What are you looking for?

Around this time last year, Eric Peters played a concert in Murfreesboro, TN that I was planning on attending, but bad weather, a long work week, and sickness conspired against me and I wasn’t able to make it. So when Eric posted on his website a couple months back that he would be playing at the same church again this past Friday, I immediately added it to my calendar. I’d heard Eric play a good bit back when the Square Pegs were playing weekly in-the-round shows at the now defunct Radio Café here in Nashville, but hadn’t seen him play a full concert until now. It was well worth the drive over from Nashville. A neighbor of mine, Paul Eckberg, joined Eric on percussion for a twelve song set that included “Save Something for Grace”, “You Can Be Yourself”, “Long Road (to Nowhere)”, and “Bus 152”. I was hoping to hear him play “Tomorrow”, my favorite song from Scarce: angel of tomorrow say a prayer tonight when we find ourselves alone afraid of being known and holding on for life But since the recorded version is accompanied by Ben Shive on piano, Eric doesn’t usually play it with just a guitar. Last month, I attended the Festival of Faith and Writing at Calvin College in Grand Rapids, and one of my favorite speakers I discovered was Kathleen Norris. Going into her sessions, I didn’t know anything about her. Not until I got home did I notice that Eric had a quote on his Facebook page from her book The Cloister Walk that is the central thought of his song “Save Something for Grace”: “We try to be holy without being human first.” I’ve heard Eric sing it many times, but listening to him on Friday, the first verse jumped out at me like I was hearing it for the first time: midnight at the stroke of noon when the lights go down and it’s you against you quiet eyes in a blaze of shame like a beast of burden you could never tame we try to be holy without being human first In the chorus, he tells us that its okay to be human, that grace is real. save something for grace /she’s raising the sky save something for faith / there’s hope still in her eyes save something for grace And in the bridge, my favorite part of the song, he sings, we live as though mercy were frail and forgiveness merely a tale we condemn ourselves to a fault when we fail, when we fall we find we’re human after all Eric sang one new song that he wrote for his son, Ellis, “I Will Go With You”, that I hope makes its way onto his next recording. And speaking of his next recording, he is planning on heading back to the studio sometime this summer with the illustrious Ben Shive producing, which gives me great hope for the record. Stay tuned to Eric’s website for updates on what is happening on that front. If you don’t have any of Eric’s CDs yet, you can purchase them on this very site (after saying penance). And be sure to check out Curt’s review of another EP concert recently (with Randall Goodgame), and his review of Scarce here at the Rabbit Room.

I’m deeply grateful that Jason Gray mentioned this movie in the reply of a recent post. It won an Academy Award in 1987 for Best Foreign Language film. I’ve intended to see it for a long time and Jason’s recommendation was the final inspiration that brought me to move it up in my Netflix queue. It’s a movie of understated beauty. The Danish landscape is filmed with muted browns, grays, and yellows. Though the topography is overgrown and rough, its muted colors seem an appropriate backdrop for the grave, ascetic characters that inhabit the small Danish fishing village in which the the film is set. Young and pretty sisters, Martina and Philippa are courted by two handsome and apparently honorable men. When it appears each respective relationship may advance, their father–a fervent Protestant clergyman–subtly manipulates circumstances to keep his pious daughters home. And there they stay, even when their father passes on. It’s as if he controls their choices, even from the grave. The sisters are part of the kind of religious community, a sect really, which on the surface, is hard to fault. There are pious meetings, weighty hymns, and significant devotion to caring for the sick and poor. Collectively, this group seems to live a life of self-discipline, self-denial, but little obvious joy. We see few children in the community, no great surprise. Rigorous religious observances are never missed, but celebrated with little pleasure. Years go by. Then, one night in a raging storm, Babette (Stephane Audran) knocks on the front door of the cottage shared by the sisters. She carries a letter of introduction from one of the sister’s long lost loves, the famous opera singer Achille Papin, now retired, who sent Babette from France. Having lost both her husband and son in the Paris Commune, Babette, he explains, needs political sanctuary. At first, the sisters kindly refuse to bring Babette into their modest home. But when Babette offers her housekeeping services for free, their last objection disintegrates. The arrangement works. The three women mesh in a relationship which benefits all. The sister’s beliefs prevent showy forms of affection, but it’s obvious that the years generate reciprocal respect and love among the women. Fast forward fourteen years. The sisters wish to acknowledge the 100th birthday of their highly esteemed father with a simple, unpretentious dinner. Anything more would be too ostentatious. Meanwhile, Babette wins a large sum of money in an early version of the lottery (the lottery’s modern form can be traced to 15th-century Europe). Babette offers to prepare and finance the meal for the sisters, with one caveat; that the feast be a French extravaganza. Reluctantly, because Babette insists, the sisters finally agree. Later, fueled by the ernest admonitions of their congregation and second thoughts of their own, the sisters implore their group to ignore the lavish meal. To enjoy such a functional endeavor such as a meal would be inappropriate. They may eat, but nothing must be said of the meal. It must not be acknoweleged; certainly not praised. On the day of the celebration, they receive word that a member of their group, Mrs. Lowenhielm will bring her nephew, none other than Lorens Lowenhielm. He’s the long lost boyfriend of one of the sisters, from the early years, and now an esteemed decorated general. He, of course, knows nothing of the group’s covert plan to behave matter of factly about the dinner. His presence at the meal is the mechanism by which I was most moved, both by laughter and poignancy. How can the preparation and serving of a meal be the effective centerpiece of a film? Just watch. As Babette prepares the feast, with expert timing, skill, and artistic flair, somewhere along the line I realized that the preparation and serving of the meal was transcendent. As the best art defies category and rigid definition, so Babette’s feast becomes more than food on the table. Her seven course masterpiece of fine food and drink is expertly crafted. Contrasted with the staid fish of the day the townspeople endure, the culinary explosion of Babette’s feast is palpable, even for an observer. Watching members of the sober congregation deflect Mr. Lowenhielm’s effusive praise of the meal with their own references to the weather or anything but the food, brings plenty of laughs. There’s a pink elephant in the room, which nobody acknowledges. That is, until the general speaks up. After he can bear it no more, the general taps his glass and rises to his feet: Mercy and truth have met together. Righteousness and bliss shall kiss one another. Man, in his weakness and shortsightedness believes he must make choices in this life. He trembles at the risks he takes. We do know fear. But no. Our choice is of no importance. There comes a time when our eyes are opened and we come to realize that mercy is infinite. We need only await it with confidence and receive it with gratitude. Mercy imposes no conditions. And lo! Everything we have chosen has been granted to us. And everything we rejected has also been granted. Yes, we even get back what we rejected. For mercy and truth have met together, and righteousness and bliss shall kiss one another. The general’s eloquent words reflected thoughts that were gently percolating in my mind as I enjoyed this film. I can’t say that it was the filmmakers intention, but as I observed the wonderful feast I saw it as a picture of divine, unmitigated mercy (after watching the film, I read at least six reviews, none of which mentioned this). At this representation of divine character, I felt the release of tears. Here we have an unseen culinary maestro, hidden in the kitchen. Her masterful design is happily and graciously bestowed upon her guests. Their nonchalent attitude doesn’t change her. She’s graciously doing what she does because of who she is and the love she has for the sisters. In this wonderful world, we are given devine freedom to partake. We are given much to choose. Often, decisions are approached with tripidation, not gusto. Like the members of this largely kind-hearted congregation, appearances and the mechanics of behavior take precedence over expressions of the spirit. The heart is shackled and subdued by lies. Meanwhile, it wants to soar. Leave fear behind. Come. Eat. Taste. Savor. Enjoy! As the movie draws to a close, it is revealed that Babette spent all of her lottery winnings on importing and paying for the expensive ingredients. When the sisters learn this, one gently admonishes Babette, suggesting that she will now be poor for the rest of her life. Babette’s reply encapsulates one of the film’s themes: “An artist is never poor.” Indeed. And one doesn’t need specific artistic skills to be considered an artist. An artist is one that looks at life with passion, distinction, and nuance. He has a desire to discover beauty in the nooks and crannies our world. No. He is driven to discover beauty in the nooks and crannies of our world. Like an artist that uses his God given imagination to create beauty, so the passive artist uses his creativity to notice beauty in the world. Those that choose such a perspective possess great riches.

I just got off the phone with my brother, who really liked the movie. He challenged my opinion (see the comments from the previous post), but ended up solidifying it. The conversation also reminded me of a few more issues I had with the changes the producers /director /screenwriters made. (I’m almost finished waxing opinionated, so don’t worry that you’ll have to read Caspian rants all week.) The thing that made Caspian worthy to be king was his deep love for Narnia. His nurse filled his head and heart with stories of Old Narnia, and he longed for it to be true. When Caspian finally meets Trufflehunter and the dwarfs, his wildest dreams come to life before his eyes. This sense of wonder and ache for a truer, better world seems to be one of Lewis’s themes, not just in this book but in much of his writing. Where was that in the film? And about the nurse. Remember the scene at the end of the book when Aslan heals her? She sees his great lion-head and weeps with joy because she’s beholding the One she dreamed of all her life. Aslan carries her to Caspian and they’re reunited at last. How, oh how, could the filmmakers have cut this? It was one of the few things in the book that would’ve translated to film quite easily, it would seem. And what was the deal with the conversation in the film between Lucy and Peter about seeing Aslan? “I wish he’d just given me a little proof,” Peter says, to which Lucy replies, “Maybe he was waiting for us to prove ourselves to him.” Huh? Jesus isn’t hiding from us, waiting for us to prove ourselves worthy of the beatific vision. As Paul says in Romans, evidence of his existence surrounds us. Yes, our faith gives us new eyes, but we are often faithless and yet are confronted with Christ at every turn. Aslan wasn’t concealing himself from Peter–Peter was unwilling to see him. The reason Lucy could see him was the disposition of her heart. She walked through Narnia with a child’s wonder that allowed her to see things with greater clarity–it wasn’t Aslan that changed and made himself visible, it was Peter who looked with humility and faith and could finally recognize him. It’s a subtle difference, but a significant one. Then Lucy for some reason races to the forest where she finds Aslan standing around, apparently waiting on someone to come and get him. Again I say, “Huh?” Now, I realize that this is only a movie. Some of you may think I’m making mountains out of molehills. My brother told me that my expectations were too high. But why shouldn’t my expectations be high? They spent millions–millions of dollars on this film, and they’re working with material that is beloved by millions of people. Why shouldn’t these storytellers be held to a high standard? I got the feeling when watching the Lord of the Rings films that, while they weren’t perfect, the filmmakers did a better job than anyone could’ve hoped. I had the feeling today that the filmmakers of Prince Caspian cared more for their film than they did the story itself, or for the fans of the story, or even for Lewis. Do they really think he would’ve approved of the changes? Really? Years ago when I heard they were adapting John Irving’s A Prayer for Owen Meany for the screen, I groaned. I love film as a medium, but some books should be left alone, for goodness sakes. A great book does not always a great movie make. Sometimes the very things that make a book worth reading are the things that only work on the written page. The changes necessary for Owen Meany‘s translation to film so bothered the author that he demanded the name be changed. They came up with Simon Birch, and whatever you think of that movie, you must trust me: compared to the book it’s a waste of time. I have a feeling that Lewis would’ve had a few alternate titles to suggest. Rant complete. Moving on.

Many thanks to the fine folks at Trinity UMC in Murfreesboro, TN last night for hosting me a second time. This was originally scheduled to be a show this past December, but one I had to cancel due to a severe cold, possibly the flu, the first I’ve ever had to cancel on account of illness. They were kind enough to let me reschedule, and though it was a small-ish crowd (apparently it was graduation night across the land), Paul Eckberg and myself were able to make some music that I felt came off sounding fairly decent considering we were both getting over (more) various sicknesses ourselves and hadn’t played or practiced together in nearly a year. Paul is absolutely tremendous and is the consummate professional musician, ever prepared and as tasteful in his playing as the summer day is long. It’s nice to have utter confidence in the musicians one occasionally gets to play music with. I don’t get to do it often enough, but I do love playing music with Mr. Eckberg. Also, many thanks to Stephen of the SPAdotnet who showed up to support myself, Paul and Chris Lee. Please be kind in your assessment, Stephen. On the 40-minute drive home, I tried praying, but quickly realized I had no idea what to say since it felt like it had been so long since last I earnestly (and honestly) tried communicating with God. I tried being quiet but my mind was wiry and busy. I said staggering things like, “I pray for…”, “I pray this, that….” and realized how stale it all sounded, how inhuman, how robotic. I could muster no flesh or blood or simple honest words to simply talk, one friend to another. So, in retreating response, I asked God to give me a thankful heart, while in the back of my mind I fully feared the very proposition: “What if having a grateful heart means having everything I cherish – the people AND the accumulated stuff – ripped away from me?” In no way do I want that to happen, so I sheepishly murmured the prayer, secretly hoping He wouldn’t hear it and might disregard it the way a sleeping cat ignores a buzzing housefly. How fearful and strange it is to be fearfully and wonderfully made. I doubt the prayer will be ignored. I pulled up to the house at 10:03 pm and, after lugging in my gear, sat on the couch with Danielle, already 40-minutes into the 1990 film Awakenings (Robert DeNiro, Robin Williams). I’ve maybe seen this movie once before, probably circa 1990-91, but had forgotten the vast majority of the plot. There is one scene where DeNiro’s character, Dwayne, having awoken after 30 years of being in a nearly catatonic state (I’m unclear on the actual disease: Parkinson’s or encephalitis?), is courting a beautiful young lady who has been regularly visiting her own father in the sanitarium. This particular scene, Dwayne, who has been showing signs of his slow digression back into this unresponsive state after a summer of “awakening”, is in the cafeteria eating lunch with the red-headed woman. He is attempting to tell her he will never see her again and is saying his final goodbye. He stands to leave and offers her his hand to shake, himself trembling and ticking from the oncoming illness. She takes his hand but refuses to let go of it. She gets up from her seat to stand near him, takes hold of his other hand and proceeds to dance with him in the middle of the hospital cafeteria, a whitewashed room, with only the onlooking hospital staff, various patients and visiting families as witnesses. As she continues to press him close and dance, his spastic trembling subsides and he at last rests his head on her shoulders as the scene fades to black. We hold so much dear, and yet let so much go. The touch of another human, so kind, so gentle, so caring, so compassionate, so purposeful, constitutes humanity as the beacon and image of an infinitely greater mercy. Combined in that movie scene and my post-concert drive home I was reminded of hope, how much of it I seem to have lost in my “adult” life with all the treading of responsibilities, the martyrdom of self, the threshing of grain, and how the presence of people, my wife and my son in particular, whom I need more than time itself, who are a salvation of sorts — a grace upon and within my world to keep me from losing hope altogether and to keep me from utter fear and shaking, to see in me someone worth saving, someone worth holding onto, worth touching and worth calming. I’ve never been much of a dancer, but, God, please give us thankful and awake hearts to hold so much dear, yet cling to what is worth clinging onto.

I haven’t seen it yet, but I just finished reading it again to my children. Now, if you know me at all you know that I’m a cry-baby. For example, I got choked up tonight when I was watching Indiana Jones II with my boys for the first time. (It was when they cheered when Indy snapped out of his creepy trance by the lava pit and winked at Short Round. Woot!)  So of course my chin quivered when I read parts of Prince Caspian. The book is full of moments that give me a window into the heart of the author and convince me all over again that something miraculous happened in C.S. Lewis’s life, and that something could only have been Christ. These aren’t stories that I read for their action or their plotting. I read them for the magic. For the old magic that reminds me again and again to be young at heart, that the Kingdom is made of such as these, that the stories I grew up on were true stories. As Pete wrote in his post about Indiana Jones, hints of that magic sometimes translate to film (though in a far less specifically Christ-centered sense).So the movie releases today to mostly positive reviews. And some of the negative ones come from Christians, particularly the ones who have a deep affection for the books. (Jeffrey Overstreet’s blog references a few of them.) Now that you’ve seen the movie, what did you think? Did they pull it off? Did you get the sense that the filmmakers realized which parts of the book made it more than just another book? Does it even matter? Can I stop writing questions? I don’t think so? Who ate my cheeseburger? Yes?

I know what you’re thinking…well, I know what I’m thinking. “A review of a movie involving a sex doll? In the Rabbit Room??” But we are all safe because, well…suffice it to say, I recommended this film to my mom. My mom. I knew I was going to like it, because hey, his name is Lars Lindstrom and he wears fair isle sweaters — what’s not for a good Swedish girl to like? What I didn’t know was how the film’s quiet, stealthy tenderness would move me, or how Ryan Gosling’s nervous facial tics would immediately endear me to his character, or how sweetly this strange story would unfold and lay itself bare. Disclaimer: I’m afraid to write this review. Why? Because I know, I know, I KNOW, like a mama bear knows her bear cub, like a pianist knows middle C, like a Canadian citizen knows the national anthem, that I will inevitably leave out scores of reasons why I loved it so. I’m still stepping out in faith and trusting that you will fill in the blanks and show me mercy if you do decide to see it. Okay, I feel better now. Lars lives in the cold, whitewashed North in the garage apartment of his parents’ home which now belongs to his brother, Gus (Paul Schneider) and his pregnant wife, Karin (Emily Mortimer). He is painfully shy and socially awkward. He is usually found clinging to a grey blanket his mother crocheted for him when she was expecting him. His mustachioed, apprehensive smile is clouded with sadness. The family are worried about him — concerned that he’s slipping further from reality every day, only confirmed by the fact that he orders a, um….doll….named Bianca and introduces her as his girlfriend. (This is where I’ll go ahead and tell you that it never seems to occur to Lars to make use of the doll for her original purpose. You can breathe now.) Bianca is wheelchair-bound, she conveniently lost her luggage, she ‘doesn’t speak much English’ because she is ‘from the Tropics.’ He explains that, since they are both God-fearing young folks, he would like for her to sleep in the main house’s Pink Room, which belonged to his late mother. When Bianca is taken in to see Doctor Dagmar (played graciously by the lovely Patricia Clarkson), Lars’ brother and sister-in-law are basically told that, to be most helpful, they must go along with his delusion. Their conflict is at once excruciating and hilarious. The townspeople rally (albeit reluctantly for a handful of them) and offer a heart-warming display of support for this unusual relationship with understanding, emotion, and true class. (Oh friends, you MUST see this movie!!….aaaahhhhhh!!!!!….it’s so gooood!!! moving on….) In a few of my favorite vignettes, most lovely and memorable, Lars takes Bianca to the woods and shows her his childhood tree fort, sings Nat King Cole’s “L-O-V-E” to her in a funny tremolo, smirks as he cuts her meat for her at the dinner table and playfully eats from her plate, and reads poetry to her. Bianca, along with everyone who takes good care to include her in the community, ends up healing something in Lars, and the film closes with promise and hope — perhaps dim and slow in coming, but still shining. I will spare you any more of my sub-par summations, for I fear they are shooting off in all possible directions like fireworks gone bad. I will, however, leave you with these words which are marks of what this film portrays: Poignant. Warm. Sad. Sweet. Offbeat. Hilarious. Redemptive. Beauty-filled.

I’m going to tell you about a Cool Thing. What is this Cool Thing, you ask? It’s called Tokens. It’s a radio show in the vein of A Prairie Home Companion, put together by Lee Camp, a theology professor at Nashville’s Lipscomb University. Jeff Taylor, the musician who you may have seen playing with Michael Card, Buddy Greene, Ricky Skaggs, the Chieftains, or–if I say so myself–myself, is the band leader for the show, and told me about the concept months ago. He asked if I’d be into playing on it and I immediately said yes. The house band is a who’s-who of great (and I mean great) Nashville players, like the aforementioned Jeff Taylor and fiddler Aubrey Haynie (the genius who played the mandolin and fiddle on Carried Along way back in 1999–remember that killer mandolin/fiddle romp at the end of “The Ninety and Nine”?). But in addition to a great band, the show featured taped interviews with authors such as Brian McLaren, plus skits that were–I know this is hard to believe–actually funny. The show was a delight. Ben and I stood in the wings listening to the rehearsal with the feeling that we were witnessing the beginning of something very special. The show I was honored to be a part of was titled “The Appalachian Longing for Home”, and I played “Let There Be Light” and “After the Last Tear Falls.” There was also a lady named Odessa Settles who sang some goosebump-inflicting negro spirituals. It was beautiful. Well, the first show hasn’t aired yet, but the second taping is in a couple of weeks and you might still have time to reserve a few tickets. Jamie and I will be there in the audience, and I’ll be wearing my nicer jeans and my less-wrinkled button down shirt. This is a classy affair, mind you. Be sure and visit www.tokensshow.com to find out more about the show, and to reserve tickets for the upcoming taping. You’ll be glad you did.

First off, I’ve never had a book change my life so radically as this one. I read it on a flight to Calgary a month ago, and as I devoured Steven Pressfield’s chapters on Resistance, I found myself looking into a mirror of my own procrastination and excuses why I didn’t write songs more often, work on more new banjo tunes, hone my talents more diligently. Don’t get me wrong – I practice. Especially on the road. My bandmates and crew would attest to the considerable flow of banjo and guitar notes from my dressing room. The road is an entirely different world, and I do decently there in discipline. But many days at home I’d float through without a plan, and sometimes days would flood by, eaten up by all the etceteras of life, in the same way that serious amounts of money can slip through our hands unconsciously with a daily Starbucks or diet Coke or fast food habit. As I read Pressfield’s book, I saw that my earlier days of constant practicing were more from drivenness, fear, and an all-consuming passion than from actual discipline. People used to tell me I was so disciplined to practice so much. But as the years went by, I developed other passions. Home. Family. Making food. Writing articles. Drivenness fell off me as I learned to trust Christ for my self-worth, as I rejected music as a source of Life. I began making a decent living, one of the more deadly foes of an artist’s output. And my lack of discipline, of boundaries, especially at home, began to show. A discipline is something you do daily, whether you feel like it or not. Pressfield builds a strong case for turning pro, for fighting against our inner resistance (which is fueled by our fear), for overcoming procrastination, for making our art a daily job where we show up whether or not we feel like it. I like his quote from the writer Somerset Maugham. When asked if he wrote on a schedule or only when inspired, Maugham said, “I write only when inspiration strikes. Fortunately it strikes every morning at nine o’clock sharp.” Andrew Peterson gave me L’Engle’s Walking on Water in which she says essentially the same thing. The daily discipline gives a framework for inspiration to show up. So when I returned from my Calgary trip, everything changed. My schedule changed to one I’d been talking about for months but had never implemented. Go to sleep early. Get up early, long before the kids. Devotional time. Exercise. Schedule my day. Shower. Eat. Get the kids off to school. And then my rear end hits this chair and I start playing. It stays there, with a short break or two, until noon. Lunch. And then after lunch, more playing until five o’clock. Then I’m done. And I feel great, feel I’ve used my time wisely, and then can wash my hands of the whole thing and hang out with the family. Now, I’ve not stuck to this every day. I’m at about 80 percent, probably, what with all the irregularity of recording this-and-that, a show here-and-there, etcetera. I have to switch my schedule when I go out and play; I can’t be fainting with weariness at nine in the evening. But I have to say that even during the lesser days, I get so much more done than I have in years. A couple of caveats for those who are offended by certain things. Pressfield is a secular writer; he wrote The Legend of Bagger Vance and several other big novels. This is definitely not a book written from a Christian perspective. Scattered F dash-dash-dash words and some slippery theology come up in places. To those who are offended by such things, or easily led astray through not having a strong Biblical foundation – by all means avoid reading it. But I took the whole thing, dropped what was wrong or irrelevant, and extracted the truth from it. And it works. The War of Art made me repent of wasting my time on trivialities while letting my God-given mission in life mosey along in the slow lane. It made me realize that inspiration shows up when I’m diligent to do my work. “I learned that he that would be a hero will barely be a man; that he that will be nothing but a doer of his work is sure of his manhood.” George MacDonald, Phantastes

On May 22 an event will happen that I’ve been longing for all my adult life. Indiana Jones will return. He will ride out of my memory and be real again, large in the light on the screen with his crooked smile, bloodied knuckles, and awkward machismo. Just typing that name got me a little choked up and nostalgic. Raiders of the Lost Ark is one of the first movies I remember seeing (it was either that or The Empire Strikes Back) and I don’t remember whether my interest in archaeology predates Indy or not but either way, both he and it are integral parts of my childhood. He was the greatest of silver screen heroes. Smart, rugged, wearing a leather coat and a hat that no one since has been able to pull off and he’s got a freakin’ bullwhip! And on top of all this he’s risking his life to save the Ark of the Covenant, the mercy seat itself. Spielberg and Lucas set the bar high enough for Action/Adventure that a generation has gone by and it hasn’t been touched. They managed to key in on the perfect confluence of character and story, humor and drama, action and romance, human and super-human. The look of the films is at the same time unique and old as cinema itself. It’s as instantly recognizable as the gamboling theme of that unforgettable score. Will there ever be another film composer to equal John Williams? Every now and again I pull out the DVD set and put in the old Indy movies for the boys I work with and I’m overjoyed to see how well the movies have aged. Even though I can see the pole sticking out of the bottom of the flipped truck in Cairo, even though the ditch Indy is laying in underneath that truck is plainly visible, even though Belloq’s exploding head is as cheesy as a Gob Bluth parlor trick, the stories hold, the action gallops, the jokes land, the spirit of a boy breathes and aches and soars, and no one says, “That movie is old,” they say, “That movie is good.”. And now, after all those years of wanting and wishing and hoping he’d come back and take me with him, he’ll be here next week. But instead of elation and pure anticipation, I’m scared of it. The scars George Lucas gave us when he butchered my generation’s cherished Star Wars memories with the abominable prequels are still fresh in my mind. Once bitten, twice shy, I suppose. In my dreams, I hear Indy at the end of Raiders screaming, “Don’t look at it, Marion! Keep your eyes SHUT!” as what looks like angels come flooding out of the Ark and then before the eyes of those watching, the beauty they anticipated turns to horror. So I’m telling myself, everyday now, this movie, Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, this movie is going to be awful. This movie is not the longing of the boy inside me. This movie is not going to make me feel like a kid again. It’s not going to inspire a love of archeology in young boys today the way it did in me over twenty years ago. I must lower my expectations. I can’t handle another tragedy on the scale of The Phantom Menace. I hope that if I can convince myself to lower those expectations enough and expect nothing more than another The Mummy-style pretender to the throne that when the day finally comes, I will sit in the darkened, butter-scented theatre and I will hold my breath when the projector sputters to life and I will grow somehow smaller and younger when through misty eyes I see that magical “Lucasfilm” logo spangled across the silver screen and I will believe that old men can bring new magic into the world. And that timeless theme will play. His voice will say “Trust me,” and he’ll smirk. And Indiana Jones will live again. Don’t think about, I say. Just keeping reminding yourself: This movie is going to suck… This movie is going to suck… This movie is going to suck…

Remember parachute pants? Man, I hated those things and everyone that wore them irritated me–until the day I bought a pair and realized what I was missing out on and just how glorious it is to have thirty-seven pockets on a pair of pants that are too tight to bend over and tie your shoes in (that’s why they make Vans loafers.) So the question is: What cultural phenomenon, whether technology, music, fashion, art, or anything else, did you miss out on until the last possible minute and then finally give into? But then, things began to change. I kept getting emails whenever one of my 100 best friends became friends with another one of my 100 best friends—and for some reason I cannot explain Facebook thought I should know. Then a young lady in our church invited me to her graduation party which I was unable to attend due to travel. Long story short, I had no idea how to work the “application” she sent for a yes, no or maybe. So I told her no two times in a row without any kind of comment. Rudest pastor ever. I felt like I replied, “No. Didn’t you hear me, I said NO!” Now I’m hoping there’s a Facebook application for people struggling with the emotional roller coaster ride the first few weeks with Facebook takes you on. At present, I’m building up a nice list of friendship requests, and I’m mulling them over. But these things, it turns out, are not to be entered into lightly. So I’m at the party, but I’m the guy over by the wall nursing a diet coke wondering if its time to call it a night. Word on the street is this party is definitely an all-nighter. 2. Joining Facebook. 3. Joining the forthcoming greatest social networking website. I’m afraid that much of my reluctance probably comes from a desire to foster my identity as a non-joiner. Thankfully, though, I’m learning to get over myself. But another part of it is that with every new sensation that comes along, I’m afraid of losing the good I’ve known of my time. I read that dead authors don’t sell very well, which is a shame since some of the best minds (and hearts) that Christianity has produced are now dead and gone. But we still have so much to learn from them. Augustine, Lewis, Chesterton, Bonhoeffer – today’s church needs to hear their words now more than ever. The same for music. There is still much good to be gleaned from even contemporary artists like Rich Mullins and Mark Heard not to mention more classic works by Robert Robinson, John Newton, and others. Because of our culture’s profane disregard of the old things, I’m usually suspicious of the new things. Besides, I’m waiting for the iPhone to come out with an 80 gig version. So aside from being way ahead of pop culture trends, what phenomenon did I miss out on until the last moment? I was a little slow on the iPod, I think, though I’ve had several in the past few years. I still like records. CDs are on the way out and I dislike mp3 sound quality. But now iPods and external hard drives are big enough to accomodate dumping the cds straight in as wavs with no loss of quality. Now, I did just buy a TV with a 52″ screen. Now that I’ve solidly established “Friday and Friday Night Alone Is Movie Night” in our family I felt safe going out and getting a flatscreen. The trend isn’t close to over, I realize, but our prior TV was about 20 inches and we got tired of squinting. This big ol’ TV will make its home downstairs, waiting every week, black and silent, for Friday night. I still don’t have cable or satellite. That’s way too trendy. From the fashion world, my goatee is a perfect example. I can’t recall exactly when the goatee became ubiquitous, but as best I recall, it was somewhere in the mid 90s. I was sure it would die a quick death. Instead, like the Engergizer Bunny, it just went on and on and on. At least two or three years into the trend, I started to like the look and grew one myself, though I suspect its time probably passed at least five years ago. Similar to the goatee, I totally underestimated rap music. Like the just under two year trend of disco music in the late 70s, I predicted rap music was a fad that would pass quickly. When the genre penetrated the world of mainstream music in the early 90s, I thought it would be gone within no more than two years. As it continues to infiltrate and often dominate popular music in the new century, I’m still surprised that it’s around. And I still don’t like it. It’s a bandwagon I contine to avoid. Tatoos. That’s another piece of popular culture I’ve shunned, though it looks cool on Derek Webb. At one time, tattoos were the domain of sailors, bikers, and those that endured an unfortunate night of inebriation. Nowadays, grandma, your tax accountant, and the pope all probably have tattoos. Fine, for them, not for me. Regardless of how certain I am of a thing today, there’s a fair chance I might feel differently tomorrow. And I can shave a goatee if I don’t like it. I have an iPod, I am a member of Facebook, I use nitrogen in my tires, and have a big-screen TV, so I’m not totally behind the pop culture curve. On the other hand, the woodwork in our house is stained, not painted white, my summer shorts are at at least two inches too high, our TV is not high definition, I don’t do the iPhone, and I still haven’t shaved my goatee. Yet. The year was 1996. It was my sophomore year at Auburn University (at least the football was good). I was an R.A. (that means Resident Assistant for all of you unlearnt folk). I enjoyed the perks of my own room, a window AC unit, and free room and board. All I had to endure was a week of ice breaker games and CPR training at the onset of the school year, drunk sorority girls banging on my door at all hours of the early morning asking for Advil (which of course, I was certified to administer), and being the dorm’s designated killer of flying roaches. The computer lab was right across the street from our dorm (the name of which escapes me and this is making me feel ancient) on the quad, and I’ll never forget sitting at the front desk and watching girls file out the door in droves at all hours saying “wanna go check your e-mail?” “What? What’s this? What does this strange ‘e’ stand for? Well, I never…I’ll write letters by hand until Jesus returns. There’s no way I’ll start typing them. I hate to type. This is preposterous.” Fast forward two years. The year was 1999. It was my second year at UT Chattanooga. My sister came to visit and I was showing her the design lab. “You know Evie, if you’d get an e-mail account, we could keep in touch much more easily.” And something in me snapped. I was suddenly ready for this gigantic step forward in technology. It had taken me awhile, but my hand was growing tired and Jesus sure was taking his sweet time, so we sat down, summoned the powers of hotmail, and here I’ve been ever since.

Some of you may have heard of the community of singer/songwriters known as the Square Peg Alliance. Our newest inductee is Ben Shive, as you know from a few posts ago. Thanks to everyone who placed orders for Ben’s upcoming album. If you’re on the fence about ordering the record, maybe this little video will push you over the edge.

My wife has a gift for spotting pheasants when we are driving. It’s a skill she learned from her dad and I’m always amazed at how she can spot these birds – so well concealed by their environment – as we speed by at 65 mph. “If you just keep your eyes open, you’ll always see something” she told me once when I asked her how she did it. I have found that this is great advice for more than just pheasant sightings, and offers no end to wonder and delight as I learn to keep my eyes open for the God who, as it turns out, has a knack for showing up in the most unlikely places. There are the obvious places where you expect to encounter God – church, the scriptures, prayer, the Rabbit Room (wink wink), etc. – but it’s the times when I encounter him unexpectedly that prove the most potent, precisely because they are unexpected. Familiarity can breed contempt and it’s all too easy for us to become ambivalent to the things of God in the places we expect to find them. It’s kind of like already knowing the punch line to a joke. There’s something invigorating about God catching us off our guard and I imagine, too, that God enjoys keeping us on our toes, confounding our attempts to pigeonhole him. Our calloused hearts are blessedly defenseless against this kind of behavior on God’s part. The element of surprise is one of his best weapons. While God can always be counted on to be faithful, good, gracious and true to his nature, it is possible for us to become too presumptuous and forget that he’s always holding an ace or two up his sleeve. After all, God’s master strokes have always defied expectations: Israel’s deliverance out of Egypt, Christ coming as a baby, the resurrection, etc. Michael Card told me once that you should never finish the Bible’s sentences for it, and of course a part of what he means is that we have a tendency to become too familiar with mysterious and holy things and think we have God figured out, forgetting that, as Lewis put it, he is not a safe lion at all, though he is good. And while I believe God can be found in churches, monasteries, and the other usual haunts and that there is a holiness in established rhythms of devotion and monkish observances of rituals that can lead us to God, I also know there is a romance to the way God takes our breath away by operating outside of the parameters we try to set for him. With this in mind, I love watching for how God may show up in the most unexpected places. It’s kind of like a cosmic “Where’s Waldo” where the stakes are higher and the rewards richer. If I keep my eyes open, from time to time I catch glimpses of God whisking away around a corner, darting behind the scenery of my life, leaving clues, leading me on, further up and further in. In fact, I’m at an age in my walk where I experience his presence more profoundly in the unexpected places than I do in the expected ones. So watching has become a holy discipline. For instance, I rarely experience worship with contemporary worship songs (I’m not making a statement against worship songs, I’m just saying they don’t typically inspire worship in me personally), but when Sufjan Stevens sings of the “Great I Am” in Decatur, or when the bells toll in the heavens in the final scene of the controversial film Breaking The Waves, or when I close the book on Perfection – Mark Helprin’s story of a little Hasidic WWII orphan who goes to Yankee Stadium to save the “Yenkiss” in “the house that Ruth built” from being “slaughtered” by the Kansas City Royals – it’s at these times when every tear I cry and breath I breathe become a holy “hallelujah.” “Can anything good come out of Nazareth?” Nathanael grumps, and then to his surprise and delight, he encounters Jesus of Nazareth, the Christ, and his life will never be the same. “There’s got to be more than flesh and bone,” Tom Waits growls. “There are angels in the architecture” sings Paul Simon. In movies like The Shawshank Redemption, Magnolia, and Life Is Beautiful hope blooms like an Easter lily amidst the sewage of the worst of our human brokenness and depravity. I find the most tender expression of sacrificial love expressed in the bleak post-apocalyptic landscape of Cormac McCarthy’s The Road. I discover the strength to carry my own burden as I get lost in the fantastical journey of Tolkien’s Frodo and Sam. I can see glimpses of Christ even in the world of Harry Potter. I think part of the reason why we find God in these unexpected places is because God’s story of redemption is the best story of all, and all other story-tellers are left with no choice but to borrow from The Great Story. One of Frederick Buechner’s most memorable novels follows the character of Leo Bebb, a bit of a religious huckster who in spite of (or maybe because of) his idiosyncratic and often misguided adventures, God shows up. Bebb – founder of the church Holy Love, Inc. – is more or less a stump preacher just barely one step ahead of the law and being caught in the tangles of his own deceits. In all of his shortcomings, however, it is clear that something holy is at work here. Buechner talks often in his work of the hidden-ness of God, and The Book of Bebb was one of the first stories that taught me to watch not only the foreground where the characters are playing their parts, but also the background where God is directing the action. If the devil is in the details, then God is in the subtext. This gives me hope. As far as spiritual exercises go, I confess that looking for God in these least likely places of the music and stories I enjoy may be a bit self-indulgent. I suppose it is my way of whistling in the dark in hopes that God may be at work in even my most unexpected places – in my brokenness, my pain, my jealousy and fear, my anger, my sadness, my failure. These are the places where hope is tested, where hope matters and has meaning.“If you keep your eyes open, you’ll always see something,” my wife tells me. I think she’s right, and so I’m always looking.

Matt: The summer movie season. I can sum it in two words: endlessly mindless. Three months of raunchy comedies and flying stuntmen, formulaic romances and exploding aliens. And I can’t say I’m excited in the least. My favorite time of year is Oscar season. I love a good story. I appreciate memorable acting performances far more than speeding cars. I enjoy beautiful cinematography or clever camera angles more than soft-core porn and fart jokes. And my wish for this summer movie season is that some studios would offer something worthwhile in the middle of the endless drivel. Curt, are you with me? Curt: I’m with you, brother Matt. I’ve considered boycotting theater movies, especially during the inane summer blockbuster season, but I’m ultimately reluctant to give up the big screen movie-going experience, even for a season. And if one persistently mines the depths of mainstream moviedom, occasionally the cinema seeker is rewarded with something of real value. Thankfully, I benefit from living in a metro area that provides some decent alternatives. In the age of the multiplex and megaplex, I sometimes visit a single-screen movie palace showing primarily independent film. It’s slightly on the seedy side, but it shows the indie films I love. My home city also boasts a brand new theater with two screens featuring the classics, critically acclaimed indie efforts, documentaries, and foreign films. So, I do have refuge from the megaplex monster. Thankfully, the summer blockbuster stretch–which runs from May to August–does offer some promise in 2008. That’s promise, not profits. Similar sound, different concept. 2007 was a record year for the summer season with a take of $4.1 billion. While I am a proponent of capitalism, it’s of little concern to me if that record is broken in the 2008 summer season. Give me something that is unpredictable, thoughtful, nuanced, beautiful, and true. Give me a great story. No, the story doesn’t have to be true, but I hope to find truth in the story. And by the way, none of that precludes a good fart joke. I’ve always said, “Never discount the glories of a good fart joke.” What say you, Matt? Matt: You can keep the fart jokes. And even the Apatow comedies, which I think I’m the only person on Planet Earth not fawning over such movies. I, too, have such a movieplex nearby to enjoy good independent film. But I will say that the blockbuster movies can entice me if they’re as intelligent, well-done and just plain enjoyable as Batman Begins. I definitely have a list of the low-brow movies that I’m aiming to check out, including (but not limited to): Ironman, Batman, X-Files 2 and maybe Wall-E (which I’m sure would be a certainty if I had little ones). Other promising titles abound, but I really hope to not give too much to the popcorn monsters at my local cinema. My definitely ‘no-way’ movie which automatically puts me in the ‘loser’ group around my friends: the new Indiana Jones. I could care less to watch an 86 year-old pretending to swing from whips, ropes and rafters. This movie has ‘Jar Jar Binks’ remake all over it (in the same way that Episode 1 absolutely ruined the Star Wars legacy and made it a joke). I already think they took the Indiana Jones series one step too far, so this is even more. What are your hopes in the midst of a busy summer season? And what is your ‘no-way’ movie, if you have one? Curt: In terms of blockbuster fare, despite some concerns about The Chronicles of Narnia: Prince Caspian, I have high hopes for it. I’ve read that a gratuitous (my word) action sequence has been added and that conflict between Peter Pevensie and Prince Caspian has been fabricated. But I’m willing to wait for the movie before pronouncing judgment on the changes. I’ve seen the trailer and was captivated by the tone. The music, cinematography, and mystical, magical ambiance have me excited about seeing it. I wasn’t enthralled with The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, but thought it was very good, far exceeding my expectations. Director Andrew Adamson seems to have a handle on this material and appreciates and respects C.S. Lewis’s narrative. They could have hired somebody better (Guillermo del Toro?), but not much better. June finds The Happening in U.S. theaters, M. Night Shyamalan’s follow up to the dismal Lady in the Water. It’s the story of a family on the run from a mysterious natural disaster. If you were as awed by The Sixth Sense, The Village, and Signs as I was, you will understand my eager anticipation of The Happening. More brief observations: 1) I am more eager to see Hellboy II: The Golden Army than I am Iron Man, 2) I will see Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skulls, but probably only on DVD, 3) Pixar can do no wrong; Wall-E looks to continue the string of hits that captivate children and adults in one fell swoop. Good for Pixar. Oh, and by the way, take a gander at Wall-E. Is it my imagination or does he look a lot like a junkyard version of Johnny Five of Short Circuit infamy? 4) Christopher Nolan and star Christian Bale brought the Batman franchise back to prominence in 2005 with Batman Begins. Will The Dark Knight–set to release on July 18–continue the magic? I hope so, 5) This summer is fraught with superheroes, science fiction, sequel, stoner fluff, and for some reason, T.V. show rehashes. It looks like I’ll be scrambling more than usual to find what I’m looking for. My “No way movie?” It’s Sex and the City. I understand the T.V. show has won all kinds of awards and that it stars Sarah Jessica Parker, but I’ve never had even mild curiosity to watch it on T.V.–for free. So I can’t imagine actually paying real money to check it out on the big screen. Apparently the writing is good, but even that doesn’t inspire one iota of desire in me to see it. Here’s one sleeper that has me interested: It’s called Son of Rambow and according to the movie’s website, it’s “a fresh and visually inventive take on family, friendship, and faith.” It’s a British comedy featuring young Will Proudfoot, raised in isolation in a religious sect in which music and movies are strictly forbidden. Will encounters his first movie when he gets his hands on a pirated copy of Rambo: First Blood, and his world is blown wide open as he becomes secretly addicted to filmmaking. If that doesn’t top the latest sequel to the X-Files movie or The Incredible Hulk (even though it stars the great Edward Norton), I don’t know what does. Matt: Good call on Shyamalan. I completely forgot that summer entry and will be first in line. Ultimately, here’s hoping we’re both proved wrong and some quality is among the quantity (of dollars). Curt: Readers should note that the smaller films–indie films in particular–are by definition difficult to anticipate. The promotional machine that insures that a blockbuster be positioned as a blockbuster before it’s even released, does not exist in the indie world. As such, we will do our best to cherry pick those that we hope will offer high artistic merit and potential for a memorable movie-going experience as the summer evolves. Meanwhile, what are your “must see,” “no way,” and “sleeper” movies for the upcoming season?

This collection is essential to both long time fans and first time readers interested in the work of Flannery O’Connor. My first time to read a handful of her short stories I was helpless to interpret them. One would expect that reading the 1950’s work of a female “Christ-centered” southern fiction writer would be a simple, modest or at least predictable experience. However, while on the surface her material seems similar to other popular characterizations of the South (it is populated with racists, radicals, preachers, proper manners, crooked salesmen, farm animals, old money, haunting landscapes, gaudy outfits, cultural backwoods religion that borders on superstition, a wide variety of physical disabilities etc.) and while she writes in plain, though colloquial, English, the stories and her manner of telling them depict a strange, beautiful, comical and disturbing world all her own. As with any good works of literature, the further I have read into her unique and surreal tales the more I have seen that they are the stories of everyone’s spiritual and physical deformities, including my own. While her work is humbling and full of supernatural grace, I would be amiss not to say that it is incredibly entertaining as well. Published after she died young from lupus, The Complete Stories spans her entire short but prolific literary career, including the first complete short stories she ever wrote (and supposedly would have preferred not to have been published) all the way to her last piece “Judgment Day.” Over time I have come to learn that the best way to understand and enjoy her stories is to read more of them. This collection provides the perfect opportunity.

Hey, folks. Today I had a radio interview with Cindy Swanson of 101 QFL, a station in Rockford, Illinois. Here’s a link to her blog, where she reviewed On the Edge of the Dark Sea of Darkness, and here’s a link to download or listen to the interview. I’ve been hiding out in the local coffee shop most days, writing furiously to meet my deadline for book two (the title hasn’t been decided yet), enjoying myself but at the same time remembering that writing takes a lot of work. I’ve been consoling myself with Anne Lamott’s freedom-giving advice for writers: You have to be willing to write a crappy first draft before you can get to the (hopefully) good final draft. I keep wanting to go back and self-edit, to worry over sentence structure, to liven up the dialog, but the book would never get written if I did that too much. With songwriting, you have the freedom to sweat over every word and every line as you go, but with novel writing, at least as far as I can tell (I’m still quite the rookie), you have to write something before you have anything to work with. It’s like the first draft is the clay with which you make the book. In order to make the book, you have to find the clay. AP P.S.  If any of you have read the book (and liked it, preferably), would you mind posting a little review over at Amazon.com?  I’ve heard that it’s helpful.

Question of the Week: “Can you identify a common thematic thread that runs through your work– something that separates you from other artists in your field? Or, in regard to work other than your own, what kinds of themes are you particularly drawn to?” What separates me from other artists in my field? I’m shorter than most every one of them. Matt Conner – I’ve often thought about this idea – what draws me specifically to the music that I love so much? I would have to say the dominant idea is ‘passion.’ It’s something in the emotion of the singer, the poet, the speaker, the artist that communicates the idea they are passionate about what they are singing, writing, speaking or painting about.I’ve found that it can even be things I totally disagree with or ideas that aren’t completely my own beliefs or viewpoints, and yet when they’re communicated in a passionate way, I can still resonate with their artistry. Jason Gray – Most times I’m aware of the person in church who feels alienated by the feel-good, sloganeering, hyped music. Maybe it’s because they’re broken-hearted, disillusioned, or that they are intellectually inclined and are put off by what they perceive as emotionalism or shallow theology. I’m talking about the kind of person who wants to hope, but who is weary of feeling disappointed. I’m aware of the weak and broken, who feel fated to be outsiders, and I want them to know that the gospel is better news than they might dare believe, and that the good news is for them. So in almost every song I write, I acknowledge doubt and try to explore the virtues of weakness. I have a speech impediment known as stuttering, and it’s been a great opportunity for me to explore redemptive ideas of weakness with my audience. I meet people who are afraid that because of weakness, addictions, failures, depression, or any other variety of brokenness they are disqualified from doing anything significant for God’s Kingdom. But it’s my great joy to get to be someone who tells them that they are exactly the ones who should be expectant. Scripture tells us that it is in our weakness that God’s strength is perfected, and if this is true then our weaknesses are our greatest qualifications. So the virtue of weakness is a thread that runs through most of my music. It’s also important for me to acknowledge doubt, fear, pain, and disappointment, in hopes that my music might be a tool to help my audience process their own hurt without losing their heart. I guess I’m always trying to coax out hope that has gone into hiding. The best thing someone ever told me about my music is that in her difficult time of a divorce, trouble with her kids, and professional challenges, my record restored her worship. That is a humbling thing to hear, and something I aspire to in all my work. But the second question, I think I can handle. My answer is this: food. (The broader theme being any sort of creative hospitality.) Anything with a respectable slice of screen time devoted to beautiful goings-on in a lively kitchen, I will watch. I know they’re not the Oscar winners, but “Chocolat,” “Amelie,” “Under the Tuscan Sun,” “Babette’s Feast” and “Spanglish” are all on my shelf. The other night when I caught a glimpse of a scene from “Chocolat” on television, I couldn’t turn it off because I knew what came next: the party scene. Or rather, the party preparation scene. (Since I own the movie, this is a little silly.) In the film, Vianne (Juliette Binoche, yummy herself with her bright lips and red shoes) throws a party for Armande (Dame Judi Dench). The swirling motion of dark brown chocolate and pure white drips of cream, the delicate touch in the seasoning of the prawns, the breeze that blows in, lifts their hair and cools their dewy brows, all underscored just perfectly with lilting accordion cheer, and the resulting slow motion chewing that goes on afterwards at the beautifully appointed dinner table in the courtyard…it all just thrills me. (Fast forward to minute 5:52 in this clip and you’ll get a little insight to what I’m talking about.) Or take “Under the Tuscan Sun” for instance. (Fellow RR boys, I don’t expect any of you to have seen this film, or at least to admit to having seen it. Should you wish to secretly e-mail me and second the emotions below, your bravado is safe with me.) Notwithstanding the fact that I wish that were my life (for the most part), I wish that were my villa to do with as I pleased. Watching the process of restoration, however endless, is utterly fulfilling for me. As an artist, I think that “redemption” might be a looming ideal. I’ve only come to that conclusion, or at least to putting words to it, just now. (Does this mean I’m a “verbal processor?”) Whether it’s in the revival of a home — paying close, sweet attention to the house that it always was, but adding unique settings to make it one’s own — or whether it’s in the old cast-off junk I give new life to in my art pieces (crying now), the ideas of resurrection and re-purposing are attractive to me. Then add the scenes in the movie where it is lunch time and she gets to cook for all of her workmen and I get to watch, and I’m a happy girl. I’ll try to curb my verbosity (ahem) and end with a bit from “Babette’s Feast.” This movie is slow, methodical, sleepy (in the best way possible), until the last 45 minutes roll around. It positively drips with sacred themes (and wine, exotic fruits and seemingly sinful luxury.) When Martina learns that Babette, their maidservant from France, has spent 10,000 francs on the dinner she prepares at the end of the film, she says “But now you’ll be poor for the rest of your life.” Babette answers, so delicately, her grey eyes shining with tears, “An artist is never poor.” And this is where Evie fell apart. I sobbed uncontrollably. This concept has carried me through years of financial worry and wavering trust/distrust that it’s “all going to be fine.” But the comforting thing is this: all I have to do is go to the grocery, buy a bunch of lilies and the perfect artichoke, stop for a lovely bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, sit in the grass with all of these simple gifts and some music, and understand that my Father has made me a rich woman. Like most of us, I suppose, it doesn’t take much encouragement for me to prattle on about myself. And after all, isn’t a writer’s work implicitly all about himself anyway? Those that write for public consumption must admit that they covet an audience. They want to be noticed. They want to be read, to be felt. A believer may contradict, “No, everything I do is about Jesus Christ and points to Him.” Well okay, maybe that’s the goal, but if we hired a literary forensic investigator worth his salt, I’m betting in a day or two, we could find this contrarian’s own fingerprints all over the pages. Shoot, his DNA is probably embedded in the words. In the courtroom of disingenuous writers, his own writing would convict him of writing about–himself. We can’t help ourselves. The thing is, surrounded by so many good writers, both in terms of my writing colleagues in The Rabbit Room, as well as our literate readers and responders, this assignment has me sweating self-conscious bullets. For heaven’s sake, our proprietor is ANDREW PETERSON. My thematic thread? I don’t know. Next to these great writers and artists on the red carpet, with a distant, confused look in my eyes and a nervous smile, I hear myself mumble into the Entertainment Tonight microphones, “I’m just happy to be here.” And I am. Bkhhhwwwwohhhkkkkhh! I’m also known to write about cheese. That’s the essential theme of many of my songs – our human inability, and through faith, God’s total sufficiency. Humanity with its suffering, fears, desires, and finding God living within that human cup.

In parts one and two we found our identity to not be “sin”; rather, when we sin it is no longer “I”. We found that human effort – making the flesh our strength, rather than Christ – is the very cause of sin. And that God, who is love, and the sole source of other-centered love in the universe, created us to be indwelt and to live in a oneness, a willing co-operation with Him. Romans six speaks of the reality of who we are in Christ – dead to sin, alive to God, that we died with Him and were raised with Him to walk in newness of life. Six briefly introduces the thought that it is Law that gives sin power over us, Law being the human-trying-to-be-righteous-by-it’s-own-strength principle. Seven expands on this Law principle, showing us that flesh striving creates a hamster wheel of try-sin-repent that is endless until we step off it and recognize that “when I sin it is no longer I that sins, but sin which dwelleth in me.” Sin is not essentially “I”. We find that it is by the human self trying by will-power to be the new man that we do what we hate, and don’t do what we desire, and that the new man is that in us which deeply desires to be and do everything that God has for us. That’s the summary – a few of the mind altering facts of Romans six and seven. How, then, do we go on to Spirit-driven, rather than Law/flesh driven life? At the end of seven Paul makes a statement; “So then with the mind I myself serve the law of God; but with the flesh the law of sin.” He again states that the real Paul is the one that serves the law of God; he accords himself with that holy desire within himself, and states that it is with the mind that he serves the Law of God. How then to serve God’s Law with the mind, rather than striving by flesh-effort to live up to the Law and failing – instead serving the law of sin? One of the keys is found later in Romans 11 and 12. At the end of 11 Paul goes on into a reverie about God: O the depth of the riches both of the wisdom and knowledge of God! How unsearchable are His judgments, and His ways past finding out!. For who hath known the mind of the Lord, or who has been His counselor? Or who hath first given to Him, so as to receive payment in return? For of Him, and through Him, and to Him, are all things, to whom be glory forever and ever. Amen. All things are of the Lord. All. Wisdom. Knowledge. Power. Holiness. Love. Compassion. Kindness. Purity. All things. If He’s the source of all goodness, how much goodness can come from my human effort? After these reverent statements of praise Paul says this: I beseech you therefore, brethren (because God is and has everything), by the mercies of God, that ye present your bodies a living sacrifice, holy, acceptable unto God, which is your reasonable service. And be not conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind, that ye may prove what is that good, and acceptable, and perfect will of God. This mind transformation, this renewal, is a major key to walking in the Spirit. Let’s go back to Romans eight. There’s no condemnation to those who are in Christ. Hebrews says if the blood of bulls and goats could take away sins, the worshipers would have had no more conscience of sins. They wouldn’t live in sin-consciousness. To truly trust in Christ and His atoning Blood means we shun the condemnation of the devil. We shut the door on it forever and refuse to live in a sin-consciousness (which all comes from fear and unbelief, which of course is the wellspring of sin). The Law of the Spirit of life in Christ Jesus – the inner, living Law, Christ Himself – has set me free from the Law of sin and death. The outer Law, the written code, fulfilled in Christ, is something we have died to and no longer have to strive in effort to keep, because Christ Himself, better than the old covenant, is now in us. The outer Law could not make us righteous; in fact, it did the opposite. It not only showed us our sins, reminded us of our sins, but it actually was a handle for Satan to use to make us sin more. God sent His own Son as a man who lived by faith in the Holy Spirit. This perfect Redeemer died as a sinner; we were all put in Him on the Cross, and that Ephesians 2:2 spirit with which we were infected, “the prince of the power of the air that works in the children of disobedience,” that great big me-for-me spirit which was in us and drove us, was put in the body of Jesus Christ through our co-ness with Him. Jesus became sin for us. He didn’t just pay our sin-debt. He became sin. And why did Jesus become sin for us? Romans 8:4 tells us why: That the righteousness of the Law might be fulfilled in us, who walk not after the flesh, but after the Spirit. That’s the reason for God the Father and Jesus Christ going through all that – to call out a people indwelt and in willing co-operation with the Holy Spirit. Paul goes on: When we give our attention to the physical, we are controlled by the physical. If we give our attention to the Spirit, the Eternal, the Real, we are controlled by the Spirit, motivated by the Real. A branch can bear no fruit by its own effort; it’s a dead branch unless it abides; if it thinks it can be its own source it will die. The interests of the flesh-life are hostile to God. The flesh – the soul/body – wants comfort, ease for itself; God wants to use the whole man in service to others, in countless dyings and risings to “What my flesh wants,” even unto physical death if necessary. The flesh itself is merely a means, a container, a cup. It is not meant to drive. A well-trained horse is under the direction of its rider, and response to every whisper of a command. In that, it becomes useful, and is in willing cooperation – through faith in the rider. Paul then says that those who are in the flesh – not “following” or “after” the flesh, but in the flesh – cannot please God. He then defines those who are “in the flesh” – in other words, completely given over to their fleshly desires – those who do not have the Spirit of Christ. They cannot have faith in Jesus Christ, and apart from faith it is impossible to please God. And the Hebrews writer reiterates that for the believer, Christ is in us, that although the body is dead because of sin, the Spirit is life because of righteousness, and it will direct our body and give life to it. So – we are debtors to the Spirit, not to the flesh. Through the Spirit – that is, through faith, reliance on God, on what He says about who we are in Christ – we put to death the deeds of the body, all that misuse of our bodies and souls that formerly ran and drove our existence. We abjure fleshly effort, false religious holiness and labor the labor of faith to enter His rest. We fight a great fight of afflictions against the Devil, who will say, “You aren’t holy. Look what you just did. You aren’t one with Christ. How could you have said that?” and all the million monotonous, boring, lame arguments against the Word of God. Interpret reality by your experience. Interpret the Word by your performance. That’s Satan’s smoke and mirrors. The Word says what it says. We’re under new Management. As we trust in this indwelling Power, He flows. I’m a king. I’m holy. I’m one Spirit with the Lord. Christ Himself is my life. He is the Shekinah in this earthen temple. I am bought with a price. I am washed, cleansed, a vessel unto honor. I am a light bulb and He’s the electricity. And as we accord ourselves in faith with what He says, the lights come on. This trusting is a moment-by-moment choice. As many as are led by the Spirit of God, they are the sons of God (teknos – full grown sons. In other words, mature). This is what the Lord says: Cursed is the one who trusts in man, who depends on flesh for his strength and whose heart turns away from the Lord. He will be like a bush in the wastelands; he will not see prosperity when it comes. He will dwell in the parched places of the desert, in a salt land where no one lives. But blessed is the man who trusts in the Lord, whose confidence is in Him. He will be like a tree planted by the water that sends out its roots by the stream. It does not fear when heat comes; it’s leaves are always green. It has no worries in a year of drought and never fails to bear fruit (Jeremiah 17:5-8). Two trees. The Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. Do-it-yourself holiness, Romans seven, dependence on one’s own strength, resulting in a parched landscape, a salt land where no one lives. Loneliness. Desperation. He won’t see any prosperity when it does come; he’ll be too busy condemning himself for being a dry tree. The second Tree – the Tree of Life. Christ. Reliance on Him. Outer circumstances won’t matter; this Tree can take the heat and drought because it has deep roots by the stream. It never fails to bear fruit. We choose. Reliance on Christ, renewing our minds as to our new identity in Christ, is a major key in the struggle. And as we’ll see later in Romans 8, the recognition of God’s love and power is a major player in the spiritual battle

I just returned home from a joyous, frustrating, exciting, confused, fun, boring week in Nashville. It’s properly called GMA Week and it stands for Gospel Music Association’s week-long event of seminars, interviews, luncheons, dinners, concerts, schmoozing and culminates in the Dove Awards (the Christian Grammy). It’s an adjective-filled week (see above) for myself because I’m mostly there to interview approximately 25 bands and artists of various types – Tooth & Nail screamo acts to worship leaders. And the process is either thoroughly enjoyable or a Job-like exercise in patience and slow mental torture. Exhibit A – Giant band. Enormous band. Not in girth, mind you, but in record sales. One of the top Christian acts around today, if not the top-selling (I’m not well versed enough in Billboard lists to say for sure one way or another) was easily the worst interview I’ve ever conducted. Any attempts to discuss songwriting, artistry or any level of thoughtfulness about their craft was completely dissolved at the outset. Or should I say that those questions flew over their head. “We just want to sing about Jesus.” Sounds simple enough. In fact, it’s the perfect answer … if we were sitting around in Sunday School. But in this kind of interview, it’s a boring answer. And it’s not a good one. Unfortunately, things get worse. “You know, the music doesn’t even matter. Fast or slow. Good lyrics or not. I’m not concerned at all with those things – whether someone thinks it’s good music or not. The music doesn’t matter. It’s just the platter the meat is served on. So talking about the music or lyrics as artwork is inconsequential.” At this point, I don’t even know what to do. All of my questions are about that very topic. Music critics have been unkind to their music, which in the Christian world is not very common. So I wanted to tackle these questions – wondering if they were aware of such criticisms and making steps to ‘get better.’ Apparently, I was ill prepared. When I first left the interview, I was completely shocked at how poorly it went and how little we had to discuss. I fell back on standard interview questions of tour dates, naming processes and band history. It sucked. And I left feeling dirty – that in some way I was shallow and missing completely what this life was about. Why am I asking those questions? I shouldn’t be concerned with artistry. In fact, why am I writing about music and books and movies at all? Why am I concerned about criticism, in fact? That only separates and divides the body of Christ. I’m called to encourage and exhort my brothers, not tear them down. (Note, this is what this artist told me) And for a moment, he had me. I completely believed him. After all, he said the magic word “Jesus”, which is always the right answer. My very next interview set me back in a ‘right’ place. It was with a solo artist who completely believes that excellence in art, in creation, is essential to being a Christian. To strive toward beauty and truth in the arts is a high calling to this person and it was beautiful to discuss these issues with them. What is it about this divide – to some it’s a mission field with no real thought toward anything but saying ‘Jesus’ as many times as possible; to others it’s the pursuit of the entire package. I recognize that we are all brothers and sisters. At the end of all things, we will be united together under a common banner and Jesus was quick to call us to love one another and that we will be surprised by who is ‘in’ and who is ‘out’ … that, in other words, I don’t need to crucify an artist or band over their artistic convictions (or lack of) as if they are not Christians. Yet there is this part of me that’s just absolutely sick over this kind of thing. I don’t want to listen. I don’t want to talk to them. It rendered me speechless, ruined an interview and I lose all respect for anything they are doing. So I guess I turn it over here. What’s the proper response?

When I was fourteen, after Mom died and Dad had gone his way, my grandmother sent me to live at a group home in northern Florida. All told, I lived there only two years but, as I would come to find out, those two years were real whoppers. Imagine if you will, me, a fourteen-year-old boy from the suburbs who’d always been more or less an obedient child, well-mannered, a good student, never much in the way of trouble, dropped suddenly into the wilds of a rural Florida cattle farm surrounded by cows, horses, strange woods, and nine other “brothers” who were far stranger than any of the livestock or landscape. Such it was. By the end of my first week, I had learned how to smoke cigarettes, dip Copenhagen, and defend myself against an army of nine pseudo-siblings intent on seeing to it that my new place in the world was clearly established. I learned to be a boy I suppose, in the classical sense, and would set myself a good way down the road to becoming a man before I left. Among all the other boyish things I was learning in those days, there was the art of The Cuss. I was full of boyish amazement upon discovering the effects we could produce with a choice arrangement of consonants and vowels. A word said often among boys without a dropped beat or a second thought could somehow quiet a room and garner a red-faced tirade and harsh punishment if spoken the exact same way in company at the dinner table. This made no sense to me then, but oh, what a sandbox in which to play. We were grammatical pioneers, engineers of the experimentally profane. We’d mix up a bit of an S-word with a healthy shake of the B-word and set it off in range of an adult just to see the explosion. We learned soon enough that certain adults had weaknesses for just certain words. With Mr. Henry, the school disciplinarian, for example, we all knew he’d sputter and turn blue at the gills if anyone dared to hurl a B-word at him. Mrs. Touley, the science teacher, on the other hand was just as cool as early spring under any circumstance that didn’t involve the appearance of a F-word. That was really the ringer wasn’t it? The F-word. That almighty obscenity against which no adult defense could stand. Like burning magnesium, it flared so brightly that it illuminated everything around it and seared colored shadows into your eyesight that lingered long after the fire had died. What a glorious tool it was. Yet, exactly what it was and why it was we hadn’t a clue. Four letters placed together, just so, not so very much different from a duck, or a truck, or even a man named Chuck. That one letter. And why? We wondered, or at least I did, but ultimately we didn’t care. It served a purpose. It was useful. It got attention. It made people listen to us—or so we thought. It would be a while yet before I learned the difference between being heard and being listened to. Vespers was one place we couldn’t really get much talking in so our cussing time was limited and we had to find other ways to make ourselves known, silent ways. It was our clothes we found. Ties, and belts, and black socks, and slacks—all fertile ground for a healthy teenage rebellion. They’d tell us to tie it this way; we’d tie it that. Tuck it in; we’d pull it out. Black dress socks were likely to find their way into the garbage can instead of the laundry basket so that the following Sunday we could claim, and quite honestly, that we hadn’t a proper black sock to our name. One Sunday, during my last summer there, Miss Timmons, our sometime chaplain, decided that our grammatical engineering had got quite far enough out of hand and set herself to its mending. We filed into the chapel, misfits all—some ties hanging to the crotch, others scarcely a hand’s breadth from the knot, some white socks, some black, sometimes both on the same boy, hair as soon combed back as ruffled up. God’s own mess we looked. We made our way under adult direction to our pews and sat, hunched over, elbows on our knees. “Sit up straight!” the adults chided and we would, for a moment at least. One of the adults asked for prayer requests and a dozen hands shot up. “I’d like to pray for my girl,” said one boy. “I’d like to pray for his girl, too!” said another. Snickers erupted. Adults gritted their teeth and tried to maintain the dignity of the service. “Does anyone have any serious prayer requests?” Another few hands stuck up, waving. “My momma.” “Good, good, we’ll pray for Jerry’s mother.” “And I want to pray for my sister.” “And Tyler’s sister, good.” “And my daddy!” “And my daddy’s momma!” “And my sister’s daddy!” Put enough teenage boys together and anything becomes a competition. “I want to pray for Jerry’s momma!” “You shut up about my momma!” The two boys stood straight upright. “I’m gonna pray for your sister AND your momma ‘cause they the same person!” The other boy leapt over a pew and engineered a flash bomb made of a d-word, a splash of an a-word, and a strong dose of f-words to cap it all off. This got the adults involved. A few minutes later, the two boys engaged in the prayer dispute were escorted from the chapel and we were all back in our seats and giggling. When Miss Timmons took the stage, however, we quieted ourselves. This wasn’t out of any respect for the Lord, or the service, and certainly not out of respect for the adults and their clench-jawed attendance of us. No, we were all silent for Miss Timmons because Miss Timmons commanded just the kind of attention that teenaged boys are ready to give. She was very much the sort of woman that a boy is happy to be quiet and stare at. She had a curvaceous, hourglass shape that girls our age hadn’t quiet come into yet and she was so very pretty. She wore a dress that day that, even then, we knew somehow wasn’t quite appropriate for church. It was short, a good six or eight inches of real estate showing above her knee and when she walked up the steps to the podium we leaned forward in a brief moment of hope that the elevation would give us enough angle to let us see things we’d scarcely ever even imagined. Then she turned to face us and our eyes had other fruit to feast on; her low cut blouse framed a glorious pink half-moon of flesh and cleavage. Silence in the chapel. The adults were most pleased—and so were we. What appeal she had was somewhat lessened by her fondness for strange hats, however. She was wearing an abomination on her head that looked more or less like a dead cat. It matched the rest of her outfit, in color at least, but really, does color coordination, however tasteful, ever justify dead cat? We didn’t care. Miss Timmons was a very happy and outgoing person. Most people have an unspoken boundary line across which it is uncomfortable for another person to pass in normal discourse and conversation. This is usually a distance of some one and a half to two feet and except for the occasional handshake or hug, this is an area of the human person that is generally regarded as sacrosanct and is not trespassed upon. Miss Timmons was not the sort of woman that understood this. When you spoke with her she didn’t maintain the proper distance and in fact would prevent you from maintaining it either by constantly taking hold of your arm or your shoulder and pulling you closer. For us as boys, we were all so very cute and lovable that she felt the need to increase this trespass with a constant assault of hugging. Now, had Miss Timmons been of the unattractive type, this facet of her person would present a problem. As pretty as she was though, this peculiarity of hers was very welcome indeed. I suspect many a boy departed her vespers services with less of the Lord in his heart than he had of Miss Timmons scent in his head and to be hugged into that bosom was another form of worship altogether. She clasped her hands together between her breasts and smiled at us. “Good morning!” “Good morning!” we answered in unison—and meant it. “I’m so happy to be here with you all this morning!” Having no one else on stage to touch or pull closer, she actually hugged herself as she said this and encouraged her cleavage to call even more attention to itself. We nodded. “Would you guys mind if I sang a song? I’m just really feeling that the Lord is putting this song on my heart and I want to sing it for you. Is that okay, you all?” She didn’t wait for our answer and proceeded to start the musical accompaniment tape she already had prepared. I don’t remember what the song was. What I remember, as you might have guessed, is the way she sang it. She was an emotional woman and her singing was an indication of this. One white-gloved hand held the microphone and the other she raised to heaven. She threw her head back and closed her eyes, shut them tight and sang her song like a plea for mercy. The dead cat on her head threatened to fall off at the least provocation. Whenever she sang, she always cried—even if the song wasn’t a sad one. I don’t know if she did it out of real piety or if she just wanted us to think she was sincere, but she always cried and this was no exception. “Thank you all for listening to that. The Lord just really laid that on my heart to sing this morning and I hope it blesses you all like it did me.” She hugged her cleavage again. We were blessed. “Now, I want to talk to you all this morning about something that’s really been on my mind. I think we ought to pray about that. You all put your heads down. Lord,” she began to pray with almost no warning like this quite often, “I want you to be with these beautiful boys this morning. I want you to open up their hearts and mines—” it would be some time before it occurred to me that she meant ‘minds’—“and help them hear your Word today.” She went on and on when she prayed, often crying again in the delivery and sometimes she would forget that she was praying and just begin to talk to us again and then after a few minutes would realize that she was supposed to be praying and say, “In Jesus’ name, amen!” This caused quite a lot of confusion as you were never quite sure whether to be bowing your head in prayer or holding your head up so the adults wouldn’t think you were sleeping. “You know what the most dange-riss weapon there is, is?” she asked us? Miss Timmons was also not someone who knew how to use a rhetorical question. We could never tell if she meant us to actually answer or just to consider the question. Consequently, we spent less time considering the actual matter at hand than we did wondering whether we ought to shout out an answer or just sit quietly in contemplation. Finally a boy down in front shouted out, “Machine guns!” She raised her eyebrows at him and smiled with her mouth closed as if to communicate that he should reconsider his answer. “Nope!” she said. “Anyone else?” “’Tomic bombs!” said someone. “Nope, but them sure are dange-riss!” “’Tomic bombs got to be the most dangerous. They can kill everybody but roaches,” he answered. “Yeah, that’s right, I suppose. They ain’t, though! You know what the most dange-riss weapon is?” Eyebrows up. Silence. “The tongue!” This caused quite a lot of looking around in wonderment and no few boys stuck their tongues out as if to inspect them or poke at them in suspicion. “That’s right. The tongue is the most dange-riss weapon of all.” “You cain’t kill nothing with your tongue,” shouted out a boy behind me. The nearest adult leaned over and shooshed him. “Well, let’s us see what the Bible says. You all got your Bibles? Turn to James chapter three.” Most of us didn’t bring our Bibles so we reached for the copies in the pocket on the back of the pew in front of us and fumbled around looking for the book of James while she read. “The tongue is a small part of the body, but it makes great boasts. Consider what a great forest is set on fire by a small spark. The tongue also is a fire, a world of evil among the parts of the body. It corrupts the whole person, sets the whole course of his life on fire, and is itself set on fire by hell.” She stopped reading and raised her eyebrows again as she looked at us. All I could think was that she’d just said the H-word. In front of me a boy leaned over and whispered to the boy sitting next to him, “Did she say ‘hell’?” This was scandalous in our way of thinking. “Now let’s us read the next verse and I want you all to pay real special attention.” She looked down to her Bible again and we all sat in rapt attention to see what she might say next. Most of us had given up looking for James. “All kinds of animals, birds, reptiles and creatures of the sea are being tamed and have been tamed by man, but no man can tame the tongue. It is a restless evil, full of deadly poison.” Eyebrows. “Did you all see what that just said?” We hadn’t. “All,” she said as if the word held some great significance. “All!” she repeated, drawing the word out so long that I imagined it was the cat on her head come back to life with a horrifying mewl. “Awwwwwwwl, the animals, birds, reptiles, and creatures of the sea are tamed!” Her entire face was lit up with this revelation. I was completely baffled and told her so with the look on my face. “Who can name me a sea creature?” she asked us. “Come on, now. Who can name me one?” “Sharks!” said a boy to my left. “They tamed ‘em!” What? I thought to myself. The sermon had somehow turned from the danger of the tongue to the naming of, and taming of, sea life. “Name me another one!” “Starfish!” “Tamed ‘em! And reptiles? Who knows a reptile?” “Horny toads!” Now even at my young age and level of physical maturity I could see that this was not going well. “Hebrews tamed them horny toads! It says it right there!” She tapped her finger on her Bible and several of us went back to looking for James because we were sure she hadn’t read something right. Miracles I could take. The parting of the sea? No problem. Water from a stone? Got it. Resurrection of the dead? Check. Taming of the horny toad? No way. Not buying it. “How can they tame sharks?” asked a boy that was clearly as confused as I was. “You can’t tame no shark.” “I don’t know how they done it. Maybe they had shark saddles or something. But it says, ‘Awwwwwl.’ Right there. It says it. So somehow, they must have done it. Ain’t that amazing? But look what else it says. They tamed all those beasts and creatures, but they couldn’t tame the tongue!” This was cause for deep contemplation. A teenage boy is a special sort of expert on things like sharks and especially horny toads and here we were presented with evidence that possibly our tongues were more wild and untamable than either. “Let’s us pray about that.” Miss Timmons threw back her head and launched into prayer again. “Oh, Lord! Teach us how to tame our tongues. Just like you helped the Hebrews to tame them sharks, and whales, and horny toads, Lord, help these precious boys here to tame their tongues. They say things some times that they don’t even know what they saying. I know there’s some boys sitting in here right now that’s probably said some things even this morning that was dange-riss. If there is, I want you to put up your hand right now. That’s right, don’t nobody look now, just slip your hand on up if you said something dange-riss today.” Now this is another of Miss Timmons peculiarities: the slipping up of hands. No matter how often she assured us that no one would be looking and we could ‘slip them on up’ anonymously, I never dared. I was always sure that even though I didn’t look, some other boys would be looking around to find out just who was guilty of whatever sin she was taking confessions of and even if other boys weren’t looking, I had the distinct worry that one of the adults would be taking notes and awarding the proper consequences later on. So I didn’t slip my hand up this particular Sunday, nor any other, but I did want to often enough and I hoped the Lord would count my wanting even though I didn’t get counted in Miss Timmons’s tally. “There’s one,” she whispered. “Yes, yes. Thank you. There’s one—and another. Thank you, thank you. Hands all around. Slip ‘em on down now. Slip ‘em on down. Lord, bless these boys. Let them go on out today with more than what they came in with. Let them tame their tongues, Lord, just like them horny toads. Yes, Jesus. Yes.” Then she slipped out of her prayer, like she often did, and began to address us again with the Lord apparently on hold. “When you go on out of here this morning I want you to think about how your tongue is steering you, boys. Think about it and make sure it’s taking you someplace you’ll be proud to go.” I raised my head and took a quick look around the room to see if we were supposed to be praying or looking up. The other heads were down except for Miss Timmons who had her eyes squeezed shut and her face turned up to heaven even though she seemed to be addressing us. I bowed my head back down and she took the Lord off hold. “Lord, bless these boys every one. Walk with them and guide them that they’ll know the way. And in Jesus’ precious name, amen.” When the service was over, we filed back out of the chapel, mostly in silence. Miss Timmons waited at the door, greeting us all as we passed, pulling us closer than was properly comfortable and hugging us to her bosom. When it came my turn to be hugged at and pulled she smiled at me, patted my cheeks with her palms and said, “Good morning, darlin’. I’m so glad to see you here.” She hugged me and I thought about how to tame that toad. It would be a long time before I realized that what Miss Timmons was trying to tell us wasn’t that the Hebrews were miraculous animal handlers. I spent a good many nights in the months thereafter wondering how sharks were tamed, or whales, or eagles—and yes—horny toads. But after that Sunday I didn’t engineer my acidic grammar-bombs so readily anymore. I learned, slowly, that maybe I wasn’t so much in control of those dange-riss mixtures of f-words, and b-words, and s-words as I wanted to believe, that maybe they were sometimes in control of me. And eventually I would learn new and even more dange-riss words, words that maybe weren’t so explosive on impact but the kind that sink in and slow burn and hurt for days and months and even years after they are spoken, including that most powerful of all, the L-word. As many times as I’ve gone back and read that passage of James, I always marvel that the thing that jumped out at Miss Timmons was the “awwwwww.” I’m at least fairly certain that animal husbandry in the ancient Hebrew world wasn’t as far reaching as she led us to believe, and I wonder if James himself might not want to go back and reword some of what he said if he heard Miss Timmons’s take on it. It’s a disservice to decry the tongue as the most dange-riss weapon, though that is indeed a truth. More accurately, it is the most powerful of tools. When wielded with grace it can build high towers, plant ageless gardens, and calm even the wildest beast. Used carelessly, it can ruin a thing even so guarded and resilient as the soul. A greater mystery, though, is that it can use the same words to accomplish either end. Is it any wonder it gave the Hebrews more trouble than those horny toads?

This week, GMA week, is notorious in Nashville and in the Christian music industry. Thousands of people, from record label employees to signed bands to bands that wish they were signed to songwriters to radio programmers to retailers, descend on this fine town and swarm the convention center and the downtown area wearing lanyards and carrying duffel bags full of free stuff. Like most things on this good earth, GMA week has its good points and its bad points. One of the good points for we Petersons is the Swedish Invasion. A group of friends from the land of my ancestors (who work in Sweden’s music business) visits Nashville every year. They stay busy during the convention until Wednesday night, when the Dove Awards are happening. They’re not too interested in going. So for the third year in a row they’ve come over to the Peterson house for Jamie’s best version of Swedish meatballs. It’s now early Thursday morning and I’m about to go clean up the paper plates and empty water bottles, but first, in honor of our Swedish friends, I thought I’d share with you the video Andy Gullahorn made during our last tour in Sweden. Enjoy. And beware.

Last week I benefited from Derek Webb’s sickness. Derek lost his voice and had a fever and hives and seven corns on the knuckles of his toes. Everything in that last sentence but the part about the loss of his voice is conjecture on my part. Anyway, Derek wasn’t able to do a show with Don Miller at the last minute and was kind enough to suggest that I fill in for him. I had a great time. The audience was gracious even though they were expecting someone shorter and balder with a cooler voice, and after my set I was able to listen to Donald Miller speak for about an hour about Story. That this was the subject of Don’s talk was fortuitous because on the three hour drive to Memphis for the show I had a lot of time to think about Story, partly because of a great phone conversation during the drive with a writer friend of mine, and partly because I’m in the thick of book two of the Wingfeather Saga. Story as an art form has always fascinated me, and now that I’m cutting through the brush of my second book I’m even more fascinated (and more than a little intimidated) by it. Michael Card asked me a few weeks ago what God taught me during the writing of my book, and the first thing that popped into my mind was this: there’s no story without conflict. If I want my main characters to learn something, to change into something more and better than they were at the beginning of the story, then I’m going to have to put them through the fire. One author said that in a good story you chase your character up into a tree, then you throw rocks at him. The only way for Janner Igiby to grow, to become who I intend for him to be, is to ruin his life as he knows it. I don’t think I need to point out how much bearing this has on my life and how I view my journey as a follower of Christ. If I trust that God is good and that he is making me into something unimaginably beautiful then it changes the way I see my troubles. They’re no longer sent from Heaven to torment me, but to make me new. I could go on, but Don Miller says it much better than I, and he also talks about several other aspects of Story and what we have to learn from it. Here’s a link to an mp3 of Don’s talk on story, delivered at Mars Hill Bible Church. What do you think?

After the mad rush surrounding the Oscar Nominations from late last year and a bushel of great movies like “No Country for Old Men,” “There Will Be Blood,” “Into the Wild,” “Away from Her,” “Juno,” “La Vie En Rose” “The Kite Runner,” “Once,” “Lars and the Real Girl, “Atonement,” and others, there was a dry spell that lasted too long. Sometimes the selection of interesting movies is like a banquet table. There’s so many choices, it’s hard to decide. Other times, I can’t find even one movie of interest at my largest local multiplex, the AMC Oakview Plaza 24 (with stadium seating and popcorn that has become far too expensive). And that coming from a guy that has fairly eclectic taste in movies. These capsules should be looked at, not as reviews, but as one guy’s brief summary from which you should feel free to comment: Smart People – Just released, it’s fair and could have been better. It features characters that are depressed for nearly the entire movie. I don’t mind characters that are depressed, especially if they have some redeeming qualities and somehow learn something or grow, but this movie showed the characters rather one-dimensionally. Further, they were one dimensional stereotypes, which makes for predictable movie watching. Ellen Page, the young pistol from the the movie Juno, played a similar character in Smart People–smart, cranky, witty, but slightly toned down from the Juno character. Things We Lost in the Fire – Excellent. Highly recommended. Performances by Halle Berry and especially Benicio Del Toro were exceptional. That guy can act. In a role that could have easily produced a performance that was over the top, Del Toro’s character was restrained and throttled. There were some slow moments, but overall it was a realistic, honest picture. In contrast to the characters in Smart People, this movie featured characters with nuance and shades of gray. Because they reveal themselves, I hoped good things for them. The movie follows the journey of two main characters and their responses to life altering events. It’s directed by Danish filmmaker Susanne Bier, who uses interesting close-ups to punctuate deeply felt emotion. I was so impressed by her direction that I ordered Brothers, another Bier directed film and the winner of the Sundance Film Festival’s World Cinema Dramatic Audience Prize. Martian Child – Better than I expected. As learned later, the reviews weren’t flattering, but I really enjoyed it. John Cusack rarely disappoints. His characters are usually so darn likable. His real life sister Joan Cusack plays his on-screen sister. As a father that raised a son with a disability, the movie resonated deeply with me. It has a lot to say about loyalty and finding the value in people, even when it isn’t immediately apparent, or even when it takes a lot of digging, encouraging, or a lot of whatever. My experience has been that the deeper one digs, the more good one finds. Love removes obstacles that prevent people from thriving. Cusack’s character adopts a little boy who believes he’s from Mars, but ironically, it’s a movie that is remarkably human. Namesake – I really enjoyed it. I’m giving it an 8, on a 1 to 10 scale. Even through it was an Indian produced, directed, and acted film, there were a lot of universal themes. Ethnic cultural protocol is often more global than might initially be thought. With grace and dignity, the movie tracks the life of one family. There’s beauty in the scenery, and beauty in the love and caring of family members, though it’s not always demonstrative. Like Things We Lost in the Fire, issues of regret are one of the major themes found in this movie. Stranger Than Fiction – It’s one I totally blew off when it was in the theaters. Will Ferrell benefits from a first rate script and good supporting performances from the other cast members and turns in a great performance himself which is far afield from his comedic tendencies. It’s a new twist on the often tried “writer becomes part of the narrative” conceit. It’s an amalgam of genres, containing elements of comedy, romance, drama, and fantasy. It’s sweet, intelligent, and weighty; by weighty, I mean that there are important moral questions that the respective characters confront. And they aren’t wrapped up in resolution with pretty paper and bows. Stardust – I didn’t enjoy Stardust as much as I expected. I thought it came off of the rails a few times. There were too many special effects and too many characters that were too poorly developed. In short, it was hard to follow. It was a decent idea that could have been done better. I thought the young Cox actor was very good, as was Michelle Pheiffer. On the ol’ 1 to 10 scale, Im giving it a 5 or 6. Gone, Baby Gone – It’s the Ben Affleck directed movie. Casey Affleck starred and it was, by a wide margin, the best performance I’ve seen from him–ever. It is a very good movie, which could have exploited parents’ fears more than it did. It was a tad too long, but still good. Ben Affleck might be a better director than he is an actor, which is both a compliment and a little jab. The Bucket List – Morgan Freeman and Jack Nicholson. It was better than I expected but not as good as it could have been. Both actors pretty much played to type in this life and death flick. Classic Special: Shane – It’s a classic western starring Alan Ladd. For a western, it was surprisingly nuanced and ambiguous. Like many Westerns, there’s the obvious question of right and wrong, yet with Shane, there are many questions bubbling underneath. It’s far more sophisticated than most Westerns. Ladd’s character is subdued and a man of few words, so we are forced to judge him by his actions, which are often noble. Yet we also learn that he has a notorious past. He’s a man of mystery, but also great good. Where does he come from? Where is he going? What motivates his actions? It’s questions like these that separate it from standard western fare and place it on Top 100 lists. Left Field Documentaries, Otherwise Known as Netflix Specials That I’ve Seen Recently: 49 Up – The latest installment of an English sociological documentary in which a group of British people are interviewed every seven years, beginning at age seven, for a fascinating take on life, love, and human nature. The idea is incredibly fascinating. The work tracks the ups and downs of these people’s lives and puts them on display every seven years. In 1964, Michael Apted interviewed a group of 7-year-old kids in England, all from different backgrounds and with big dreams, and has tracked their lives every seven years since. I don’t think riveting is too strong a word to use. Whether you are a trained sociologist or just intrigued by the way in which human dreams play out, you will find this film engrossing. Mr. Death: Fred A. Leuchter Jr. – Bizarre. Bizarre. Bizarre. It’s about an engineer that designed electric chairs and other capital punishment methods–ultimately losing his career when he researches the Holocaust gas chambers claiming the Holocaust did not happen. This is one of the most off-beat films I’ve ever seen. I watched it with my son because my wife–well, there’s no way she would have been able to watch it all. We alternately laughed until we quite literally couldn’t breath and watched our jaws drop to the floor in sync with the sheer absurdity of it all. Unknown White Male – Filmmaker Rupert Murray tells the true story of Doug Bruce, a man who woke up on a New York subway with no clues as to who he was, other than a random phone number and a British accent. It’s the worst kind of amnesia called retrograde amnesia. For the person that has it, it’s as if their entire past has been erased. They literally don’t remember who they are. Friends and family are strangers. If one is a believer, are they still a believer if they do not recollect why or how they believe? This provocative documentary explores the nature of identity with a real life subject that you won’t soon forget. Have I missed anything? Which of these have you seen? Whether your take is different or similar to mine, post away. What have you seen and do you recommend that isn’t on my list? Your interaction is valued and appreciated. Without it, these posts don’t mean much, so please jump right in. In The Rabbit Room, we toss around words like beauty and truth like chicken feed on the farm but ultimately, that’s the structure by which most of us hope to frame the art that we view. It’s what moves us. It’s at the very heart of why we invest $18.00 each month in a Netflix membership, or join a book club, visit an art gallery, or stare at the moon like a lover. It’s the very heart of who we are and how we were created.

My son is in bed sleeping peacefully, finally. After several days of him being lethargic and downright cranky with a cold, I did a fatherly thing and took him to the doctor’s office this morning, whereupon the boy was diagnosed with a pair of ear infections. “Oh, so THAT’s the problem!”, both parents cluelessly exclaimed. Antibiotics underway, he is sleeping quietly, the first in quite a few nights. Parents are tired, but still awake. Danielle is sitting at the dining room table – currently a makeshift sewing workspace – and is making a few burp cloths, baby blankets and a hooter-hider (for the discreet nursing mother) for a friend’s baby shower tomorrow. She usually puts things off until the last minute. Tonight is no exception. The woman procrastinates like no one else I know. No one, that is, except for me. There are a couple of lights on in the house, the wood floor under her work area is a tangled mess of discarded fabric scraps, thread remnants and snippets of rick-rack, and she, occasionally singing along with her iPod, has no idea I’m writing about her now. I like that degree of obliviousness. I like that she knows how to sew. I appreciate the massive skill she possesses in this arena. Not many people know this about her. She’s really good at it, and if asked, will downplay her skill each and every time, and will also be quick to point out her various works’ minute flaws rather than the solid fact that she took sundry pieces of fabric and material and sewed them together to create something unique and handmade whereas there was nothing but remnants before. She will always overlook the finished product for the immaterial flaws which no other eye will notice but her own. She, like me, is a perfectionist. It drives me bonkers, both hers and mine. She makes people out of strangers, and keeps ragged stitches from ripping. I have been working on a new song for the past 3 days. I’ve had the chorus stuck in my head ever since its melody first entered my brain; usually a good sign. I am taking a break from it now in hopes that writing something else, something about this moment, here and now, will wend its way into the verses of the song on which I’m working. I’ve played this particular chorus over and over, ad nauseum, throughout the house walking around the place with 12-string guitar in hand, humming it and outright singing it aloud at times. My wife has led on that she’s pretty well ready to hear something else. Although she did admit to me earlier today that this same chorus has been stuck in her head too. Ah, a doubly good sign. I wrote a sweet little song about my wife 10 years ago that, in the end, turned out to be a cajun-zydeco, redneck two-step. I’ve been thinking about this the past few nights I’ve played that song at shows, and realized that I haven’t written her a “love” song really since then. Hence, the new song. I remember how easy that earlier song came to be; in a frenzy of pen to paper (ah, the good old days), a stream of consciousness. I rummage to find things to say now, not because I am without things to say (well, barely), but how much more vital choosing the right words is to me nowadays, and how words carry a greater weight than they did 10 years ago. I am struggling to say something new, something that has maybe been forgotten, something hidden deep in the veins of the cloistered self. To uncover and say something that is neither neurologically inept nor saccharine sweet; that is the work I find myself embroiled in. I find that harder to do these days because I feel like I’ve used so many words, almost as if I’ve used up my vocabulary. Plus, I hate repeating myself. I have always been a person of few words, never really knowing what was too much or too little to say. Silence always seemed the wiser choice. But silence can get you into trouble too. It is quite a common occurrence, whenever I offer my thoughts to a group of people (this happened just the other day in a meeting of fellow singer-songwriters), that I manage to hear myself saying who-knows-what and then realize that what I said was ridiculously idiotic and made no substantial sense, nor offered anything new to the conversation. The group passed over the thought as if it were never uttered. Probably a good thing. I am painfully self-aware and have the confidence of a snail. It is in moments like those that I, already a man of few words, feel I say too much. Beauty in this world is not always an easy quality for me to see. I often have to make myself look for it, it seems, the older (and crankier?) I get. How many times have I found myself cursing the ground I walk upon, cursing the fuel companies for nearly $4 for a gallon of gas, cursing people, cursing the skies when they rain too much or too little, cursing the words I choose or choose not to say. It takes work to train the eyes to see what may not be readily visible or what may be lurking beneath the surface of things. After all, the spiritual world is supposedly paralleling our own, just out of sight of our own narrow field of vision and our own comings and goings. Here, I consider my wife’s sewing skill, and how she must first wash the various pieces of fabric she will eventually sew together because, if not, they will tear apart upon first washing of the finished work. It is an age-old truth. New wine into old wineskins. New life into old lives. New sight into old eyes. Saying nothing of threadbare souls, fat men and the eyes of needles, button-holes or Singer sewing machines, thank God for wordlessness, for stitches, and a seamstress to create something out of nothing.

One of the things I love about being a part of the Rabbit Room is the permission it gives me to be a little self-indulgent. I can talk about the real stuff that moves me or tickles my mind that I don’t really feel like I can talk about anywhere else. I only hope that it’s useful to at least some who take the time to read and that, like me, they find an unexpected treasure that helps bring clarity in a world of numbing chaos. I don’t take your time or trust for granted! So in the spirit of a little self-indulgence, I want to talk about my new Tom Waits record. For those unfamiliar with him, Waits is an artist/composer/actor whose trademark gravelly voice was described by one critic as sounding “like it was soaked in a vat of bourbon, left hanging in the smokehouse for a few months and then taken outside and run over with a car.” If you’ve not heard of him, you’ve most likely heard others cover his songs (“Downtown Train “ sung by Rod Stewart, “Jersey Girl” sung by Springsteen, etc.) I’m planning on writing about Tom Waits’ music in a later post, but for right now I just want to focus on his voice. My parents recently got me Tom Waits’s newest record entitled Orphans: Brawlers, Bawlers, and Bastards. It’s a three disc set of his songs that didn’t fit on any of his other records, which is really saying something considering how quirky and out of left field Waits’ records are. Working my way through the set, I got a big grin when I got to track 3 on the second disc. The song was called “The Long Way Home”, but it wasn’t the first time that I’d heard it. I first heard “The Long Way Home” sung by Norah Jones and loved it as one of the better tracks on her “Feels Like Home” record (now you know. I listen to Norah Jones). It hit me as a sweet little song about taking a long walk home in order to spend more time with her walking companion. That’s just how it always hit me. But hearing Tom Waits sing it was a revelation. It was like hearing it for the first time and the lyric took on a whole new personality when growled by the world-weary voice of Tom Waits. It turns out that Tom wrote the song and that it’s about the kind of person who no matter how much he tries, he’s more or less fated to have to learn things the hard way, to always have to take the long way home. At least that’s the way the song hits me when Tom sings it. I listened to both versions back to back and the lyrics are the same, but I never really heard them when Norah was singing. And that’s just the trouble with a sweet voice like Norah’s – you’re likely to miss the point. Don’t get me wrong, I think she’s a great artist with a lovely and interesting voice. But a great voice isn’t always what’s best to sell a great song. In some cases, it might even be a detriment. In an interview on the Stop Making Sense DVD by the Talking Heads, David Byrne says that the better a person’s voice, the harder it is to believe them. I thought of the difference between artists like Celine Dion, Josh Groban, and Michael Buble in contrast to Johnny Cash, Bob Dylan, and of course Tom Waits and decided that maybe Byrne is on to something here. I hope AP doesn’t mind me using him as an example, but he and I have talked a number of times about music critics who have dogged him for his voice. But to me, Andrew’s voice is perfect. I love it for what it is and I think it’s beautiful, believable, and sincere. It has a gentle sweetness to it. I love that voice because it’s the one that has consistently brought the heart of God to me. The same is true of Rich Mullins and Mark Heard. For different though similar reasons, it’s why I’m drawn to the voices of Daniel Lanois, Damien Rice, Sufjan Stevens, and most of the artists I love.  It’s the imperfections that make these voices so compelling. Norah’s version of “The Long Way Home” is really good, but I believe Tom Wait’s version. Norah’s is pretty, but Tom’s broke my heart and made me present to my own life and the way that I seem wired to always have to learn the hard way. That gritty, rasping voice of his moves me to tears almost every time he employs it in the service of a sad and hopeful song. If I might be so bold to use the word, I would say that it’s the ugliness of Wait’s voice that makes the song’s beauty more convincing. And increasingly I find it’s this very thing I look for in books, movies, music, or any other kind of storied art. Take Cormac McCarthy’s Pulitzer Prize winning book The Road, for instance. It’s one of the bleakest and most brutal books I’ve ever read, and yet it’s exactly this that makes the tenderness and hope of it so believable. The older I get the more I appreciate contrast: hope shines brighter set against the darkness of despair (The Road, The Lord Of The Rings); tenderness makes more sense to me in the context of brutality (as in the film Life Is Beautiful); the more I see the virtue in a good Tom Waits song. I think the application (if I can be so self-indulgent as to propose one) is that it’s not the best, strongest, or most beautiful parts of who we are that are most compelling or even useful in the employment of God’s Kingdom. It’s our frailties, brokenness, and even the ugliness of our deepest secrets and struggles that will make the hope we proclaim believable. It’s this that puts God’s grace on display and shows the world what the work of Grace really looks like in a real person’s life. Sometimes, this very thing might even happen in something as unlikely as a Tom Waits song. (If you’re interested, you can listen to the two different versions in iTunes by clicking here for the Tom Waits version and here for the Norah Jones version.)

In a recent email I sent out to those on my email list, I talked about Centricity’s recent decision to release “Everything I Own” as a radio single. We are offering you the radio version for free and I thought for long-time fans it warranted a little explanation. So here’s the longer version of what I wrote in that email: “Centricity Records has bravely decided to release “Everything I Own” as the next single to radio. I say brave because it’s not the typical kind of song you’d expect to hear on radio (both lyrically and musically). But it is a song that we feel says something important, so we’re opting for a single that has more heart than it does dance mix potential. 🙂 Centricity played the song for some of radio’s big decision makers who felt that most stations would not play the song on account of the lyric “demons of lust” being stronger language than their audiences are accustomed to. I’ll be honest and admit to being frustrated and offended by this initially – how can I hope to minister and really get to the heart of matters if I have to be afraid of how Christian radio’s more timid listeners will react? It’s this kind of thing that I sometimes fear is hurting Christian music as I wonder if we are guilty of “tickling ears” as the bible warns against. Are we trying too hard to give listeners what they want instead of what they need? (This is especially relevant when you consider that lust and pornography are at the top of the list of issues plaguing our culture.) But the story of the gospel is the story of God coming down, meeting us at our level. So after months of prayerful consideration, we all decided that the song’s message was important enough for us to be willing to meet radio listeners where they’re at and make a minor lyric change for the radio version. The song’s value goes far beyond one line, and if changing it helps get this song heard, than we decided it’s worth it. I take comfort in thinking that for those who might hear the song on the radio and go on to listen to the original album version, the original lyrics we changed will actually take on new emphasis! In the end the changes felt less like compromise and more like sensitivity, and as weird as all of this could have been, the new lyric is quite lovely. We hope radio embraces it and that it is a blessing for those who hear the song and take it to heart. With the new lyric we also gave the radio version a musical treatment that makes me wish we would have thought of it for the album version! My friend Matt Patrick added some gorgeous guitar work that really sweetened the track and we have ended up with something that we’re all really excited about. We hope you will be too! We wanted to offer the song to you for free as our way of saying thank you for your support and friendship. It will be available as a free download for the remainder of April on my myspace page (click here, and then look for the song in the music player and click the download button.) If you like it, please share it with others. (NOTE: If you don’t do myspace, you can also download the song from here) Thanks so much for your support! Consider this a little glimpse into the hard work of making artistry, ministry, and industry play nice together.