What are you looking for?

The best moments in reading are when you come across something—a thought, a feeling, a way of looking at things—which you had thought special and particular to you. And now, here it is, set down by someone else, a person you have never met, someone even who is long dead. And it is as if a hand has come out, and taken yours. This is a line delivered by Hector, a character from The History Boys, a movie I viewed this week. Despite enjoying this film myself, I don’t particularly recommend it. In fact, that’s not the purpose of this post. But as we peek inside the door—you, me, and all of us—in this emerging community called The Rabbit Room, these words seem to resonat with vigor, almost as if they had been framed and matted on the front door. They are words that seem particularly relevant in the context of what Andrew Peterson has in mind for this place. As I considered some thoughts from The Far Country, shortly after it was released, I remember being astounded by a line which elegantly reinforce the words that Hector uttered in The History Boys. Andrew Peterson/Pierce Pettis from the song More: A thing resounds when it rings true Ringing all the bells inside of you Like a golden sky on a summer eve Your heart is tugging at your sleeve And you cannot say why There must be more Whether dead or alive, when the work of an author or artist communicates that which we intuitively know to be true, it’s as if we have found a kindred spirit. Innermost thoughts which may have simmered for years, vague and undefined—are suddenly given clarity, a voice, and a name. Should we really be surprised when those that do it best are still on our list of favorites—five, fifty, one hundred years or more after their death? As you consider the relevance of the beauty and truth found in the art contained in The Rabbit Room, may it be personal, and real, and may it last.

My flight arrived at 10:30 at night. There were about a dozen of us on the shuttle bus to long-term parking, and I was careful not to make eye contact with anybody, lest I find myself engaged in a conversation. Across from me sat a man with a banjo case. To my right, one of those old boys–a salesman type–who’s always striking up conversations with strangers who would just as soon be left alone. He started egging on the banjo picker to play us a song. To my surprise, the man opened up his case, pulled out the banjo, and played us a ripping rendition of “The Ballad of Jed Clampett.” It was an amazing thing, to be cruising around the airport parking lot in a bus with this banjo picker playing his heart out for us. When the banjo picker packed up and got off at his stop, one of the remaining passengers on the bus turned to me and said, “You know who that was, don’t you? That was Bela Fleck.” I hesitate to provide that detail, lest this story come across as a celebrity-spotting, my-brush-with-greatness anecdote. That’s not the point at all. The music did its work on us just fine without our knowing we were being treated to a private concert by a celebrity virtuoso. But knowing that it was Bela Fleck who played for us only amplified what I already understood: his performance on the bus was an act of generosity. Mr. Fleck was coming off a concert tour of Asia and Australia; if I’m not mistaken, when his plane landed that night, it was the first time he had been home in over a month. And yet he pulled out his banjo and played a song for a dozen people who had no way of knowing what they were getting. Why would he do that? I don’t know, of course, but I wonder if it was because he was the only person on the bus who could do it. The artist’s imperative, at its heart, is to give what nobody else can give. An artist does for us what we cannot do for ourselves.

AP has been hoping and praying for the successful launch of this site for months now, and I’m thrilled to take part. I’ve just finished reading the final instructional email from “The Proprietor,” and aside from a nonsensical and inaccurate comment about besting me in ping-pong, it was a thorough directory and inspiring call to prosaic arms. This quote is pulled directly from his email… “I don’t buy into that “transforming culture by being relevant” talk. As far as I know, Christ never called us to be relevant to our culture. We’re supposed to be relevant to our neighbors. How many Christian artists have been swept up in the notion that they’re to play by the world’s rules by trying to be cool enough to make Jesus seem cool enough to a culture that values coolness above all? The media is a flawed means of communicating the gospel.” I love that, precisely because of how easy it is to lose perspective with all the technological wizardry we have at our fingertips these days. We are the Church, and we are committed to communicating the Gospel, but we forget that the Gospel is most effectively communicated through relationship. After all, that is how Jesus does it! Relationship is how we find life and worth and peace and love and power in Christ. And relationship is how we communicate Christ to others. I don’t care if you’ve got on parachute pants or $80 sandals, there is nothing more relevant than a cold cup of water to a thirsty man. Funny, it suddenly seems ironic to use the internet–the world’s most powerful isolator–to wax eloquently about relationship, but I guess that’s the point. There is a time to be silent and a time to speak, a time for handwritten notes and a time for email, a time for hymnals and a time for Powerpoint, and though all may be appropriate sometimes, none are appropriate all of the time. Only Jesus – and relationship with him – is eternally satisfying, and the closest thing we have to Jesus on earth is one another.

Allow me to preface this by telling you that I am a great despiser of gushing reviews. I’d much rather write (or read) a scathing dismemberment of the latest Brett Ratner film or Terry Goodkind book than suffer through four hundred words of overblown hyperbole about even the best of things. But when asked to write some thoughts on Frederick Buechner’s Godric, no amount of distaste for high praise was able to intervene. I hope you’ll take what I say with the understanding that I do not say it readily or lightly. In my mind, my reading tastes and experiences are sharply divided into what I read before Godric, and what I read after Godric. It is the book that fundamentally altered the way I read and the way I write. It is the novel that moved me to write my own. It is the canon by which I have measured every book read since. Am I gushing? Since reading Godric, I can no longer abide reading for reading’s sake or simple story for story’s sake. I have little tolerance for words that merely convey information. Godric opened a window in my mind that has never shut and, God-willing, never will. I challenge anyone to read this book and not be changed. Thank you, Mr. Buechner.