What are you looking for?

You zealot fool, primed to a hair trigger, your belly squirming with lies and your heart pumping hate’s acid through pimply arms— blood acid you drain from your own cut veins and throw into the faces of young girls and homosexuals. You dirty, wild donkey, you liar, you coward, you un-man, you devolved slum pig, you enemy of liberty and justice for all, you monkey from the forest, you jackal, you son of the son of a curse. I am to love my enemies, but how can I love you? Not this, Lord. Do not make me love him. I hate him. He cries out to be killed, he begs for it. He violates the deepest rhythms of this good earth. He is a suicide standing on a ledge that he has chosen because it is high enough to give him momentum enough to penetrate hell on impact. I will not touch that leper. I do not care if he rots in his own disease. You tell me to love my enemies, but it is too much, too much, too much this time. So, oh God. Give me what I cannot muster. Send me back, and back, and back again, and put me in the close company of Hagar, that mother who was traded like eggs for eggs then thrown out the car window like a paper wrapper. Show me the lines on a face that had no rights, lines carved by the collateral damage of a chosen race learning faith, and let me kiss her hair while she kisses her son before she leaves him to die. Show me how you (Beer-lahai-roi) intervened, not by a ram in the bushes, but by the voice of Compassion who hears the cry of the unwanted. Show me the trajectory of the unfaith of the chosen compounded by epochs; and show me my own guilt. Play the fugue for me so that I might weep, that I might pour ashes on my own head, and beat my own chest. Make me penitent, contrite, sober, and then help me place my hands on the bellies of every unborn mother carrying every unborn child of Hagar, and feel the feet of a baby who is the son of a son of a son of Abraham, and whisper, “Live. Live.”

I loved that first year of teaching high school literature, but I didn’t love the way lesson prep set me behind on my own reading. Suddenly I had to devote long nights and weekends to organizing stories that were already familiar instead of exploring new ones. Next year will provide a sixth reread for some of these same books, but I no longer feel frustrated about prep time. Working this job has shown me how certain literary characters need to deep soak. Every time you and I come to a book, we bring baggage from the lives we live. This is why a book that feels too extreme one year can become our life boat the next. A private conflict can suddenly crash into a chapter on grace. A dark night of the soul can find its echo in a 200-year-old pilgrim. What doesn’t move us much on a first read can explode on a seventh or eighth pass. In this post, I’m going to share three characters who have become increasingly important to me over the past few years. Two of those are from Flannery O’Connor stories (“The Life You Save May Be Your Own” and “The River”), and one is from Tennessee Williams’s The Glass Menagerie. These aren’t long or thick pieces of literature, so if they are new to you, I hope reading this post will convince you to scoot off and get to know them. Then I hope you will come back and tell me what you have found. LUCYNELL The first character comes from “The Life You Save May Be Your Own,” a Flannery O’Connor story about a grown woman named Lucynell who acts like a child. I guess we would call her mentally-challenged in today’s lingo. Our whole nation is Christ-haunted right now, and as Chesterton warned, many of our virtues have splintered off to do more harm than our vices. Rebecca Reynolds Lucynell is the sort of woman who would draw stares if you took her with you to Kroger. She would probably rock, and moan, and point to things, and pull on her own dress. Yet against the dirty, grey backdrop of O’Connor’s short story, this child-woman seems otherworldly instead of just underdeveloped. She has the blue eyes of a peacock’s neck and hair of pink gold. Two other characters contrast against Lucynell. Mr. Shiftlet is a greasy, one-armed charlatan who represents the discipline of philosophy. The second character is Lucynell’s mother, a conniving, bawdy woman who represents pragmatism. O’Connor uses these two bumpkins to create a battle royale of advanced civilization. The reader watches her dark and comic figures volley back and forth in a coarse Socratic dialectic, seeking dominance while Lucynell floats above the conflict, embracing neither path. The child-woman is only a fool, disconnected and vulnerable. Yet O’Connor drops hints that Lucynell is tuned in to a deeper reality. When her mother wants to marry Lucynell off to Shiftlet, she urges her daughter to call the man by a seductive nickname. However, the single word Lucynell is able to mimic is not “sugarpie” but “bird,” a symbol for the realm of the spirit. And when Lucynell sees Shiftlet playing with a lit match (fire is a symbol of spiritual danger), she responds to it at an intuitive level, making loud noises and shaking her finger. In the presence of physical danger, however, Lucynell is at perfect peace. In fact, she rides off to her own abandonment with Shiftlet, happily dropping cherries from her wedding hat out the car window. In her gravest hour, the girl-woman falls asleep with her head on a diner counter, far from home, oblivious. “She looks like an angel of Gawd,” says the young man working at the café—and she does. Lucynell is an otherworldly creature, destined to be raped, destined to starve, unable to speak well enough to tell anybody how to take her home to her wretched mother. She seems to be born to be ravaged by evil, a lost, holy fool, a sheep to be slaughtered—which was repulsive to me at first. I was angry at O’Connor for creating such a hopeless scenario for an innocent person. Yet every time I reread this story I feel more hushed around Lucynell, like that reverence that comes over you when you’ve first stepped into a great cathedral. If you have read George MacDonald’s Lilith, you remember how parallel “worlds” existed on top of one another without being understood by either realm, and in a similar way, Lucynell makes me wonder if a fool in our world is often a sage or a saint in the next. Or maybe sometimes it’s the other way around. Post-Enlightenment humanism is our briar patch. Our culture has such a deep, unflinching trust of human ability, which (of course) means we elevate pragmatists and philosophers. But with every reread Lucynell challenges me to ask how many of us will get to heaven and realize we’ve only been carrying two fistfuls of Confederate bills. HARRY My second mentor comes at the end of O’Connor’s short story, “The River.” A tiny boy, Harry, is trapped in an abusive, urban home life. His parents are atheists, hedonists, cynics, and one morning while they are sleeping off their drunk, the child sneaks off to the country to try to baptize himself so he will matter to somebody. Harry makes it to the bank of a river, but he is frustrated when the water rejects his efforts to self-heal. No matter what he does to get himself down inside the water, the river spits him back out. It’s only when Harry gives up trying to save himself that he is caught in a delicious current that bears him by its own power. Like all who are willing to receive the salvation offered by Christ, Harry’s baptism into a new identity is also a death scene. “You have died with Christ,” the preachers say, but we never seem to take that part as seriously as we should. Flannery knows what we’ve missed, grabs us by the shoulders, and turns us to stare into the truth. The first time you read “The River,” it will take you a while to realize you’ve just watched a child drown, and the reason you won’t be able to tell is because the language is so pretty. By beauty, O’Connor shows us that Harry’s physical state is secondary to the gentle and loving pull of the River — that by being taken into the water, the boy is saved. He is saved from what? From the living hell of a child molester who has followed him and is waiting to pounce? Yes. From an abusive, neglectful home life? Yes. But mostly he is saved from an upside-down, irreverent world where authority mocks what is holy and beautiful. He is saved from the pride, from cynicism, from self-absorption, from self-salvation. He is saved from the hell of becoming what his parents are — self-reliant, sour-hearted fools. LAURA I hope you remember Laura from The Glass Menagerie. (Watch it here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k3TrLczE9Oo) Laura was born a cripple (though her mother insists we shouldn’t use that awful word) and she is now shy to the point of being emotionally disabled. She has flunked out of business school because of social anxiety, so she spends every day in the tiny, dingy apartment she shares with her mother and brother (Tom) looking  at her collection of glass ornaments and playing old phonograph records. When you first meet Laura, you want to reach out and cup your hands around her, because she flickers like a match in the wind. Tennessee Williams writes the best stage directions anybody ever has (and don’t argue with me on this). In Scene Six, he describes Laura standing in a new dress that her mother has bought for her as the poor girl waits for a visit from her one and only hope for a husband. “A fragile, unearthly prettiness has come out in Laura: she is like a piece of translucent glass touched by light, given a momentary radiance, not actual, not lasting.” The delicate inner world in which Laura lives has taken on physical form, but only for a moment. Williams carries us across the great divide into her realm, and if we watch closely, a glimpse of her strange sort of  beauty will make us ache. Like her visitor Jim, we will be drawn into the trance of her realm before we snap back awake to remember that we have previous obligations. I don’t know if Williams was intentional about the nickname Laura received from a high school friend, but it’s one of the most powerful elements of the play for me. She is called “Blue Roses,” a moniker that points back to a German Romantic philosopher from the 1700’s (Novalis) who wrote about a evasive blue flower so beautiful that it was worth a pilgrim’s lifelong search. The blue flower came to represent Sehnsucht, a German term that means homesickness for a place we haven’t yet encountered. This concept of Sehnsucht passed from Novalis, into the writings of George MacDonald, where C.S. Lewis found it. “If we find ourselves with a desire that nothing in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that we were made for another world.” Remember that Lewis quote? When I first read it, I didn’t realize what a struggle he had faced before arriving at that conclusion. As a young academic, Lewis tried to live by cold, hard rationalism. He cast aside the theology of his childhood, abandoning failed attempts at a faith that had never scratched his itch. And he wasn’t just defiant, he was disappointed, frustrated and hurt that God hadn’t revealed Himself more tangibly when Lewis had asked. He was also disillusioned by gaps he saw in the Bible, hitting the same barriers nearly every thinking person encounters when he stops sucking on the breast of his parents’ religion. But after years of wrestling with hard questions, Lewis came to believe in Christ in Whipsnade on September 28, 1931, one day after hashing faith out with Dyson and Tolkien. Some scholars question Lewis’s memory, because in later years, when he wrote about his conversion experience, he described masses of bluebells making a carpet on the earth. But this was September, and bluebells don’t bloom in Autumn. Did Lewis make a mistake? Perhaps, but I don’t think so. I think Lewis was offering a wink to the astute. I think he meant that during those first few moments of finally beginning to see, he was walking in a realm in which the blue flower always blooms. So let’s talk about you now. As you look back over these three stories, which character fits you best? Are you Shiftlet, toying with matters of reason and ethics in a way that allows you to keep your hands on all the game controls? Are you Lucynell’s weasly momma, with eyes slit and sliding around to find whatever will bring in something you can grab and hang on to for all your life? Are you worn out brother Tom, exasperated from do-good self-sacrifice, ready to do something dangerous and exciting for once? Are you Harry’s parents, hung over from emotional opiates, and snickering about those fairy heads who still believe in miracles?Or might you have a little holy fool left in your blood, yet? Have you tried it all and found that you couldn’t quite transpose the universe down to a dusty handful of animal dimensions? Over the past ten or fifteen years, a significant chunk of the modern church seems to have pulled away from heaven-oriented spirituality. Instead we are embracing a fleshier faith that scratches grace into the soil of the here and now. We talk about orphans, poverty, hunger, refugees, community, and art—but when was the last time you heard anyone mention “sin,” “hell,” or “getting saved?” The younger generation of faith seems to be leaning increasingly away from anything invisible—away from the idea of a Rapture rescue (Shazam!)—away from any threat of future judgment—and toward anything that our hands can do for Jesus in 60 or 70 years of breathing this close air. There are many reasons for this. For starters, let’s be honest … it’s easier to Instagram an orphanage selfie or a gallery opening than it is to hashtag thousands of angels circling a throne. My generation and the next are prone to a narcissism that slides right in to social justice but has trouble squeezing through the door of a confession booth. (Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea máxima culpa.) The work of compassion is still good, but sometimes our enthusiasm for it can be tainted by the values of our time. But after we admit that, there’s still more. We aren’t just selfish, we are also reacting against legitimate errors made by previous generations. Extremes in revivalism scorched America in the 20th century, a time when the movement of Christianity was driven primarily by threats of hell and promises that a simple sinner’s prayer could help us all escape it. And although I do believe in both hell and salvation from it by childlike faith, I sometimes fear that evangelicalism has done significant damage by offering only the prologue of rebirth without including vital, correlating chapters on discipleship. Compound this easy believism with political fear and anger promoted by the Christian Coalition (started in 1989), and you’ve got quite a mess. You end up with large numbers of frightened, furious people who self-identify as Christ followers, but other than voting for whichever politicians shout “Jesus” loudest and freaking out about America’s moral demise every month or two, they aren’t sure what a life of faith could mean. Flannery O’Connor talked about the “Christ-haunted South,” a culture where superstitious remnants of religion twist the truth, but this is not only true of the South. Our whole nation is Christ-haunted right now, and as Chesterton warned, many of our virtues have splintered off to do more harm than our vices. While these oversights needed be tweaked, vision can be over-corrected. And in my generation’s reactivity against a fire-insurance-fire-breathing sort of faith, I think too many of us now operate with an assumption that we can fix all that has been wrong with Christianity by simply stretching out into relevant and winsome lifestyles. We have studied the values of our time until we have mastered them. We know how to fit in. We know the music. We know the movies. We are tolerant, enlightened, aware of what’s happening. We know how to word spiritual concepts so that we don’t show up to a faith conversation like dads in plaid shorts and dress socks. “The last generation was dorky, yeah. But give us another shot, you doubting world, will you? Look and see how we are thoughtful instead of reactive — how we are creative instead of superstitious. We shop at the farmer’s market instead of at Wal-Mart. We drink craft beer and bourbon. We are your kind of people, and if you come hang with us, you will know that we are Christians by our love, by our love.” When the values of a time are so skewed that what is beautiful, wise, and true cannot be appreciated by the masses, rejection will be an inevitable part of engagement. Rebecca Reynolds When this dynamic is authentic, it can be beautiful. Some of my favorite believers have come to know Christ through relaxed and generous friendships very much like this. But there are other situations where attempts at relevance feel false, because common ground is being used only as a conversion strategy. There are opponents to the faith who sense this game plan, and they will never be moved by style. They will never care how we package the gospel, because they are bright enough to see what the existence of a living god could do to their life choices. They know what sort of dominoes would fall if they were suddenly bumped down to the second or third-highest life form in the universe, so they carry around a steely resistance to the very core of Christianity. When we interact with this barrier, we cannot be artsy-fartsy enough, witty enough, non-judgmental enough to win a soul. It’s going to take something bigger than our charm to move that mountain. (Thank God.) I understand why our faith generation trusts relevance so deeply, but I think we would be wiser to hold expectations of our own abilities more loosely. Because even our favorite methods can become idols. And in our belief that we are enough to fix the world, we can end up making the same mistakes the last generation made, just on the opposite side of the spectrum. “God chose what is foolish in the world to shame the wise; God chose what is weak in the world to shame the strong,” and while I suppose the right shade of hip could make us heroes in a few nooks of American culture, we are just as likely to appear as fools in others before it’s over. I don’t mean that I intend to turn away from relationships, from intellectualism, or from art. But I do mean that there are no promises from God that my charm, my research, or my artistry will create the cultural renovation I desire. There are some truths that can only be comprehended by the spirit, truths that will look foolish from any other vantage point. Because of this, there will be times when love is misunderstood or rejected. Because of this, there will need to be martyrs as well as superstars. When the values of a time are so skewed that what is beautiful, wise, and true cannot be appreciated by the masses, rejection will be an inevitable part of engagement. So when I see O’Connor’s little Harry carried off to drown in the current, or Laura flickering like candlelight in a piece of glass, or Lucynell sleeping on a diner counter, I am moved to correct several assumptions of my generation. These three characters help me see how the most tragic thing that could happen to a person isn’t a failure to fit in. There are far worse dangers yet. The people of the world mocked and slaughtered the Savior I love, so I’m not sure I can avoid that as a possibility if I’m going to follow Him. That’s the risk of the message I carry. The gospel is good, but it is not safe. Perhaps when we are old, we will stretch out our hands in love to the lost world, and another will dress us and carry us where we do not want to go. Perhaps we will be misunderstood despite our best altruism and creativity, accused falsely, and condemned. Perhaps our tenderness will be labeled hatefulness until we vigorously approve of all things that all people do. Perhaps we will find Aslan, and he will ask us to come with him, but no one will believe us when we try to explain what we have seen. Lucynell, Harry, and Laura call me back to these possibilities. They are reminding me that I have resigned any right to popularity here — that I have offered the whole of my time on planet Earth to a Lord who doesn’t always grant His followers a fan base. Sometimes he lets them be thrown to the lions instead. (Thanks be to God? Thanks be to God.) So while I will let love compel me to be all things to all men, and while I will serve the desperate, and speak the vernacular, and shine brightly before as many as can bear my blare, it’s still possible that in the end of things—after I’ve given love all I had—the world will see me only as a fool angel of Gawd, rocking back and forth on my haunches, mumbling “Burrddttt! Burrddttt!” After I spend time in the fog of the high mountain with my Lord, maybe I will come back to live and die in a world that will not hear what I have to say, no matter how well I say it. This is not the end I would pick for my story, but staring that possibility in the eyes has been good for me as a writer. It has driven me to a different level of intimacy with Jesus, and it is rescuing me from measuring success by approval numbers. It has taken a mighty burden from off of my shoulders, and it is prying my fingers from controls that I never held to begin with. “But the unbeliever does not welcome what comes from God’s Spirit, because it is foolishness to him; he is not able to understand it since it is evaluated spiritually.” (I Corinthians 2:14 HCS) “How blessed are those servants whom the master finds watching for him when he comes! I tell all of you with certainty, he himself will put on an apron, make them sit down at the table, and go around and serve them.” (Luke 12:37 ISV) P.S. If you enjoyed these Flannery O’Connor stories, you should buy Jonathan Rogers’s book on Flannery O’Connor here: The Terrible Speed of Mercy (Photo Credit: Donna Murray)

Church, done well, is a glorious mess. A few years ago, our church community endured a particularly difficult season. A handful of challenging, but unrelated, situations grew in strength and intensity like dark clouds joining forces to create the perfect storm. After months of navigating the resulting downpour, we emerged battered and tired. And confused. From behind the clouds peeped the warm sun of normalcy, but the air hung thick with questions. About community. About our own motivation. And about the ultimate purpose of church. In an effort to wrestle with and work through those questions, I penned the following “Letter to My Church”: We met when I was just a child. I stumbled through your doors, a young girl who had become both a bride and a parent only months before. New city, new job, new marriage, new family—my feeble knees attempting to carry more weight than was humanly possible. You offered truth, friendly smiles, a destination for my weekly pilgrimage in search of hope. Week after week, we greeted one another warmly. We became acquaintances.You asked small, cordial questions. The first crossroad was approached. I offered a slight glimpse of my wounded heart. I answered you in riddles, both hoping and fearing you would pursue more. You asked the next question. You listened. You didn’t minimize. You didn’t try to manage the chaos or despair. You didn’t turn away. Week after week, we spoke briefly, yet with greater intention. We became friends.Weeks rolled into months tumbled into years. We watched first graders receive Bibles and high-school students launch off to college. We sat together at weddings witnessing the birth of new families. We observed helplessly as dying marriages gasped their last breaths. We celebrated the debut of desperately longed-for babies. We wept as tiny coffins were lowered into frigid ground. He gave and He took away. Week after week, we continued to meet. To draw together for an hour or two. To sing and to pray. To tell each other the old, old story. To be reminded that yes, it is all true.You were often my mother, my father, my siblings. My teacher, my student, my traveling companion. You brought me food when I was sick, when a new baby was born, and when another was lost. You shared your stories, your fears, your dreams, and your talents. With each kind act, knowing glance and deeper question, you offered healing and restoration. You spoke words of truth about yourself, about me, and about the One who brought us together. You loved well.Yet there were seasons when you were the source of great pain. You were too busy. You didn’t have room in your circle of friends. You were tending to your own wounds and trying to repair the brokenness present in your own life. You failed me. And I did the same to you. But strangely, the pain and silence created an invaluable space.For the brave work of longing.For the reminder that we were not made for this world.For the homesickness which nudged me back on the path toward Home. Despite the disappointments, we continued to meet. Week after week. Preschool Christmas pageant after Thanksgiving Eve communion after Maundy Thursday after crowded Easter morning. We didn’t give up on one another. We kept coming back—at times running and at others limping. Our relationship changed. We became family.Our kinship was not born of common interest, background, social standing or life experience. It wouldn’t necessarily have been of our own choosing. Yet we loved the same Father who saw fit to bring us together. Week after week, a sacred alchemy transpired. The common became holy. Through the jagged cracks of a broken, selfish, and prideful people, the glory of the Most High spilled out and penetrated the darkness.You changed shape as some were called away to other communities. They left as a result of following the Father, and their appointed time with us had been fulfilled. I confess that I’ve been tempted to do the same, but for less than admirable reasons. When I wanted more from you, or when you weren’t serving me in the ways that I had hoped. When our differences felt threatening. The gaps between us too wide to cross. I longed to flee to a place where my opinions were affirmed. But He knew that our differences served a marked purpose. What had seemed like an obstacle to my ideal had actually been rescuing me from a mirage. Yes, you had your own idols. But when you didn’t bow down to mine, you were offering a different perspective. You saved me from myself.Thank you for coming back week after week, year after year.For leaning in. For your goodness and your weakness. For your hopeful words of encouragement and your honest tears of brokenness. For having vision for my life, my marriage, and my family when I wasn’t able. For granting me the sacred privilege of speaking into your life as well.In your faithfulness and in your failures, you continue to draw me back to our Father.  I am grateful. Years have passed and unanswered questions remain, but I’ve become more convinced about one aspect of church community: Church, done well, takes time. Which is why I’m particularly grateful to share that we’ll be taking the next several weeks to read and discuss Slow Church: Cultivating Community in the Patient Way of Jesus by Christopher Smith and John Pattison. American churches have learned much from the business world. Terms like “strategic planning” “goal-orientation” and “market analysis” were once reserved for the corporate boardroom but, in recent years, they’re just as likely to be overheard (and frequently used) in a church leadership meeting. Slow Church invites us to consider the history, evolution, and practical implications of recent trends in church growth. Smith and Pattison ask important questions and offer helpful insights that point toward the cultivation of a healthier local church. Our hope is that we emerge from our reading and discussion better equipped to love our neighbors—both those who are inside and those who are outside of our local church community. Please consider joining us. The reading schedule is as follows: Week of June 20 – First Course: Ethics (chp 1-4) Week of June 27 – Second Course: Ecology (chp 5-7) Week of July 4 – Third Course: Economy (chp 8-11) Week of July 11 – Wrap-up Each Tuesday we’ll post a few questions to kindle conversation (click here to visit and subscribe to the discussion thread in the forums) and on July 12th, we’ll host an in-person discussion with the authors at the Art House in Nashville where they’ll discuss their newest book, Reading for the Common Good: How Books Help Our Churches and Neighborhoods Flourish. We ask that each family/couple attending the event purchase a copy of the book to help support the authors. Slow Church is available in the Rabbit Room Store. Consider grabbing an extra copy or two and asking a few friends from your church to join you. Our hope is that the time spent in reading, discussion, and personal reflection, bears fruit in your local community.

I’ve been meaning to introduce you to a new singer-songwriter for some time, so I’m glad to finally get the time to officially do so. Reader, meet Michael Logen. If you’re a fan of whipsmart pop songs and artists like Matthew Perryman Jones, you’re going to love Michael Logen’s music. I first heard Michael’s music as I pulled back into Nashville after a road trip. I’ll never forget cresting the hill on I-65 that brings Lightning 100 onto the radio, and hearing the introduction to Michael’s song “Paper Thin.” Immediately, I wanted to hear it again, and yet I could also sing the chorus again right there and then, having memorized it so quickly. [soundcloud url=”https://api.soundcloud.com/tracks/79991438″ params=”color=ff5500&auto_play=false&hide_related=false&show_comments=true&show_user=true&show_reposts=false” width=”100%” height=”166″ iframe=”true” /] Michael is one of those songwriters in Nashville who gives away the credit to other performers. He’s penned songs for Kelly Clarkson and Sister Hazel, Will Hoge and Jonny Lang. He co-wrote “City of Black and White,” the title track of Mat Kearney’s album. He also co-wrote “It’s Alright” with Thad Cockrell and Brandon Heath, a song from Heath’s Leaving Eden album. You’ve also heard his songs on Nashville, Parenthood, One Tree Hill, and a dozen other television shows and movies. Most recently, Michael took some time to record and release a brand new album, New Medicine. It’s his first solo album in eight years, and it’s available for pre-order now at PledgeMusic. Check out the video below for more details. Any friend of Matthew Perryman Jones or Thad Cockrell will find himself in familiar territory. #MichaelLogen

What are we supposed to think about angelic visits? In the Bible, we read that on occasion, angels would appear to people. Either these events really happened, or Scripture is deliberately trying to deceive us. How should a sensible person respond to a Biblical tale of an angelic visit? There are three ways a person could go, but only two are reasonable, and those two are mutually exclusive, meaning only one of them can be true. Sandro Botticelli (1445-1510), an Italian painter from the early Renaissance period, painted his interpretation of one such visit. His paintings typically featured minimal architectural details while relying on flat colors and linear design to create a graceful, two-dimensional look. Perhaps his best-known work is The Birth of Venus. Botticelli’s The Annunciation was created for the funeral chapel in the church of Cestello in Florence. On its gilded frame are these words in Latin from Luke’s Gospel, “The Holy Ghost shall come upon thee, and the power of the Highest shall overshadow thee” (Luke 1:35). The Annunciation is the subject of countless paintings down through the ages because it represents that mysterious moment when the angel Gabriel appeared to tell an ordinary virgin that she was favored by God and would conceive of a Son who would be the Savior of the world, and that because of him the world would never be the same. As I said, when we think about encounters between humans and heavenly beings, there are only three ways to view them, and only two are credible. The first is to conclude that these meetings are so implausible that they could not happen. This view would take one of two possible positions concerning the heavenly realm—it does not exist, or it does, but the separation between that world and ours is so vast and definite that it cannot be traversed. The second and only other reasonable view is that for these celestial encounters to have transpired, they would have had to have been anything but normal—fantastic affairs you would have to see to believe. The laws of physics ignored by the presence of the non-physical. We would not expect these heavenly visitors to be constrained by natural laws as we, the earthbound, know them. The third and only other remaining option, which is completely unreasonable, is that when earthbound creatures encountered heavenly beings it was no big deal—a regular collegial chat. This seems about as implausible as a man casually embracing a grizzly bear in the wild. Botticelli took the second view. This meeting between the angel and the woman was a strange, sacred matter. Botticelli used visual cues to convey the idea that while a heavenly being drew near to the earthbound Mary, there remained a separation between them. Mary is rendered as a solid figure while portions of the angel are translucent. Also, a series of red tiles on the floor and the window create a visual barrier between them, as outside the window a river runs off past the horizon line, separating them even further. Heaven drew near, but the two remained distinct. Perhaps Botticelli intended this separation to highlight the Biblical teaching that Mary conceived the Messiah without being touched. The woman and the angel regard each other as almost unsafe. The angel creeps toward the woman in a posture of submission as Mary, demure yet crowned with a halo, turns away from reading a book on a stand (presumably Scripture) to genuflect before her herald. The Annunciation was painted over five hundred years ago. Consider how Botticelli used his composition elements to not only show us the encounter, but also to tell us about it. This painting offers more dissonance than harmony, more distance than familiarity, and more mystery than certainty. The artist who painted this scene came to his easel with more questions than answers, and that is why it helps us. Botticelli was asking the same questions we still have five hundred years later, which are also the same questions people had been asking for fifteen hundred years before Botticelli picked up his brush. What was that encounter like—the angel Gabriel’s visit to tell Mary she would give birth to the Son of God? Botticelli’s answer is strangely satisfying to me: he doesn’t really know, but it happened. About the Art: Sandro Botticelli, The Annunciation, 1489, tempera on panel, 150 x 156 cm, Uffizi, Florence, Italy.

This may sound pathetic, but I just pulled this song up on Spotify this morning because I wanted to hear it again. It’s my favorite on this EP and my favorite song I’ve written in a while.Some of that, sure, is that it’s got two loud guitars and lots of feedback and Chris Weigel and Paul Eckberg just crushing it behind me. Below that, though, I think this is the deepest I’ve been able to dip the pen into my own bloodstream in a while. I know the Lord gives us wild passion for a reason and one of my hopes for redemption and eternity is a life where passion becomes not a burden to manage but a gift to explore. Andrew Osenga This song is about being a grown-up. Having a job and kids and a marriage and a reputation and a mortgage and dreams of an emergency fund and blah, blah… The good things that take 365% of your mental energy. I’m a passionate person and I’d gotten used to letting it out in my songs, in fresh air on the road, in spontaneity and young love. I’ve probably idolized those things, to be fair, but I still miss them. I love the life I live with my family, but there’s an itch that I can’t scratch these days to go climb a mountain or whisk my wife off to London on a moment’s notice. I know the Lord gives us wild passion for a reason and one of my hopes for redemption and eternity is a life where passion becomes not a burden to manage but a gift to explore. Beyond that, life as a grown-up means looking at the high expectations and hopes you had for your career, your marriage, your church, your parenting, your community, etc., and realizing that those big nouns are as fallible as you are yourself. There’s a disappointment in this knowledge that can be debilitating. I need to look at it, own it, and move through it. I shouldn’t try to hide from it, which is insanity and an endless search for entertainment, but I can’t let it kill me, either. I need to walk THROUGH it, hoping that the Lord will put ground under the next footstep, and ask Him to reorient the way I think. Ask him to take that disappointment and hurt and feel it with me and view it through a frame of contentment and gratitude. Wisdom and joy. This explanation is way longer than the lyrics of the song. The music of this song may honestly tell the story better than the lyrics, anyway. So just give it a listen. Loud. No. Louder. More. There you go. [Andrew Osenga’s Flesh EP is available in the Rabbit Room store for just $6.] #AndrewOsenga #IntheRound

Now that the new site has been up and running for a week, I thought I’d take a few minutes to address some questions that have come up. Let me start by taking a time-warp to 2007. Back in the days of yore there was a thriving message board (or forum) on the Andrew Peterson website. It was affectionately called “Andyland” by those who hung out there, and it was filled with a loyal bunch of Andrew’s fans who enjoyed a vibrant conversation via the website. When we launched the Rabbit Room, the decision was made to shut down that message board and direct those conversations to the Rabbit Room comments section, where we hoped to provide a more defined area for discussion via blog posts. There were a few folks who didn’t care for the change and moved their attentions elsewhere, but most folks rolled with it, and it wasn’t long before the conversation was a lot bigger than it had been before. Soon there were more than just Andrew Peterson fans involved. Jason Gray fans added their voices, and Andy Gullahorn fans, and Eric Peters fans, and Wendell Berry fans, and pretty soon that word, “fan,” began to drop away. What we had instead were folks who enjoyed the Rabbit Room itself and it’s general focus on art, music, and story—which was the point all along. That group of folks grew and ultimately called for Hutchmoot, they wanted to incarnate the Rabbit Room in flesh and blood, and in 2010 we made it happen. People came and met one another and formed real relationships (marriages even) that are still growing and maturing today. But somewhere along the way there was a bump in the road. It didn’t feel like a bump at the time, it felt like pure fun and excitement, but years later we’ve begun to realize that the bump knocked a wheel off the cart. Let me explain. On a whim, Thomas McKenzie created a private group on Facebook so we’d have a handy place to pass along information and Hutchmoot alums could easily find one another and stay in touch. No problem. That’s awesome. But here’s what happened over time: Initially, we didn’t pay attention to who we invited into the group. All were welcome. Folks got to know one another, people came out of their shells, community thrived, people shared and opened themselves up in personal ways, and tight bonds formed. Then people began to be concerned that a few folks in the group hadn’t been to Hutchmoot and therefore didn’t understand the tone, or intent, or the one-on-one connections that others had made in person. There was disruption and there were a few hurt feelings. We decided to stop admitting folks to the group unless they had attended Hutchmoot or had purchased a ticket. That seemed to solve the issue brought up in #3. Those who were in the group enjoyed one another’s company freely and all was well again. Right? That brings us to 2016. Over the last couple of years, we’ve watched as the vibrant discussions of the Rabbit Room have slowly moved away from the site itself, not just to Facebook, but largely to a private, members-only group on Facebook. What began as a way to include people and foster community, had become a means of excluding people and fostering an inner circle in which some were welcome and those on the outside were left oblivious or frustrated. For an organization whose mission is to foster community, the wheels were coming off the axles. Now that doesn’t mean the Facebook group was a bad thing. It wasn’t/isn’t. It’s a great thing, but it was having unintended consequences, those consequences were large enough to endanger the long-term health of the community it was created to serve. So we’re upgrading those wheels to fresh new radial tires and putting them back on the cart where they belong. Here’s how: The Hutchmoot group on Facebook will remain. It’s there for the alumni of Hutchmoot and the Rabbit Room Retreat. It’s intended to be a place to stay in touch and pass along information related to those events. Content that strays far from that purpose will be gently redirected. We’ve added a private Hutchmoot/Retreat Alumni forum here on the Rabbit Room website. Anyone who has been to one of those events can request (and will be granted) access. This will be adhered to militantly so that we can know the folks engaged in conversation within the forum will all have a solid understanding of the in-person and inter-personal nature of Hutchmoot and the retreat. But—no longer should general conversation take place in this closed circle. Topics that ought to be available to the wider community, ought to take place in the common area of the forums. The Rabbit Room Forums are available to everyone. This means that those discussions of art and music and story that were once available only to a few, can now be enjoyed and engaged by everyone in the Rabbit Room community. We aren’t interested in creating cliques—we’re interested in creating community. But wait, some may say, I don’t know what a forum is. It looks complicated. I don’t think I can do that. Let me point out first that it’s significantly simpler than the interface pictured below. Sure, we all know how to use Facebook today, but that’s because we’ve forgotten our first baffling interactions with its complex set of functions, divisions, and conversations. The Rabbit Room isn’t trying to replace Facebook, of course, but we want to provide a healthy place for a more focused set of conversations. Having said that, yes, there are still bugs to work out, features to implement, and tweaks to make in order to better realize what’s already there. Like anything new, it’s going to grow and change and evolve. Does it look to some like an overload of information? Almost certainly. But, as Rebecca Reynolds points out here, there’s no need to take it all in, any more than you have to participate in every single conversation when you go to a social gathering at a friends house. This is a room. And it shouldn’t be a locked room. You’re invited to come inside. As conversations begin to take place and draw more voices, the forums are the best way to help people find the topics (and other voices) that suit them best. We’ve always been committed to maintaining a place for measured and gracious conversation, and that won’t change. The forum moderators are there to pay attention to what’s going on and to ensure that things remain safe and civil—just as has always been the case. To those who were part of the “inner circle” and are feeling a little like someone has just kicked in the door, consider this: The Rabbit Room is made up of thousands of people from all over the world, and all of those folks have something beautiful to add to the community. It’s time we set them a place at the table. To everyone, come in and be welcome. There’s room for you here.

An artist can be identified in part by the materials with which he or she chooses to work. Eric Peters’ work has revolved around a fascination for found objects for quite some time, revealing much about the heart and mind, the passion and the perspective of the artist himself. Eric’s affection for found objects is clearly seen in his artwork. They’re beautifully displayed in his mixed-media creations and compositions, random parts and spare thingamajigs positioned lovingly and carefully within a certain section of the color wheel that reveal a surprising and moving storyboard. Bits from a backyard, remnants in a forgotten jacket pocket, debris at the bottom of an old toolbox—where the object originates is inconsequential; its crowning within a new creation is all that matters now. I'm not enough. I'm never enough. Nothing I do ever adds up to much. My fields are little more than permanent dust. Eric Peters, ''Field of Failure'' Themes of lost and found, of self-worth, of identity are common fodder for Eric’s music as well. Brilliant albums like Scarce, Chrome and, most recently, Birds of Relocation all hold songs that wrestle with these ideas, and his latest album, Far Side of the Sea, is no different. While the musical canvas has shifted more than ever before—from the familiar acoustic structures of albums past to a new synth-pop soundscape with producer Gabe Scott at the helm—Eric’s lyrical focus remains firmly rooted in vulnerable soil. Listening to Eric’s catalog, and especially Far Side of the Sea, reveals his thesis: we are all found objects. We all come with such origin stories, picked up by a Creator from among the poor, the broken, the displaced. “I’m not enough. I’m never enough. Nothing I do ever adds up to much. My fields are little more than permanent dust,” Eric confesses on “Field of Failure.” Fortunately the lyrical focus never stays in these impermanent stages. Rather, the music directs us toward the crowning, toward our ultimate place within God’s new creation. What makes Eric’s music even more meaningful is that it acknowledges the movement between where an object (or person) is found and what it (or he/she) ultimately becomes. “Farthest Shore” documents “the change coming over” the artist. “I can feel the change,” he sings. “Is this redemption for a dead, dry sea?” he asks. The exhibit is always singer-in-process, complete with the fear and insecurity, the hope and longing that comes with such a journey. It’s a revelation of wounds, but not an exaltation of them. There is healing ahead, after all. Much of Far Side of the Sea‘s second half contains wisdom gained between the end points of life. “Am I willing to be a nobody?” is the question asked on “Nobody,” and it’s a penetrating one for both artist and listener. The answer is not (and should not be) a simple “yes” without some real consideration of what it means. Looking at “the darkness in his chest” and “the sun that never sets,” Eric admits his tendency to “run away and hide” on “Worst Parts.” Accepting grace means abandoning shame, a much harder move than we might anticipate. Eric Peters’ art and music serve as a wonderful example of why this choice to decrease is a worthy one. A greater identity and purpose await all of us, just on the other side of our own efforts to strive and be something on our own. Even our greatest efforts to prove something in our own strength yield only fields of failure in the end. But if we’re willing to let down our guard, to truly become a nobody, we will find ourselves as participants and co-creators on the Far Side of the Sea. [Join us on June 7th @ The Well Coffeehouse in Nashville for Eric Peters’ Far Side of the Sea release concert. Tickets available here.] #EricPeters #FarSideoftheSea

Tuesday, June 7th @ 730pm in Nashville, The Local Show is proud to present the release concert celebration of Eric Peters’ Far Side of the Sea. Joining Eric onstage will be Andrew Peterson, Gabe Scott, Asher Peterson, and maybe a few other surprises. Expect an evening of great songs (from both Eric and his guests) and good company. Far Side of the Sea is available for pre-order in the Rabbit Room Store, and will be released on June 14th. Tickets for the release show are available here.

We love our literature here at The Rabbit Room. Our web store is full of achingly beautiful fiction like Shiloh and The Fiddler’s Gun; rich young adult fantasies like The Wingfeather Saga and The Rise and Fall of Mount Majestic, thoughtful explorations of faith and theology like The Anglican Way and Behold the Lamb of God, moving memoirs like The Last Sweet Mile and Everlasting is the Past, and much, much more. And newly available in the Rabbit Room store is Slow Church: Cultivating Community in the Patient Way of Jesus – “In Slow Church, Chris Smith and John Pattison invite us to leave franchise faith behind and enter into the ecology, economy and ethics of the kingdom of God, where people know each other well and love one another as Christ loved the church.” (More on an upcoming reading group for this book in the next few days.) But let’s dig even deeper. There are thousands of books out there, waiting to be opened. How do I weed through them to find my next summer reading? Well, I figured the community of Rabbit Room contributors was a good place to start. I asked them a single question (one that I stole from Anne Bogel’s book recommendation podcast): What are three books that you love? We’ve focused solely on prose (leaving poetry and comics ripe for later discussion), and we’ve tried to stay away from Rabbit Room standbys and ubiquitous classics. The result is a lineup of books that may not be on your radar—and our hope is to encourage you to pick them up and explore something new! And by the way—this isn’t a closed discussion. We want your voice too! So once you’ve read through the recommendations below, you can share your own top three in the comments section, or share freely at the Summer reading discussion in the forums. We’re dying to hear your favorites! Historical Fiction Blood Meridian by Cormac McCarthy: The jacket calls it “an epic novel of violence and depravity that attended America’s westward expansion.” Not appropriate for all readers, but one of my favorite novels.  —Thomas McKenzie The Bull From the Sea by Renault: A great work of fiction set in Ancient Greece. —Eric Peters Lonesome Dove by Larry McMurtry: This is the best book in the world. Everyone should read it. I’m writing in Gus McRae for president. —Pete Peterson Lust For Life by Irving Stone: A superb fictional biography of Vincent Van Gogh. —Eric Peters I Capture the Castle by Dodie Smith: This 1948 gem by Dodie Smith (yes, that Dodie Smith, author of The Hundred and One Dalmatians!) is an enchanting summertime read. A father with writer’s block who takes a 40-year lease on a crumbling castle in the English countryside, an older daughter who wants to live in a Jane Austen novel, a pair of wealthy young Americans who inherit the estate next door, and a younger sister who ‘captures’ everything in her journal all adds up to a witty-but-tender coming of age story. Some of the most lyrical prose I’ve encountered. (Don’t cheat yourself with the subpar 2003 movie version.)  —Lanier Ivester Christ the Lord: Out of Egypt by Anne Rice: I know some people might consider this book edgy, but I find it beautiful, respectful, and an insightful imaginative exploration into the mind of the young Jesus. —Chris Yokel Godric by Frederick Buchner: One of the most beautifully-written novels my eyes and heart have ever touched. So very insightful. If for no other reason, it’s worth the read for Elric’s demon-blasting antics. —Dave Bruno In This House of Brede by Rumor Godden: A successful London businesswoman walks away from everything she’s ever known to take orders in a Benedictine monastery. This is a cloistered epic, spanning several years of the very human lives of nuns and the forces that affect them (including Vatican II). Truly a book to quiet the soul, and based upon the author’s three years of research living near Stanbrook Abbey in Worcestershire (a stint which eventually led her to convert to Catholicism). —Lanier Ivester Lila by Marilynne Robinson: Robinson is a ridiculously good writer, and this is a beautiful book. What happens when the economy of grace meets the hard-bitten economy of take what you can get? —David Mitchel My Name is Asher Lev by Chaim Potok: A look at the artist’s life. —Eric Peters A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens: Full of great characters and great scenes, and has one of the most moving endings ever. –Pete Peterson The Wednesday Wars by Gary Schmidt: Seventh grade is a rough year for anyone, but for Holling Hoodhood, 1960’s turmoil and Wednesday afternoon Shakespeare lessons make it nearly unbearable… at first. There’s a lot of humor and a whole lot of heart in this middle-school page-turner. —Jonny Jimison Fantasy / Sci-Fi The Blue Castle by L.M. Montgomery: People are always asking me which is my favorite of L.M. Montgomery’s books, and it’s a question I honestly can’t answer—it would be like choosing between my best friends. But supposedly The Blue Castle was Montgomery’s own favorite, and, knowing her as I do, I can see why. So much more than a “girl finds out she’s dying so she makes up her mind to actually live” story; so much more than a “grownup fairytale”—but it’s both of those things. And it’s absolutely beautiful. —Lanier Ivester The Book of the Sandman and the Alphabet of Sleep, Rien Poortvliet and Will Huygen: You may know Poortvliet from his gnome books, but this is by far my favorite work of his. This is a heavily illustrated book for adults and children, which begins as a mock-telling by men who traveled to an Italian mountain side to document a rare bird. Their journey leads them to a remote village where a loose plank of wood inside a cabin loft leads to the discovery of the Alphabet of Sleep and the Book of the Sandman. I can’t recommend this book enough. —Joe Sutphin The Graveyard Book by Neil Gaiman: A great, all-around story brimming with originality and creativity. Gaiman’s imagination is ridiculous and it spurs me on to be more unconventionally creative. —Jamin Still The Great Divorce by C. S. Lewis: This book is about a bus excursion by the inhabitants of Hell (a grey, dingy town that goes on for endless miles) to the outskirts of Heaven, and how the Bright Spirits from Deep Heaven come down to try to convince these souls to come into Heaven. “But there is always something they insist on keeping, even at the price of misery.” —Ron Block Lilith by George MacDonald: This is a profound, dreamlike little fantasy book, packed full of themes of redemption that make me think, imagine, and reimagine. I’ve read it many times and periodically return to it because it’s such a deep well. —Ron Block The Fablehaven Series by Brandon Mull: An absolutely engrossing story of a brother and sister who discover that their grandparents’ farm is actually one of only a handful of sanctuaries around the world for fabled creatures, good, bad and otherwise. Packed full of adventure, mystery, magic, , twists, scares, thrills, and an exhaustive list of fabled beings, my son and I could not put it down until we had finished all 5 books. Easily one of my favorite fantasy series ever. —Joe Sutphin The Last Unicorn by Peter S. Beagle: As the world seems to have moved on from believing in fairy tales, the last lonely unicorn sets out to discover what happened to the rest of her kind, and receives help from a bumbling magician, a feisty maiden, and a lazy prince along the way. This story captivated me as a kid, and it still holds up when I need a little lyrical prose, some memorable characters, and a reminder that maybe there’s still a little magic in this old modern world. —Jen Yokel Neverwhere by Neil Gaiman: Richard Mayhew, a bored young businessman, appears to be the only one who can see an injured girl named Door in the street. When he steps out of his ordinary life to help her, she leads him into adventure in the terrifying world of London Below… yes, a parallel world under the streets of London. Just creepy enough to play along the fringes of horror (because Neil Gaiman), but overall a fun fantasy adventure that broke me out of a fiction reading slump last year. —Jen Yokel The Princess Bride by William Goldman: Seriously, the book is probably even funnier than the famous film. The whole premise — that the author is editing an obscure fairy tale down to “the good parts” — is ridiculous and awesome. —Jen Yokel The Road by Cormac McCarthy: This book is a master class in sparse writing. Nameless characters, a scorched earth, and the dread of encountering others create a deeply personal, terrifying and strangely hope-filled apocalyptic story. Imagine The Walking Dead without zombies. —Russ Ramsey The Song of Albion trilogy by Stephen Lawhead: Narnia for adults with a strong Celtic sensibility. —Chris Yokel Winter’s Tale by Mark Helprin: This book defies description. There are swords, flying horses, ice ships, New York City, a cloud wall (whatever that is), a priest named Mootfowl, a plot to build a bridge to Heaven, an apocalyptic hellscape, and many more strange things that I dare not spoil. Absolutely baffling and brilliant. —Pete Peterson Faith and Theology Abba’s Child by Brennan Manning: No one preaches the Gospel better than Brennan, and this was his best book. —Thomas McKenzie After You Believe by N. T. Wright: It lives in the long shadow of its predecessor Surprised by Hope, but this book is at least as important, showing how the death and resurrection of Jesus, and the promise of New Creation, leads to the formation of both common virtues (prudence, temperance, courage, justice) and distinctively Christian virtues (humility, mercy, charity, chastity). It also contains some of Wright’s best writing. —David Mitchel For the Life of the World by Alexander Schmemann: The best description of the Sacramental life of the Church I’ve ever read. A faith-deepening, and faith-expanding, experience.  —Thomas McKenzie Playing God by Andy Crouch: In this book, Crouch attempts to “redeem the gift of power.” He does an amazing job. This would be a good book to read or reread for Christians, as we approach November and the power of American politics. —David Bruno The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis: Lewis gives an enlightening and humorous look at the inner workings of the human heart and the subtleties of the Tempter.  An elder demon, Screwtape, writes letters to a younger, more inexperienced tempter. Screwtape’s growing frustration is amusing and his thoughts on temptation are enlightening. —Ron Block Telling the Truth by Frederick Buchner: A refreshing, beautifully written look at the gospel. —Jamin Still History The Boy Who Would Be Shakespeare by Doug Stewart: The astonishing true story of a young man who forged several original Shakespeare manuscripts. He finds himself in over his head when, against all odds, the hoax not only fools people but goes viral. Hilarious, tense and tragic, all at the same time. —Jonny Jimison Hunting Eichmann by Neal Bascomb: Israeli agents hunt down a surviving Nazi in Argentina in the 60s. All the suspense, drama and gadgets of a spy thriller – but this actually happened! I couldn’t put it down. —Jonny Jimison A Magnificent Catastrophe by Edward J. Larson: One of the great historians of our time (Larson’s book on the Scopes Trial, Summer for the Gods, won the Pulitzer) writes about the fascinating dramatis personae — Adams, Jefferson, Hamilton, Burr — heated rhetoric and thick intrigue of the first truly contested presidential election in American history: 1800. —David Mitchel Essays and Memoirs Bill Peet: An Autobiography by Bill Peet: A gorgeously illustrated book on Peet’s childhood, young life and frustrating career working under Walt Disney. A fascinating and insightful read that holds up to many, many rereads. —Joe Sutphin The Areas of my Expertise by John Hodgman: Never have I laughed so hard than when reading this fictional almanac. Probably not for everybody, but it should be. —Jamin Still A Grief Observed by C.S. Lewis: One of the greatest intellects of our generation writing from the gut about his own real-time sorrow. Raw, full of unanswered questions, and from the heart. He originally wrote A Grief Observed under the pseudonym “N.W. Clerk”, and the story goes that when some of Lewis’s friends read the book, it made them think of him, so they bought it for him hoping it would provide some comfort. (Sounds borderline implausible, but what if it’s true?) —Russ Ramsey The Real World of Technology by Ursula Franklin: Franklin is a German Quaker, relocated to Canada, where she established herself as an experimental physicist and alchemist at the University of Toronto. This is a collection of essays from her Massey lectures. She explains why we feel uncomfortable with technology but also why we like technology. Read this book and the lights go on. —Dave Bruno Teaching a Stone to Talk by Annie Dillard: A collection of stand alone essays, which contains what my be my favorite bit of writing in the world—her essay called “An Expedition to the Pole.” This book reads like a collection of really good, but a little quirky B-sides from her more well known books. But man, is she a skilled writer. —Russ Ramsey Through Painted Deserts by Donald Miller: Kind of a Christian “On The Road”. I’ve never been on a cross-country road trip, but I’d like to imagine it would be like this. —Chris Yokel Now it’s your turn: What are three books that you love?

Van Gogh considered The Starry Night to be a failure. The stars were too big. Vincent van Gogh (1853-1890) painted The Starry Night from an asylum in Saint-Rémy, during the daytime, from memory, one year before he took his own life. The painting came from what made Vincent so compelling– a mind ablaze with color, motion, and wonder. The Starry Night belonged to a series of canvases he painted while in the asylum. In a letter to his brother Theo, he wrote of the series, “All in all the only things I consider a little good in it are the Wheatfield, the Mountain, the Orchard, the Olive trees with the blue hills, and the Portrait, and the Entrance to the quarry, and the rest says nothing to me.”[1] When bundling the series together to send them to Theo, he left three canvases out to save on shipping costs. Among those three was The Starry Night. One reason the painting did not sit well with Vincent was because in it he intentionally experimented with a type of abstraction that was becoming increasingly popular in the art world. In other words, he was experimenting with what he hoped would be a more marketable technique. This felt duplicitous to Vincent even as he painted it. In a letter to painter Émile Bernard, he wrote, “I once or twice allowed myself to be led astray into abstraction, as you know… But that was delusion, dear friend, and one soon comes up against a brick wall… And yet, once again I allowed myself to be led astray into reaching for stars that are too big—another failure—and I have had my fill of that.”[2] Vincent was captured by the sky. He painted it often, and spoke of it as being a way he communed with God and found some measure of peace for his tormented mind. Russ Ramsey When Vincent looked at The Starry Night, he felt he had sold himself out by pandering to a commercial trend. The stars were too big. This distance he felt from The Starry Night is ironic, since this is the painting most people associate with him when they hear his name. Sure I know Vincent van Gogh. He painted The Starry Night. Another bit of irony here is that, though he did not personally sell this painting during his lifetime, his attempt to create something marketable turned out to be extremely successful. Show me a college dorm and I will show you at least a dozen prints of The Starry Night. Vincent’s distance from this painting is such a common story among artists. How many songwriters, poets, painters, writers, and film-makers have in their catalogues work they either regret making or feel conflicted about? Perhaps it is a work that portrays a worldview or conviction the artist has since modified or abandoned. Or maybe they made something for commercial reasons, but never felt like it was a true representation of who they are. Or perhaps they created something with or about another person, and that relationship has since been severed or strained. Take it beyond the fine arts into the common creative ventures of life— ideas about parenting, what a healthy marriage looks like, how a person measures success, what we believe deserves the best of our time and effort. We have all gone down the wrong roads at times, chasing what we thought was best in the moment. We all have statements, wardrobe choices, opinions, relational pursuits, ways of interacting, and life choices we’ve made in our pasts from which we’d love to distance ourselves. And we’d be fools to think we’re not in the process of doing these things right now. We all have places in our lives where we’ve made the stars too big. And yet, Vincent was captured by the sky. He painted it often, and spoke of it as being a way he communed with God and found some measure of peace for his tormented mind. Vincent was a deeply wounded man and in another letter to Theo he confessed his “tremendous need for, shall I say the word—for religion—so I go outside at night to paint the stars.”[3] Vincent went on to say, “It would be so simple and would account so much for the terrible things in life, which now amaze and wound us so, if life had yet another hemisphere, invisible it is true, but where one lands when one dies.”[4] Here lies another case of duplicity in Vincent’s heart. It seems he wanted the stars he painted to be smaller and his life’s work to be more realistic, but he also hoped that the sky he studied would go on and on into a vast and eternal splendor made for him. May we all be so duplicitous. About the Art: Vincent van Gogh, The Starry Night, 1889, Oil on canvas, 73.7 cm × 92.1 cm, Museum of Modern Art, New York City. [1] Van Gogh Letters Project, no. 805 [2] de Leeuw, Ronald (ed.) (1996). The Letters of Vincent van Gogh. London: Penguin Books. p. 469. ISBN 978-0-140-44674-6. [3] Van Gogh Letters Project, no. 691 [4] Naifeh & Smith 2011, p. 858n

I carry through life many images and impressions from my annual childhood treks to Ponca City, Oklahoma. I remember the Marland Mansion & Estate, the regionally famous Pioneer Woman statue, my grandparents’ color TV (my family only had a small black and white set) and the striking downtown Ponca City streets, paved with red bricks fitted closely together that seemed to my eyes as fantastic as any yellow brick road. My father’s parents lived there in Ponca City. So did my mother’s grandfather. We never overnighted with great-grandpa Mowder, but would always faithfully stop by for an afternoon visit. I remember being young enough to not even understand his relationship to me. He was a quiet-spoken man, this Harry Mowder, quiet, but with a gentle confidence and strength. He had already lived a full life by the time I became conscious of who he was. He had loved two women well and lost both along the way. He had raised several children and grieved the slow loss of one of them to an isolating mental illness. He had lost a finger down to the first knuckle, pinched in a railroad coupling accident. My cognizance of his history was always fragmentary at best. My great-grandpa Mowder had spent his life in that region, laboring as a craftsman, a builder. He had swapped trades several times in his life, as the shifting economics of the depression era and the decades following had required. He built many houses that still stand in Ponca City, including one that has remained in the family to this day. But those roads. Those red brick roads that so fascinated me as a boy. I eventually learned that Grandpa Mowder had built them as well, laying them brick by brick, leveling them so that seventy years later cars would still be driving over them, and scores of pedestrians would still be crossing them daily. My work is no longer simply about vocation. It’s about joyful service. It’s about faithfulness. It’s about laboring as a means of serving the communities I’m presently a part of, but it’s also about loving the generations and communities yet to come. Douglas McKelvey Those roads were the long work of a craftsman, of a man who built things with a vision that they should last. A vision that they should last, and that, utilitarian as they were, they would also be beautiful, symmetrical, pleasing to the eyes that would scan along their lines toward the various horizons. How much theology is packed into the brickworks of a road so paved? I remember once during a visit when my sister and I accidentally broke a slat in the old wooden swing in great-grandpa Mowder’s back yard. He didn’t get angry. He didn’t say anything at all. He just silently shuffled out to his shed, white-haired and hunchbacked as he was by then, found a suitable piece of planking, and immediately repaired the thing. Harry Mowder did not waste words, and he did not waste time, and he did not allow the things in his care to slip into disrepair. If it was worth repairing in the future, it was worth repairing in the present. I wonder if that philosophy translated into his relationships as well. I would like to think that it did. Perhaps I should make a note to ask my mother about that. A year and a half ago I wrote a short cycle of poems for volume III of The Molehill. They were character sketches inspired by the wonderfully-rooted poems of the late Wilmer Mills (who I had the privilege of briefly knowing when we were both young twenty-somethings trying to figure out how to fit words together like bricks to build beautiful and useful things that might last). The poems of my short cycle were centered on the historical phenomenon of “drowned towns,” those dozens of little communities that were intentionally flooded by the TVA decades ago, the inhabitants forced to leave their homes and lands and farms and relocate to higher ground. One of the first poems I wrote for that cycle I called The Song of the Gin Drunkard. As I wrote, and the narrator’s voice began to emerge, I realized he was giving voice to my own decades-long ruminations on those brick-paved downtown Ponca City streets I’d encountered as a child. Here’s the poem: The Song of the Gin-Drunkard What I have lost is not money. The new house is better than an even trade and I will abandon it anyway come Spring. I tried to remind them at the last town hall meeting how it was my grandfather laid the red bricks in the courthouse square. Paving those streets with a care that is nowadays hard to come by. You could trace your fingers over those old seams for five days straight and not find space so much as to wedge a fingernail. Can you not—based on that lone mathematical fact—work back wards to the kind of folk my people used to be? Clumped here like thirsty birchwood trees, loam-fed beside a trickling stream, their spacing thinned by Winters? What now, would all such hardships mean? If you find even ten righteous men, will you still destroy this town? I spat against the ground; some spinster hissed. Men seized me by the wrists and set me out. It’s true I was clouded by gin but it was not my own offense I gave vent to. It was the cries of better men whose works we stood to shed like locust skins. Perhaps I should have crawled back in to tell them then how his theology was best expressed in the symmetry of his trade. How he made things slowly and to last knowing the care to align each brick would be multiplied by ten thousand footfalls it must bear up under, and give no cause for stumbling. ©2014 Douglas Kaine McKelvey Personally, I have just entered the ranks of the quinquagenarians. I’m old enough now to realize that my remaining time is limited. I likely have two, three, maybe even four decades ahead of me. Or maybe I only have one. Or half of one. Or just a year. Or a couple of months. I no longer feel immortal as I did in the sunnier climes of my youth. Though skies are still sunny enough to see by. How shall we spend it, this last light of our day? That’s the lingering question the father asks his young daughter near the beginning of The Wishes of the Fish King, a picture book I penned 18 years ago that I’m presently collaborating on with painter Jamin Still to finally bring to print. When the father asks that, he’s thinking of the next hour of their shared lives. But as the author putting the words in the character’s mouth, I was thinking of the next few decades of their short, shared lives together. Though this quasi-autobiographical papa might or might not be aware of the “prophetic” ripples of the words as he speaks them, his words are a sort of blessing, framing the shape of his daughter’s life. It’s the question each of us must always be answering, and it’s the cultivation of a mindfulness to long tend the outworkings of the answering of that question that forms the shape of meaningful lives. By my reckoning anyway. “Teach me to number my days aright,” the psalmist says, “that I may gain a heart of wisdom.” If we begin with the knowledge that our days and our hours are a precious, nonrenewable resource, then that perspective has the power to shape how we will choose to spend this hour. And, as Annie Dillard so wonderfully states, “How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives.” When my first daughter was born I painted a little picture and wrote four lines of verse to serve as a printed birth announcement. I titled the painting The Short Year. The Short Year, because at her birth I was already aware that life, for all of us, is a very small span. She might live a hundred years, but even that would be so brief, over so quickly. Such a small amount of time in which to live out a story, such a short, fleeting little blip of a span. And yet, a short span that can be set like a diamond in the ring of eternity. Because this—this short year—this is where we learn to shine. So much hinges on how we answer: How shall we spend it, this last light of our day? In the last year—which was, mind you, a terribly difficult one for my whole family—a number of things came into focus. One of them was that I started to see my endgame more clearly. From the crucible of recent months, the rudimentary elements of a personal mission statement have begun to coalesce. I can’t explain concisely the relationship between these two things, the hard season and the focused vision, but the two are nonetheless directly related. It would take a separate essay to explore that topic. A big part of my personal endgame can be summed up as such: In whatever time I have left, I want to create as many things as I can that will outlast me. I want to take what I’ve learned and observed and experienced and come to believe, and work those things into artifacts and expressions of truth and goodness and beauty that can serve as signposts for pilgrims not just journeying now, but also for those who will be journeying long after I’m gone. On the one hand, this is simply a question of faithful stewardship, to utilize gift and ply craft. The outcome, after all, is never going to be in my hands. The bigger shift is in my perspective. My work is no longer simply about vocation. It’s about joyful service. It’s about faithfulness. It’s about laboring as a means of serving the communities I’m presently a part of, but it’s also about loving the generations and communities yet to come. I want, in whatever ways I can, to serve as an interpreter for the ache that we all carry. The stirring ache that is opened by beauty. That luminous longing. I want to leave stories behind me like a trail of bread crumbs, stories that will tell the person born eighty-five years from now that they are not alone, and that that great and beautiful ache is pointing somewhere. So this has become my vocational passion: To create stories that might serve others now, but that are also built to last. Built to last a hundred years or more. I am no longer just writing for me or even for us. I am also writing for them, those pilgrims yet to come. I am paving word-brick streets in the hopes that they will somehow bear up under the pilgrim passages of generations. And such a cultivation of a hundred year vision changes how one goes about everything. In a throwaway culture built on speed and change and technological advance and fluctuation and endless possibility and redefinition, do we make choices based on popularity and profit margin or do we make choices based on what would be most loving for the reader a hundred years from now? Is it an act of foolish pomposity to even believe one could create something that would still be relevant to future generations? A story that would be meaningful to its creator, and just as meaningful to its hearer a hundred years from now? Is it arrogance? Or is it rather an act of simple stewardship that implicitly bears small and defiant witness against the principalities and powers of the day? I think we find the answer in the great legacies of story and thought and beauty that have been bequeathed to us by those who came before. Chesterton, Lewis, MacDonald, Sayers, Augustine, and hundreds of other writers, artists, and troubadours. Where would we be if those generations hadn’t cared enough to create artifacts that speed our journeys, naming for us as they do those things that on our own we might have taken a lifetime to articulate and embrace? Perhaps our own offerings will stand similar tests of time, perhaps not. But we can create them as if they might. So here is our call, or at least one of the great outworkings of our call: It is to build with love, things that might last. Let us make and leave gifts, little treasures, and wonder-bundles to be discovered by those who come after us. Let us build with care and beauty and craftsmanship. Let us build for the generations not yet born. For the cultures not yet formed. For the healing of wounds that have not yet been inflicted. For the antidote to the despair that has not yet been felt. Let us make signposts to point the way for those pilgrims who have yet to begin their pilgrimages. I believe it is time that the church more consciously cultivate again a theology that recognizes our connectedness to the Body of Christ not just around the world, but also across the span of history—both those who came before us, and those who will come after us. Nothing we do is just for us, just for now, just for our place and time in history. Through the legacy of our lives and choices, of the ways we love faithfully, and through the artifacts that we leave behind us along the way, things that embody our theologies of goodness and truth and beauty, we will perhaps still be speaking in love a hundred years hence. Or three hundred. Or five hundred. Or a thousand. Or two thousand. How can we know? So let us build. And build well. And let us build in the same spirit as those cathedral architects who spent lifetimes advancing the work of buildings they knew they couldn’t possibly see the completion of in their own short span of days. Let us serve in the same humble spirit of my great-grandfather who laid those red-brick streets to last. Let us faithfully and joyfully go about our various crafts, creations, vocations, and acts of service with a long-range vision to love and bless our neighbors, but also to bless those generations who will follow us, knowing that it is sometimes God’s good pleasure to take our small, imperfect offerings and multiply them into great feasts. How shall we spend it, this last light of our day? That’s the question. The way we live out our lives is the answer. The Kickstarter campaign for Douglas McKelvey’s The Wishes of the Fish King book project (a collaboration with painter Jamin Still) ends at 9pm this Thursday, June 2nd. If you haven’t visited the project yet, please take a look at: https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/dougmckelvey/the-wishes-of-the-fish-king

The old website was getting dusty and long in the tooth, so the time has come to retire it. Welcome to the fresh new face of the Rabbit Room. I can already hear a few of you groaning about young kids and their new-fangled toys. It’s okay. I know it looks different. And it’s got sans serif fonts (the horror!). But we’re sure it’ll be as familiar as an old friend in no time. Here’s a look at some of what’s new (fangled): More access to more content: Looking through the archives on the old site was frustrating. We’ve fixed that. You can now browse categories to your heart’s content. Find them at the top of the page under the title. You can also click “Archives” where you can further sort articles by author, topic, and date. More visibility for recent posts: You can scroll through the last 12 posts with the click of a finger. Just click the arrows to the right or left of the “Most Recent” section. Rabbit Room Radio is back: You asked for it. Click the radio button in the navigation bar to open the player. Don’t forget to support the artists you hear by shopping in the Rabbit Room Store. The “About” page: It’s not only a whole lot prettier, it’s a whole lot more informative. Forums: In a lot of ways, the Rabbit Room community sprang from the age-old forums on Andrew Peterson’s website (folks used to call it Andyland). For those of you who have missed that experience, welcome back. In the forums you’ll find places to discuss music, art, story, and whatever else for as long as you like. Video content: Rabbit Room contributors have produced a wealth of video content over the past nine years, and now we’ve finally made it readily accessible. If you’re looking for that treasure trove of One Minute Reviews, look no further. Coming Events: Yep. They’re back, and better than ever. User Profiles: You can now create your own Rabbit Room user profile. Once you’ve done so, you can send friend requests and private messages, you’ll receive notifications when people mention you by name, you can upload your own profile pic, you’ll get your own Facebook-like activity feed, and you can even create private groups to hold discussions like book groups or prayer groups. Don’t be shy. We built it for you. Mobile Support: The site is now MUCH more user-friendly on your phone and tablet. Don’t forget you can still use the app if you prefer (iOS only). That should be enough to get you started. There are bound to be a few bugs still lingering. If you find one, feel free to let us know in the Bug Report forum of the Community Round Table (click “Forums” at the top of this page). Thanks to Brannon McAllister and Andrew Joyce for putting in so many long hours in getting the new site ready. They did an awesome job. Now, if you haven’t already done so, go read Doug McKelvey’s new post on his 100-year vision. He perfectly captures the spirit of why we do the things we do, and this site (though I know it won’t be around for 100 years) is one small way in which we act out that belief. The Rabbit Room was founded on the idea that community nourishes art, and art nourishes community. This website is a way of developing that community, and we look forward to the art, growth, and relationships that come of it. So come on in. The company is good and the (virtual) fire is warm. We’re glad you’re here.

I’m now at that stage in life when–as a father of 3 beautiful, sparkly, creative daughters each at or near college age—I have been increasingly called upon to offer “context” for the benefit of certain young men who frequent the premises. Because I think best when I write and often fail miserably to communicate when I simply “speak from the heart,” I eventually got around to expressing such thoughts in letter form. I offer it here In hopes that it might help others in a similar position to better articulate such things. To a Young Man Interested in My Daughter, You think my daughter is special. That’s good. It means you’re observant. Her mom and I think she’s special too. At this point, though, none of us can know how your relationship will develop. You might date for a while and get to know each other better and then at some point drift apart for any of a hundred reasons. Or, you might find that the more you get to know each other with all of your individual virtues and talents and quirks and habits and woundedness and dreams—that through the fun and the difficulty and the elation and the hurt of really knowing and caring for this other person, that you are more and more drawn to one another and that the joys and challenges of your friendship and your relationship only make you stronger together. If that’s the case then over time you might become best friends and one day get married and build a life and raise a family together. But as I said, none of us knows at this point, so I’m not concerned about what your long-term relationship plans are. It’s okay not to have any yet. Right now, for me, it’s enough to acknowledge that you’re interested in my daughter and you want to spend time with her and get to know her better. I’m fine with that. I trust her enough to believe that if, out of all the guys she’s around, you’re the one she noticed and wanted to get to know better, then there’s probably pretty good reason. It tells me that there are already things about your character and your mind and your personality and the way you’ve treated her that she has observed and judged to be good and honorable and worth finding out more about. That’s good enough for me. Because I place a high level of trust in my daughter’s judgments, you get a pass. You’re already in the club because she put your name on the guest list. So enjoy getting to know her, but here are the two things I want you to remember as you do: Your relationship, whatever form it takes, exists in the context of a complex web of intergenerational relationships that began long before either of your were ever born, and will continue long after both of you are gone. Douglas McKelvey First, remember that your relationship will never just be about the two of you. Your relationship, whatever form it takes, exists in the context of a complex web of intergenerational relationships that began long before either of your were ever born, and will continue long after both of you are gone. Bear in mind that there are parents and grandparents and great grandparents and sisters and aunts and uncles and cousins and friends who have loved her, invested years and emotions and sacrifice in caring for and nurturing her, who have invested prayers and sometimes tears—as all parents do at times—on her behalf, who played and laughed and dreamed with her and who have delighted in her. And who still do. If your relationship with my daughter grows to the point that you one day marry, then that marriage relationship will become at that point the most central and important human relationship for both of you, but even then, it will never exist completely outside of the context of these other relationships. And of course, the same is true of you and your relationships with your family and friends. Why is this important to remember? Because the way you pursue your relationship with my daughter, whatever the outcome, doesn’t happen in a vacuum. It effects and impacts the lives and emotions of her family and friends, for better or for worse. We want her to flourish. We want what is best for her. If she marries in two years or five years or ten years, we want her to be with a guy who will love her and nurture her and care for her and who will learn to delight in her in the uniqueness of the singular beauty of who she is. The bottom line is, if she were to end up emotionally tied to (or hurt by) a guy who ended up being a jerk to her, it wouldn’t just break her heart and make life miserable for her, it would break the hearts of her sisters and her parents and her grandparents and her friends as well. One person can make selfish choices that cause burdens a lot of other people have to carry, sometimes for their whole lives. I say this, not because you’ve given me any reason to be concerned or suspicious. I have no red flags or qualms whatsoever about you and my daughter dating. I say it because if you build your relationship on the knowledge that everyone who loves you, and everyone who loves her, are invested in the choices you make, it gives you a good foundation for building well, for building something that can last, and for building something that doesn’t only serve two people, but that can be a blessing to generations before and after. That’s what I want you to remember most. That even in the early stages of getting to know one another, you are building something. Build well. Build such that even if all you end up creating together is a small garden where friendship can grow, that it will be a beautiful little place that makes others smile when they pass by. But if you find that what it turns out you were creating all along was not just a garden, but a castle and grounds where the rest of your lives and the lives of your children and your grandchildren and all of your friendships and your service to God will be lived out, well then, all the more reason to have built well, with care and with tenderness and with unselfishness, from the beginning. The second thing is—and I trust this would be some ways down the road, but I’ll go ahead and plant the seed of the idea now—The second thing I want you to know is that if the end result of you getting to know my daughter is that you one day fall in love with her, I want you to remember that you were not the first man to do so. The first was me, her father. She had my heart the moment she was born. I held her when she cried. She fell asleep in my arms countless times. I was the first man who read stories to her, who delighted in her silliness, her playfulness, her laugh, her imagination, her beauty, her quick mind, her clever hands, her unique personality. So if there ever comes a day when you decide that you love my daughter and you can’t live without her and you want to ask my blessing to marry her, if that day ever arrives, the one thing I expect is that before you would ever dare come to me and ask, that you would have at that point already shown me, over time, by your actions towards my daughter, that while I was the man who loved her first, you have become the one who has learned to love her best. Thus have I spoken. So may it be. –Douglas Douglas Kaine McKelvey’s Kickstarter campaign for “The Wishes of the Fish King” wraps up in one week. Written for his first daughter when she was two years old—and now being illustrated by Jamin Still—this lyrical, luminous book is designed to capture the aching wonder of that brief season when a parent and child first explore their world together. https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/dougmckelvey/the-wishes-of-the-fish-king

Gustave Dore’ (1832-1883) was a French artist who worked mainly in etching and wood carving. During his life, he illustrated Lord Byron, Cervantes, Poe, Milton, Tennyson, and much of the Bible. Dore’s etching of The Burial of Sarah is a great example of an entire narrative (Genesis 23) being told in a single frame. There are a lot of little things going on in this work that most certainly did not all happen at once—like sealing Sarah’s tomb as Abraham was led away. But this is what good artists do—they carefully arrange vignettes throughout the work which lead the viewer’s eye through the scene in a certain sequence. A well-ordered composition tells a story. She bore her husband’s burdens as though they were her own, and Abraham loved her for it. Russ Ramsey For those who know Abraham and Sarah’s story, this etching calls to mind more than her funeral. Written into the old man’s grief are reminders of when Abraham and Sarah when were young and brave—setting off from their home in search of the Land the Lord swore to give them. We remember her infertility and her deep desire to give her husband an heir. We remember how Sarah laughed at God when the angels visited them at Mamre and told Abraham that she would have a son within the year, though she was already 90. We remember how one year later Isaac was born. And we remember that day some years later when Sarah watched as Abraham and Isaac rode off to Mt. Moriah—a knife in the old man’s saddle bag and wood for a sacrifice bundled on the back of the boy’s donkey. A funeral signals more than the end of a life. It marks the end of a chapter. Abraham spent his entire tenure as the first Patriarch unsettled. The heir to the Promised Land never owned so much as an acre until he bought the cave near Machpelah to bury Sarah, his beloved companion in faith and sojourn. She was present in every memory and moment: Sarah, lovely and dignified, filled with passion and imagination. She bore her husband’s burdens as though they were her own, and Abraham loved her for it. But now, this woman the Lord had renamed ‘Princess’ and then made into a queen, was gone. So Abraham went to some of the wealthy rulers in the land where she died, the Hittites, and negotiated to purchase a place to bury her. And so it was, at last, that the Father of Nations took his first possession of the land the Lord swore to his descendants. It wasn’t a fertile valley or a palace or a vineyard. It was an interment site. There he buried the wife of his youth, his queen, his beloved Sarah. There are nine distinct people in Dore’s etching, but his emotive composition leaves you feeling like there are only two—a dead woman and her grieving husband. The Burial of Sarah captures the last time Abraham would see his wife this side of eternity’s door, as they are each ushered into the worlds to which they belong – parted by death, if only for a season. Abraham and Sarah had walked a long road together. Dore’s single frame holds so much weight. About the Art: Gustave Dore’, The Burial of Sarah, 1866, engraving, private collection.

A number of months have passed since I kicked off the Spiritually Sensitive Sinners Series. This next installment is a poem. It did not begin inspired by Luke 7:36-50, but eventually made its way there. I am attracted to the theme of dust. We were made with it. The serpent was cursed to eat it. And in this Gospel passage a spiritually sensitive sinner cleansed Jesus’s feet from it. Dust Arms firmly held to breasts Fingers touching chin Head bowed, head cocked Eyes tightly locked Carved by a scythe Hunched like a wound Unmoved, despair Under cloak of blackened hair Quiet in a shell Unvoiced troubled words A whisper of a breath Dread of life and of death Guilty. Guilty. Guilty. Rusted then crushed Upon a human life of tin Iron-weight of holiness on sin How blessed when Bent limbs unbend Hands reach down Knees touch dirt to crawl To earth all hearts must fall To earth’s dust returns our fouled and fearful years From that very dust we cleanse His feet with our tears

You may know Adam Young by his whimsical pop moniker Owl City. But Young also has his hand in a dozen lesser known side projects and bands including Port Blue, Sky Sailing, and Swimming With Dolphins. Recently he delved into another project based on a passion he’s had since he was a kid: composing movie scores. Starting this year, Young is planning to release an “imaginary” film score a month based on stories or historical events that mean something to him. So far he’s released four scores, Apollo 11, RMS Titanic, The Spirit of St. Louis, and The Ascent of Everest.  Here’s Young explaining his inspiration for the project: Not long ago, I found myself reminiscing the last half decade of my career. I recalled what it was like writing my first songs, recording my first album and touring in a 15-passenger van. Then I went back further and remembered being 16-years-old and what it felt like discovering something that would ultimately allow my dreams to become reality. It was then that I stumbled upon a world of music that did something to me no other type of music had ever done before — it inspired me. The revelation of a person’s first love of music is different for everyone, but for me, it was film scores — original music written to accompany motion pictures. These types of atmospheres and anthems spoke my language and I remember experiencing a feeling of wide-eyed wonder while listening to my favorite composers. The talent and prowess of John Williams, Harry Gregson-Williams, James Horner, Thomas Newman and Alan Silvestri exposed me to a creative canon I’d never experienced before. I felt as though I’d stumbled into a universe that was made just for me. It spoke to my heart, moved me deeply, and gave me the confidence to drop everything and say, “That. I want to do that.” And so, as a 16-year-old with little knowledge of composition or audio production, I followed my inspiration blindly and simply began to paint with music. I didn’t have a long-term goal, I just knew I’d unearthed a creative drive that would not rest until I gave it my all. So that’s exactly what I did. The years have flown by, and here I am today — the same 16-year-old at heart, filled with more motivation and creativity than ever. Along the road, I’ve experienced my share of highs and lows and I’ve learned the mainstream pop music industry can be a frustrating place for everyone. It has a way of coaching one to adopt a creative process that may or may not come naturally, depending on the individual. As I found myself looking back on my own story, I realized the ups and downs of the mainstream music space have, at times, given rise to a degree of personal frustration and stress that affects everyone in the industry. By pausing to muse on the way things are in such a place, I find myself greatly inspired to use such trials and tribulations as the means to ignore any such “rules” the industry embodies. I consider myself fortunate enough to see the big picture from several angles, and after stopping to study over it, I suddenly feel a deep indwelling desire to make music for the sake of creating nothing but pure, bold, trailblazing art. No speed limits, no safety nets, no rules. And so, as I listen to the works of the composers I first fell in love with, I feel a great longing to create my own version of that same wonder and euphoria that moved me as a young impressionable musician. I want to create worlds of sound that tell stories and tales in ways that cannot be described with words. I want to explore a vast, wild universe of storytelling and create in others the same fascination and curiosity I felt. Stories are infinite. They offer us the ability to retell them according to the way we imagine them. Thus, I want to create musical narratives that aid in the telling of stories that move Adam Young, according to his imagination. And I want to share them with you. You can find out more about this cool project at www.ayoungscores.com.

Collaboration is such a powerful thing. When done well, it can bring together two unique visions — each complimenting the other — to form something greater. The process, though, can be tricky because it requires creative compromise. When the project is deeply personal to one of the collaborators, the process becomes even more complicated. I’ve learned a bit more about this while working on The Wishes of the Fish King with Doug McKelvey. I was a little intimidated when Doug asked me to work with him on this book last November. Not because it would be a collaboration, but because when I read the manuscript I could tell that it wasn’t just another project to him. There was tenderness here and real care wrapped up in the lines of this story. Doug wrote the book during and about a special time in his life, when his daughter was seeing the world for the first time, and it was all wonderful and full of magic. He wanted to preserve these poignant and fleeting moments, and so he wrote this story. And now I’m stepping into it 18 years later — into an already created story, space, and experience that represent a deeply personal and emotional part of Doug. To illustrate something like this, to bring my own artistic vision to an already established creation, can feel like walking into a minefield. I feel like we’re both working together for the sake of the project itself. Jamin Still Let me explain. I have several unfinished projects of my own that are 10+ years old. They are never far from my thoughts, and with each passing year they are woven more deeply into me. It’s difficult to separate them from me sometimes. I tried to do a collaborative picture book project with a friend a while ago, using some older (and very dear) paintings of mine as the starting point, and about a day in I pulled the plug. His story suggestions weren’t bad, but they weren’t mine. Allowing my paintings — images that have been with me for so long — to be shaped by someone else’s creative process was just too much. So I recognize the vulnerability required to open up one’s work to the creative input of someone else, especially when that work is personal. Maybe Doug isn’t worried about this, but I am, and so I have attempted to approach our collaboration with listening ears and open hands. I want to bring my artistic vision to the project, but I want to do so in a way that serves Doug’s artistic vision. For a peek into how this practically plays out, I’ll walk through our creation of The Sea of Fields. I started with this sketch. Doug said (among other things), “Good start. But the house/boat needs to be higher. And the wooded island lower. And tilt it more.” J: “What about this?” D: “Closer. But higher. And lower. And tilt that boat back even more. And make it a little smaller.” [Let me be clear — Doug is in no way demanding, so don’t think from my description that he’s a tyrannical taskmaster who’s a bear to work with. All these exchanges were pleasant and neither of us has hung up the phone and cried. I think. Doug?] J: “What about this?” D: “Yes!! Do that! Now we need to think about this from the child’s point of view. We need magic and imagination running wild. We need merdeer.” J: “I don’t know how to do merdeer, so I’ll worry about those later. In the meantime, how’s this for imagination? Is this a good blending of the land and sea? See what I did with the grass and the wheat and the dirt and made them like waves and water?” D: “I do. I like it! Keep doing it!” And then as the painting progressed I passed on the progress shots to Doug and asked what he thought. J: “What do you think about the father and daughter?” D: “They’re good. But I think she’s a little too big. She’s supposed to look 2-3.” J: “Right… she’s kind of 10 or 12, isn’t she? How about instead of standing, I make her sitting on the side of the boat. She’s already too small to paint smaller.” D: “Perfect.” Eventually we got to the merdeer. I threw some sketches his way, we discussed dolphins and deer and how they might look melded, how they might leap (we decided it would be gracefully), and we eventually got to this. Finally, J: “Doug, what do you think about me adding stars?” D: “I don’t know. Do you want to add stars?” J: “I always want to add stars. I think they would look great in this piece!” D: “Let’s do it then!” Overall, there’s been a lot of give and take, and a lot of revisions of work that I thought was finished. This can, of course, be difficult. I wouldn’t have painted something a certain way unless I thought it was the best way to paint it, so opening myself up to changing it can be a blow to my pride. But the results have been better for it. Our conversations have refined these images because we’ve both been open to the other person’s suggestions. Instead of either of us wrestling to maintain our unique artistic vision, I feel like we’re both working together for the sake of the project itself. Want to see more of these collaborative illustrations unfold? Follow Doug’s author page and my illustrator page on Facebook. And if you haven’t thrown in to the Kickstarter campaign yet, do that too! There are only a couple weeks left!

In case you haven’t already heard, Sam Smith has launched a Kickstarter campaign to fund Ember Falls, the sequel to his young adult novel, The Green Ember. Click here to check out the campaign and see what they have to offer. They’ve got everything from books to necklaces to swords, and they need your help to bring the project to life.

Rembrandt painted the scene of Simeon blessing Jesus in the temple (Luke 2:21-35) twice, and the two paintings tell us as much about the artist himself as they do the subject matter. The first, painted when Rembrandt was 25 years old, is a crisp, ornate scene with the temple itself presented as a character in the story (see below). Rembrandt’s characteristic illumination shines like a spotlight coming down from heaven, making Jesus the brightest figure in the scene. Simeon holds the child as he gazes up to heaven. Another attendant in the temple looks on, hands raised in praise. Nearly two dozen other figures line the background, looking on. Here young Rembrandt shows what he’s capable of. Your eye could spend an hour touring the canvas, and you still wouldn’t see all that’s there. The second, painted thirty-eight years later in 1669, the year of Rembrandt’s death, is very different. Gone are the crowds looking on. Gone are the columns, and filigree, and architecture. Gone is the brilliant beam of light. The crisp brushwork of a steady young hand has given way to the shaky, mottled, impressions of the old master’s touch. But old Rembrandt is content to deliver warmth over detail, individuals over a crowd, and simplicity over grandeur. Russ Ramsey All the painter gives us is a picture of an old man at the end of his days seeing the Christ before his Maker calls him home. The old cleric smiles down on the child who looks back up at him. Simeon’s hands are pressed together in prayer. The third (and only other) figure in the painting is draped in shadow as a way of highlighting just how intimate this moment is between Simeon and the Messiah he’s holding. The contrast of these two paintings is most certainly a commentary on Rembrandt’s own life. At 63, he is less concerned with impressing his audience. His humble world has focused in on Christ. The youthful Rembrandt’s Simeon, a masterpiece to be sure, puts on full display all the technique and ability he has mastered. If, at 25, he can already do this, imagine where he’ll be at 35. But old Rembrandt is content to deliver warmth over detail, individuals over a crowd, and simplicity over grandeur. The ornate trappings of the temple are gone, and so are the crowds. All we see is an old man and his Lord. Simeon is different in this painting because Rembrandt has changed. Frederick Buechner, in his novel Godric, wrote, “An old man’s thoughts are long.” Simeon, perhaps, had been a show-off in his youth. We’re not told, though we do know what youth is like. But by the time Mary presents Jesus to him in the temple, he is an old cleric at the end of his run—weary, confident in his God, and alive with hope. In the year of his death, Rembrandt presents a man ready to take his leave, content that his life had led him to this moment he had longed for all those years. Surely this is a commentary about the painter as much as it is about the priest. Rembrandt van Rijn (1606 – 1669), Simeon’s Song of Praise (1631), oil on panel (61 × 48 cm) — 1631, Mauritshuis, The Hague Rembrandt van Rijn (1606 – 1669), Simeon’s Song of Praise, 1669, oil on canvas, 99 × 80 cm, National Museum, Stockholm

Switchfoot made the big announcement on Thursday that their 10th album (10!), Where The Light Shines Through, will release on July 8th via Vanguard Records. You can now hear two new songs from the album, “Float” and “Live It Well.” Matt Conner is a former pastor and church planter turned writer and editor. He’s the founder of Analogue Media and lives in Indianapolis.

A year ago, Eric Peters set out to make a new record, and now the harvest is nearly here. If you Kickstarted the project, you’ve already been enjoying the new songs and the new sound. For the rest of the world, the ship comes into port on June 14th, but you can pre-order Far Side of the Sea right now and get an instant download of “Farthest Shore,” one of the best tracks on the record. In the coming weeks, look for a full review, a song-by-song breakdown, and a new interview with producer Gabe Scott.

[Earlier this week, Patheos ran this incredible article by Jennifer Trafton that everyone needs to sit down and read immediately. It has proboscis monkeys. Need we say more?] “At the back of our brains, so to speak, there was a forgotten blaze or burst of astonishment at our own existence. The object of the artistic and spiritual life was to dig for this submerged sunrise of wonder.” —G. K. Chesterton As a children’s book author and a creative writing teacher for kids, I have the honor—and challenge—of spending my days both digging for the submerged sunrise in myself and basking in the blazing sun of others. It is a perilous adventure at times, fraught with ninja-kicking dei ex machina and discombobulated spelling. Even as I write this, in fact, I am also faced with the daunting task of drawing an imaginary creature that is the composite of strange body part descriptions by twenty kids—including sixty-five multicolored ears, fifteen moldy toes, elbow-macaroni-and-cheese spines, and a tail that has a fair chance of being ranked among the world’s seven wonders. Since I am neither a parent nor a pastor, nor even a traditional sort of school teacher, I often feel that my relationship to children has a slightly different flavor from that of many of my friends and colleagues; I feel less like a guide or caretaker and more like an imaginative cohort, a co-conspirator in all things monsterific or dragonesque. And therefore when someone mentions the innate spirituality of children, I do not at first think of their innocence, their unsettling questions about life and death and the immortality of pet hamsters, or their spontaneous bursts of insight that seem to confirm Wordsworth’s suspicion that they came out of the womb “trailing clouds of glory.” I think of my students’ stories about talking cats, magic portals, giant sloths from outer space, adventurous pizza delivery boys, treasure chests, princesses who go on quests, fiddling skydivers, and bizarre creatures. I think about the astonishing phrases that proceed from the pencils of elementary-age kids—fish eyelashes, bellowing volcanoes, the toenails of dolphins, a song of silver and ice, fairy whispers, the distant explosion of a marshmallow, icicles shivering and shuffling across the sky, the spicy sound of wind by the sea cliffs, or extremely rare petrified slurps. [Read the entire article at Patheos.]

Last Hutchmoot, Jonathan Rogers and I explored what it means to write out of where we’re from, which you can read more about here. This summer, starting on June 6, I’ll be teaching a 12-week online class based around this idea of writing as a means of discovering place. Here’s a brief video introducing the class:

“Our brokenness has no other beauty but the beauty that comes from the compassion that surrounds it.” Henri Nouwen Vincent van Gogh painted his interpretation of Eugene Delacroix’s The Good Samaritan while living in an insane asylum in St. Remy de Provence only months before he took his own life. During that period, Vincent would occasionally make his own versions of other people’s canvases. He interpreted two Delacroix’s – this one and The Pietà. Interestingly, both of the Delacroix’s Vincent copied involved broken people being held by those who loved them – one, a beat up traveller by a stranger and the other, the Savior of the world by his mother. When I see this painting, I imagine the artist sitting at the easel in his room in the asylum. I hear the tormented cries of Vincent’s fellow patients echoing down the stone and plaster halls. I imagine the painter studying the Delacroix and the page of Scripture from which it was drawn as he places the Pharisee and the teacher of the Law further on down the path, backs turned. I can see him mixing a touch of orange into the Samaritan’s beard, as he would often do to paint himself into his work. I imagine dozens of what would come to be some of the world’s most treasured canvases stacked and leaning against the walls of his room. It is such a lonely picture. Several years ago, I went to see a traveling Van Gogh art exhibit when it came through my town. The exhibit was designed in such a way that we had to exit through the gift shop, which was filled with gag gifts poking fun at Vincent’s mania. There was a coffee mug with an ear for a handle, gummy ears, a plush doll with one ear attached by velcro, and so on. It was a terribly sad display of profiting from someone’s brilliance while simultaneously mocking their weakness. The Gospel frees us from such ugliness. Christ does not celebrate our strength while mocking our weakness. He picks us up in our broken condition and lives to be strong for us. Vincent wanted to be like the Samaritan—generous, compassionate, and joined to others in suffering. But he ended his life more like the wounded than the hero. As an artist, he spent his entire life being passed by. Vincent would not come to be revered as a painter until a few years after his death. The beautiful irony in this painting is how, all these years later, The Good Samaritan (and the rest of the art he produced) lifts up and cares for the beaten down artist. The tragedy is that he never knew. About the Art: Vincent Van Gogh (1853 – 1890) The Good Samaritan (after Delacroix), oil on canvas (73 × 60 cm), 1890, Kröller-Müller Museum, Otterlo.