse with trees and brick outbuildings” that looked “like a vision of Paradise.” As he considered the “beautiful house at the point of the meeting of earth and sky,” he would let his mind go there to “make itself at home.” That point where earth and sky intersect — God crossing over from heaven to human dwelling — is my hope. My mind can settle there and linger on the future that is to come, the life after life, and find solace without a stitch of discontentment. I may not receive specific instructions from God regarding the type of work or tasks he wants me to accomplish in the future, but I find assurance knowing I am called to belong to Christ. As I remain in him, I trust that he invites me to join him in the redemptive work he is already accomplishing. My path may be riddled with blind curves, barriers, and steep hills leading down into pitch-black valleys, but when I pause to contemplate these truths, I find confidence in knowing God is not only with me but that he actively “leads me… He guides me along the right paths for his name’s sake.” If you’ve ever felt lost while waiting for God to reveal his calling on your life, I invite you to join me in this prayer: God, I give you my expectations about the future, and you give me daily bread. I trust that you are using my work for your kingdom’s purposes. Even now I can look back on my life and see how you’ve guided me to this point. Help me to remember that my life’s calling — to belong to you and accomplish the tasks you present me day by day — is fulfilled as I follow you. Thank you for giving my life purpose and direction. Amen. Lisa Z. Dean is a wife, mother, and avid reader of fiction who loves writing to explore the ideas of biblical peace, eternity, and the presence of God.

by Jason Gray “What’s lost is nothing to what’s found, and all the death that ever was, set next to life, would scarcely fill a cup.” When I learned of Frederick Buechner’s passing, it rolled through me like a subterranean tidal wave. And it’s no wonder! Nobody, other than my parents, has shaped my life—heart, mind, and spirit—more than Frederick Buechner through his writing. I knew I wanted to say something about what Buechner’s work has meant to me, but I’ve been daunted by the prospect of distilling the depth of this man’s influence on me into a readable post. It’s taken me a minute to gather my thoughts and I’ve accepted that whatever I write will be both too long and not long enough. I decided to break it up into two posts, starting with how I first encountered his work and then another about some of the big ideas he introduced me to that continue to shape me. I’ll begin with the beginning. In my favorite of his books, Telling Secrets , Buechner wrote of two rooms in the White Tower of London. The first is the beautiful, bare, open, and expansive Chapel of St. John which he describes, saying, “you cannot enter it without being struck by the feeling of purity and peace it gives. If there is any such thing in the world, it is a holy place.” The second room is just below the first: a tiny dungeon known as “The Little Ease”—a claustrophobic space four feet by four feet designed to prevent any wretched soul who had the misfortune of being imprisoned there from being able to either stand or lie down in its cramped, dark, airless confines. To Buechner, each of us is the White Tower and the two rooms represent our spiritual condition. Are we living from the quieted, open, silvery light-graced stillness of the White Chapel? Or have we stowed ourselves away in The Little Ease of our own fear, striving, and shame? Where I came from, the church perfected cancel culture long before it was a hashtag. Jason Gray I didn’t realize it, but I was suffocating in my own “Little Ease” when I first discovered Buechner’s work. I was a young believer, about six years into my life as a Christian, and was working as a youth pastor. I found myself disillusioned by a church culture that pushed rigid piety that divided the world up into neat categories of spiritual/sacred and unspiritual/secular. Anything in the latter categories was strictly condemned, and that list was long . Faith, as far as I could tell, was defined as something like the mental discipline of being certain of things unseen but hoped for. This kind of faith was the highest ideal, and the certainty aspect of it was the highest part of this highest ideal. Now, I was young, and so… maybe I projected some of my own overwrought idealism onto the whole affair. Or maybe not. Who can say? But the message I absorbed was that doubt was the cardinal weakness, which made my church a dangerous place to bring my questions, of which I had a list that was also long and getting longer by the day. If I dared to voice them, it either elicited concerned looks or was met with answers that felt hollow, shrill—all treble and no bass—and that was designed for ending conversation rather than going deeper into it. I know they meant well, and that this was their best attempt at pursuing holiness, but all this posturing fostered a culture where what you actually thought had to take a back seat to what you should think. Among other things, this made it difficult to have a sense of connection with the real people in the pews beside me, separated by our façade of “shoulds” and “should nots.” I felt increasingly isolated in a room full of people who called me their brother. It all felt a bit unhuman. Ironically, it didn’t feel holy, either. But where else could I go? I’d experienced something undeniably real in Jesus, and the church was where I was supposed to get to know him better. So all I knew to do was keep my loaded question to myself and try my best to be who I thought I “should” be. Over time this cut me off from my sense of connection with God as well as from my own heart. It also made me afraid. If my brothers and sisters knew the thoughts running laps around my brain, I’d likely be excommunicated from the family. Where I came from, the church perfected cancel culture long before it was a hashtag. Buechner’s voice was soothing and troubling at the same time. I remember feeling like the sentences were long and meandering in a way that made me slow down to keep up. Jason Gray That’s who I was when I walked into my local Christian bookstore one day, the internal dissonance driving me to the verge of chucking the whole religious endeavor. And then like a man stumbling upon a treasure buried in a field I found it: a slim little book on the shelf with the imposing title, “Telling The Truth: The Gospel as Tragedy, Comedy, and Fairy Tale.” I wasn’t looking for it, I don’t know why it caught my eye, I don’t know why my little conservative bookstore stocked it considering the limited shelf space that was typically reserved for titles by the superstar pastors du jour, but there it was and there I was, and without knowing anything particular about it other than feeling drawn to it, I bought my first book by Frederick Buechner. I didn’t know at the time that what I thought was a mere book was actually a key to my jail cell. It felt like I picked it up on a whim but looking back I can’t help but see it as divine intervention. It was a cloth-bound hardcover with unevenly cut pages filled with a kind of writing I’d never experienced before. Buechner’s voice was soothing and troubling at the same time. I remember feeling like the sentences were long and meandering in a way that made me slow down to keep up. It felt intensely personal, like I was eavesdropping on someone’s innermost thoughts, and the way he spoke about his faith was frank and unadorned but also saturated with mystery and beauty. I’ve discovered a pattern over the years that whenever I can no longer make sense of my faith, God brings along someone—a mentor, a friend, more often than not an author—who, just in the nick of time, articulates belief in a way that makes it believable for me again. C.S. Lewis, Brennan Manning, Henri Nouwen, N.T. Wright—each of these and others have been voices that helped me hear the voice of God. But Frederick Buechner was the first and has been the most constant. From the start, I experienced Buechner as a pilgrim so confident that the one who began a good work in him would be faithful to finish it that he wasn’t afraid to be curious—pushing out beyond the safety of well-trod conventions to explore the outer edges of truth and find the true shape of it. Buechner’s faith was colorful and rich with darkness and light, belief and doubt, childlike wonder, and raw, earthy humanity. It wasn’t polite. It wasn’t safe. It was beautiful. It was ugly. He quoted Shakespeare as much as he quoted the Bible. He heeded the words of Edgar from Shakespeare’s King Lear: “…speak the truth, not what we ought to say…” It all felt real. It felt human . And for those reasons it felt holy. “Oh,” I thought to myself. “I didn’t know faith could be this .” The words he wrote became a trail of crumbs that not only led me back to the heart of God, but also back to my own heart. And just like that, the door to my Little Ease flung open, and I stepped out. It was the “speaking the truth, not what we ought to say…” quality of his writing that was most liberating. To speak of the light without the darkness is only half the truth at best or a full-on lie at worst. “If there’s no room for doubt there’s no room for me,” he wrote, naming the conditions of my Little Ease. The holiness of Buechner’s saints—Godric, Brendan, Bebb, even Jacob—emanates not from anything particularly virtuous about who they are but is rather a symptom of God’s delight in the essential belovedness he bestowed on them. Jason Gray Like the best comedians who say what we’re all thinking but are too afraid to say ourselves, Buechner never side-stepped controversial topics but instead wrote about them in a way that added nuance and complexity. Like Jesus himself whose best lines often began with, “you’ve heard it said this or that…” before dropping some new paradigm on us with, “but have you considered this?”, Buechner’s writing often addressed sensitive truths by introducing some left of center insight that reframed the whole conversation, reminding us that truth is not a commodity for us to use as we please but is larger and more mysterious than any of us can bear on most days. Pastor Tim Keller speaks of reading so much of C.S. Lewis’s work that he came to have the mind of Lewis in him. After nearly 30 years of reading every book, hunting down articles and interviews, scouring the internet for video clips, and finally driving halfway across America to hear him speak, I can say that in a sense I have the mind of Buechner in me—and what a mind! It has been a deep well I draw from daily to slake my thirsty spirit with a grace, wonder, and a truthfulness that is both tender and relentless. David Bowie recalls John Lennon telling him : “’Y’know, when I’ve discovered someone new, I tend to become that person. I want to soak myself in their stuff to such an extent that I have to be them.’ So when he first found Dylan, he said, he would dress like Dylan and only play his kind of music, till he kind of understood how it worked. And that’s exactly how I feel about it as well… I did that, too. I lived the life, whatever it was… It was a process of becoming, of transforming into the thing you admire and want to be. To find out ‘what makes it tick.’ Then, hopefully, you’ve absorbed that knowledge…” It was something like that for me. I ruminated on Buechner’s writing until in time I even got pretty good at generating Buechneresque observations of my own improvisationally. I became a bit of an evangelist, trying to get everyone I knew to read his work. I still remember what Sara Groves said when she returned my copy of The Son Of Laughter , Buechner’s novelization of the Jacob narrative—“It was brilliant. It reminds me how much we’ve domesticated these characters. The way he writes them… they’re so crotchy sweaty.” Ha! Her observation is true, there is an almost grotesque quality to the humanity of the saints Buechner wrote about. But it’s exactly their “crotchy-sweatiness” that shows forth the source of their saintliness more clearly. The holiness of Buechner’s saints—Godric, Brendan, Bebb, even Jacob—emanates not from anything particularly virtuous about who they are but is rather a symptom of God’s delight in the essential belovedness he bestowed on them. And through Buechner’s eyes you can’t help but see why God loves such characters, or even fall in love with them yourself when you read their stories: Jacob the recalcitrant hustler, Bebb the sincere charlatan, Brendan the navigator driven to the edge of the world to fill the father shaped hole in his heart—all of them holy scoundrels and fools and blessedly unaware of it. On the topic of saints, Buechner wrote: In his holy flirtation with the world, God occasionally drops a pocket handkerchief. These handkerchiefs are called saints.Many people think of saints as plaster saints, men and women of such paralyzing virtue that they never thought a nasty thought or did an evil deed their whole lives long. As far as I know, real saints never even come close to characterizing themselves that way. On the contrary, no less a saint than Saint Paul wrote to Timothy, “I am foremost among sinners” ( l Timothy 1:15), and Jesus himself prayed God to forgive him his trespasses, and when the rich young man addressed him as “good Teacher,” answered, “No one is good but God alone” (Mark 10:18).In other words, the feet of saints are as much of clay as everybody else’s, and their sainthood consists less of what they have done than of what God has for some reason chosen to do through them. When you consider that Saint Mary Magdalene was possessed by seven devils, that Saint Augustine prayed, “Give me chastity and continence, but not now,” that Saint Francis started out as a high-living young dude in downtown Assisi, and that Saint Simeon Stylites spent years on top of a sixty-foot pillar, you figure that maybe there’s nobody God can’t use as a means of grace, including even ourselves.The Holy Spirit has been called “the Lord, the giver of life” and, drawing their power from that source, saints are essentially life-givers. To be with them is to become more alive. (Buechner, Beyond Words , 2004) By that definition, Frederick Buechner was a saint, and my time spent with him has made me more alive. More than that, it’s literally saved my life. Prone to melancholy, I’ve regularly wrestled with my own depression over the years. There have been times when the circumstances of my life were painful and hopeless enough that I considered tapping out early. But then I’d remember Buechner. When you look at his work as a whole, what emerges is the sense that in one way or another all of Buechner’s writing is circling the impact site of a single moment in his life: his father’s suicide when he was 10 years old. His father is the ghost haunting every book he wrote, the wound that never quite healed. Just as I carried other pieces of Buechner’s mind in me, I carried that wound vicariously in my own heart. In moments when I was overwhelmed by my own pain, the wound would act up like an arthritic joint on a rainy day, making itself known as a question rising up out of my compassion for the little boy that Buechner was: “I’ve seen what this decision does to the heart of a son. How could I do that to my own children?” This question kept me alive on more than one dark night of the soul. About depression, Buechner wrote: One of the most precious of the Psalms seems to be one of the least known as well as one of the shortest. It is Psalm 131. “O Lord, my heart is not lifted up,” is the way it begins, “my eyes are not raised too high; I do not occupy myself with things too great and too marvelous for me.”To be in a state of depression is like that. It is to be unable to occupy yourself with anything much except your state of depression. Even the most marvelous thing is like music to the deaf. Even the greatest thing is like a shower of stars to the blind. You do not raise either your heart or your eyes to the heights, because to do so only reminds you that you are yourself in the depths. Even if, like the Psalmist, you are inclined to cry out “O Lord,” it is a cry like Jonah’s from the belly of a whale.“But I have calmed and quieted my soul,” he continues then, and you can’t help thinking that, although maybe that’s better than nothing, it’s not much better. Depression is itself a kind of calm, as in becalmed, and a kind of quiet, as in a quiet despair.Only then do you discover that he is speaking of something entirely different. He says it twice to make sure everybody understands. “Like a child quieted at its mother’s breast,” he says, and then again “like a child that is quieted is my soul.” A kind of blessed languor that comes with being filled and somehow also fulfilled; the sense that no dark time that has ever been and no dark time that will ever be can touch this true and only time; shalom —something like that is the calm and quiet he has found. And the Lord in whom he has found it is the Lady Mother of us all. It is from her breast that he has drunk it to his soul’s quieting.Finally he tells us that hope is what his mouth is milky with, hope, which is to the hopelessness of depression what love is to the lovesick and lovelorn. “O Israel, hope in the Lord,” he says, “from this time forth and for evermore.” Hope like Israel. Hope for deliverance the way Israel hoped and you are already half delivered. Hope beyond hope, and like Israel in Egypt, in Babylon, in Dachauyou hope also beyond the bounds of your own captivity, which is what depression is.Hope in the Father who is the Mother, the Lady who is the Lord. Do not raise your eyes too high, but lower them to that holy place within you where you are fed and quieted, to that innermost manger where you are yourself the Child .” (Buechner, Beyond Words , 2004) Though Buechner wrote with a great transparency about suffering, his work was also steeped in deep joy. Even the story of his conversion is punctuated by laughter. After wandering into a church service presided over by George Buttrick, …with his head bobbing up and down so that his glasses glittered, he said in his odd, sandy voice…that the coronation of Jesus took place among confession and tears and then, as God was and is my witness, great laughter, he said. Jesus is crowned among confession and tears and great laughter, and at the phrase great laughter, for reasons that I have never satisfactorily understood, the great wall of China crumbled and Atlantis rose up out of the sea, and on Madison Avenue, at 73rd Street, tears leapt from my eyes as though I had been struck across the face.” (Buechner, The Sacred Journey , 1982) Perhaps this is why Buechner wrote these beautiful words elsewhere: “ The worst isn’t the last thing about the world. It’s the next to the last thing. The last thing is the best. It’s the power from on high that comes down into the world, that wells up from the rock-bottom worst of the world like a hidden spring. Can you believe it? The last, best thing is the laughing deep in the hearts of the saints, sometimes our hearts even. Yes. You are terribly loved and forgiven. Yes. You are healed. All is well. “ (Buechner, The Final Beast, 1965) About Joy, Buechner wrote: “ We tend to think that religion is sitting stiff and antiseptic and a little bored and that joy is laughter and freedom and reaching out our arms to embrace the whole wide and preposterous earth which is so beautiful that sometimes it nearly breaks our hearts. We need to be reminded that at its heart Christianity is joy and that laughter and freedom and the reaching out of arms are the essence of it. We… are made for joy and anyone who is truly joyous has a right to say that he is doing God’s will on this earth. Where you have known joy, you have known him. “ (Buechner, The Hungering Dark , 1968) In his book, The Wounded Healer , Henri Nouwen described a spiritual leader as one who ventures into the dark first in order to show others the way through. I suppose you could say the same about the one who ventures into the light (which is just as perilous as the dark and maybe more so. Go ask Abraham, or Paul, or even Jesus.) In this way, Buechner has been one of the great spiritual leaders in my life. His unflinching way of looking into the dark is what made the light he testified to believable. When I read his words it registers on some deep level that I’m conversing with a man who’d made a pact with God (and whoever else might be listening in) to speak the truth as fully as he understood it regardless of whatever else he ought to say, solemnly swearing to tell that truth with a hand held over a heart broken by the joy at least as much as by the sorrow of life. Because of this, since I opened that first book, I’ve been able to trust him as a messenger of God to lead me, with each sentence he wrote, further and further away from my Little Ease and deeper into the open spaces of Love in my own inner Chapel of St. George where I’m able to commune with God no less than with my own heart. #semifeature

by Matt Conner It’s been a decade or more since I had my first conversation with Ron Block , but I can still recall the primary subject that afternoon: identity in Christ. That is because nearly every chat I’ve been privileged to have with Ron has, in some way, circled back around to that idea. Ron is best known as one of the world’s finest banjo players and a member of the Grammy-winning Alison Krauss and Union Station. As the band’s spiritual rudder, Ron has penned several songs within the group’s catalog in addition to other collaborative releases and his own solo work. Even with such accolades and achievements, however, Ron’s driving force for those who know him remains what he now calls an “abiding dependence.” You can now add published author to Ron’s resume with Abiding Dependence: Living Moment by Moment in the Love of God due October 4 (via Moody Publishers). I asked Ron to have yet another conversation recently about the source and significance of that phrase and how success in the music industry has informed his spiritual formation. I’ve known you long enough and at least well enough to know that this concept of Abiding Dependence has been a core consideration for you for a long time. Do you remember what sparked this as a life goal and passion for you in the first place and when that was? We reach for a light because the room is dark. At first, this means we look to other people, or our skills, accomplishments, or possessions to light up our sense of worth, security, and meaning. It works, but only to a degree, because all those things fluctuate, sometimes wildly. I had a mostly good childhood, but there were quite a few jagged events by the time I was 13 that knocked out my sense of worth and security. I started playing music, and in my teens, it became a kind of lifeline giving me a sense of worth. But by my late twenties, it wasn’t working any longer and I was having a kind of inner crisis. I started playing music, and in my teens, it became a kind of lifeline giving me a sense of worth. But by my late twenties, it wasn't working any longer and I was having a kind of inner crisis. Ron Block I knew there were answers in the Bible. I’d read it and heard it preached much of my life. But this involved taking off a lot of preconceived ideas – my “theological glasses” – and reading it as a child, taking the words seriously. Life, others, and my own thinking processes had trained me to think of myself in a certain way. But in this I found Jesus, Paul, Peter, John, and others often contradicting my view of myself, telling me I was more than I thought I was. “You are the light of the world,” “child of God,” “holy and dearly loved,” “a new creation” — all this began to change how I thought about myself. How would you define “Abiding Dependence”? Can you unpack what you mean by those two words? More than anything, abiding is about recognition. We recognize God’s reality, his presence, his goodness, his love, and the exceeding greatness of his power towards us who believe. We recognize we’re in Christ, and Christ is in us. We recognize we’re branches in the Vine, partakers of the divine nature, that in Christ lives all the fullness of the Godhead in bodily form, and we’re filled full in him. This recognition is a daily practice. We grow in it, and grow up in it. It’s the opposite of independence, self-reliance, and self-sufficiency. In it we turn to the ground and source of our being, the God who causes his life to flow up into his branches, producing love, joy, peace, patience, gentleness, goodness, humility, faith, and self-control. Yes, sometimes we forget, and we fail momentarily. But we never have to stay there. We can turn and recognize him again and again. To live this way is to worship in spirit and in truth. Trust, reliance, and faith all flow out of that simple recognition of the omnipresent, transcendent, immanent God who is over us, for us, with us, in us, and lives through us. It feels like anyone can relate to this and also feel the counter-cultural pull, but you referenced music-as-lifeline as something that no longer worked at a certain point. It does feel like the music industry would be a heightened arena. Did that accelerate these lessons learned—the nature of your vocation? The counter-cultural pull today is, “How I feel determines my identity,” which is the modern viewpoint. When I was growing up the pull was “How I do and what I do determine my identity.” As a teen, I knew I had to play music full time. I had a deep-down sense of purpose and a fascination with it, and still do. But on a parallel track was this issue of identity and worth. I felt good when I played well, when others were moved by what I did. And yes, this did accelerate my lessons learned. At this point, I had no idea that the Gospel was more than just “Jesus paid my sin-debt so I can go to Heaven” and also that God would take care of my needs (Matthew 6). It hadn’t entered my little bear brain to think about where I was getting my sense of worth. Through my teens and twenties, I continued on an upward track, playing in bands, making better and better music. In 1991, I was asked to join Alison Krauss and Union Station. I considered them some of the most innovative and highest-level players and singers in the genre, and I was thrilled, to say the least; it was creative, well-played music, and they were thrilled to have me. The world is full of temporary sources of identity, but there's only one source that never changes. Ron Block But I didn’t realize what was happening in my sense of worth. What goes up must come down. A fluctuating source of identity and worth will raise you high but also throw you down. It’s unstable, especially if you’re as perfectionistic and as hard on yourself as I was. A worth based on circumstances or on other people is a house built on sand. By 1994 or thereabouts I was beginning to hash this all out with God, and it wasn’t pretty. This wasn’t the only factor in my internal crisis. But the main point was that I found I didn’t have sufficient love, joy, peace, patience, or much else, because although I trusted the sacrifice of Jesus to get me to heaven, and trusted God for outer needs, I didn’t really know how to trust God for my daily, moment-by-moment inner needs. Anything can be turned into a source of identity, worth, and security – relationships, career, money, our skill sets, our IQs, our education, our coping mechanisms, and even ministry. The world is full of temporary sources of identity, but there’s only one source that never changes. Can you tell us about the format of the book and why you chose that route? Moody felt a devotional-style book would work best for this first book, and I agreed. This was originally going to be solely an “identity in Christ” devotional, but I soon realized I couldn’t write on identity without first writing about who Jesus was and is, why he was born, how he lived his daily life, why he died for us, what the resurrection means for us.  There is so much more to the good news than “Jesus died so I could go to Heaven.” There is a daily, experiential life with God that comes by recognizing him, turning to him, having fellowship with him, listening to him. Other aspects of what we call “devotional life” have to arise from that recognition, or they can easily become “dead works” if God’s reality and presence are not the hub. The first 12 or 13 days of the book focus on the life of Jesus in the Gospels. A central fact is that although he was God, he set aside his privileges as God and lived solely as a man having to recognize and trust in the Father within himself. He said, “….the Son can do nothing of Himself, but what He sees the Father do; for whatever He does, the Son also does in like manner” (John 5:19). He said, “Do you not believe that I am in the Father, and the Father in Me? The words that I speak to you I do not speak on My own authority; but the Father who dwells in Me does the works.”  Jesus had to recognize, trust, and follow the Father because he was living as us. He was revealing the pattern, and so he says later, “I am the vine, you are the branches. He who abides in Me, and I in him, bears much fruit; for without Me you can do nothing.” He lived as a branch in his Father so that we could learn to live as branches in Christ. After those devotional days focusing on Jesus, the book begins to diverge into what this means for how we see reality, our worth, our identity – always with that idea of recognition of the Father, the Son, the Holy Spirit as central. Abiding Dependence was the best way I could find to describe this truly Christian way of living. You can order Abiding Dependence here from the Rabbit Room store .

by Kevin Burrell My mother wept when Elvis died. I was an eight-year-old kid watching a woman shed tears for a person she’d never met, and frankly, it didn’t compute. I couldn’t fathom that a person’s life and lyrics could possibly reach through a needle on a vinyl record and find resonance with total strangers. It was only when Rich Mullins died, twenty-five years ago today, that I finally understood. 1997 lacked the social-media capacity for instant viral news, and so, like many others, I didn’t find out about Rich’s fatal Friday night car crash in Illinois until that Sunday morning, when a student in my youth group told me. How could so many people feel in those moments that they had lost a close friend? Though I did meet him twice briefly during his amiable barefoot after-concert conversations, we were still strangers (or as Rich would write, “prisoners in these lonely hearts”). And yet his lyrics, essays, and extemporaneous concert homilies exegeted so many of the key moments of my life. There were songs sympathetic to a broken relationship, or resonant with a lonely season, or faith-bolstering in episodes of fear. His music still anchors my winding-mountain-road soundtrack, and I blame his song “The Color Green” for a pricey speeding ticket. Rich’s music inspired me to buy a hammered dulcimer and embrace the agony of trying to keep a 56-string instrument in tune. I defaulted to guitar, and led my student ministry in sing-alongs of “Sometimes by Step” (the full song, people, not just the chorus) and “Nothing is Beyond You.” Rich was not a performer so much as a fellow pilgrim, accessible and real and Indiana-clay earthy. He spoke the common language of a sinner-and-saint ragamuffin, a unique place from which to serve as what Amy Grant called, “the uneasy conscience of Christian music.” His blunt perspectives on the idols of easy suburban discipleship called us to a more obvious but more difficult climb, and he led the way, barefoot. Today, I’m a pastor who writes about birds. When I think back to how this odd synthesis came about, I realize that Rich probably fanned that flame of “ornitheology” as much as anyone. With a heart captivated by the glory of God, he mined the poetry of the natural world, birds included, singing of “a single hawk burst into flight” or the “fury in a pheasant’s wings.” He imagined the lively wren incarnating the transformation of a hollow heart. He centered a whole song around the image of an egg hatching. He borrowed from many scriptural bird references like the mystery of an eagle’s flight (Proverbs 30:19, in “Love’s As Strong”), the simple provision of sparrows (Matthew 6:26, in “Hard”), or the contrast of bird nests with the life of a homeless savior (Luke 9:58, in “You Did Not Have a Home”). There’s a slowness and attentiveness that invites discovery, and the slower we go, the more we’re likely to see. I think I learned that from Rich. Kevin Burrell Recently in a radio interview, I was asked how people find the time to birdwatch. My answer was, first of all, that you need to go to places where, uh, there are birds. This rather obvious advice is easy to apply, because birds are ubiquitous; right now as you read this sentence, there’s probably one outside your window, just waiting to be noticed. (Go ahead and check if you want; I’ll wait) But the second part is harder. You have to slow down and look up. There’s a slowness and attentiveness that invites discovery, and the slower we go, the more we’re likely to see. I think I learned that from Rich. He would sing, “There’s so much beauty around us for just two eyes to see. But everywhere I go, I’m looking.” He exemplified a creation-attentiveness that saw the divine fingerprint in the bluffs on the banks of the Cumberland, warm light on cold Dakota hills, or crashing waters on the New England coast. Those who traveled with him, whether on tour or in the woods, say that the experience often involved an impromptu examination of grass patterns, stargazing, or even the study of moss. He relished the “motes of dust in these beams of light.” Rich truly slowed, enough to hear the prairies calling out God’s name. Rich was criticized by some for writing the song “Here in America” on the beauty of the American landscape. His reply: “There are people who think it’s a waste of space to write a song just about America—about how America is a beautiful place to live. But I think it’s a waste of eyes not to notice.” That bird outside your window right now would concur. After all, Jesus told us in Matthew 6:26 to “consider the birds.” It’s probably not the most important command in the Bible, but hey, it’s a Greek imperative, and so I take it as a savior-sanctioned hobby. At Rich’s encouragement, “Everywhere I go, I’m looking”—not just for birds, but for the lessons they reveal and the sparrow-watching Savior they portray. Well the eagle flies And the rivers run I look through the night And I can see the rising sun And everywhere I go I see you. Fellow Ragamuffin Jimmy Abegg said, “I think if it weren’t for his faith in Christ, Rich could have been a pantheist.” But for Rich, landscapes were the lens through which to see the grander realities of a King and a Kingdom. “There’s more that rises on the prairie than the wind and more that pulses in the ocean than the tide.” Antelope, goldenrods, and canyon walls framed a greater portrait— an eternal power and divine nature so clearly on display as to leave us without excuse (Romans 1:20). He used our physical setting to raise our spiritual sights, something greater than the stuff of earth. “While we live in the world that you have made, we hear it whisper of a world, of the world that is to come.” Rich’s lyrics spoke of a world shaken forward and shaken free by the realities of a Cross and a Resurrection. His poetic observations of the natural world were always a signpost to a greater hope, a thirst that would “soon drown in a song not sung in vain.” He held forth the created order rightly as a lens through which to savor a deeper longing and remember an earnest promise. Rich had a better capacity to describe that beauty than most of us will ever have, but this also allowed him to clearly see the heavy discontent of the land of his sojourn, and a longing for a better home—heaviness and hope borne out in tandem, in both his life and his music. There’s fury in a pheasant’s wings And it tells me the Lord is in his temple And there is still a faith that can make the mountains move And a love that can make the heavens ring Rich’s natural capacity for creational slowness drew us all further up and further in, to a world intent on pouring forth speech and revealing knowledge and boasting in the splendor of the one who made it (Psalm 19:1-3). And in doing so, he whetted our appetite for a capital-H Home. Twenty-five years later, I remain grateful for this troubadour who exhorted us to see the intricate worthiness of God’s creation while still yearning for the one-day experience of all things new. At Jesus’ encouragement and Rich’s example, I will continue to consider the birds. Kevin Burrell is a pastor, husband, and father in Charlotte, NC who writes about birds and faith in his spare time at ornitheology.com . In recent years his pastoral responsibilities have begun to include an increasing number of “Hey, what bird is this?” inquiries.

by Ned Bustard I was at the SING! Conference this past week and had the pleasure to promote both Rabbit Room Press and Square Halo Books . During my time there I can’t say which I enjoyed more: seeing people exclaim “I have that!” as they point at the Every Moment Holy banner or watching the looks of those unfamiliar with the books realize what a treasure they are. But my favorite memory was talking to a guy in a cool NeedToBreathe t-shirt who nonchalantly pulled out of his backpack an original hardback version of volume one for me to sign. Now, I love the full-size, hardcover version with the gilded edges, and I always encourage folks to buy that one since it best captures Doug’s original vision for these books, but if I was going to a huge conference like the one the Gettys put on with all the groovy books on sale, I would never give up that much real estate in my backpack. So, kudos to him! And while I admire that fellow’s commitment to Every Moment Holy, I suddenly realized that the Every Moment Holy:r Gift Edition had an important role to play in the Body of Christ. I always tell people that as soon as Andrew Peterson explained the project to me, I knew I had to be part of it. It spoke to the very heart of me as an artist and as a Christian. What I didn’t know was how much it would mean to other people. I honestly thought it was going to be too low-church for the high-church folks and too high-church for the low-church folks. I have never been happier to be proven so very wrong. Even this past week at the SING! Conference I had the joy of talking to people who had tears in their eyes as they told me how much these two books have meant to them. I also had the fun of “repenting” to people who hurled faux rebukes at me for not having given them advance notice that I was going to be at the event so that they could’ve brought their copies of EMH with them for me to sign. As we look forward to the release of the Every Moment Holy Gift Edition, I want to share with you two things about it that I particularly enjoy. First is the size: this new one gives me waves of nostalgic glee as it reminds me of the prayer books I would use as a child growing up in the Reformed Episcopal church my grandfather pastored. The second thing is that we were able to squeeze in a brand new linocut illustration. In a perfect world, I would want to illustrate everything Doug ever wrote, but that would end up making the book suitable only for churches with large lecterns. One liturgy in particular that many people bemoaned the lack of illumination was “A Liturgy Before Taking the Stage.” In the new Gift Edition, we now have that one pictured. In that print, an African-American man is shown (my friend Steve Prince helped me with that part when I was busy drawing the block at another conference we were both attending) standing in the palm of God as a spotlight shines on him, hung from the glory clouds of Heaven. The man holds a platter with his modest offering of bread and fish for his King. Around him are possible tools of his service on the stage—an open Bible, a microphone, and a guitar. So, if you are going on stage, off camping, attending the SING! Conference, or live in a tiny apartment the size of the ones my daughters rent in New York City, make haste and pre-order the Every Moment Holy Gift Edition RIGHT NOW .