What are you looking for?

I want to tell you why I love the new record by Jarred McCauley, but first I need to tell you about my love for a lost movie genre: The Western. Some of my most vivid childhood memories are of being forced to sit and watch ‘old’ movies despite my repeated groans and protests. My misgivings were rooted in the perceived lameness of anything my parents thought warranted “family time” (often these perceptions were well-founded…Lawrence Welk?). In my mind, the surest sign of a hellish evening of forced entertainment was the appearance of a black and white title card on a snowy UHF-band station. These title cards were often followed by equally onerous names like James Stewart, Gary Cooper, or John Wayne. Ugh. Ugh, I’d say. Do I have to, Dad? Can’t we watch Manimal instead? In hindsight, it’s obvious that these under-duress movie nights were instrumental in my life-long love of cinema and storytelling. The first time I realized that black and white film didn’t necessarily equal nap time was while wondering who really shot Liberty Valance. I recall Dad ordering me to sit and watch under threat of some vague unpleasantry and I was determined that I would not like it. I’ve still only seen the movie that once but strangely, I think about it all the time. I was baffled when the movie ended. “So who shot him?” I asked. Dad just shrugged and smiled. One day I need to watch it again to see if it presents a definite answer. I hope it doesn’t because that was a watershed moment in my understanding of how stories worked and what they could do. Today some of my favorite stories are those that end with a question mark. And then there was The Magificent Seven proving that bald could be cool, and Rio Bravo (dragging Dean Martin over from Lawrence Welk thereby imbuing Welk with a modicum of cool by association), and How the West was Won, and Big Jake, and The Sons of Katie Elder, The War Wagon, True Grit, and Rooster Cogburn. Man, what great titles. They’re bursting with the implication of heroics and adventure. Dad was, heart and soul, John Wayne’s man. But I was Clint Eastwood’s. I watched The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly every time it was on and never missed a chance to see Hang ‘Em High, or The Outlaw Josey Wales, or A Fistful of Dollars. I was also anxious to see  Any Which Way but Loose but after I did I hoped someone would advise Clint to go back out west where he belonged. My love of The Western culminated in parallel with my maturation as a high school senior. The year was 1989 and the western was Lonesome Dove. Every western since has been a bit of a let down. There have been great films, of course, especially Unforgiven (where I finally got my wish for Clint), but after Lonesome Dove ended and Augustus McRae was gone, those that came after seemed to be missing some magical ingredient. Perhaps in Lonesome Dove, The Western was perfected. Those six hours captured all the language, wonder, romance, and confident humility that I’d dreamed about in my childhood and the world thereafter could muster only a scant chase in pursuit of that fleeting dream. The great Westerns had a mythic quality to them that was irresistible to me as a young man. The western hero embodied something that thrived in the dreams of boyhood, a spirit of adventure, of self-sufficiency; a boldness that isn’t afraid to fight for family or land or honor, a hunger to be oneself in the world and live like a ‘man’ in the archaic sense. The prophets of Israel went into the wilderness to receive the word of God, but a cowboy? A cowboy lived in the wilderness. And when a cowboy came across bumbling easterners and city folk with their bowler hats and shaven faces, you knew at once who’d seen the mystery on the frontier and who was merely passing through on the way to San Francisco. Sometimes the mystery burned them and turned them hard and callous, but others came back wizened by the desert sun, vagabond prophets having seen, as Woodrow Call would say, a “hell of a vision.” In adulthood these mysterious ideals have faded behind a mist of practicality and community and civilization. But when I’m surrounded by traffic signals and ringing phones and coffee on every corner I often feel the tug of the wild. I can’t escape the longing for the frontier, the pull to seek the mystery and find out if I’m equal to it, to discover whether I’m a grizzled prophet of the badlands or just a wandering traveller through parts unknown. When I dream, I dream of the West. So on this fertile plain falls the music of Jarred McCauley. His album “Giants Among Men” (produced by Andrew Osenga) is a Western. It’s a Western in the classical sense. Its narratives remember the purity, and simplicity, and wonder that made a boy dream of the high country. It makes me want to go to the wilderness to sit and listen for the voice of God. It makes me remember things that I once thought I’d never forget. It recalls in me the dream of boyhood. And in that dream, I was a cowboy. [audio:IWasACowboy.mp3] Do yourself a favor and pick up “Giants Among Men” on iTunes, it’s less than $7. I was a cowboy Chasing down outlaws Across mountains in the yard My eyes were clear and hard Riding stick horses I’d shoot away evil Out there I was simple and clean Out there I was wild and free And it made sense to be young To write my name in stars above From Arizona Up through Montana I’d ride deserts dry and old ‘Cross canyons filled with snow And it made sense to be young To write my name in stars above Out there Oh, out there Out there I shot my first gun Out there I kissed my first girl Out there I took my first drink Out there I wrote my first song Out there I built my first home Out there I saw God’s face Out there I was a cowboy Chasing down outlaws Out there

A friend muttered an under-the-breath comment the other day about the infrequent nature of my writing. That part I know of myself, that trait I don’t like very much, and that I try to press down under the water so that people can’t see the struggle’s splashes, was ushered right up to the surface for a big ol’ gulp of fresh air. It stung more than I thought it should. I suppose you could say that I’m in that “do I live my life or write about it?” stage these days, so it didn’t come as a surprise. I notice things like the bright orange yolks in the eggs I have for breakfast, like the sturdy little beginnings of trees that are springing up from the whirlybirds that fell from my maple tree into the soil around my strawberries, like the heady scent of honeysuckle and the lush, damp green that is closing in on my peripheries and around my little back yard that marks the onset of summer, then I think “I should probably write about that.” But I end up just enjoying those little things in real time and then forgetting that I ever intended to put words to them. Herein lies my own ever-rolling cycle. I know I’m fickle. I know I’m inconstant. The struggle stems from a desire to please, if I had to put a fine point on it. I hate to disappoint. Do I write something that’s not good at all just so that I can say that I wrote something? Or do I not put anything out there until it’s perfect? It’s all pressure I put on myself, I understand this fully. I sure do wonder who reads all this stuff, though, and it begs the question: who do I write for? A dear friend put that question to me a while back and I didn’t know the answer. I wasn’t able to put a finger on who my audience is, and yet I write. They’re all in the mix: friends, family (near and far), total strangers, folks who want to know what I’m cooking on a given day, old flames, hoped-for flames, my dear mom, distant Swedish relatives. Me. Me? Me. When my sister and I embarked on this blog-a-day journey, I don’t think we realized how mundane it would get. I think we live quietly extraordinary lives here, but it was starting to seem otherwise. I think we need to give ourselves a bit of freedom. I’ll keep telling myself that a well-edited tome need not be cranked out each day, and the task will surely take on a lighter, friendlier tone. So I’ll post, not worrying about who is catching all of my sure genius. Dear reader, get ready for a little bit of abstract nonsense from time to time.

The curse comes like the crack of rifle shot. I finished The Yearling two days ago, and my heart is still heavy with it. The book didn’t wound me. The wound was already there. The book gave the wound a name, which is strong medicine. I remember my mother-in-law, who named her dog Jody after the main character of the book, telling me that it wasn’t until she re-read The Yearling as an adult that she realized the yearling wasn’t the deer at all; the yearling was the boy. I had caught wind of the fact that the book was sad, which only made me dare it to sadden me. I went into the story armed with the knowledge of its metaphor and its impending doom. And yet, it caught me unaware. I was a deer in the woods, minding my own business, feasting on the green grass of the story, when the shot rang out. My son, Aedan, was given the book by his Nana as a Christmas present last year. I remember him telling me how much he liked it, that it was sad, and that he thought I’d really like it, too. I knew Rawlings was from my part of Florida, and The Yearling was lauded in Micanopy, a little town 45 minutes from my house, near Rawlings’s home. But I never read it as a kid. If there weren’t dragons, cowboys, or ghosts in a story, I wasn’t interested. My parents tried to get me to read it, but I resisted, and I’m glad I did. My heart wasn’t ready for it. Nor do I believe Aedan’s heart was ready for it. Oh, there’s no harm in reading it at a young age. Rawlings’s descriptions of life in the Florida wilderness are fascinating, especially if, like me, you recognize the Spanish moss, live oaks, alligators, rattlesnakes, magnolias, palmettos, and deep Southern accents she writes about so well. But it’s not a child’s book, strictly speaking. Sure, there’s a terrible old bear named Slewfoot, and a hurricane, and more than one near-death experience—but even these events happen without the usual, conventional drama. There’s not much gut-wrenching tension; things just happen–good things, and bad things. It’s more than 400 pages long, with no real plot. It meanders (or seems to). Its passages creep by as silent and dark as the Suwannee River. From the first page of the book it’s easy to see Rawlings’s great gift as a writer. That’s why you give her your time and attention for those 400 pages. Not only are there small delights along the way, you get the sense that she’s leading you on a journey you need to take. The story is about the loss of childhood. That’s why Aedan only thought of it as a good, sad book and nothing more. How can you mourn the loss of something you haven’t lost? But as for me and my heart, we grieved. I sat on the front porch at the Warren on a rainy day, read the last sentence, turned my head so my children wouldn’t see my face, and wept. I asked God, aloud, “Why must it be so? Why must it be so?” Why must the bright wonder and innocence of youth be shot and killed? Why must the little boy in me pass into the night, gone like a ghost? Why must I spend the second half of my life grieving that boy’s departure from the world, always seeking him, always wishing for a world untainted? Aedan saw me crying and came out to the porch. I tried to pretend I wasn’t crying, but he’s pretty smart. He hugged me, and I hugged him back, no longer grieving my own past, but his future. I thought of all my children, and the loneliness that will dog them all their days, and how I long to protect them from it. But the world is drenched in sorrow. For these precious few days of childhood the Lord grants us a glimpse of Eden, and as we age we are called back again and again to remember what was lost, and to reclaim it, to tell its story. We weep for the death, and hope in the resurrection, when Christ’s Kingdom of wise, old children may walk a healed world unharried by the looming certainty of death and more death. The young deer is a metaphor for Jody Baxter, and Jody Baxter is a metaphor for the loss of Eden. And Eden? It was a real place, but is now the metaphor for the world that was, and will be, and is no more, the world our own world longs for. I walk through fatherhood with a secret grief for my children. They inherit a world teeming with graces and wonders and mystery—and yet they too will come face to face with the bear in the woods, or the dying, bloody gasp of the little deer. They will encounter the rattlesnake in the brush. They will see that this innocence so fine will fray. In the opening scene of the book, Jody steals to a hidden spring and lies there for the afternoon, marveling at its beauty, at the sound of the trees, and the birds, and the water. At the end of the book he returns to the spring and finds the magic gone. He is no longer a boy. That time was a child’s dream, and now he must put away the things of a child. Ah, but Jody! Don’t forget. Don’t forget the bubbling spring that brought such joy. Draw yourself a map and hide it away. Show it to your child when he or she is young, or leave it on their nightstand without explanation. Keep the fire alive. And when you’re old, Jody Baxter, slip through the fronds and scrub oaks, down the bank of the old sandy road, and drink deep of the spring again. Lie down in the hollow and rest in the loneliness that is not lonely. Let the clean, cold water remind you that the magic you believed in was always stronger than the curse that bent you low. I visited Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings’s home at Cross Creek last year, and took this picture. We have The Yearling available in the Rabbit Room Store.

Redemption is the common thread that binds them all together. Yesterday morning I drove home from my sister’s house listening to Jill Phillips’ album All the Good Things. When the song “A Lot Like Me” came on, I immediately thought of the LOST finale we’d watched together the night before. I marveled at Jill’s knack for getting to the heart of the matter. Her disarming lyrical candor solidified some thoughts I’d been having about the community aspect of this unique show. I thought how Jack and company had formed a church of sorts in order to survive life on the island and to help each other hold out hope for rescue. They didn’t have all the right answers about how to get home, but they found ways to come together and they learned to care for each other deeply. Then I remembered what Christian told Jack at the end of the episode about the time he spent with this group of people being the most important time in his life, and I stopped to think about the implications of that statement in my life, and my church. Jill’s song challenges me to spend more time listening and less time trying to impress. Take a listen to what she shares, and take comfort that even when you feel lost, you’re not in that ship all alone. Sometimes I think you hesitate to say the way you really feel Like there’s no way that I could understand where you are coming from But if we could tear down these walls of bricks and mortar built with fear I think we’d be surprised to find how small our differences become We’re all in the same boat Sailing on the same old stormy sea If you look real close You’ll find you’re a lot like me We carry different burdens and we’re wearing different battle scars If we both had our own way we would bury them forever They give us different stories, how we came to be the way we are Redemption is the common thread that binds them all together We’re all in the same boat Sailing on the same old stormy sea If you look real close You’ll find you’re a lot like me Something about being vulnerable Makes us think we’re setting ourselves up for pain But you won’t find judgment in these listening ears This is a safe place So sit down for a minute and tell me what’s been going on We’re all in the same boat Sailing on the same old stormy sea If you look real close You’ll find you’re a lot like me

It feels like the days after Deathly Hallows all over again. A great story which sparked a pop culture phenomenon has come to its conclusion: some people loved it, and some loathed it. I’m in the former camp, and for much the same reasons I was in the pro-Deathly Hallows camp: the story accomplished the imaginative satisfaction of ancient human desires. Spoilers below! The biggest mystery of this season has been the Flash Sideways. Is it a parallel universe? Will the two universes cross? It turns out everyone was wrong. The Flash Sideways is a postmodern Graytown (from C.S. Lewis’s The Great Divorce.) It’s like Lewis’s Graytown, because the people there can stay or leave as they feel ready. Consider that AnaLucia wasn’t ready, that Eloise was not prepared for Daniel to leave, etc. But also consider that Christian told Jack that all the castaways “made” the place, because they needed it. And in that case, it’s like King’s Cross. Harry perceives his meeting place with Dumbledore as King’s Cross, because it’s his own perception. What he believes actually shapes the place. In Lewis’s Graytown, the place is what it is and looks like what it looks like. Graytown’s citizens disagree on the meaning of the place, but not its makeup. At King’s Cross, and in this Sideways world, the place looks like what its inhabitants make it in their own imaginations. But all are able to proceed to love eternal when they are ready. As the story ended, the people sitting with me immediately began discussing: So is the Sideways real? I just smiled to myself, being too exhausted to formulate an answer. I wanted to say with Dumbledore, “It was in their heads, but why on earth should that make it not real?” What LOST did was make the statement: what is in your head is real. Imagination vindicated. Faith vindicated. Spiritual reality vindicated. In other words, this was logos epistemology, as I had hoped when watching “Across the Sea.” The light of the world is in every person. We recognize it in each other. We recognize the spiritual reality within and behind the physical world, and it’s in our minds – in our imaginations – that we perceive the truth. Just note the way the show opened and closed: Jack’s eye. And then remember your eye symbolism from Harry Potter. People who wanted mysteries “solved” would have hated the answers. Why? Because these are mysteries unfathomable to the human mind. The imagination is the best hope of perceiving them. The Sideways was more real than what happened on the island, not some fancy or dream that fails to give answers. The Sideways gives all the answers that really mattered. Who cares what the stupid numbers were? The mysteries of eternity find their way into the world in manifestations we just don’t get. Who cares what the numbers are? In the end, there is peace. There is love. To me, this is exactly the kind of bold ending that was needed. LOST was never going for a spooky/creepy ending. This isn’t a Gothic story. It’s not The Twilight Zone. It’s myth. More than that: It’s the best television can possibly come to creating a eucatrastrophe, a “sudden joyous turn.” The reason the LOST finale was bold is because in these days, happy endings are bold. Ken Tucker nails it: “Lost went out in a manner that was refreshingly not like that of so many dramas, which tend to become more dramatic, serious, and bleak in an effort to prove their ultimate profundity. Instead, the longLost last night was a combination of a greatest-hits album and a lively Sunday-school lesson. Everyone was forgiven; everyone smiled.” Other things I loved: -Jack and Kate: It was always supposed to be Jack and Kate. Sawyer/Kate always annoyed me. -Sawyer and Juliet: Kate could never settle Sawyer into the kind of loving person Juliet did. As Evangeline Lilly astutely said, Kate and Sawyer were “good at stumbling together.” Juliet and Sawyer flew together. -Jack, then Hurley: I was skeptical of Arabella’s position that Hurley would be the new Jacob, because I knew it had to be Jack. The way they made it Jack, then Hurley was fantastic. -The symbolism of the church at the end. Deliberate pans to Jesus twice. -Watching them realize their paths and recognize each other in Graytown: Simply amazing. I’ve never smiled or teared up so much watching TV. And it never got old, even after I realized it was coming for every single character. And as I write this, I’m watching it again, and it’s still not old. -No answer for fate vs. free will: the mystery was left fully intact, and both fate and free will worked together as they mysteriously do. I was so afraid they’d end this will a clear and decisive nod in favor of free will trumping fate. They did not. Jack was “supposed” to be the new Jacob, and Jack made the choice to be the new Jacob. It was both a “predictable” choice by Jacob, and an authentic choice by Jack. -Jack and Christian at “King’s Cross”: Because that’s exactly what that conversation was. -John and Ben: “I forgive you.” (Only one thing I hated: Sayid and Shannon. Never believed it, never will.) I’ll have more to say, I think, but I don’t want to say it all here and not leave room for a robust and insightful discussion, so I’ll turn it over to you after one last thought, and then see you in the comments. Here’s the crazy thing LOST did to me. A friend of mine convinced me to watch it by saying that it was all about character studies, and that there were characters named John Locke and C.S. Lewis. A couple seasons in, I told him, “I love it, but not because of the characters. I love the mysteries.” But by last night, it was exactly the other way around. I love these characters. I love that they made their way, flawed and failing, through a messy, mysterious world, and the answer they needed was Love. And in the end, The end is oceans and oceans of love, and love again We’ll see how the tears that had fallen were caught in the palms Of the Giver of love, and the Lover of all And we’ll look back on these tears as old tales. ~ Andrew Peterson, “After the Last Tear Falls”

“Lewis once suggested that literary critics are, and have always been, neglectful of ‘Story considered in itself.’ They have been so focused on themes and images and ideological commitments that they have failed to notice the thing that decisively differentiates stories from articles or treatises. If we then try to consider the seven Narnia stories as a single story, what is that story about? I contend that the best answer is disputed sovereignty. More than any other single thing, the story of Narnia concerns an unacknowledged but true King and the efforts of his loyalists to reclaim or protect his throne from would-be usurpers.” –Alan Jacobs And what are we? We are partisans for the unacknowledged King. We are exceptions to the total, cosmic treason of mankind. But this is from grace, for people who would be rebels. St. Francis of Assisi is widely quoted as saying, “Preach the gospel, if necessary use words.” There is debate about whether or not he actually said this, but my beef with it is more than authorship. It’s content. I understand the intent. Live out your faith, let people see the result of your faith. See the book of James. Yes, yes. Indeed. But the Gospel is words. It is news, Good News. It is not anything, it is something. It is particular information. It is not advice. It is not a “How To” book. It is not, as are the religions of the world, a set of things to be accomplished by you and me for a reward. As some one has said, “The religions of the world are ‘do, do, do,” and Christianity is ‘done.’” That is happy news. The Gospel is the Good News that the battle is won, the king has defeated the enemy, and we are free. True, in a real sense, for now a battle goes on. But this is not the central battle, this is the working out of the result of the central battle. This is chasing the Philistine army after David is holding Goliath’s severed head. The victory is sealed. The Victor is enthroned. Yes, for a little while longer the world is put upon by a pretended sovereign. But the Ruler of All is not surprised by anything. He is not, contrary to popular belief, on the edge of his chair, biting his nails. Our task is faith. If the faith is there, then so too will be the the works. Faith is God’s gift. He is not stingy, so we need not worry, or fear. “We obsess about the future and we get anxious, because anxiety, after all, is simply living out the future before it gets here. We must renounce our sinful desire to know the future and to be in control.  We are not gods.  We walk by faith, not by sight.  We risk because God does not risk.  We walk into the future in God-glorifying confidence, not because the future is known to us but because it is known to God.  And that’s all we need to know.  Worry about the future is not simply a character tic, it is the sin of unbelief, an indication that our hearts are not resting in the promises of God.” –Kevin DeYoung Preach the Gospel to yourself. Use words. Believe those words. That is faith. Acknowledge the True King.

In case you haven’t heard, Jason Gray’s “More Like Falling In Love” is getting lots of radio play these days. (Call your local station and tell them you want to hear it.) But just because he’s got a song on the charts doesn’t mean he’s abandoned his noble folkish roots. The song of the (tues)day is my favorite off his newest album. It’s called “The Golden Boy & The Prodigal.” Like a good Bob Dylan song, it’s got about 47 verses and I dig that (even if the radio stations don’t.) There are two sides to every person Like the two sides of a dime Heads or tails it depends upon Who’s watching at the time Though I hate to say it Mine is no exception One part is the prodigal The other part: deception Like the prince and the pauper Like Jacob and his brother Each hide a different heart Each a shadow of the other Me and my doppelganger Both share the same blood One I have hated The other have I loved One of them’s the Golden Boy The man I’d like to be I show him off in the parades For all the world to see The other is much weaker He stumbles all the time The source of my embarrassment He’s the one I try to hide The Golden boy is made of straw His finest suit will surely burn His vice is the virtue That he never had to earn The prodigal’s been broken And emptied at the wishing well But he’s stronger for the breaking With a story to tell I’m not easy with confessions It’s hard to tell the truth But I have favored the golden boy While the other I’ve abused And he takes it like a man Though he’s longing like a child To be loved and forgiven And share the burden for awhile So take a good look in the mirror Tell me who you see The one who Jesus died for Or the one you’d rather be Can you find it in your heart To show mercy to the one The Father loved so much That he gave his only son… Get Jason’s Everything Sad Is Coming Untrue in the Rabbit Room Store for just $10.

This is for real. Somewhere around the country, twelve emeralds are hidden, and the clues to their location are in the pages of The Clock Without a Face, by Scott Teplin, Mac Barnett, and Eli Horowitz. I’ve been an admirer of McSweeney’s writing/reading/tutoring community for a while, and even hope to emulate some of their methods here in the Rabbit Room one of these days. They run several inner-city tutoring centers around the country, with the idea that if you can teach a child to write you greatly increase their chance of succeeding in the world. I think that’s true. We’ve long kicked around the idea of opening up Rabbit Room tutoring programs for the purpose of exposing children to great writers, particularly great writers who were/are Christians, and encouraging those children to hone their craft and to treat it as Kingdom work. I geek out just thinking about it. Back to the treasure. McSweeney’s just published this book, and as far as I can tell the emeralds have yet to be discovered. I just read the book today and laughed out loud exactly three times while reading it. It’s funny, well-written, and really cool to look at. If you remember Graeme Base’s The Eleventh Hour, a picture book mystery you’re invited to solve before you turn the last page, you’ll see its influence on this book. But The Clock Without a Face takes it a step further and ends with a challenge to unearth bona fide, handcrafted emeralds. How cool is that? Very cool, I say. And I plan to sic my smarter-than-I-am kids on the mystery in the hopes of paying for their college. We have a few copies in the Rabbit Room store, if you’re looking for some adventure.

Five years ago today I begged my wife to take me to the hospital. “Take it off!” I told the doctor. “I don’t care anymore. It hurts too much. Take it off.” And they did. You probably know the rest of the story. If not, let Andy Gullahorn tell you about it. I should add, this is my remix of his song. It is far superior in every way. [audio:RoastBeef.mp3] You can purchase this glorious remix right here in the Rabbit Room store. CLICK HERE! (Yes, that photo is of the actual shoe I was wearing during my accident. My friend and neighbor Christopher Williams stole it from me a few years ago, had it bronzed (yes, BRONZED) and gave it to me Tuesday night at a surprise five-year toe-amputation party thrown in my honor. The plaque reads “Andrew Osenga – Less of a body, Mower of a man”. I have good friends.)

Tolkien has always been a source of wisdom for approaching the fairy tale, particularly his classic essay, “On Fairy Stories,” about which I have written here before. That is, he teaches us, as an outsider or even trespasser in the land of Faerie, how to enter it and appreciate it. But on re-reading The Hobbit, I found a fascinating trick he plays on his readers: Identifying with the story and plight of Bilbo, he makes us the fairy tale, and shows us how others respond to it. Here’s what I mean: We’ve been part of this adventure with Bilbo from the beginning. We’ve found ourselves comfortable in the Shire and suddenly thrown, partially against our will, into an adventure with a band of dwarves and a quirky wizard. We escaped trolls, goblins, Gollum, spiders, and wood-elves; we’ve discovered a magic ring and a sword. At this point, about 2/3 of the way into the book, Tolkien makes a very deliberate story transition: “…we are now drawing near the end of the eastward journey and coming to the last and greatest adventure, so we must hurry on” (end of chapter 9, “Barrels out of Bond”). From here, we step into Lake-town, a small wooden village of people (not elves or dwarves) a few days from Dale and the Lonely Mountain. Dale is the town and the Lonely Mountain the dwarf dwelling places that were destroyed by the dragon Smaug, and the reason for the whole adventure: The dwarves are returning to reclaim their treasure and defeat Smaug. In Lake-town, a fascinating little legend (or fairy tale) had been told for many years that the Dwarf kings Thror and Thrain would return “and gold would flow in rivers through the mountain-gates, and all that land would be filled with new song and new laughter.” In other words, a land plunged into darkness by an evil dragon would be returned to a state of glory by the return of a king. Sound familiar? As we journey with Bilbo, King Thorin (son of Thror son of Thrain), and the dwarves, we are journeying with the fairy tale into the land in need of magic. And here’s how we’re received. There are five responses to the fairy tale: “But this pleasant legend did not much affect their daily business.” This editorial comment by Tolkien in Chapter 10 gives us the way most of the world responds to the old magic, the true magic of the one true fairy tale. It doesn’t much affect our daily business. This is unfortunately as true for many of us Christians as it is for the rest of the world. “Some of the more foolish ran out of the hut as if they expected the Mountain to go golden in the night and all the waters of the lake to turn yellow right away.” Some, in other words, thought that the redemption of these lands could happen in an instant, as though a simple magic spell could automatically do away with all evil. There are at least two faults here: A certain gullible disposition that will believe almost anything, and a miscalculation about the devastation caused by Smaug. Smaug’s evil was too great to be undone because a few dwarves simply walked into town. In the same way, some do not take adequate stock of the extent and depth and power of the Fall, and think that Jesus just makes everything “ok” in an instant. “The Elvenking was very powerful in those parts and the Master wished for no enmity with him, nor did he think much of old songs, giving his mind to trade and tolls, to cargoes and gold, to which habit he owed his position.” The “Master,” the ruler of Lake-town, was far too concerned with money, power, and privilege to pay any attention to old songs and tales that might change things. It matters not to some what kind of suffering and tragedy happens, or what kind of redemption or change might be possible, as long as one’s own power stays intact. “It was easier to believe in the Dragon and less easy to believe in Thorin in these wild parts.” In the shadow of the Lonely Mountain, the effects of Smaug’s evil actions were so potent that it was very difficult, near impossible, to have hope or trust in old tales. The man about whom this statement was made was standing in the presence of Thorin, the very fulfillment of the legend, but believed more in the terror of Smaug than in the tale. This is the exact opposite of the foolish response above, which took Smaug’s evil lightly. These are so affected by evil and the Fall and all the terror it has caused, that hope seems an impossibility. The fifth response, of course, is that of Bilbo and the dwarves themselves. Fairy tales, you see, will not be disbelieved. If they are disbelieved, they continue to exist. The story goes on. The tale retains all its potency. The magic still works. The gospel heals and saves even its strongest opponents and radical disbelievers. Dragons are slain because Hobbits and Dwarves press on. In the end, Bilbo is surprised, in his conversation years later with Gandalf and Balin, that the old tales, songs, and prophecies have come true. “Of course!” said Gandalf. “And why should they not prove true? Surely you don’t disbelieve the prophecies, because you had a hand in bringing them about yourself? You don’t really suppose, do you, that all your adventures and escapes were managed by mere luck, just for your sole benefit?” As with Bilbo, so with us in our response to the great Fairy Tale, the True Myth. We get to enter into it and be part of the story.

Well, that was a crazy week. Nashville had the most rain in recorded history in a span of 36 hours. Flood. It was insanity. I ended up in a crew of folks in our neighborhood running from house to house over the first few days. We started out bailing water out of basements, shop-vac-ing in seeming futility for hours on end. Then we were ripping up flooring, pulling down drywall. Then hauling it out to the curb. Then taking a two-minute shower because the water treatment plants shut down. What a week. I had so many plans. Birthday party for our friend Katie. First church meeting in a new (temporary) building. Rock show at 12th and Porter with my amazing band. I was going to finish writing and recording new songs for YoungLife camp this Summer. Was going to cut drums and guitars on an EP for Seth Harper. Was going to make more money than I was spending. Didn’t work out. But a lot of other Nashvillians had plans, too. Some events, like weddings or meetings. But more so, plans to keep the family pictures forever. To hand down the wedding dress or that old guitar. To have a safe and welcoming home for their families and friends. To live and see their kids grow up, get married, have kids of their own. For some folks in our city, these plans didn’t work out either. But quite strangely, there are parts of me that are grateful. Grateful for the folks I didn’t know, who go to my church and showed up at my house to help haul soaked drywall to the curb. Grateful that I got to see my intentional Wednesday night friends again on Thursday morning. That we got to put action to what we always talk about. Seeing needs and getting to serve each other in a very tangible way. A lot of people use the phrase “get your hands dirty”. Ours were filthy. Cracked and blistered. As for our house, we had to rip out all the flooring and walls in the finished portion of our basement. What used to be the studio where we recorded “The Morning” and Andrew Peterson’s “Behold the Lamb” and a ton of other amazing memories is now just drywall and concrete. Thankfully, my new studio was unharmed and I didn’t lose any gear. But it was a backbreaking week that left us with three small dumpsters in the front yard and a week’s lost income. Personally, I’m frustrated and inconvenienced by our losses. I grieve with those down the street who lost much more. And I’m grateful none of us are having to face it alone. I found this video today which beautifully shows what last week looked like for a lot of us. Some of these shots are within blocks of our home. The Nashville Flood. May 2, 2010. from Michael Deppisch on Vimeo. The video is here, for those of you reading this on facebook – http://www.vimeo.com/11431574

To close out an evening of great music at last night’s Square Peg show here in Nashville, Eric Peters was joined by the entire peggish ensemble for the performance of this song. Even the audience got involved which means that I was in the back row singing, a rare and terrible occurrence. I suppose you could say that Eric Peters makes me want to sing. Didn’t Stryper sing a song that went something like that? The song is called “The Storm.”

Douglas Kaine McKelvey and I managed to live in the same city for more than a decade before we met. He was hired by my record label to write a new publicity bio and I met him at a coffee shop a few weeks ago to talk about my new album. We got the required interview stuff out of the way and spent an hour talking books, writing, songwriting, and illustration. I left the meeting with the feeling that I had just made a new friend. Doug has written a lot of songs and a few books, teaches creative writing to a group of high school students, and has a killer beard. We’re glad to have him. –The Proprietor ——————————————— The late Walker Percy had a habit of abruptly ending novels just shy of the moment when a protagonist might be expected to finally embrace some sort of redemption. Doubtless that persistent hesitation to describe the actual crossing of the threshold of the holy was what Percy had in mind when he asserted in one of his essays: When it comes to grace, I get writer’s block. Maybe he was on to something. When I consider our collective history of attempts to translate the infinite mystery and wonder into a few descriptive phrases of prose or song lyric, there’s an admittedly high cringe factor. Somehow, it just doesn’t seem to come off—at least not when you approach it directly. It’s like trying to pluck a magic tail feather from a phoenix. Apparently, you’ve got to be very wily, vigilant and patient and sneak up on the thing from an odd angle. If it sees you coming, it’ll instantly disappear and leave you grasping at empty air. Even as towering a literary giant as Dostoevsky seems to stumble at the end of the enormously brilliant “Crime & Punishment” when he tacks on a late conversion experience for that murderous rascal Raskolnikov. After all that came before it, the actual moment of surrender in the epilogue comes off as comparably flat and uninspiring. So if Walker and Fyodor struggled with it, I guess I shouldn’t feel so bad about my own patchy record of trying to communicate mysteries like the incarnation and the movement of grace into human lives. But still I have to ask, what is it about grace that is inevitably so difficult to capture and communicate? Why is it that when we try to portray it or explain it literally and directly in song or film or story, it so often eludes us? Or, to approach it from the other direction, why is it that a metaphoric depiction of encounters with grace, somehow organically rooted in the narrative, is inevitably so much more powerful? How does one, as a lyricist, novelist, or poet, communicate the idea of grace in a way that doesn’t do violence to the living wonder and mystery of the thing? Is it even possible to do so? Or when we attempt it are we like a child with a dull pocket knife approaching a frog to see what the mystery of life looks like on the inside. It’s going to be very, very hard to do without killing the frog. But grace, at its heart, transcends biology and all manner of mechanics. Grace is the intrusion of something otherworldly, something foreign to our usual way of doing business. We come closer to actually describing it, I think, if we say that grace is “magical”. Isn’t that how we experience it anyway? It is mystical. It is something that we can talk in circles about, but that’s not the same as finding ourselves swept into and enveloped by it. Maybe that’s why we’ve long sensed that some of the most enduringly transformational works in Christendom have been the fantasy writings of folks like George MacDonald, J.R.R. Tolkein, and C.S. Lewis. Francis Bacon said: The job of the artist is always to deepen the mystery. Is that what Jesus was doing with his storytelling? Rather than taking grace apart and analyzing the components or the mechanics of it, was he inviting listeners to enter through the door of the imagination, to emotionally live through a story, and to experience what grace might be like, and then to say: “That. That thing you just got a glimpse of. That thing you just felt stirring in you and around you. That was like the movement of grace. That was a glimpse of what love means. Of what mercy is. That’s what the kingdom of God is like.” Was he using story to draw us into an actual relationship with grace, to force us to wrestle with it rather than speak an easy “yes” or “no” to an abstract idea? Brennan Manning, in his book Ruthless Trust, issues the call: Send in the artists, mystics, and clowns. Their fertile imagination pours the new wine of the gospel into fresh wineskins. With fresh language, poetic vision, and striking symbols, they express God’s inexpressible Word in artistic forms that are charged with the power of God, engaging our minds and stirring our hearts as they flare and flame. In our post-christian, post-modern culture, what kinds of images, what kinds of symbols, what kinds of stories, what kinds of songs will we tell and paint and sing and film that will again infuse our culture with the ideas of creation, sin, guilt, brokenness, sacrifice and redemption that are the necessary foundational building blocks for an understanding of this wild and untamable mystery called grace? It’s a big question—and an important one—and therefore one that I don’t want to abandon indefinitely to the realm of the abstract. While I can’t always say why or how exactly, I do know that over the years there have been numerous works of art and music and literature that have been very real catalysts for epiphany moments, for the deepening of my own experience and understanding of who God is and what He’s about in this world. There have been, in other words, artists and writers who somehow got it right—or at least right enough. So here’s my invitation to the Rabbit Room community: would it be of interest to anyone to use this comment thread as an opportunity to describe our own encounters with specific works of art, music, theater, film, and literature that have impacted us? I’m curious to know what creative expressions have carried the power to change other people’s lives and thinking, and eager to share a couple of my own epiphany experiences with works of graceful and grace-filled art. Anyone?

It’s been a real joy to see how people have embraced the Hutchmoot. I look forward to meeting you folks and joining faces with familiar names. (Joining faces? That sounds really weird but I refuse to edit it.) Over the last couple of days there have been quite a few questions raised and I’m going to do my best to give the answers. If you’ve got other questions shambling around in your brain that this post doesn’t cover, post them in the comments and I’ll be happy to answer . Question: I’m not a singer/songwriter/author/artist. Can I still come? Answer: Absolutely. Our vision is for the Hutchmoot to be an event that fosters conversation and community. We don’t want it to be so stuffy and academic that it feels like English Composition 101, or so arts-based that it’s nothing more than a series of workshops. We want to provide an environment in which anyone who loves great stories can come and be fed, even if that means you just love stories for the simple enjoyment of receiving rather than creating. In a lot of ways, the Hutchmoot will be like the Rabbit Room website: We’ll say stuff about books or music, or movies, or our faith and we’ll try our best to sound like we know what we’re talking about. But instead of leaving comments on a post, you’ll be able to make sarcastic comments in person! It’ll be fun. And if you’re the lurking sort, that’s fine too, we’ll provide some comfy corners for you to listen from. Question: How late can I register? Answer: The sooner the better. We’ve got to have a certain number of registrants in order to pay the bills so if we don’t have enough sign-ups by June 15th, we’ll probably have to cancel, and we don’t want that. If the response is really good though, we’ve got a maximum number of people that we can comfortably accommodate in the facility (probably somewhere around 100). So if we fill up fast, you might miss your chance. Question: Can I wait and pay when I get there or do I have to register in advance? Answer: For planning purposes we need to know exactly how many folks are coming. We’ll eventually have to set a registration deadline and beyond that we won’t be able to accept any more registrations. It’s not that we don’t want you, it’s just a matter of logistics. So make your plans early and register while there’s time. Question: Why are registration fees and deposits non-refundable? Answer: Because all of our planning will be based off of the number of registrations and if people back out at the last minute, we’ll be in big trouble when it comes time to pay the bills. We only want you to register if you are sure you are coming. Question: Will there be any special guests? Answer: Yes, oh yes. But we aren’t ready to announce that just yet. Question: What about kids? I’d like to bring my entire family but we can’t afford to pay full price for our children. And what about those of us who are dead broke college kids? Answer: We are looking into this. I hope we will be able to offer some sort of option for the under-18 and student crowd. Look for an announcement in the coming weeks. Question: Will the sessions and panels be recorded for podcasts? Answer: We intend to record everything so that we can make it available online but we haven’t worked out the logistics of that yet. We hope it will happen but we can’t promise it. Question: Will this be an annual event? Answer: We sure hope so. Question: The date conflicts with (insert conference name here), will it be on the same weekend every year? Answer: Every date seems to conflict with something, and those other conferences aren’t half as cool anyway. We don’t know if we’ll do it on the same weekend every year or not. Too early to tell. Question: Where should we stay when we come? Answer: We’re working with a couple of hotels in the area to provide discount rates to Hutchmoot attendees. We’ll make an announcement when we know more. I’m also going to do my best to set up a Hutchmoot Forum this weekend on the website to give folks an opportunity to connect with each other and share rides or possibly even find someone to stay with here in Nashville. Look for an update as soon as that’s functional. Question: I have a certain type of food allergy. Will there be alternate menu options available to me? Answer: I’m still waiting to hear from Evie on this, but I’m pretty sure we can find something tasty for you to eat (even if I have to run down to the store and pick it up myself.) Question: What can I do to help? Answer: Spread the word. Tweet about it. Mention it in your Facebook updates. Blog about it. Write your congressman. Question: Why don’t we hear about the Nashville flood in the national news? Answer: We don’t know but trust us, it was (and still is) an epic event in Nashville history. Question: Why do they call you Pete if your initials are A.S.? Answer: Ancient Swedish-German secret. Question: Why doesn’t my local Taco Bell sell Chili Cheese Burritos anymore? Answer: Because they are insane and should be shunned. That’s all I’ve got for now. If there’s anything I didn’t cover, go ahead and ask. I’ll do my best to get you a quick answer. Big announcement coming next week. Stay tuned.

Remember the Michael Jordan commercial where he recounts how many buzzer-beaters he’s missed, how many games he’s lost, and the other failures in his career? I love that. Because of the inspiration? Nosir. Because I’m not a Michael Jordan fan and grew up despising the bandwagoneering of suddenly-now-Bulls-fans because of the dunking guy with the tongue out who gets foul calls when people make eye-contact with him? Si senor. I am a bitter, emotionally crippled, hermit of a man. Actually, though I don’t give a fig about the Bulls and never was an MJ fan, I do see the value of such a commercial. It’s kind of brilliant. The point being that those whom we all see as Incredible Successes, were not always and are not always so. Failure is essential to success. Stick that on a poster with a mountain, or a hang glider, and bam. Maybe the hang glider is crashing into the mountain. Yes, that’s it. J.K. Rowling was rejected 8 million times by several billion publishers before one took a risk on her. (Note: Slight hyperbole.) (Note the second: Did you see where there was hyperbole within hyperbole there?) Trillions of writers have similar stories, many have tales of wallpapering their walls with rejection letters. Then, later, they all become gazillionaires. I imagine there’s a lot of slow rolling down of the window of the mercedes to peer at the editor who rejected their work. Then the slow removal of expensive sun-glasses followed by the ironic smile…finally, the energetic peel-out. (Note the third: I’m frightfully sorry I keep using these massive numbers. I just feel the need to keep using higher and higher figures until they lose all meaning. Vote for me next election. I’d fit right in the Gubment.) Some guy in this Room of Rabbits (who is clueless about sports) encouraged me to blog about the story of my stories. That is, to talk about what I am “going through” as I give fiction writing the ole’ college try. I am reluctant to bore you to death with details, but I will say that some of the best advice I’ve been given has had to do with failure. “Anything worth doing is worth doing badly.” G.K. Chesterton I take that to mean that there is a season for doing a thing badly before we ever do anything well, and that I must, as a writer, not expect my early efforts to be anything close to perfect. There are going to be lots of missed buzzer-beaters and, perhaps more appropriately, a lot of games I’m not even going to get in to play at all. But sittin’-the-bench is time to notice things. Practice is time to…um…practice. Time to get better. So, here’s to bad writing and being willing to fail. Even these are gifts. Cheers!

The Rabbit Room started in September of 2007 as an experiment in community. I didn’t know what it would grow into, if it grew into anything at all. I knew that my life had been impacted on a deep spiritual level by the works of artists and writers who were Christians, and from what I could tell those artists and writers were fashioning those works in community. They not only cared about the excellence of their work, they understood, on some level, that they needed each other. So they met every week in the original Rabbit Room and shared a pint by the fire. They nourished friendships, they celebrated one another’s gifts (and since they were men, and British, I’m sure that means they also made fun of each other), they wagged their jaws, and they shared their writings. They may have even chortled. We’ve tried to emulate as much of that as possible via the wonder of the Interweb, but the time has come to step out of cyberspace and into the real world. I’ve met many of you at shows, and I’m always humbled, excited, and grateful (read: geeked out) to hear this place has been a blessing to you. It thrills me to interact with the folks whose screen names show up here on a regular basis. I’m fascinated by that mysterious ingredient in the books/films/music we discuss that drew you, of all the billions of people in the world and of all the zillions of websites in the world, to the Rabbit Room. That ingredient is, as far as I can tell, Story. Story with a capital S. It’s the stories we tell, the stories we sing, the stories we live, and the Story we’re invited into by the Author of our faith. So the next chapter in the story of the Rabbit Room is Hutchmoot 2010. “Hutchmoot?” you ask? Well, you can blame it on Sarah Clarkson’s dad. He suggested the name, sort of kidding, and we laughed. Then we sort of stole it from him. It may sound weird now, but once you’re used to it you’ll be on board. On the bandwagon. In the hutch. It’s scheduled for August 6-8 in Nashville. Here’s the scoop: Q: What’s a Hutchmoot? A: It’s a gathering. A meeting. A retreat. A conference. A powwow. A shebang. An entmoot, without the ents. Q: What happens at a Hutchmoot? A: Food. Good food, prepared by our resident Rabbit Room foodie Evie Coates. Quality time among fellow Rabbit Room readers with whom you’ll develop friendships that will last until you’re 87. Two concerts (one by yours truly, the other a private in-the-round concert with members of the Square Peg Alliance). The book release of Jonathan Rogers’s The Charlatan’s Boy. Sessions led by Rabbit Room contributors (pretty much all of us will be there). Panel discussions on writing, songwriting, and film. Nightly conversation with dessert and coffee. Q: Why should I go? A: Because you must. Q: No, really. Why should I go? A: We want you to come and enjoy a weekend of music and conversation about the stories all around us in song, film, books–and most importantly the story being told through our lives; our own story–what it means to get to the holy hidden heart of it, how to tell a better story with the days we’re given, and how our stories intersect each other’s and connect to the Great Story. See? I told you so. You must. Q: Who’s going to be there? A: Andrew Peterson (me), Jason Gray, Eric Peters, S.D. Smith, Pete Peterson, Evie Coates, Jonathan Rogers, Ron Block, Randall Goodgame, Andrew Osenga, Russ Ramsey, Travis Prinzi, Curt McLey, Stephen Lamb, and Thomas McKenzie. There are probably more that I’m forgetting. Oh, and YOU. (Because you must.) Q: What do I need to do? A: Click here to visit the official Hutchmoot 2010 website, where all your dreams will come true. You can read about the schedule, browse and buy the recommended reading for the retreat, and register. That’s it. That’s the plan. The event will be held August 6-8 at Church of the Redeemer in Nashville. I really think there’s something to this story-meets-community idea. I know it’s enriched my understanding of the Gospel, deepened my imagination, and blessed me with dear friends. We’re excited about this next phase in the experiment, and look forward to mooting with you. Sincerely, The Proprietor

It’s tempting to continue our recent trend of science-fiction inspired Songs of the Day, but I’ll spare you by refusing to mention that this song both refers to outer space in the first line and features an astral body as its primary metaphor. Just ignore all that and listen to how awesome the Shive is. The song’s called “She Is The Rising Sun” and Ben wrote it about a girl. It’s his way of saying she’s hot.

“Our girl is here!” Gwen says the instant I walk in the door. And Larla, Gwen’s ninety-five year old mother, turns to greet me. Her gray eyes are so crammed now with the past there’s almost no room for the present, but she gives me a questioning smile. “We love her,” Gwen says matter-of-factly, patting her mom’s shoulder as I stoop to give her my arrival kiss. “I love you hon,” Larla says in the faded voice I know well, and pats my hand in her brisk way. “We’re glad you came to see us.” And finally, with another glance at Gwen, she nods as if she has decided for sure and turns to look me straight in the eye: “You’re our girl.” Those words are a small miracle to me. I visit Kentucky only twice a year, once when the dogwoods are skirted in pink, and once in the fire of fall. It’s rare I can visit in between, and while Gwen has known me from birth, Larla hasn’t. I’m not, as they say in those Kentucky hills, “kin.” I’m just an occasional visitor. Yet Larla, even with Alzheimer’s disease, has never forgotten me. Each time I come, she knows me afresh. Some part of her retains its hold on who I am and the fact that she loves me. I was marveling at this again last week during my spring visit and decided one morning to write about it. Larla sat next to me at the breakfast table patting my left hand as I used my right to jot random musings whenever I got the chance. Gwen was in and out with eggs and orange juice and I was in search of the perfect word, my mind working to the rhythmic clatter of frying pans, when Gwen called to her mom from the kitchen, “Aren’t we glad our girl Sarah came to visit?” And in that instant, the mystery cleared. Something about having my pen in hand helped me to see what was going on. Larla knew me because I had been told into her story. Gwen, I realized, is a narrator. The moment I walk in the door, Gwen begins to tell me into the story of her own life and that of her mom’s. Word by word, statement by statement, with comments about “our girl Sarah,” and “how much we love her,” she narrates my presence into her mother’s life. Larla never has a chance to forget me. Gwen sets the scene by helping Larla to greet me, she tells the history of my visits as a tiny girl, and moves her story forward with constant affirmations of how lovely a thing it is to have me there. Gwen has used her words to frame me into belonging. It is storytelling at its most real. It is narrative at its highest power of love. As an author, I am keenly aware of the power of narrative. I struggle so often to get just the right words in place when I attempt to describe a character, because I am aware that the voice of the narrator tells a reader exactly what to think of any character. A reader’s affection or disgust for any book person is based on the words in which they are framed. Narration is a form of creative power. What Gwen has helped me to see is that this power is present in the real life, workaday world as well as the novel. Here we are, all of us telling stories about each other every day. I am beginning to understand how much our relationships are formed by the narrative of our conversations; our spoken affection or disgust, our gossip (or hopefully, lack of it), our love when it spills into speech. All of it helping to form the stories of the people around us. In this light, the power of a word like “welcome” is as good as “once upon a time,” because it flings open a new door to the possibility of friendship, of laughter, of belonging.  What crackling possibility. What a chance for all of us to be creators in the most ordinary of realms. I love that all people–writers, readers, or not–are made to be storytellers. God made us this way because he is the first Storyteller who told us into existence, and continues to define our lives with his redemptive words. But I think we partner with him in narration. Faith is one kind of buoyant of storytelling, we speak what we know is true and cannot see. But so is love. Love is definitely a narrator. Love chooses to speak what is possible about the people it describes. Love narrates lonely people into families. Love uses every word of its story to tell all people into grace. I have decided that I want the narrative I tell about other people to be a hospitable sort, one that tells people into my life as Gwen told me into hers. I want there to be a fireside feel to my conversation, a sort of pull-up-a-chair invitation in my words. I want to say to each person that happens into my days, “come on in, I’m going to tell you into my story.” And by God’s grace, it’ll be a good one.

Don Chaffer, of the most excellent band Waterdeep, is one of my favorite people, and not just because he’s my neighbor. Well, he lives a few miles away, but we’re in the country so it feels like he’s in hollerin’ distance. He blogs over at the Waterdeep site, and after I read this piece I rode my virtual sorrel mare down through the vale to seek Don’s blessing on posting it in the Rabbit Room. He obliged with a wave of his straw hat and went back to tilling. —The Proprietor “We believe in one Lord, Jesus Christ, the only Son of God, eternally begotten of the Father, God from God, Light from Light, true God from true God, begotten, not made, of one Being with the Father. Through him all things were made.” -The Nicene Creed When the heat pump crapped out at our new house, I started researching heating systems. Turns out that one of the big things you have to pay attention to is what they call an efficiency rating. The efficiency rating measures how much energy you’re putting into the heater against how much energy you’re getting out of it. Heads up, it’s never 100%. You always lose some energy. Compliments of inertia, friction, and black holes, everything loses energy. [Author’s confessional note: Truth be told, while I’m confident that inertia and friction play a big role in inefficiency, I’m not so sure about black holes. However, I wanted to throw a little something Einsteinian in there. I’ve got a feeling about that guy. He seems like he ought to be part of this conversation somewhere. Plus, he’s got cool hair.] And because everything loses energy, we all cast about, trying to figure out how to compensate for what’s missing. It’s the way of the earth.[Additional author’s note: we ended up getting the heater repaired under our home warranty. This has temporarily solved the problem, but I’ll have to re-visit it sooner than I’d like, I’m sure.] Believe it or not, I thought about all this in church this morning as we were reading the Nicene Creed together. We recited, “…God from God, Light from Light, true God from true God, begotten, not made…” and I started thinking about how the Father’s “creation” of the Son is perfectly efficient, that there is no God-ness lost in the “transfer” of power. This is because there is no real “transfer” of power. The Son does not borrow anything from the Father. He is the Father, and the Father is Him. They are one being, perfectly efficient—if it’s not too crass to say so—with all energy conserved. By contrast, this got me thinking about normal human communication, and how often the speaker’s intent is lost on the listener. The meaning is not equal to the message intended. I’m talking, for instance, about drive through transactions: “I’ll have a number three with a medium Pepsi,” you say. “A number three with a medium Dr. Pepper?” the attendant says. “No. A medium Pepsi,” you say. “Okay. A medium Pepsi. Will that be all?” “No. A NUMBER THREE with a medium Pepsi?” You say, and, even though it’s happened plenty times before, you can’t believe it’s happening again. Or arguments between two people: “Why do you always say that about me when it’s clear that I’m making an effort?” he said “Well, first of all, I don’t ALWAYS say anything, and second of all, I don’t know what you call an effort, but that doesn’t look much like one,” she said. “Oh. Okay, so it doesn’t count that I stayed up late the other night working on that thing for you?” he said, the sarcasm fairly obvious, at least to him. You get the idea. It also happens in art. As a musician, songwriter, and producer, I work hard at creating delicate little songs that suffer an encoding process that gets them shuffled around from one device to another. They tumble out of speakers and headphones at the most inopportune times: between breaking up with your girlfriend, and making your big pitch to the new client, and showing up unprepared to the final exam, and picking up your kids at soccer practice. The agony and the ecstasy of the song is treading water in the ocean of your life, but it’s sputtering, taking in gulps of water with the air. The song often doesn’t get the time it wants from you, and when it does, you misunderstand lyrics, musical intent, and even, sometimes, the overall point of the artist. Again, hardly a 100% transfer. Yep. Everybody misunderstands everybody all the time. We all superimpose our own stories on one another. We hear what we want to hear. We placate Hitler. We crucify Jesus. We ignore the poor. We give no time to our own dreams and visions. We are half-conscious at best. And then we stumble into church, and hear “…God from God, Light from Light, true God from true God, begotten, not made…” and it’s kind of unbelievable. The Father begets the Son, and there is no intent lost between them? Well, yes, because there is no intent between them; they’re one. No intent. No misunderstanding. Just one-ness. I like that quite a bit. It makes me want to go order a #3 with a Pepsi all over again, and, on the way, to listen to Steve Perry sing, and not to stop believin’, but to hold onto that feelin’.

Last week? Aliens. This week? Pirates AND Aliens! If you haven’t heard, Randall Goodgame is on the road these days with the Slugs and Bugs Live show and that taken in concert with Andy O’s sci-fi folk-rock last week told me there wasn’t a better song to feature today than “Dreams”. Why is it my favorite Slugs and Bugs song, you ask? Easy. Because it’s got dinosaurs, pirates, spelunking, and stun-rayed Zorbian fiends.

Listening to Walter Brueggemann, it is impossible not to feel a sense of history. At 76 years old, as arguably the preeminent Old Testament scholar of our day, Brueggemann has written more than 58 books, many about the prophets of old. To hear him talk is to become convinced that you’re listening to one of those prophets, someone delivering a message directly from God. At a recent conference at Truett Seminary in Waco, TX, where the topic was prophetic preaching, I sat under his teaching for two days with a sense of reverence and gratefulness for the opportunity, and a growing understanding that what I was hearing would shape the way I approached the scriptures in future readings. My first introduction to the work of Dr. Walter Brueggemann was back in 2003, with the release of a collection of his prayers, Awed to Heaven, Rooted in Earth. I was helping out with Michael Card’s radio program at the time, and Mike had bought a stack to give copies to his friends that were coming by to do interviews for the program, friends like Sara Groves and Steve Green. After flipping through a copy, I immediately ordered one for myself, along with several copies to give away. I have since used it in various studies I’ve been a part of over the years where something different is needed to start us off, and am always moved by his words, always find a glimpse of the kind of person I want to be in the space between his words. The second Brueggemann book I bought was The Threat of Life: Sermons on Pain, Power, and Weakness, and it has resided on my bedside table for the last four years, providing frequent encouragement and nudgings toward truth, a means that God has used to help me realign my priorities with His. Last Sunday morning, with a hot breakfast of farm-fresh eggs whipped and baked into a frittata in front of me, fresh mozzarella grated over the top of it, and a cup of espresso in my hand, I reread-for the tenth or twentieth time-one of my favorite sermons in the book, “What You Eat Is What You Get.” The text Brueggeman starts with is Proverbs 15:17, Better is a dinner of vegetables where love is than a fatted ox and hatred with it, and with its discussion of the far-reaching impact of the choices we make, I thought the end of this sermon was an apt passage to highlight here on the Rabbit Room, particularly in light of our discussions of movies like Food, Inc. and the work of Wendell Berry. We live between the nostalgia of what might have been, and a promise of what will surely be, when all are invited, the poor, the maimed, the blind, the lame, the unacceptable, and us. All are welcomed, all at peace, all rejoicing, all loved, all fed, and just greens.The wisdom teachers dare to assert that one of these meals is better than the other. There are choices to be made about diet, and one choice is not as good as another. Maybe we will conclude that herbs are not better than ox. In the world of social reality, however, what the proverb knows is that you cannot have only herbs or only ox. You get a whole world with each food, because food is a social reality in a social context. You cannot have just herbs or ox. You will get beef and strife, or greens and love, because what you eat is what you get. In choosing food we choose our style, our context, and our company, and our way in the world. In selecting our food, we act out our hopes and our yearnings. We tilt our life toward some satisfaction. One is better than the other-herbs with love, ox with strife-because herbs with love lets us be who we in fact are, lets us live as God would have us live, lets us be who we most yearn to be, in peace, safe, in love.The choices of ox and herbs, of greens and beef, of love or strife, are not little family choices made in private when you go into the kitchen. They are big, far-ranging public choices concerning foreign policy and budget and land reform and dreams. We do not pick our food just before dinner. We pick our food by how we value life, and how we build policy and how we shape law, and how we arrange money, and how we permit poverty and hunger in a land of abundance. The proverb might envision life in the palace with too much meat, and the peasants with none. Perhaps the proverb is a picture of the wealthy man and Lazarus, or of wealthy North Americans overfed and Latin Americans at risk without land. Perhaps the image is of empty tables in the dust of Soweto and luxury stores in Johannesburg, perhaps of kosher affluence in Jerusalem and empty rice bowls in the Gaza Strip. We choose our food and we choose our life. We sit at the table, somewhere between nostalgia for the good old days and hope for what God has promised, somewhere between what might have been and what will surely be. And we make a choice. Mostly we choose our future not with our minds thinking clearly, but with our stomachs and appetites and ambitions, making or not making time to care, or time to love, or time for strife.

Yesterday my son heard a story. This is not unusual. I am one of those writerly dads who fills his children’s minds with many different tales. Poor babies. I’m sure many of you do the same. Our stories include The Girl with Golden Wings, The Rabbits at Jupiter Crossing, A Polar Bear Named Fray, Clive the Mouse, and many, many more. I tell them these little stories (usually works of immediate improvisation, sometimes not) mostly to delight. Now, I don’t see stories as merely a vehicle for communicating truth. In fact I have been one who has argued against allegorical, message-infested stories. They often really stink. But I’m beginning to be less and less certain about what might be an impossible divorce of story and meaning. And meaning means truth. And truth is not neutral. It is from an actual, particular God. The God who is there. I have no less disgust than I’ve ever had with trite stories that are merely vehicles for preaching –as stories. But I am coming to see that everything we do, including tell and listen to stories, is deeply meaningful. At the back of all meaning is God. In fact, he is not silent anywhere good exists. His word is even there in every lie, in every sin –these are all distortions, perversions of his world, his voice. In the tales I tell my children I find myself inevitably communicating truths, values, morals and wisdom. Service is exalted, obedience to rightful authority honored. Bravery is portrayed as noble. Characters are not praised for their pride and selfish acts. Actually, they sometimes are –in the story- but that serves to illustrate another truth –the truth that sometimes that’s what happens in life. Truth is inescapable, even in a silly era where autonomous creation of “truth” is exalted. So the idea, it seems to me, is to tell the truth about the way God’s world really is, and tell a delightful story while we’re at it. I consider myself to be one who is on a journey towards being able to tell good stories, with some hopeful and some discouraging signs. And it almost goes without saying that anyone who loves and follows the Lord Christ will increasingly love and be saturated in his Word. I think it might come down to telling the truth while we are telling whatever it is we are telling. This goes for fiction as well. In all your telling, tell truthfully. But trying to tell the (actual, knowable) truth, while we are telling whatever we are telling, has big implications. I discovered this when I began telling my son his story. It was his birthday, he turned four, and I was recounting his life and telling him what he is like. His story. “The night you were born you slept on my chest all night and didn’t move,” it began. When I wanted to talk about his courage, I found things he understood about courage in our little stories, and in the other stories we love. “You are like Robin Hood, courageous and loyal, committed to the true authority, even when it’s hard and doesn’t get you an immediate reward. You love to protect your sister, like Gawain, the noble knight. You have a humble heart, like Abraham, believing Yahweh.” On and on, truth after truth, story after story, identification with what is noble and worth thinking about and being like. So we cannot help but be shaped by the stories we hear and identify with. It’s not neutral. The world God made is full of meaning. Every story teaches. But what do the stories we write teach? What about the ones we live?

A couple of weeks ago at a Square Peg Alliance house show here in Nashville, Andy Osenga asked the following question: “Would you guys rather hear an old song about spaceships or a new song about spaceships?” People laughed. Andy added, “No really. That’s a serious question.” The new song about spaceships won. And it was awesome. Today’s song of the day is the old one, “Anna And The Aliens” (unless he’s got another that I don’t know about.) The Rabbit Room is proud to be the one stop source for all your Science-Fiction Folk-Rock needs.

Since I was a kid, I’ve had a great fondness for documentary filmmaking. I think this love of mine must have been parented by an early draw to weekly natural documentaries like Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom and Nova coupled to a fascination with behind-the-scenes and making-of vignettes (which were fairly hard to find in the pre-DVD era.) Whatever the cause, I love a good documentary and it seems there are a lot of great ones around these days. But for a lot of folks, documentaries are way off the radar, and understandably so. They rarely get wide theatrical releases. They seldom benefit from a marketing campaign. And they are rarely aired on cable television. Basically, the only engine of market penetration that a documentary has is its word-of-mouth. So consider what follows as my attempt to pass along words from my mouth in hopes that they find their way to your ear and trigger whatever mechanism in your mind is necessary to effect the further life of these films. These are films that document true stories. They are sometimes harrowing, sometimes hilarious, sometimes thought provoking, and sometimes enlightening. They are all worth a couple hours of your time and if you’ve got favorites that I haven’t mentioned, let’s hear about them. Spread the word. The documentary film is an artform that deserves its due. (Note: Most of these are available via Netflix Instant-View for those of you who have Tivo, an Xbox, or a PS3.) Old Man on Bench 2: “…which it was.” I hesitate to call this a ‘great’ documentary, but it does document some of the most hilarious and bizarre people you’ll ever meet. The story goes that the filmmaker (Errol Morris) learned Vernon, FL was the nation’s leader in ‘accidental’ amputees and there was suspicion that the townsfolk were lopping off their own arms and legs and living it up on the insurance money. Morris went to Florida to document that story but when he got there he found a town even stranger than he imagined. Due to alleged death threats, he abandoned his documenting of the amputees and let his camera roll on the townspeople merely being themselves. It’s strange, funny, and, if you grew up in rural Florida like me, disturbingly familiar. If you can find it, check it out. What follows is a story so surreal in its developments and plot twists that had it been written in fiction, no one would believe it. It’s a tale that travels not only the deep seas of the world, but the troubled waters of the human mind. Donald Crowhurst’s is a haunting story that stayed with me for days if not weeks afterward. Unforgettable. (view trailer) This is a shocking documentary that manages to shine a relatively objective light onto the actions of individuals without taking the more easily travelled road of demonizing the church as a whole. Some of the best interviews are with Catholic priests who are fighting passionately within the church for justice. (view trailer) Fast forward thirty years. The band members are in their 50’s, they’re construction workers and school lunchroom employees by day but they’re still hopeful that their time will come. As the tagline says, “At fourteen, they made a pact to rock together forever. And they meant it.” The thing that makes this such a great movie is that, yes, the story of Anvil is ridiculous, but after watching them try and fail so many times and because of the passion and love that the players have for each other and their music, you can’t help but cheer for them by the end. I bought their new record as soon as the movie was over just because I felt like they’d earned my ten bucks, even if I never listen to it. (Strong Language) (view trailer) But I’ve found myself rethinking a lot of things since watching Food, Inc. The film is about the way our food has been industrialized in the last hundred years and the unintended consequences we’ve brought upon ourselves. This film isn’t just about health, though, it’s also about government policies and trends that are downright scary. Since watching the film, I’m far more inclined to buy organic food, even when it’s more expensive, not so much because I think it’s healthier, but because I think it’s the moral thing to do…and because I want Wendell Berry to stop making faces at me. (view trailer) If that right there hasn’t convinced you to watch this movie, I don’t know what will. It’s about a cranky old lady truck driver who buys a painting at a thrift store for $5 and sets out to prove to the world that it’s an actual work by Jackson Pollock, and therefore worth upwards of $50 million. Evidence suggests she’s right but the snooty art community isn’t having any of it. Fireworks ensue. The result is an interesting and entertaining look at how we value art and judge its worth. (Despite the title and opening quote, that’s really about the only strong language in the film.) When the filmmaker, Mark Moskowitz, was a teenager he began reading a book called The Stones of Summer that was heralded by critics as one of the major works of his generation. As teenagers often do, he got sidetracked and didn’t finish reading it. But when he returned to it as an adult, he fell in love with the book and was astonished to find that the author had apparently fallen off of the face of the earth, never publishing another book. The film is about Moskowitz’s quest to track down the author and find out what happened to him. Along the way we’re treated to a celebration of the novel as an artform and some interesting pontifications on other such “One and Done” author’s like Harper Lee (To Kill A Mockingbird) and Joseph Heller (Catch 22). The film, though flawed, is a fascinating story and since watching it, I always look for one of those rare first editions of The Stones of Summer when I’m in a used book store. (view trailer) Steve Wiebe is our hero, a nice family guy that one day decides he’s going to be the best Donkey Kong player on earth. But little does Steve suspect the vast evil that will attempt to prevent him. King of Kong is the tale of the rivalry between the lovable Steve Wiebe and he of the impeccable hair: Billy Mitchell. Whether you want to or not, you will learn a fantastic amount of trivia surrounding 80’s style arcade games and the strange sub-culture that still exists around them. The real charm of the film, though, is in its characters. Billy Mitchell is perhaps one of the most memorable ‘bad guys’ to ever enter a story. No matter how despicable you think he is, he continually finds ways to sink lower, and he does it all with flawless hair. It’s pure genius. You’ll laugh, you’ll cry, you’ll want to play some Donkey Kong, and you’ll never forget Steve and Billy. (view trailer) The best (and sometimes worst) thing about all these films, is that they are true. These are things that really happened, to real people, with real emotions, struggles, and dreams. A good documentary, as the word suggests, is a record of life here on planet earth. For good or evil, this is who we are: a strange and restless bunch all tangled together with stories to tell.

Note: We’ve completely sold out of these. Zounds! You guys are mug nuts. I’ll be placing another order next week so look for another set sometime in June. We’re happy to announce some new arrivals to the Rabbit Room. If you will, say hello to “The Chesterton“, “Old Jack“, “O’Connor“, and “The Professor.” Alas, we haven’t resurrected four greats of 20th Century literature. But we have named a brand new set of Rabbit Room mugs after them. The good folks at Sunset Hill Stoneware have turned each one individually on a pottery wheel (sans Swayze) and finished them off with an official Rabbit Room logo. We’ve only got a dozen of each style (and six of each variety within that style) so if you want a matching set, you might want to act sooner rather than later. Without further ado, meet the mugs: The “O’Connor” (SOLD OUT) is one of the finest mugs to come out of the American South in the last century. It might look like a sweet, innocent, little cup that you’d find in the hands of a small town Georgia grandmother but rest assured, it’s much, much more. There’s a lot of depth and flavor here that shouldn’t be underestimated. Be sure the check out the mugs in the store for a look at the secondary color options and if you would like to order 4 or more, send an email to orders@rabbitroom.com for details on free shipping.