What are you looking for?

by Matt Conner On 18–21 May 2023, the Rabbit Room will convene the third Hutchmoot UK at The Hayes Conference Centre, Swanwick, Derbyshire. You’re invited to come and enjoy a weekend of live music, delicious food and conversation, and a series of discussions centred on art, faith, and the telling of great stories across a range of mediums. New this year is that our tickets are all-inclusive , covering the conference plus FULL-BOARD ACCOMMODATION (all meals and a bed) . Please see The Hayes’ website for a look at the lovely venue. This has the huge benefit that, once you’ve bought a ticket, you won’t need to worry about finding accommodation or paying for breakfast and lunch extra, or travel to and from the venue, like we did in Oxford. Your ticket covers everything you’ll need. Note that we are unable to offer refunds under any circumstances, but you can transfer your ticket to someone else if you later find you cannot attend. BURSARY PLACES – We have a very limited number of bursary places available to those in significant financial need. For more information on bursary places, please email info.hmuk@gmail.com . There will be a short form to fill out, and we will get back to you as soon as possible with an answer. * Please note – you do not need to book a ticket if you are applying for a bursary place – we have reserved some spaces. If your application is not successful for a bursary, we will ensure you can still purchase a ticket through the usual website if you wish to do so.  Click here to purchase your tickets! Matt Conner is a former pastor and church planter turned writer and editor. He’s the founder of Analogue Media and lives in Indianapolis.

by the Rabbit Room Staff Welcome to Favorites Week here at the Rabbit Room. For the next few days, we will be detailing some of our favorite finds of the last calendar year in the form of Recommended Reading, Recommended Listening, and Recommended Viewing. This year, we thought we’d separate things a bit to allow each category to shine on its own, and we polled some of the Rabbit Room staff and contributors for their answers. Check back later in the week for some of our favorite albums, podcasts, TV shows, and movies. For now, however, here is our Recommended Reading, a list of books that captivated and challenged us in 2022. Read on and let us know your own recommendations in the comments! Elly Anderson Liturgy of the Ordinary: Sacred Practices in Everyday Life by Tish Harrison Warren is a beautifully written reminder to see God in all moments and cherish the simple rituals of our faith. The Inheritance Games (Book #1 of The Inheritance Games) by Jennifer Lynn Barnes is engaging on every account. This YA novel checked all the boxes. If you loved the film Knives Out and consider yourself a fan of love triangles, you’ll devour this book! On the Edge of the Dark Sea of Darkness (Book #1 of The Wingfeather Saga) on Audiobook is too good not to mention. The audiobook is particularly enjoyable because I get to hear Andrew bring the book to life! So fun. Cynthia Bennett My oldest son hiked 400 miles of the Camino de Santiago last year by himself, and my husband joined him for the last 100 miles. Since I couldn’t participate in person, I looked for books to read and videos to watch about this pilgrimage. I stumbled upon the book, I’ll Push You . It’s an amazing story of friendship and perseverance as one friend literally pushes another friend with disabilities on the entire 500-mile journey. You also get to see how strangers will rally around when there is a need, as this goal could not have been accomplished without the help of strangers on the same journey. Ron Block The Poldark Series by Winston Graham. I’m currently in book five of this sweeping story set in Cornwall on the southern coast of England in the late 1700s. Ross Poldark is often heroic, but his passionate nature can sometimes have him impulsive, quick-tempered, and selfish. He creates many of his own problems. Main themes are sin, loss, redemption, and grace, and of course, there are mature themes/immoral actions by some of the characters (you know, yeah, kind of like real life). Fiction should open our empathy, show us the beauty of good and the ugliness of evil (complicated though it all may be), and give us food for thought. “In reading I become a thousand men and yet remain myself,” says C.S. Lewis. Poldark delivers. Sarah Bramblett I found myself giving away Emily Oster’s data-driven books ( Cribsheet and Expecting Better ) about as often as I give away Every Moment Holy . Oster’s newsletter and Instagram offer refreshing relief that value a parent’s ability to gather information and make decisions. Sticking with the social media thread, for a charming Christmas treat, I recommend Humans of New York’s recent interview with Santa . Leslie Bustard Although I really do love words, books, and reading, this year I found it hard to finish most books I started—even if I was enjoying them. But there were a few that I did stick with. The Soul of Desire: Discovering the Neuroscience of Longing, Beauty, and Community by Curt Thompson, MD helped me make even more sense of my life as I have been talking with God about it over the past few years with cancer. I loved how Curt discussed beauty in our lives and that God not only desires to create beauty in our lives but also with us out in the world. His conversation about shame, our longing to be seen, secure, safe, and soothed, as well as the role of imagination (in our ability to hope for good in our future) has been really illuminating and helpful — for me and also for how I seek to care for my loved ones, knowing they too struggle and need the light of hope to overcome the shadows they face. I really loved reading You Bring the Distance Near by Mitali Perkins and Luci Shaw’s new book of poetry Angels Everywhere . Ned Bustard Obviously, The Lost Tales of Sir Galahad was the best book of 2022. If anyone suggests any book besides that one, they are ill-informed and have no taste in books at all. Other books I enjoyed this year include Wild Things and Castles in the Sky: A Guide to Choosing the Best Books for Children, The City for God: Essays Honoring the Work of Timothy Keller , and 33: Reflections on the Gospel of Saint John . But if I have to choose books in which I had no part in their creation, I would highly recommend Russ Ramsey’s Rembrandt Is in the Wind : Learning to Love Art through the Eyes of Faith , A Journey of Sea and Stone by Tracy Balzer, and Richard Osman’s The Thursday Murder Club (and its sequel, too—it might even be better than the first book). Finally, (and I know this may seem like illegal insider trading, but…) looking ahead to 2023 I can tell you that you are going to LOVE Ordinary Saints: Living Everyday Life to the Glory of God and Why We Create: Reflections on the Creator, the Creation, and Creating . John Cal From a conversation with a stranger on the street, I found out about the book Facing The Mountain by Daniel James Brown (best-selling author of The Boys in the Boat ) which chronicles Japanese-American internment and patriotism during WWII. Growing up in Hawaii, now living in the Pacific Northwest, and attending college in the midwest much of the geography and communities Brown describes are familiar and within living memory of my parents and grandparents. It was a compelling and difficult read, and helped me to examine the questions “Am I American enough?” and “How do we decide who does and who does not belong?” Kevan Chandler Jack Zulu and the Waylanders Key has been blowing my mind lately! I’m thoroughly enjoying it. S.D. Smith and his son Josiah (J.C.) knock it out of the park with their first collaborative project. Their understanding of friendship and adventure is on par with that of The Princess Bride , The Sandlot , and Stranger Things . Can’t recommend it enough! Caitlin Coats Gentle and Lowly: The Heart of Christ for Sinners and Sufferers voiced so many thoughts and doubts that I often believe and melted them away one by one with God’s gentle words of love. Mark Geil Russ Ramsey’s Rembrandt is in the Wind is such a gift. Foremost, the book is a knowledgeable companion that helps you understand and appreciate the work of a diverse set of artists. But more than that, it lifts a veil and allows you to understand the humanity and soul of each one. I loved the book so much that I spent two months teaching through it. Jason Gray I’ve been trying to include books that differ from my perspective—y’know, to try to see the world through different sets of eyes and escape my own prejudices and assumptions. That can mean reading someone more conservative or progressive than me. It was good for me to read Do I Stay Christian? (Brian McLaren) and The Book That Made Your World (David McRaney) back to back. Both seemed pretty dedicated to their preconceived ideas in their own ways but were still enlightening. The Holy Longing (Ronald Rohlheiser) was one of the most religiously formative books I’ve ever read 20 years ago and had a similar effect on me when I reread it this year. This Is Real And You Are Completely Unprepared (Rabbi Alan Lew) was a book I picked up after Father Thomas McKenzie posted about it two years ago. I’ve read it three times now and love it more each time. I started and ended the year with books about two of my favorite artists: Paul Simon and Bono. Surrender (Bono) was the most fun I’ve had reading in a long time. Who knew Bono could do impressions? John Michael Heard Who knew that the art of violinmaking could yield so many lessons about the Christian life? Martin Schleske’s book The Sound of Life’s Unspeakable Beauty is a masterpiece; reading it was a highlight of my year. Jonny Jimison Lightfall: Shadow of the Bird (Tim Probert, 2022) has locked in Lightfall as one of my favorite comic series of all time. Volume one premiered in 2020 with gorgeous art, brilliant fantasy world-building, and well-defined, relatable characters. Volume two, Shadow of the Bird , is even better, with a story that digs deeper into lore, character motivation, and the history of a broken world aching to be mended. Heidi Johnston Like many in the Rabbit Room, I’ve been enjoying the poetry of Malcolm Guite for a few years now. This past year I discovered the beauty of David’s Crown , his masterpiece on the Psalms. With one poem on each Psalm, woven together into a corona, it’s profoundly beautiful and a wonderful companion on a journey through Psalms itself. Dawn Morrow The Measure by Nikki Erlick and In the Unwalled City by Robert Cording. My favorite books of the year were both focused on how finite life is and what we choose to do with our days. At the beginning of The Measure , every adult in the world receives a box inscribed with the words “The measure of your life lies within,” and what follows is an exploration of how the world responds, told through eight narrators which begged the question of what I would do if I woke to found a similar box at my door and what I would change in how I live. Similarly, Cording’s book drove me to reflect on how I connect to the people I love. The book is a reflection on the loss of his adult son, Daniel, told in essays and poetry. It is lovely and sad and hopeful and a reminder that the people we’ve lost are still somehow a part of us. Eric Peters I’ve chased myriad subjects and titles, anything from a history of the Volkswagen ( Small Wonder ), to the Father Brown mysteries (GK Chesterton), history ( The Golden Isthmus, The Pursuit of a Dream, Wall of Empire: The English Channel, The Capture of New Orleans 1862, Arthur: Roman Britain’s Last Champion ), books on books, Horatio Hornblower , The Plague, and survival stories ( The Raft, Rogue Male ). I’ve allowed myself the freedom to quit a book if it’s too dense or too much for my brain to handle, or it simply doesn’t grab my attention. I’ve started and stopped several books as a result, which has been a nice mental shift for me to not waste my time. Andrew Peterson Borderland, by Roger Lloyd. Published in 1960, it’s an exploration of the borderland between theology and literature. Lloyd, an Anglican priest, makes a case for the importance of artists in the translation of theology into ideas and expressions the non-theologian/non-academic can understand—which is to say that artists need theology, and theologians need art. He praises those writers who straddle the two, including C. S. Lewis, Chesterton, Sayers, and others we tend to read here in the Rabbit Room. It’s not an earth-shattering book, but I’m so glad I read it. Faith, Hope, and Carnage , by Nick Cave and Sean O’Hagan. I first heard Nick Cave on the About Time soundtrack (which is one of the best out there), singing the line “I don’t believe in an interventionist God” in his song “Into My Arms.” Nick Cave does believe in God, as a matter of fact—it’s the adjective “interventionist” that he’s distancing himself from in the song. It’s an old song, and his views on God have deepened drastically in the meantime. The most obvious cause for that deepening of faith was the tragic death of Cave’s son, Arthur. That’s what the book is largely about. O’Hagan is a journalist friend of Cave’s, and they had the idea to make the book a conversation between the two—one an atheist, the other a believer. They cover the music business, touring, songwriting, grief, doubt, faith—all of it. Cave’s journey has been a rough one, so be prepared for that, but his faith is beautiful and real and utterly fascinating to read about. I don’t know that I’ve ever read an interview with so many underlineable sentences. Cave’s waters run terribly deep, and his ability to articulate difficult and mysterious things is astonishing. Pete Peterson I don’t know that I’ve loved a book like Susanna Clarke’s Piranesi since, well, Susanna Clarke’s Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell . The best thing I can liken it to is Lewis’s space trilogy, even though it’s not about space and it’s not a trilogy. But it plays with ideas and images in similar ways and creates a strange world pregnant with meaning, wonder, and mystery. Our world doesn’t have enough books like this. Give us more, Mrs. Clarke. We needs it. #semifeature

by the Rabbit Room Staff Welcome back to Favorites Week here at the Rabbit Room. This week, we will be detailing some of our favorite finds of the last calendar year in the form of Recommended Reading , Recommended Listening, and Recommended Viewing. This year, we thought we’d separate things a bit to allow each category to shine on its own, and we polled some of the Rabbit Room staff and contributors for their answers. Today, we’re looking at the TV shows and movies that pulled us in and refused to let go. Read on and let us know your own recommended viewing from the last year in the comments! Elly Anderson Beautifully shot and hauntingly hilarious, The Menu encapsulates the perfect mixture of mystery and absolute absurdity. If you enjoy cooking shows, dark humor, and living in a state of fearful anticipation for an hour and a half, you will enjoy this! Also Top Gun: Maverick . I feel silly mentioning this blockbuster hit, but I can’t seem to leave it off of my list. A concrete reminder that Tom Cruise will forever reign supreme over all action movies and can make anything an instant classic. John Barber My favorite film of the year is Martin McDonagh’s The Banshees of Inisherin . This is a film about what lasts. Is it art? Is it music? Or is it a life of kindness? When two best friends, played by the amazing Colin Farrell and Brendan Gleeson, suddenly find themselves as enemies, what follows is a treatise on what it means to love someone and the viciousness that comes when that love is gone. Cynthia Bennett I imagine this has already been submitted, but I’ve thoroughly enjoyed each season of The Crown. It has influenced me to want to learn more about the royal family and led me to watch Victoria on PBS which I also thoroughly enjoyed. Ron Block Of course, The Wingfeather Saga . I watched Episode 2 last night. It’s such a delight to see Andrew Peterson’s characters appear on screen. Animation, acting, and music all have just the right feel for the story, which of course is brilliant. Also Andor , in the Star Wars universe. So well-done, believable, and not frenetic with constant action scenes like some of the Marvel movies. There’s time to get to know and enjoy the characters. I watched this episodically as they came out, but I want to go back and binge-watch over the course of several nights. Sarah Bramblett My 2022 television interests revealed I might be an anglophile. The Crown , The Great Pottery Throw Down , and The Great British Bake Off were on repeat after the Queen’s funeral coverage left me engaging with recent world history. I’d also recommend Andor and Rings of Power for the moments of poetry sprinkled within the entertainment. Both prompted exclamations of “what a wonderful cinematic time to be alive!” Leslie Bustard My two favorite movies this year were Mrs. Harris Goes to Paris (a delightful, feel-good movie) and Belfast (so many emotions about this one). I was very glad that another season of Shetland was out; I am not sure what I will do when that series is all done. The Last Kingdom kept my attention (except when I did cover my eyes at specific parts). I loved the characters and most of the storylines. One of my daughters introduced me to K-dramas. Crash Landing on You was the first one (and really good), but I loved The Silent Sea , a science fiction-mystery-thriller. After it finished, I said to Ned I did not think I would ever enjoy any television viewing again; it was very satisfying. Ned Bustard I’ve been faithfully collecting Marvel comic books since the mid-’70s so for me, any Marvel flick is always recommended viewing. That being said, the studio had a few more duds this year than I am comfortable admitting to. For example, if you haven’t seen it already, I would suggest skipping this year’s Doctor Strange and under NO circumstance at all watching Ms. Marvel (even fast-forwarding it made me cringe). But all was not lost. I did enjoy Wakanda Forever and She-Hulk (I know some folks didn’t like She-Hulk, but having collected her comic since it first came out in 1980, and being there for the whole John Byrne breaking-the-fourth-wall run in 1989, it made me extremely happy). John Cal tick, tick… BOOM! by Steven Levenson, directed by Lin-Manuel Maranda is the biographical musical comedy/drama about the life of Jonathan Larson composer, lyricist, and playwright of the Tony Award-winning musical Rent. What compels us to create? What inspires us to create? Andrew Garfield as Larson helps you walk the thin line between hope, failure, and the reality of the life of an artist. Kevan Chandler I had a ball with Welcome to Collinwood , a charming little heist movie from the Russo Brothers, long before they assembled Avengers or study groups at Greendale. Starring Sam Rockwell, William H. Macy, and George Clooney, there’s a sort of sweetness about this gang of scoundrels with their odd exploits and rocky friendships that gives it a lot of heart. It feels like what would happen if the Lost Boys grew up and tried to rob a bank. Caitlin Coats Princess Mononoke is a beauty to watch and adeptly navigates the nuances in our—oftentimes conflicting—responsibilities to care for the earth and for one another. The soundtrack is also breathtaking. Mark Geil Black Panther: Wakanda Forever had a heavy lift. It had to work as a sequel without its title star, but it also had to properly mourn that star’s untimely passing. Ryan Coogler has achieved both, handling funereal grief and high-paced action at equal turns, without either feeling out of place. (And Angela Bassett is brilliant.) John Michael Heard I have BJ Novak’s Vengeance (2022) to thank for several rich discussions over the last few months. While I found the film’s ending problematic, overall, the writing is excellent—its critique of our modern, media-saturated culture is at times funny, astute, and self-aware. Jonny Jimison Belle (2021, Mamoru Hosoda) is a beautifully animated film that reframes the story of Beauty and the Beast in an internet-based virtual reality. There are so many ways that the premise could have settled for a one-dimensional fable, but the film digs deeper, using its online world as an entry point for a devastating and beautiful meditation on trauma, loneliness, and connection. Dawn Morrow The Woman King . Viola Davis was fantastic in this film. Davis plays the leader of 19th-century female warriors who protect their kingdom in Africa. The story is engrossing and Davis is fierce. I knew nothing about this one going in and I left completely satisfied. Plus, it gets bonus points for passing the Bechdel test with flying colors. Eric Peters I love Friday Night Dinner (Netflix), and I suspect some of you in this realm would enjoy its dark humor, thoroughly ridiculous situations, and general irreverence, but it’s probably not for most of the folks here. But if absurdity and British humor are your thing, this show (it ran from 2011-2020) has brought me much laughter. Aside from that, I return to The Simpsons over and over again. I don’t know if it still is, but it was the smartest (and funniest) show on television. Call it escapism or avoidance, but I continue to go to The Simpsons to laugh. And it never fails me, no matter how many times I’ve seen Homer’s late-night free public advertisement jingle, “Mr. Plow, that’s my name. That name again is Mr. Plow.” In a world of idiotic reality (oddly enough, phony) TV, and gimmicky attempts to find something that “sticks,” The Simpsons —the early seasons especially—are onion-like layers of insight, fun-poking at EVERYONE, and witty humor. I still find myself discovering new moments or quotes that I’ve missed in earlier viewings. Andrew Peterson Better Call Saul. It’s no secret that I loved Breaking Bad (minus a couple of skipper scenes, thanks to VidAngel!), and I was doubtful that BCS could come close. It’s an apples-to-oranges thing, so there’s no use really comparing them. The acting, the writing, the filmmaking were all as good as it gets. And Rhea Seehorn’s performance of Kim Wexler’s final scene on the bus made the whole thing worth it. Pete Peterson When I saw the announcement for this movie, I thought, “Oh, how cute, that’ll be terrible.” I could not have been more wrong (though it’s certainly cute). Marcel the Shell with Shoes On , completely captivated me. What began as a series of YouTube videos matures in feature-film length to a beautiful meditation on loss, grief, longing, community, and belonging. I wish I could make everyone watch it. It makes the world a better place just by existing. Leslie Thompson I watch Encanto 6+ times per week with my toddler, and so far I don’t mind because the story is so rich with gospel truth about the way God has made us individually and as members of a larger community. Each viewing provides nuance I hadn’t picked up before and the new Live from the Hollywood Bowl released in December is equally delightful. #semifeature

by the Rabbit Room Staff We’re at the end of Favorites Week here at the Rabbit Room. Throughout the last few days, we’ve been detailing some of our favorite finds from the last calendar year in the form of Recommended Reading , Recommended Listening, and Recommended Viewing . This year, we thought we’d separate things a bit to allow each category to shine on its own, and we polled some of the Rabbit Room staff and contributors for their answers. For today, we have our Recommended Listening lists from 2022. Read on and let us know your own recommendations in the comments! Elly Anderson Expert in a Dying Field by The Beths. With a twang as compelling as Dolores O’Riordan, Elizabeth Stokes of The Beths has captured my indie rock heart. The New Zealand band reminisces on the shameful failings of past relationships and the passive denial of love gone cold. With the perfect combination of slow jams, punk anthems, and chant-worthy choruses, Expert in a Dying Field has all the components of a perfect album. Favorite Tracks: “Best Left”, “Expert in a Dying Field”, “When You Know You Know” Cynthia Bennett If you are a fan of The Office you will enjoy Kevin Malone’s podcast titled, An Oral History of The Office . It’s a fascinating behind-the-scenes look at how the show evolved. Lots of the characters and creators of the show are part of the podcast too. It’s so much fun! Ron Block Ali Hutton and Ross Ainslie, Symbiosis I and Symbiosis II . I played with Ali last July and quickly realized he’s a musical powerhouse on guitar and pipes. Ross is equally amazing on pipes. Top-level Scottish-trad instrumental music. Kinnaris Quintet’s Free One and This Too . KQ is a Scottish all-female instrumental group with a variety of influences from trad Celtic to bluegrass and lots of other music. I stood with Andrew and Jamie Peterson watching KQ’s set at Underneath the Stars Festival in Yorkshire last summer and we were amazed by their skill and tunes – such musical joy. Sarah Bramblett As a mom of a toddler, most of my 2022 music listening has been influenced by a tiny human. Drew and Ellie Holcomb’s “Hey Rivers” was my anthem and JJ Heller provided perfect background music for the year (I fully recommend both 2022 I Dream of You albums, “Joy” and “Christmas,” and singles “Neighbor” and “Wild and Precious Life”). Revisiting a favorite from my own childhood, I listened to the delightful banter of the Slugs and Bugs classic “Tractor Tractor” about 327 times. Leslie Bustard I really looked for more places of quiet and ways to add silence to my day. So usually when I would play music—walking the dogs, driving, or cooking— I kept things quiet. However, listening to a CD of the poet Seamus Heaney reading his poetry was my go-to if I did need to listen to something while driving in the car. I love his poetry, and listening to him read his own words makes them come alive for me. This year at Hutchmoot, I really loved Matthew Clark singing and talking about his album Only the Lover Sings (what wonderful words!) as well as Taylor Leonhardt’s Friday evening concert. Her song “Poetry” is just perfect. Ned Bustard I have three 20-something daughters, so it was impossible for me to have not listened to the recent Harry Styles record many, many, many times. And to be honest, there are several “good bops” (as the kids say) on it. By choice, I listened to Tears for Fears’ The Tipping Point and Direction of the Heart by Simple Minds. I didn’t love every tune, but I liked enough of both to feel relieved that my old favorites could still rock—and Simple Minds’ inclusion of a cool cover of “The Walls Came Down” by The Call was too scrumptious for words. But the most important release of the year for me (without question) was geranium lake —a collection of live performances, demos, and unreleased songs that lead up to making the innocence mission’s classic 1995 album, glow . If collections like that don’t float your boat and you are looking for a more polished record, try the aforementioned glow or the innocence mission’s recent see you tomorrow. John Cal Carly Rae Jepsen’s 2022 release The Loneliest Time is a reminder that pop music is awesome, feel good songs are awesome, and Canadians are awesome. The title track “The Loneliest Time” features Rufus Wainwright and gives heartbreak disco vibes with hints of ’80s electronica. This is exactly the album that middle school me would have wanted to play on his yellow Sony Walkman while doing homework stashed in his Lisa Frank Trapper Keeper. Caitlin Coats Anaïs Mitchell, “Watershed”. This song gave me words to mourn what I lost during the pandemic and simultaneously celebrate newfound hope. Mark Geil It’s uneven, over-produced, and sometimes self-indulgent. But for all its faults, Midnights by Taylor Swift is (alongside releases from Bad Bunny and Beyoncé) a record that defined 2022. Maybe I feel extra-invested because I spent so many hours battling Ticketmaster to get concert tickets, but the album is loaded with Swift’s characteristic ability to capture snapshots of everyday life (well, her everyday life) and imbue them with emotion and meaning. Jonny Jimison Singer-songwriter Sarah Jarosz is definitely not a newcomer to the music scene, but she was a new discovery for me this year. Blue Heron Suite (Sarah Jarosz, 2021) is a deeply considered, beautifully executed musical journey, and its gently-flowing folk melodies have been a friendly, meditative companion to my ears while going about my day. Dawn Morrow The Brilliance. I discovered The Brilliance at a retreat at Laity Lodge. The guitar/piano duo, David Gungor and John Arndt, joined by cellist Dave Campbell, create complex textured music layered with rich vocals. Their Advent Collection was on high rotation for me this year. Eric Peters Zen podcast, The Samples, Kodaline, The Killers, Joseph, Switchfoot, The War on Drugs, Bruce Hornsby & the Range, and I’ve been listening to my new songs as they’re being recorded for the forthcoming project. Andrew Peterson Ghosteen, by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds. In keeping with Faith, Hope, and Carnage , this record is all about the death of Cave’s son. I’ve never heard an album like it. It’s not something you’re going to want to put on unless you’re ready to really engage with it. I suggest going on a long walk and listening to it in its entirety, knowing that it was written in the studio by a rockstar poet who spent years in and out of rehab, who is now a follower of Jesus, and who is suffering from the grief of losing his son. Don’t listen to try to understand, not at first, but to experience. It’s weird. And it’s beautiful. And somehow there’s a bright hope that overpowers the grief. After you’ve given it one listen, try it again and read the lyrics as they go by. It’s definitely not for everybody, and to be honest I didn’t get it the first time I heard it. About six months later it came up on shuffle and stopped me in my tracks. Pete Peterson Rachel Matar, North Wind Manor’s head of hospitality, turned me onto Anais Mitchell and my mission in life is to do the same favor for you. Her self-titled album (new this year, though she has several previous albums), is a collection of perfect songs that are lyrically mesmerizing and exactly the musical mood I love to fall into most days after work. I can’t say enough good things about the record. And surprise, it turns out she’s also the writer of Hadestown , having written the concept album about a decade ago. #semifeature

by the Rabbit Room Staff Our friends over at Sky Turtle Press have labored for years to open up the fantastical world of Edmund Spenser’s The Faerie Queene to a wider audience and now their project is ready to come into the light. A new Kickstarter campaign launches today to bring the text-faithful, line-by-line prose rendering of Spenser’s epic poem to market and it’s also loaded with several exciting incentives and stretch goals! Many have attempted to read Spenser’s original work, only to be discouraged by his diction. This struggle is understandable, as Spenser often used language more archaic than the time in which he wrote. To help readers overcome this struggle, classical educator Rebecca K. Reynolds worked with Elizabethan scholars to produce an annotated rendering which moves from heavy assistance in Book One toward more of Spenser’s language in Book Six. (And let’s not forget Justin Gerard’s amazing illustrations!) There’s so much to discover here, not only for readers of Spenser’s work but also within the Kickstarter campaign itself. You can check out the new campaign here and watch the video below.

by Hannah Hubin After production for All the Wrecked Light wrapped up in the spring, I took an excurses of sorts from writing projects of my own to take on graduate studies in Biblical languages. I’ve spent enough time in Koine Greek already that moving through the New Testament feels familiar, though I still certainly have a distance to go. But Hebrew is an entirely different matter. For those of you who have studied Hebrew, you know as well as I’m learning that Hebrew doesn’t move the way English (or Greek or Latin or any of the western Romance languages) moves. And I don’t just mean reading from right to left. I mean navigating the Masoretic vowel overlay beneath the original consonants. I mean how immaculately condensed the language is – how a single word can operate as a full sentence, complete with modifiers, with suffixes and prefixes stacking parts of speech like an Ancient Near Eastern sub sandwich. I mean how idiomatic adjectives and possessive constructs sound to the English ear—not to mention how the spoken syllables themselves sound in my English throat. For the first time in my educational journey, I feel as though I’m carving out completely new pathways through my brain. It feels like the newest, strangest, most “from-scratch” thing I’ve ever done. Since preschool, I’ve been navigating the world through a Western sense, and Latin and Greek served to broaden already paved and lamplit streets. Often what seemed foreign at first brush is the same old concept under a different name – like Kroger taking the name King Soopers when you drive west. But the last few months have left me working my way through a jungle, chopping down vines and clearing millennia-thick undergrowth with the hope that there are sidewalks down there somewhere. And you know what? I know there must be because entire cultures have walked them before. Hebrew has been and still is a native tongue. And thousands of other English speakers have walked those paths too. So how do I clear down to the pavement? Like any jungle explorer, I need a machete. (I’ve always wanted to write a sentence like that.) I need the right tools. And so it is that this semester has become just as much an exercise in finding the tools as it has been in learning Hebrew itself. I’ve been learning anew – and better than ever before – how to study, to come to know a difficult concept, to memorize and translate and analyze and reflect. I’m learning the points at which I reach my cognitive load, and how to not waste time trying to push past it. I’m learning when caffeine helps my brain run hyper-efficiently – locomotive style – and when it just causes me to blow smoke. I’m learning that I memorize paradigms best in the early morning and vocabulary best at night. I’m color-coding everything, summarizing every lesson onto a single page, and taking breaks to run and lift weights and eat protein when I need it. I’m learning to work smarter. And you know what? Slowly but surely, I’m learning Hebrew along the way. The idea that this whole Hebrew business is the newest, strangest, most from-scratch thing I’ve ever done is not quite true. There’s one other thing I can think of that rivals the foreignness of Hebrew, and that is faith. What are our tools, then? How do we practice those things, day in and day out, that lead us machete-style down the path of faith? Hannah Hubin Faith isn’t a natural thing for, well, I daresay any of us broken folk. This whole believing-in-what-I-can’t-see thing runs against the grain of how I go about life. But, like learning Hebrew, I know it’s possible. That’s not in the sense of self-help, performance psychology, but in the sense of Moses’s words, a mere four chapters before his death: “For this commandment that I command you today is not too hard for you, neither is it far off. It is not in heaven, that you should say, ‘Who will ascend to heaven for us and bring it to us, that we may hear it and do it?’ Neither is it beyond the sea, that you should say, ‘Who will go over the sea for us and bring it to us, that we may hear it and do it?’ But the word is very near you. It is in your mouth and in your heart, so that you can do it.” What a great and precious promise. What are our tools, then? How do we practice those things, day in and day out, that lead us machete-style down the path of faith? My philosophy professor from my undergraduate days, Brandon Spun, recently wrote what has become one of the best treasures of this past year for me: a little companion guide, with short, categorized topics on wide-margined pages: On the Spiritual Disciplines: An Introduction to Christian Practice . And that is exactly what it is. The book is a combination of explanation and application. Spun opens with a discussion on the spiritual life and the human life, one and the same. He explains all spiritual disciplines as a form of prayer and all prayer as “the raising up of our minds to sonship.” He goes on to put flesh on these conceptual bones, with suggestions for ways of meditating on Scripture, collections of prayer and liturgies useful for different times and dispositions, and discussions on everything from the liturgical calendar and the examen to sleep, fasting, and acts of service. The book is part anthology of Scripture and tradition, part commentary, and part instruction manual—all written in a humble, helpful tone. All throughout, Spun transcends the stickier denominational divisions and sticks close to orthodox Christianity and Scripture. As I read, I found myself matching the tools with the tasks, finding which practices suit me best in this season and which I will keep at hand for obstacles further down the road. And, perhaps most importantly, I found myself excited to be so equipped by the Lord’s kindness. Just as promised, Christ did not leave us without a Helper. The book wasn’t written as a dissertation, a daily devotional, or a lengthy theological tome carefully crafted for running in a best seller’s list, although I think it deserves it. In truth, Spun wrote it as a help to his children, and he’s given us the privilege of reading along. Whatever other jungles you’re facing as you look into 2023, clearing a little further down the path of faith is going to be one of them. I encourage you to go forward with tools—good ones, sharp ones, used in the proper places and moments. And when you reach an impasse, remember that there are folks around, like Spun, who can help us remember the tools we’ve forgotten we have. [ Note: Brandon Spun’s On the Spiritual Disciplines: An Introduction to Christian Practice is available here .]

by Leslie Bustard Twenty-five years ago, my husband Ned and I agreed to be a part of Square Halo Books. When this venture started, we were just entering our thirties. We had a home, a church, a young daughter, and another little one on the way—our life moved in a sweet, ordinary rhythm. Through books by C.S. Lewis, Madeleine L’Engle, and Francis and Edith Schaeffer, we were learning that all of life–even our everyday life–could bring glory to God. It was around this time that our friends and mentors, Alan and Diana Bauer, were interested in starting a publishing company. They hoped to get Alan’s book The End: A Reader’s Guide to Revelation (which had been rejected by larger publishing houses) out into the world and maybe even publish other writers whose books needed publishing. Ned and I were not too sure about this idea but decided yes in the end. Ned named the company Square Halo and became its creative director. The End was released followed by It Was Good: Making Art to the Glory of God , a collection of essays about art-making that Ned dreamed up, two years later. From there, more books and friendships, dinner meetings and unexpected adventures added beyond-imagined goodness into our lives. All the goodness and creativity of Square Halo Books have not only been an ongoing blessing for our families, but they have also given us many opportunities to do God’s work of culture care —caring for the soul of our culture. Makoto Fujimura (one of the first to sign on and contribute to It Was Good ) shared his vision for how to live a life that offers health to the soul of a culture in a booklet titled On Becoming Generative: An Introduction to Culture Care (later republished as part of Culture Care: Reconnecting with Beauty for Our Common Life ) . I pored over his words and even obtained other copies to give to friends. I wanted them to be as encouraged and revitalized in their creative work as I had been. His words articulated a vision for why I wanted to produce theater, encourage my husband in his gallery, and also publish books with Square Halo. Being generative—that is, being fruitful and productive by making and providing opportunities so that others can also make—is foundational to the creative work of culture care. Fujimura writes, “We can say that Culture Care is applied generative thinking. Culture Care ultimately results in a generative cultural environment: open to questions of meaning, reaching beyond mere survival, inspiring people to meaningful action, and leading toward wholeness and harmony. It produces thriving, cross-generational community.” ( On Becoming Generative, page 27) What are the ingredients to being generative and how can ordinary people do this work of caring for culture by being generative? Fujimura suggested three pieces: offering genesis moments , being generous , and thinking generationally . I remember those genesis moments sitting at the kitchen table brainstorming ideas with friends which led to newly published books, backyard Shakespearean troupes, hosting gatherings of visual artists and musicians, and even organized conferences. These moments—gifts to other people—came from hearts seeking to be generous. Our time, our imagination, our affection, our listening ears, and our talents are offered to others, as we all work on creating good for the people God has given us. I resonated with and am inspired by Mako’s words: “Generative thinking is fueled by generosity because it so often must work against a mindset that has survival and futility in the foreground. In a culture like that, generosity has an unexpectedness that can set the context for the renewal of our hearts. An encounter with generosity can remind us that life always overflows our attempts to reduce it to a commodity or a transaction – because it is a gift. Life and beauty are gratuitous in the best senses of that word.” On Becoming Generative, 13 Lastly, culture care includes thinking generationally. When we dialogue with past artists, writers, thinkers, and musicians, when we root our work in what is lasting, we have the opportunity to influence makers and hopefully care for the soul of future culture. These are things that my partners and I at Square Halo Books —and the folks of Rabbit Room—have been doing. When we dialogue with past artists, writers, thinkers, and musicians, when we root our work in what is lasting, we have the opportunity to influence makers and hopefully care for the soul of future culture. Leslie Bustard Inspired by my experience at Hutchmoot, I created a conference last year focused on the Inklings, with many Rabbit Room folks presenting and attending. That event was so well received that we are doing it again. This year’s conference is titled Ordinary Saints: Creativity, Collaboration, and Community . Reflecting on Square Halo’s tagline: “Extraordinary Books for Ordinary Saints,” we are focusing on ordinary people and ordinary life, all lived out to the glory of God. I hope this event will stir our attendees’ imaginations and refresh them in their callings. And I hope everyone will find their own genesis moments while soaking in the generosity of those hosting, speaking, and volunteering. We are thrilled to have poet Malcolm Guite as our keynote speaker this year. Many Rabbit Room folks know his poetry, his speaking, as well as his Square Halo book Lifting the Veil: Imagination and the Kingdom of God (found in 2021’s Hutchmoot Homebound Mystery Moot Kit). Recently he has been popping up in new places—from Carnegie Hall with the Gettys to The New York Times to Christianity Today . We are confident his words will be a source of encouragement to your heart and mind, and we’re excited he is joining us! All the speakers at this anniversary gathering have written for Square Halo at some point over the past twenty-five years. Each talk will focus on some aspect of “ordinary life to the glory of God.” The topics include children’s books, friendships, dealing with conflict, justice and writing, and online communities. ( Check out the complete list of presenters, their topics, and the schedule here .) Our conference, like its Hutchmoot cousin, will have interactive sessions, too—story time and songs during pub night, a roundtable reading of Babette’s Feast , tea and poetry, a podcast recording, and a pop-up printing workshop (just like what happened the past few years at Hutchmoot). The Square Halo Gallery will display a wide variety of art featuring squares and ordinariness. Many people sent in work to be part of this invitational—including several Rabbit Room Artists & artists. Some local actors are staging a dramatic reading of a classic piece of literature. And lastly, to top it all off, The Arcadian Wild will be performing Saturday night. We are glad and grateful for the folks at the Rabbit Room. This wonderfully creative and generative group in Nashville has been generous towards Square Halo, just as Square Halo has sought to be in other people’s lives. I know we have all been doing God’s work of caring for culture through our creative endeavors, collaborations, and community life. As Fujimura writes, “Culture Care restores beauty as a seed of invigoration into the ecosystem of culture. Such soul care is generative: a well-nurtured culture becomes an environment in which people and creativity thrive.” ( On Becoming Generative, page 22) To learn more about Square Halo and the conference, check us out at SquareHaloBooks.com . If you have been hanging around the Rabbit Room even a little bit, you will see some familiar folks who have written for us. And hopefully, we will see some of you at our Ordinary Saints: Creativity, Collaboration, and Community conference in Lancaster, PA, this February 17 & 18, 2023. Leslie Anne Bustard writes for Cultivating, Black Barn Online, Anselm Society, Story Warren, and Calla Press. Her poetry book The Goodness of the Lord in the Land of the Living, published through Square Halo Books, comes out winter 2023. Wild Things and Castles in the Sky: A Guide to Choosing the Best Books for Children, co-edited with Carey Bustard and Théa Rosenburg, was published in spring 2022. You can read more of her ruminations at  Poetic Underpinnings and listen to her podcast at Square Halo Books.

by Houston Coley Sometime recently, I was bubbling over with praise once again for the new Star Wars series, Andor , and my wife said something that struck me. “It sounds like you like this show for the same reasons we’ve liked The Chosen .” In the conversation at hand, I was talking about one thing that has really appealed to me about Andor : the grounded, tangible feeling of its filmmaking. Andor was made without the use of recent technology like ILM Stagecraft and has been very restrained in its use of other VFX, focusing on practical set-pieces, costumes, and a very earthy aesthetic throughout much of its runtime. Ironically, these are many of the things that are also praiseworthy about Dallas Jenkins’ and Angel Studios’ smash-hit series The Chosen . The idea that The Chosen portrays a story of Jesus’ ministry that “feels real” has been a key part of its huge appeal, going so far as to show Jesus doing ordinary things like brushing his teeth, carving wooden toys, and struggling to get a campfire started. If some Bible adaptations have portrayed Jesus and His disciples as stone statues without much emotion or humanity, The Chosen swings hard toward depicting Jesus as someone you could really hug or share a joke with. Over the years, the Star Wars saga has also shared a struggle with heroes who feel like stone statues from time to time. One of the common critiques of the Prequel Trilogy was that the Jedi characters felt like cold Shakespearean monks, whose resistance to emotional attachment made them cease to be relatable or believable as ordinary human beings. Star Wars , spare for the remarkable exception of The Last Jedi , has often been focused on characters with “royal” lineage, less concerned with ordinary folk who have no connection to a grand divinely-willed destiny. The Chosen and Andor both make great strides toward a depiction of their subject matter that feels real. They both take a world of grand, near-mythic figures and bring them down to something relatable and specific. In The Chosen , Simon Peter is a poor fisherman with a hot temper, sarcastic sense of humor, and lots of money in debts. Matthew is a meticulous (and solitary) tax collector with a hint of autism. Mary is a former prostitute who is called out of her old life by Jesus in the first episode, but she still struggles with depression, traumatic memories, and destructive habits. Likewise, in Andor , there are no Jedi or Emperors or Sith Lords to be found. The main characters do things like sell scrap metal, work in factories and mines, and try not to call too much attention to themselves in a world dominated by The Empire. We’ve become so accustomed to Star Wars showing us who we should care about by giving that person a lightsaber or a connection to a mystical Skywalker bloodline that it’s almost surprising to see a story where the characters are just ordinary people, plain and simple. But the similarities between the shows, and their shared appeal, go much deeper than their groundedness. Andor is no direct allegory for The Gospels, mind you, but it does share some surprising resemblances and even stronger spiritual subtext. And, to put it simply: it’s just really excellent television. Andor is no direct allegory for The Gospels, mind you, but it does share some surprising resemblances and even stronger spiritual subtext. Houston Coley Andor is many things: elegant, empathetic, subversive, thoughtful, and perhaps the first piece of Star Wars media to elicit tears of both righteous anger and emotional catharsis. It’s also a beautiful demonstration of the ordinariness of rebellion, the strength of community, and the importance of making a choice to fight evil. It’s easy to praise the show using broad umbrella comparisons like, “it’s the best Disney+ series yet!” or “it’s the best Star Wars since The Empire Strikes Back !” Although both of these statements might be true, they still don’t do any real justice to the rich storytelling on display in showrunner Tony Gilroy’s 12-episode masterpiece, which goes far beyond simply being “good Star Wars ” or “good streaming content.” I’ll come out and say it: the show starts off as a decently slow burn. That’s not remotely a bad thing, but it does require some focused grown-up attention to be paid to an entirely new cast of seemingly unexceptional characters in a completely new place. Gilroy described it this way: “Do you really think that you will be able to appreciate what happened in Episodes Eight, Nine, and Ten as much without knowing what happened back in Episodes One, Two, and Three?…You’re absolutely enriched by it…If you really wanna feel something, if you have something that lives with you, the requirement for that is that you really care. You need that investment that you [make] in the early episodes.” For some, the perceived slowness early on could come from the way this take on Star Wars totally differs in its priorities from other entries in the saga. The automatic assumption the audience makes when we’re introduced to Cassian Andor’s home-planet, Ferrix, is that this setting will be abandoned quickly as the show moves along to the real adventure—which might lead to feelings of stalled confusion when we’re deliberately introduced to each of Cassian’s neighbors, his childhood friends, his aging and stuttering droid, his adopted mother, and the many people to whom he owes debts. Ferrix is, to really play up the comparison, a sort-of Nazareth of the Star Wars Galaxy. We do eventually leave Ferrix, but the place and characters introduced there matter greatly to the story being told and eventually return in the end—which is a little subversive for Star Wars, a franchise where the heroes usually leave their dreary homes behind and never look back. Characters like Cassian and his immediate community are so nondescript that they don’t immediately feel like they’ll be important to the plot. They’re essentially fishermen and tax collectors. But that’s where Andor is different from all other Star Wars , and The Gospels are different from all other religious narratives. When I revisited the original Star Wars movies recently, one thing struck me: growing up, I guess I always believed the various footsoldiers and X-Wing pilots and generals who helped to stop The Empire were just “professional Rebels” trained and raised since childhood to fight evil. The Rebel Alliance in the Original Trilogy feels like it’s been running like a well-oiled machine as long as there’s been an Empire to oppose. What Andor dares to ask is, “who are these people, anyway? Where do they come from? What have they lost? Do they have families? What would catalyze someone to join an organized group of perceived extremists?” One of the chief strengths of the show is that it works well as a standalone story even if you know very little about Star Wars , but I’d argue that statement has one crucial caveat: the audience must know about the character of Cassian Andor from Rogue One: A Star Wars Story . Cassian, in Rogue One , is a committed rebel spy willing to sacrifice his life to stop The Empire; the Cassian we meet at the start of his own series is the opposite of someone who would ever “join a cause.” The dramatic question at the heart of Andor is “what would cause a previously disengaged person to give up their life for a revolution?” The internal transformation of the character from a greasy, impoverished loner to a sacrificial freedom fighter is the main draw. Andor , then, is a story about radicalization. It’s about characters who were previously disengaged learning to care about something and make a stand for it, even risking loss of life. Ironically, The Chosen is about the same thing. Granted, the revolution Jesus’ disciples are being radicalized into is one of profound nonviolence and humility, but it is radical nonetheless and complete with, as Jesus puts it in the show, a “manifesto” known as the Sermon On The Mount. The Chosen frequently depicts just how subversive Jesus’ words and commands really were, especially at the start of Season 3, when the disciples gawk and dismay at the instruction to take no money, cloak, or weapons with them on their journey. This suggestion would be radical even within the worlsd of Andor , where the bestowment of a blaster gun is an oft-repeated symbol of trust and empowerment. Andor, then, is a story about radicalization. It’s about characters who were previously disengaged learning to care about something and make a stand for it, even risking loss of life. Houston Coley It’s fitting that although Cassian Andor is the hinge piece of his show—the one puzzle piece everyone seems to be pursuing. It’s ultimately an ensemble story, communicating the depth and breadth of subtle rebellion running through every avenue of the galaxy by showing the variety of people participating in different ways. It’s a body of resistance, to use a church metaphor. As soon as we find out that Mon Mothma, a wealthy senator and a future leader in the rebellion, is secretly funneling funds to the rebels, familiar alarm bells might go off for Bible nerds. The Gospels share a very similar character: Joanna, an early financial contributor to the church, who was married to King Herod’s household manager. She appears in the premiere episode of the third season of The Chosen. Luke 14:25 records Jesus saying, “if you come to me but will not leave your family, you cannot be my follower. You must love me more than your father, mother, wife, children, brothers, and sisters—even more than your own life!” It’s a passage that has provoked much controversy over the past 2000 years, but it certainly feels akin to the radical commitment Mon Mothma ultimately makes to the rebellion at the end of Andor , and a bit reminiscent of rebel organizer Luthen Rael’s now-iconic quote: “I burn my life to make a sunrise that I know I’ll never see.” Cassian comes to embody this quote by the time the credits roll on Rogue One , where he ultimately sacrifices himself to aid in destroying the Death Star. If Andor’s dramatic tension lies in the transformation of a character from a loner to a martyr, The Chosen grapples with the same transformation among the many disciples of Jesus. Almost all of them will eventually give up their lives for the faith, which begs an even greater question of how a person could ever arrive at that point of sheer commitment. It’s not entirely grounded in scripture, of course, but the traditional narrative that Simon Peter is eventually crucified upside down for his faith in Jesus has stuck with me whenever I’m watching the character onscreen in The Chosen , thinking about the drastic internal transformation that would lead to this radical “all-in” sacrifice. Radicalization is a word often loaded with an inherently violent subtext, and indeed, Andor depicts the grim realities of violent revolution in overthrowing oppressors, whether it’s escaping a prison or pulling a heist. I mean, this is all leading to a deeply destructive act of blowing up The Death Star, right? But I think the radicalization depicted in Andor , while violent, also goes beyond being simply about extreme retaliation. Radicalization in Andor is about each character searching their hearts and deciding where their allegiances lie—the choice to either fight for their own self-preservation, resign themselves to the status quo, or double down on an ideology that opposes it. Spoiler alert: almost every main character in the show ends up doubling down further, going “all-in” on the cause they come to fight for. We see radicalization in the arcs of characters like Syril Karn and Dedro Meero, who go from corporate/Imperial pencil-pushers to deeply devoted antagonists as they encounter opposition. But we also see radicalization toward the rebellion in characters like Cassian, his mother Maarva, his entire community on Ferrix, and the prisoners on Narkina 5, who all get fed up with the way things are and decide to commit to opposing it, even if it means facing their own death. The show does not depict the mere act of radicalization as uniformly “good” or “bad”, but it does lift up the heroes who decide to fight for something outside of their own well-being. The most sinister characters in Andor are the ones who are only using the “Star Wars” to free or further themselves. Dedra Meero, the initially-unassuming ISB officer tasked with investigating Cassian’s crimes, slowly morphs into one of the most evil characters in the series as she seeks to elevate her own status in the Imperial hierarchy above all else. Even Cassian begins his involvement with “the cause” by thinking that he can join just to improve his own circumstances. One seemingly-committed rebel Cassian meets along the way, Skeen, reveals that his investment is entirely self-serving: he says, “Oh, I’m a rebel. It’s just me against everybody else.” Characters like Dedra and Skeen do not meet happy ends in Andor . In Skeen’s case, it’s probably because he’s fallen for the very agenda he sought to oppose. The Empire aims to divide and isolate and create a zero sum game, but their downfall (both on Ferrix and in the later prison arc) comes when people bravely care for each other rather than fighting solely for their own self-interest. You can’t fight a revolution just for yourself, and by the end of the series, none of the citizens of Ferrix are making decisions to protect their own self-interest either. They’re making a covenantal stand for love of neighbor. The Chosen and Andor both feature an oppressive Empire looming over their ordinary characters, and indeed, The Empire in Star Wars takes lots of influence from Rome. Of course, The Chosen and Andor come to wildly different conclusions about what opposing their Empires might look like. Maarva Andor, Cassian’s mother, tells a crowd on Ferrix toward the end of the season that they’ve been “asleep” for too long; she says “there is a wound at the center of the galaxy that won’t heal” and motivates the community to wake up and “fight the Empire.” For many people today, the church (in the ancient world and the modern one) might feel like the epitome of a community that is “asleep” in the face of evil. After all, the early church did not participate in any violent revolution against the Roman Empire or take many political stands; their determined nonviolence might even be viewed by some as complacency with the status quo. For many people today, the church (in the ancient world and the modern one) might feel like the epitome of a community that is “asleep” in the face of evil. Houston Coley But the early church was a revolution. Glen Scrivener talks about it in his recent book, The Air We Breathe: How We All Came to Believe in Freedom, Kindness, Progress, and Equality . He says: “To claim—as Christians do—that the man on the cross was God is the most revolutionary notion the world has ever entertained.” The early church completely disrupted the hierarchy of the Roman Empire (and the ancient world at large) by suggesting that the last would be first, and by radically humanizing and caring for women, slaves, widows, prisoners, and orphans. The beyond-subversive values that the early church stood for helped form the basis for our understanding of human rights today – and although they didn’t use weapons, they did take a stand for something and died for it. If there’s any worthy non-violent stand-in for the early church in Andor beyond the rebellion, it might just be the group called The Daughters of Ferrix. The Daughters of Ferrix are described briefly as a “social club” in the community, but it’s clear that they’re much more than that; when Cassian’s mother Maarva is ill, they do everything they can to help her, and even offer to care for her aging droid, who feels much closer to a small child. They’re the people responsible for looking after the community, and when the revolution begins, several of the Daughters of Ferrix help to ferry rebel fugitives off-planet to escape imprisonment. It’s a touching picture of what real, covenantal love within community can look like. Jesus came to liberate the captives and rescue the oppressed, and while Andor obviously doesn’t have a literal Jesus stand-in character, it definitely depicts the tangible manifestation of this liberation, awakening our prophetic imaginations toward what true freedom might look like. When I first watched the “One Way Out” sequence toward the middle of the season, where Andy Serkis’ character inspires a group of prisoners to break free, the resulting catharsis when the prisoners once again breathed fresh air almost felt like worship. In The Chosen , a character like Simon Peter goes from a disinterested gambler (and a traitor to his friends) to a devoted follower of Christ chiefly because he experiences a miracle and is literally saved from imprisonment by the Romans. Cassian’s journey in Andor similarly depicts the necessity of being “saved” from capture and prison in his journey, but it more clearly depicts the sheer evil and brokenness of the world that causes Cassian to realize he needs freedom in the first place. It causes us, as the audience, to grapple with the present brokenness that will someday be vanquished, too. The irony of Cassian Andor’s character is that despite his nondescript and often unheroic profile, the ripple effects of his tiny acts of bravery and resistance in the first few episodes of the show are felt all the way throughout the rest of the season, even more than he could possibly know or understand. If there was one other mainstream comparison I’d level with Andor , I think the closest thing might be Les Misérables , partially because it’s about characters entrenched in systems of oppression and revolution, but also because it depicts the way ordinary acts of dying-to-self can change the world. In a way that closely mirrors Inspector Javert’s zealous decades-long pursuit of Jean Valjean, the Imperial forces who failed to catch Cassian near the start of the season are obsessed with finding and capturing him all the way till the end, even when he’s almost entirely ignorant of their pursuit. Like Javert, the Pre-Mor officer Syril Karn sees Cassian as an unworthy hero who doesn’t deserve grace or mercy – and after his first defeat, Syril devotes all his efforts to exacting punishment on Cass and proving himself as a man of “order.” Side note: Tony Gilroy has hinted that the moral allegiance of Syril Karn might still be up for grabs in Season 2, and if so, it’s not hard to imagine Karn going through an arc that resembles The Apostle Paul, transforming from executer to evangelist. The poetic and tragic ironies often present in Les Misérables are similarly explicit in Andor ; after participating in a daring rebel heist with the Imperial forces right on his tail and barely making it out alive, Cassian ends up being randomly arrested for something as trivial as loitering near a petty crime and sent to prison under an alias without a trial. Irony upon ironies: in prison, Cassian is forced to construct mechanical parts for purposes which he is completely unaware, but at the end of the season, we find out that the prisoners have been helping to build The Death Star, the very thing that Cassian will sacrifice his life to help destroy in Rogue One . Prison, however, turns out to be the best possible place for Cassian at that moment; as the ISB intelligence is searching high and low for him across the galaxy, he’s right under The Empire’s nose but completely out of their sight. He ultimately meets several people who will later become key players in the Rebellion in the process. All of these ironies pinpoint the way that just as the hubris of evil often overlooks the very thing capable of destroying it, the meagerness of the humble can be incapable of knowing just how much their small acts of bravery and selflessness will impact the whole world. Much like the story of Les Misérables ripples out from the initially self-serving actions of Jean Valjean, far beyond Valjean’s knowledge of his impact, the story of Andor hinges on the fallout of Cassian’s bravest choice, even when he would have never considered himself acting heroically. The ordinariness of Ferrix, the tight-knit community caring for each other, their unique culture in the face of the machine and the self-sacrificial courage of the rebellion are all tied to their eventual freedom. The Chosen is not quite as focused on a revolution against the Roman Empire as Andor is focused on fighting its Galactic Empire – and this is probably because the Gospels aren’t entirely preoccupied with opposing the Roman Empire either. Jesus acknowledged the struggle of living under oppression, but also proposed counter-cultural solutions that were drastically different than any heard before. The Chosen , The Bible, and Andor all do share one crucial thesis in common, though: it’s the people who seem ordinary and lowly that may have the biggest part to play in true liberation. Houston Coley and his wife Debora are missional documentary filmmakers currently living between Atlanta and Czech Republic. Houston is a YouTube video essayist, self-described 'theme park theologian', and the artistic director of a nonprofit called Art Within.

by Mark Geil An album that opens with a polka imagining what might happen if the “elephant in the room” is literally an elephant in a room and closes with an emotional journey through family life that plays a bit like the flashback scene in “Up,” punctuated by Paganini, indicates the extraordinary range of Nashville duo Zach and Maggie . The Elephant in the Room is a remarkable collection of songs that might make you laugh and cry in equal turns, and might send you to Google to look up references like “Lancelot Link.” The sometimes off-kilter storytelling creates vivid images of people I’d like to meet, which I count as a great accomplishment in a story-song. Melancholy nostalgia and tender vocals flavor songs like “Last Living Memory,” which ponders, like the Pixar film Coco , what sadness there might be when there is no one left to tell our story. Playing against the melancholy, bright world beats create the happiest song you’ll ever hear about the Cuban missile crisis, the space race, and the Bay of Pigs invasion. An image of a tireless robin soaking up the sky so it can color her eggs is a paean to the unseen “least of these” who color our worlds. And a wry commentary on gentrification uses subtle observations about, say, the perceived value of graffiti to make a less-than-subtle point about the value of humankind. And goodness, let’s spare a thought for the instrumentals. These romps are as clever as the rest of the album, inhabiting an accessible sweet spot in the middle of bluegrass, folk, and pop music. Zach and Maggie’s first full-length album is a delight. It’s an overused phrase to say that a record will take you on a “musical journey,” but it is so appropriate here. There is plenty of whimsy for laughing and dancing, and enough thoughtful reflection to make you think about life in new ways. This is a gifted pair in fine form. VISIT: Zach & Maggie

by Livi Goodgame If you have already begun the adventure of watching and discussing the Amazon Prime show titled The Rings of Power , hello fellow traveler! Isn’t this exciting? If you are on the fence, having second thoughts, or even not giving it any second thoughts, keep reading. It is my mission to nudge you out the door, down the road, and get you swept up into Middle-Earth in the Second Age.  Those of you who picked up the Gandalf reference above have probably already seen the major motion pictures of J.R.R. Tolkien’s world. The challenges of creating a show like this come firstly from the existence of those movies and, secondly, from all the lore that Tolkien provides in books that aren’t The Lord of the Rings trilogy or The Hobbit . Not only that, but the Tolkien fandom is massive and well-educated, and it will be quick to point out errors, inconsistencies, and any un-Tolkienish elements. Knowing this, let us all take a deep breath. The Rings of Power is not a book report. Those of us who are purists must expand our imaginations and tolerance to let in the inevitable creative liberties that will be present in this TV series. Nostalgia is also a powerful filter through which we view media, new or old. When my college friends learned that I had never seen the Disney Channel movie Camp Rock , they were flabbergasted and proceeded to help me right this wrong immediately. I watched the whole thing, which was more than fair because it was terrible. But they loved and were loyal to it because it held a special place in their childhood. It would be easy to let nostalgia be the driving force of our arguments when comparing The Rings of Power to The Lord of the Rings films (not so much the Hobbit films, I think we all concur). I admit that I am guilty of all of the above. I was cynical and skeptical of the show ever since I was aware of its inception. I thought, “They’re going to mess it all up: they’re not going to do their research, it’s going to be too flashy and modern, and it will never compare to the movies!” From the first announcement to the trailers’ release, I never relented in my opinion that I would disapprove. Friends, I am far more than pleasantly surprised. My original surmisings were, in part, the fault of the trailers, which were so different from the actual show. The trailers and previews are indeed flashy, modern, and totally misleading. Throw out any opinions you have of the show based on them; they are not reliable sources. I recommend that you first dive into the primary source and then form your opinions accordingly. Until then, allow me to give you a taste of what’s to come if you choose to take the plunge. My first impression was of the sets. We’ve come so far with CGI, and here it shows, but in the best way possible. Sure, some scenes seem a little too dreamlike, but the shots of the forest of Lindon, the Dwarven city of Khazad-dûm, and the fabled Númenór are nothing short of visual nectar. The beauty of New Zealand combined with the digital talents of those behind the scenes have created masterpieces. It is especially moving for those who have only seen Khazad-dûm in ruins and the fading city of Gondor that is only a tired shadow of Númenór. Seeing how alive these places were at one time put the setting of The Lord of the Rings in perspective—a land in danger of being overcome by the growing evil in Mordor. Compared to that, Middle-Earth in The Rings of Power is young and glorious, despite the evil that will soon appear. My second impression was of the script. It is by no means perfect, but they manage to keep a Tolkienish essence that feels as familiar, intentional, and powerful as even the original film trilogy. Of course, anything with a Tolkien flair is going to be flowery, dense, and dramatic at times. But that’s the point. Additionally, I can confirm that the writers did in fact do their research. For those who don’t know, the show takes place between the events of The Silmarillion and The Hobbit . While I have not read the appendices from which The Rings of Power content comes, I have read and studied The Silmarillion . Let me tell you, I became so excited when I saw the Two Trees of Valinor that, by the second episode, I had laid out all my notes, maps, and Elven family trees on the floor while watching to see how many Silmarillion references I could catch. There are quite a few. There are some familiar characters in this story, which is always a risk. Galadriel and Elrond are large shoes to fill, but if you ask me, Morfyyd Clark and Robert Aramayo fit them well. One thing both actors really accomplish is preserving the characters’ personalities in such a way that you can see their potential to eventually mature into who they are in The Lord of the Rings films. I don’t know where they found Morfyyd Clark, but she gets young Galadriel right on the money. Other than those two, we have a host of new faces who are fast becoming near and dear to my heart. At the top of the list is Nori Brandyfoot, a curious Harfoot who is convinced that simply helping someone in need is an important role to play in a story much bigger than her. Closely followed by her are Durin IV, heir to the throne of Khazad-dûm, and his wife Disa, whose singing is as powerful as her words are sharp. Their friendship with Elrond has been my favorite relationship to see unfold, providing many laughs and many more sweet moments. One more underlying detail I noticed about the show is in the soundtrack. There are clear themes and styles of music that change depending on the setting: the natural percussion and rhythms of the Harfoots; the ethereal voices of the Elves; the low, resonant choir in Khazad-dûm; the somber Celtic strings of the Southlands; and the epic harmonies and progressions of Númenór. After going back and watching season one a second time (it’s that good), I even noticed some musical easter eggs that give hints to future revelations in the story. Yet another exhibition of the clear intentionality and care that the creators have put into this show. Every facet has been delicately planned and thought out, which shows that, if anything, these people know their audience. For all of you purists whose minds are still not swayed, I do empathize with you. However, my empathy is not without pity. It’s a shame to think that we let our standards, set by the great artists of the past, hinder us from experiencing the great art of today because we don’t think it will measure up. To sit stubbornly in our chairs saying, “All of the great adventures have been claimed and collected. No point in going out there to find a new one when the best stories already rest on my bookshelves.” Perhaps you are content reading your old faithfuls by the fire, safe in your home without risk. Yet there is another adventure out there to be had, and a large party has already left to have it. If you have any inkling to join us, it’s not too late! Grab your coat and walking stick, forget your handkerchiefs stitched with familiar patterns, and catch up! We’ve still got a long way ahead, and the more, the merrier. Livi Goodgame is a native Nashvillian, a fiddle player, and an aspiring poet who teaches line dancing on the side. She is currently studying English and French at MTSU.

by Bethany J. Menton I remember Frank as an old man, always kneeling in some corner to measure or drill, quietly with trembly hands. I remember staring at the nub where I’d heard he’d lost a finger to a chop saw, and wondering if it was still lying in his shop somewhere. Frank would have been nearly 80 the summer he built our shed, when he showed up every morning in a white V-neck that matched his nest of hair, opening the hatch of his minivan to a cloud of sawdust. He let my brothers do most of the building, guiding the circular saw over their shoulders. That summer was the most I’d ever heard Frank say anything, and that shed happened to be the last thing he built for us before he died. Frank built our picnic table, too, and tiled the foyer floor, and carved the oak cabinets that span our kitchen wall. They’re the first things folks notice when they step through our front door. And when we all sit down to dinner, Mom will ask me to serve cookies or grab a pitcher from Frank’s Cabinets, and neither of us will realize we’ve given that corner his name. In most places, Frank went nameless. At church, he sat in the back row, and at five-foot-four, he was usually missed altogether. He ducked in and out of service each week, but it was only to return to the carpentry shop in his garage, where he’d make cuts and work at his lathe. He’d come back with measured pieces that slid right into place. Anyone passing the secretary’s office would have seen the tiered desk and row of cabinets Frank had built. Yesterday was Sunday, and I stepped into the office to see worship music and prayer sheets scattered across that desk, and I thought about the service it’s seen. The front office is the first place homeless folks go for help. It’s where kids stop for mints. It’s where Mrs. Mindi worked for 20 years, meeting people at the door and welcoming them into the Lord’s house. Frank wasn’t the minister, and he didn’t lead the prayer meeting. He simply did what his knobby hands knew to do, and so provided a place for ministry and prayer to happen. Years after he died, the folks at First Baptist still enjoy the work of his hands, even if they don’t remember the worker— and I find that a common theme in God’s story. It’s the quiet laborers whose work spans generations. Frank might have been shorter than even me, but as Francis Shaeffer would argue, there are “no little people” in God’s kingdom. That’s the thing about consecrated work: long after the worker is gone, it keeps serving the Living God. Bethany J. Melton I think of Bezalel, who built the tabernacle, whom the Lord filled with “knowledge and all craftsmanship, to devise artistic designs,” and especially “in carving wood” (Ex. 31:4-5). We never hear where Bezalel was buried, or if they etched on his stone, The Man Who Built The Lord’s House. But we do know God came to dwell in the house he built and stood glorified there for 400 years. That’s the thing about consecrated work: long after the worker is gone, it keeps serving the Living God. We sometimes laugh about the longevity of Frank’s work, because when he built our family’s picnic table, he soldered it to a steel frame. It’s a bear to move. I have a feeling if a Midwestern storm blew through and took our home, that picnic table and wall of cabinets would be left standing, like altars among the wreckage. When I told Frank’s sister about that, she laughed and said they have a family joke: If it isn’t heavy, Frank didn’t build it. In a church culture that often tries to hit folks with an immediate, radical impact, I can’t help but hope for more holy work that’s sturdy enough to serve the next generation. Frank’s Cabinets stand the wear and tear of six kids and five grandkids— the meals, grocery hauls, and holidays when we pack the counter with pies. They stand there quietly, the way Frank did, and serve us. And the shed? It’s there, too, crouched at the woodline. The spring of ‘16, my little brother spent his school lunch breaks helping Frank build it—or rather, building what Frank let him. My brother is 18 now and eyeing a degree in Construction Management. He spent the last year building a 2,800-square-foot home in our neighborhood, using a circular saw and sander the way Frank taught him. That home will belong to a family from our church, who will bring God’s Spirit into it— and so, in a way, it will be the Lord’s house. I never heard where they buried Frank, and I doubt his tombstone remembers him as The Man Who Built The Lord’s House. He didn’t leave behind an engraved name, but he did leave our church members with sturdy tables and tractor sheds. He didn’t reach the unreached, but he did extend his carpenter’s hands as far as they could reach— right into the heart of Jesus’s local body. Bethany J. Melton writes true stories from her home on Edgewood Road, where she hopes to depict the places and people she’s known in a way that tells a truer Story. You can read more at her blog .

by Andrew Stanton-Henry My first job was working as a landscaper. It was demanding work, demanding because it was hard work in the hot sun, all day long. It also required attention to the smallest detail without losing sight of the landscape in which you were working.  It required knowledge about plants and soil, skills for cultivating them, and a willingness to get to know the particular piece of ground with its set of limitations and possibilities. Day after day, the crew would grab our tools and get to work at our site—weeding, trimming, installing beds, planting shrubs, grinding stumps, spreading mulch. Together, we created some beautiful spaces for folks to inhabit. I have had many jobs since then, but I’m still landscaping. When I write or preach or garden, I’m naming and shaping landscapes. I like to think of my mission statement as “providing language and landscape for the spiritual life.” Ministry and creative work (however you define either of those terms) are works of what Wendell Berry called “imagination in place.” They require being rooted in a particular place among particular people, paying attention, forming relationships, and dreaming with God about its possibilities. Like outdoor landscaping, it requires both careful attention to detail and awareness of the wider context. This takes training because our imaginations are not as free as we think; they are captive to powers like consumerism and colonialism. Thankfully, I’ve had some good teachers over the years. One of my favorite teachers was the late musician Rich Mullins. In my own Quaker faith, we don’t talk much about specific rituals that serve as “sacraments.” Instead, we talk about the “sacramental universe” we all occupy. Anyone and anything can be a means of grace. While Rich valued the Lord’s Supper and other historic Christian ordinances, he also had a sense that we live in a “sacramental universe.” Maybe he was shaped by that same Quaker tradition; he attended a Quaker meeting in Indiana as a kid. “Everywhere I go I see you” is something Rich and I can both sing in this sacramental universe. It’s a beautiful truth and an alluring invitation. Wherever we go we can expect to experience divine presence, not only in exotic and exciting new places but also “here in America” where the Holy King of Israel loves us, even here “in the land of [our] sojourn.” We don’t always feel like God is near or always hear God speaking, but most of the time we can assume it’s because we have more to learn about seeing and hearing. Learning is the central task for all spiritual and creative work. “Everywhere I go I see you” is preceded by “everywhere I go, I’m looking.” Rich was always looking. He found beauty in the ordinary. But he also kept looking when he saw things that were broken and painful. He looked without looking away.  Anyone and anything can be a means of grace. Andrew Stanton-Henry I moved from Ohio to Kansas to attend college when I was a young adult. I didn’t go to Friends University like Rich but attended another small Quaker college in western Kansas. Like Rich, I was captivated by the landscapes of the Great Plains. The wide-open expansiveness can be overwhelming at first, yet eventually, I fell in love with it and began to experience what Belden Lane called “the solace of fierce landscapes.” Rich’s music, which I had loved for as long as I could remember listening to music, helped me appreciate that landscape. He gave me words to sing and pray and contemplate while inhabiting that specific region. I learned to listen to the prairies “calling out [God’s] name.” Every time I saw a pheasant while driving down a dirt road, I thought of the “fury in a pheasant’s wings.” I also came to understand why Rich wrote so much about the “winds of heaven.” In Kansas, the wind is a wild force. It can’t be ignored and can barely be resisted. Kansans know why wind is such a common metaphor for God in the Bible—and sometimes it’s more than a metaphor. When you are facing the great winds on the plains, you can see why the Psalmist said God “makes the wind his messengers” (Ps. 104:4). If we listen to those divine messengers, just maybe “the howling will take [us] home.” Those winds of heaven intersect with the stuff of earth and “shake us forward and shake us free.” It’s scary sometimes but also liberating because we are set free to “run wild with this hope.” These days, I talk and write about the importance of place and community and rootedness and landscape. In college, those things weren’t particularly important to me, but I think leaving my hometown (and later returning) changed that. It wasn’t only the process of leaving and making a life “on my own” that shaped me. It was witnessing a very different natural and cultural landscape and learning about what Kathleen Norris called “a spiritual geography.” Between Norris’ book Dakota and Rich Mullins’ songs, I learned to love my place and live in it faithfully. I’ve come to believe that ministers and musicians are landscapers, not only because they plant new life and shape landscapes but also because, at their best, they help us learn the spirituality of a place—its history, its landscapes, its inhabitants. They help us see God’s presence and activity in places we previously thought were boring or even barren. They help us practice “imagination in place.” Maybe the metric for good music and good ministry should be this: we finish the song or the sermon or the book and say “Surely the Lord is in this place, and I was not aware of it.” (Gen. 28:16). Andy is a writer, Quaker minister, chicken-keeper, and distraught Reds fan. He carries a special concern for rural leaders, leading to his recently published book Recovering Abundance: Twelve Practices for Small-Town Leaders. A native Buckeye, Andy now lives in East Tennessee with his spouse, Ashlyn, their blue heeler Cassie, and their laying hens.

by Matt Conner “On soft Spring nights I’ll stand in the yard under the stars—Something good will come out of all things yet—And it will be golden and eternal just like that—There’s no need to say another word.” -Jack Kerouac, Big Sur If your house is anything like mine, there’s an ever-heightening anticipation for the coming season. We’ve opened the presents of holidays and birthdays. We’ve made hot cocoa and watched our favorite movies. We’ve slept a little longer, indulged our quieter hobbies, and enjoyed the intimacy of cozy fires. But now we’re ready for spring. One of the most exciting and beautiful aspects of the coming season is found in the potential it represents. Shared activities lead to shared stories and the common language that arises from such experiences is one of the most empowering gifts we can ever receive. It is to that end—toward beauty, toward connection, toward shared stories—that we’re excited to share the spring season of The Local Show. For the next three months, we will be opening up the doors of North Wind Manor to the considerable talents of many friends knowing their shared stories will provide encouragement and hope and perspective for those of us in need of spring’s potential. Check out the details for The Local Show’s Spring ’23 season. March 7, 2023 @ 7:30 p.m. C.T. ( TICKETS ) Andrew Peterson JJ Heller Sandra McCracken Ben Shive April 4, 2023 @ 7:30 p.m. C.T. ( TICKETS ) Andy Gullahorn Jill Phillips Taylor Leonhardt The Arcadian Wild May 9, 2023 @ 7:30 p.m. C.T. ( TICKETS ) Jess Ray The River Indigo Paul Demer Cecily Hennigan #semifeature Matt Conner is a former pastor and church planter turned writer and editor. He’s the founder of Analogue Media and lives in Indianapolis.

by Judy Kimmel “Hey, I just saw the announcement about no Homebound this year. Wondering if there’s any chance there might be a ‘901 moot’ in the offing?” I sent this message to Eddy Efaw, the only person I knew who was involved with Hutchmoot Homebound in 2020 and 2021. All I wanted to know was whether or not someone was already planning a faith and arts conference for Memphis (the “901”, in local parlance). If so, I definitely wanted to attend. Honestly, I wasn’t suggesting we start something, but seeing my message and knowing that no such event was on the horizon, Eddy responded with enthusiasm. He assumed I was proposing that he and I make this our mission, and he was definitely down for it. Wait, what? Was I hearing him right? Did he actually think we could do this? I liked the idea—I liked it a lot—but had to wonder if we might be taking on more than we could handle. As he and I met in a local coffeehouse and hashed it out, all the “W” questions came at us like a blast from a firehose: What did we know about putting on a conference? What was even involved? What kind of sessions should be offered? Who would present? Who would be a good keynote speaker? Where should we plan to have the conference? When would be the best time of year? How should we even begin? We knew absolutely nothing about how to proceed, but the more we talked, the more the concept captured our hearts and imaginations. This could happen. This life-affirming celebration of faith and the arts could be part of our community’s story. What better way to bring together people who found great joy in co-creating with God? It was mid-March 2022, and we were in.  Over the next months, God placed key persons in our path who directed us as we tackled the daunting tasks of creating an LLC, obtaining a bank account, designing a website, gathering a team of people to manage various aspects of the conference, figuring out QuickBooks, learning how to use Eventbrite, and much, much more. Turns out, the two of us were a pretty good team, Eddy having participated in Hutchmoot in person multiple years, while I had only attended Hutchmoot Homebound; Eddy being well-acquainted with many artists and musicians, both from Hutchmoot friendships and in Memphis, and I with the experience interacting with lawyers and accountants from my time in corporate America. I think we would both agree that it’s been a wild and challenging journey. Lots of hard work, lots of decisions, lots of just feeling our way, lots of prayer. The destination is now drawing near, and our entire team is beyond excited to offer the first ever Memphis Arts Moot , planned for April 13-15, 2023. We have a wonderful lineup of presenters and musicians designed to help us celebrate the beauty of creation through participation in our own creative activities. Attendees will enjoy a “welcome” dinner and concert by Skye Peterson on Thursday evening. Presentations on photography, writing, gardening, visual arts, culinary adventures, and music are planned throughout the day on both Friday and Saturday. Our Friday evening concert features Memphis native Moriah Jackson . Following the example set by Hutchmoot, meals are an integral, essential part of this conference. We purposely included four meals in the full-price tickets in order to encourage ample engagement around a common table. In order to facilitate attendance by Memphians, we also established a Saturday Day Pass which includes all presentations for that day, plus the Keynote address by John Hendrix and the evening concert by “Son of Laughter” Chris Slaten . Saturday Day Passes are not limited to Memphians and may be of particular interest to those from nearby areas who wish to drive in just for the day. There are also a limited number of Student Day Passes available for Saturday, which include the same access. Meals are not included in either of the Saturday Day Passes. Our planning team is working hard to provide a friendly Memphis welcome to all who attend. Memphis is beautiful in the Spring, with warm breezes and vibrant colors furnishing a feast for the senses. The conference venue in east Memphis is a five-minute drive from Dixon Gallery and Gardens , which currently has free admission, and the Memphis Botanic Gardens . A fifteen-minute drive will bring you to Shelby Farms Park , one of the largest urban parks in the country, complete with a lake with multiple walking and biking trails and its own herd of buffalo.  Come join us for a Spring infusion of Memphis passion, faith, and making! It could change your life. Full information and a link to purchase tickets may be found on our website . #semifeature Judy Kimmel retired from the corporate world in 2019 and thoroughly enjoys pursuing a variety of creative endeavors. She is grateful to work alongside Eddy Efaw as co-founder of Memphis Arts Moot.

by Dave Radford One of the most fulfilling musical experiences I’ve had was on stage at the Ryman Auditorium a few years back. It was the first half of Andrew Peterson’s Behold the Lamb of God tour, which was performed “in the round” with a bunch of other artists. After we played our song, “Take This Slowly”, it was time to sit down on stage while the other musicians did their thing. For me, the following 20-30 minutes were magic. Each artist would go up to the microphone and offer their song and craft—something labored over for so long -to an eager audience ready to listen. That audience included me, and I had the best seat in the house. I remember being literally four feet away from Stuart Duncan (a hero of mine and amazing fiddle player for Goat Rodeo and others), Ron Block (legendary banjo player), and Sierra Hull (maybe the best female mandolinist alive) while they played as a trio, performing licks and runs on their instruments that I could never dream of pulling off. Artist after artist would go up to the microphone and offer their song. In that short window of time, I felt a camaraderie I’ll never forget. The evening felt “right”. Somehow, at that moment, it wasn’t anybody’s show. It had become everybody’s show, the audience and artists together. That feeling is something I’ve always wanted more of. Six months ago or so I thought, “What if we did our own tour and brought out our artist friends to play with us in the round like we did on that tour?” Maybe I could get back to that feeling. Maybe the audience could share it too. That’s where the Zion Caravan Tour was born. I can’t wait for this tour. I want it to be special. It’s a grand experiment in a lot of ways and I hope it’s just the 1.0 of future Zion Caravan Tours to come. I’d love for you to come and be a part of the first one—and of course, our fellow artists, John Mark Pantana , Antoine Bradford , and LOVKN , who I can’t wait for you to hear! You can purchase tickets here and use the code CARAVAN for $5 off an adult general admission ticket for a limited time! Check out the full tour dates below: 3/22 – Waco, TX 3/23 – Houston, TX 3/24 – San Antonio, TX 3/25 – Austin, TX 3/26 – Dallas, TX 3/29 – Columbus, OH 3/30 – Grand Rapids, MI 3/31 – Chicago, IL 4/1 – Minneapolis, MN 4/2 – Kansas City, MO 4/11 – Nashville, TN 4/12 – Knoxville, TN 4/13 – Atlanta, GA 4/12 – Knoxville, TN 4/14 – Raleigh, NC #semifeature Dave Radford is the lead singer of The Gray Havens, a narrative-pop-folk band. He lives in Nashville, Tennessee with his wife Licia, and two boys, Simon and Noah.

by Matt Conner Every year on Ash Wednesday, I find myself thinking about my appreciation for and friendship with Father Thomas McKenzie, a dear companion of so many in the Rabbit Room community. Beyond the shared stories and meaningful moments, the most impactful aspect of knowing Thomas was seeing the centrality of Jesus at work in his life. Thomas never shied away from the truth, and it’s what made Church of the Redeemer such a special place during our years in Nashville. Whether you were sharing a meal or listening to a sermon, Thomas had a way of allowing core things to remain at the core (and everything else could fall away). Love is supreme. Christ is victorious. Death is real, but resurrection even more so. For me, Thomas always had a way of bringing the season of Lent into view like no one else. It wasn’t about charisma or theatrics, new ideas or dynamic stories. Instead, it was the authentic and vulnerable ways in which he invited truth in to do its work in his own life and his encouragement for us to allow the same. On this Ash Wednesday, it felt appropriate to post a short sermon from Thomas, who is tragically no longer with us, about the ways in which we participate in a culture of death and a call to allow the Spirit to guide us toward life. You can also listen via Apple Podcasts or Spotify . Matt Conner is a former pastor and church planter turned writer and editor. He’s the founder of Analogue Media and lives in Indianapolis.

by Houston Coley “I don’t want to be your friend anymore.” Everyone has probably heard some variation of these words at least once in their life – and they feel particularly common between kids on the playground. That’s probably why, when full-grown ColmSonnyLarry offers more or less the same words to his buddy Pádraic Súilleabháin, some folks in the village say, “What is he, twelve?” The words are far from simplistic. The way Colm speaks to Pádraic cuts even harder: “I just don’t like you no more.” Colm says he’s trying to focus on his art, using his time to do something that lasts, and “idle chatting” with someone like Pádraic isn’t helping him with that. It’s hard to deny that rejection as simple as this can get your stomach churning and mind swirling instantly. Why don’t they like me anymore? Is it something I did? Is it something they did? Have I changed? Have they changed? Am I unlikeable? Does anyone like me? The immediate inner turmoil can eventually implode in flame. The Banshees of Inisherin captures that existential implosion with wit and tragedy befitting of Martin McDonagh’s directorial stamp. Ever since Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri , I’ve been fascinated by McDonagh’s view of the world, and finally watching In Bruges this year only deepened that fascination. There’s an intense cynicism and darkness to his stories that some might even go so far as to call nihilism, but unlike some viewers, I can’t say any of them have ever left me fully depressed or hopeless. Amid the rubble of broken relationships and comic absurdity of the pain in McDonagh’s work, there’s always a glimmer of love and relationship among pathetic people that beckons toward a deeper reality and core human longing. The endings are always just open enough to imagine a path to healing and a path to even greater darkness. McDonagh’s relationship to Catholicism is particularly interesting to me, too; he’s clearly disillusioned and jaded with the institution, but nevertheless seems unable to escape the pressing moral implications of the character of Christ. Banshees centers a big chunk of its moral and thematic exploration around the concept of “niceness.” Is niceness the same as goodness? Is it a sin not to be nice? What does niceness ultimately accomplish or leave behind when we’re gone? “Ya know who was remembered for how nice they were in the 17th century? Absolutely no one,” argues Colm, “but I’ll tell you something that lasts: Music lasts. And paintings last. And poetry lasts.” “So does niceness!” Pádraic pleads. It’s one of many moments where Pádraic’s earnest spirit compels the audience to side with him. Pádraic’s perceived niceness, though, isn’t entirely as rock solid as it might seem. When the film opens, Pádraic is literally living in an Irish world of sunshine and rainbows. His meaning comes from the day-in-day-out rituals of farm life, a recurring trip to the pub at precisely 2 o’clock, and the few friends in his tiny town—but he’s content with it that way. Or at least, he likes to tell himself he’s content. If there’s one thing Pádraic is resistant toward, it’s self-reflection: “What’s the matter with everyone?” he mutters, after his sister Siobhan asks if he’s ever felt lonely. When Siobhan mentions that she’s reading a “sad” book, Pádraic says, “You should read something not-sad, Siobhan, else you might get sad.” Until Colm’s firm and undeniable rejection, Pádraic has never been asked to confront his own life or happiness, or the nature of his relationships. Colm’s self-reflective existential crisis brings the whole island into confusion and disorder, primarily because nobody has ever had to do any real reflection on their routine lives, nor had they any reason to face rejection in a direct way. The question of “liking” the other people at the pub has never been a real concern; there aren’t many other social options if you don’t. In a modern individualist landscape where we can find niche social circles and communities (especially online) that perfectly suit our unique interests and preferences, the concept of such bare limitation in possible relationships might seem archaic to us. Yet in a sense, for people like Pádraic especially, it allows the freedom to live without feeling a need to impress or seek out. Some might call it passive; others might call it restful. Colm’s decision to question the value of spending time with his neighbors shakes everything off-balance, ushering in a sense of personal choice and boundaries that feels more akin to the way we allocate our time and curate our relationships in the modern western world. That’s not to glamorize the village life on Inisherin, though. The film frequently depicts the discomfort of living in a place where everyone knows (and talks about) you in a way that can often feel downright dystopian. Everything that transpires in the village is watched by someone, either from behind a bar counter, through a window, or across the pond, and this inescapable tight-knittedness breeds claustrophobic insecurity. After the initial rejection, Pádraic’s early pursuit becomes about “going back to the way things were” and preserving the tentative order of the island life he’s known for decades, even if it means repressing or ignoring any negative emotions stirred up from their hibernation. “Well if he’s depressed, he could at least keep it to himself like. Ya know, push it down like the rest of us,” he says. Interestingly, I’ve witnessed a good amount of older people resonating with Pádraic’s resolute commitment to a simple friendship, and a small-but-reasonable amount of young people defending Colm’s firm resolve to maintain his boundaries of “self-care” and pursue his art. I’m convinced that both characters are in the wrong from the start. Both are blinded by their own ego and insecurities and both misunderstand the nature of human relationships. Colm treats his relationships too transactionally; people are only valuable insofar as they add to your life and contribute in some way to your sense of fulfillment or accomplishment by the end of it. Pádraic, though, has never had to do the existential pondering to decipher what kind of relational transaction could ever be occurring in the first place. He just chats about his donkey’s shite without giving it a second thought. It’s telling that Pádraic’s only other friend on Inisherin is Barry Keoghan’s Dominic, again more by necessity than desire. He’s a character even Pádraic finds boring and annoying to be around, mocking and demeaning behind his back as “the dimmest on the island.” Ironic as it is, Dominic is to Pádraic what Pádraic is to Colm: the slightly simpler friend who mostly distracts from the pressing issue in their mind with petty grievances and trivial conversation topics. It’s not hard to imagine Pádraic saying something along the lines of “I don’t like you anymore” or “I don’t want to spend my days chatting with you” to Dominic, especially if anyone remotely interesting were to come along and take his place. Maybe Pádraic isn’t quite as “nice” as he thinks. It might be an oversimplification, but in a sense, there is one person who was remembered for “being nice”, and his face lurks like a shadow in the background of much of the film: the figure of Christ. His portrait hangs on the wall over Pádraic’s bed and watches over all the loneliness that transpires. His presence looms in the hymnal song which plays on the record player when Colm goes out for a walk. The sign of the cross plays a visual role in almost every crucial scene between the two men in the film. And even Mother Mary, also known for her purity and kindness, stands guard at the fork in the road between Pádraic’s home and Colm’s home. Of course, unlike Pádraic’s niceness, Christ’s niceness goes beyond maintaining the passive status quo and brushing the negativity under the rug. Christ is Love, not niceness, and though love and niceness might sometimes look the same, they stem from different sources. There’s another relationship on display in the film, though: the relationship between brother and sister. Husband and wife create a covenant that must not be broken. Friends have no covenant, but maintain their friendship as long as their similarities prove greater than their differences. Brother and sister are a unique bond, different than the others; they are forever connected but never bound. Siobhan is able to encourage and support her brother while also being honest and sardonic with him in a way that only family can be. Eventually, she leaves him to go to the mainland for a new life and doesn’t look back, but she still offers him a bed and house to sleep in if he would like to come and join her. As such, the bond of sibling kinship is the strongest one in the movie. Maybe in another part of their lives, Pádraic and Colm would’ve called themselves brothers. But the brotherhood is broken. Siobhan is the one truly mature character able to make a decision that is best for her without alienating or pushing away the people she loves; she’s not always “nice,” but she cares for people deeply. Christ is Love, not niceness, and though love and niceness might sometimes look the same, they stem from different sources. Houston Coley Siobhan may seem like the person who most embodies love in the film, but if we look closer, there are many moments when Colm embodies love too, even if it’s not “like.” In a very Good Samaritan turn, Colm helps Pádraic up and onto his feet and takes him home after he’s punched in the face by the police officer. And when the officer later accosts Pádraic after his donkey has died, Colm knocks the officer out cold, choosing sympathy for Pádraic’s grief. Even as Colm is cutting off his own body parts to prove he doesn’t care, his actions suggest that he still does—and maybe that’s a discovery for himself, too. When Colm confesses to the priest that he fears that God really doesn’t care about little donkeys, he’s interacting with an underlying concept of the film: the eternal value of seemingly small and simple things. Colm has become a deist in spirit, fearing that there is a God but all He does is sit back and watch. “I wasn’t trying to be nice, I was trying to be accurate,” says Mrs. McCormack, the strangely prophetic old woman whose watchful gaze and portends of death make her the titular Banshee of the film. Mrs. McCormack probably best represents what Colm fears God might be like: concerned with accuracy rather than love, observing but never helping. Colm’s fear that God does not value small things may be what drives him to want to achieve something “great” before his life is out – but in doing this, he begins to lose the simple things that gave his life meaning in the first place. Watching the film for the first time, I could hear the line from David Lowery’s The Green Knight a couple of years ago: “Why greatness? Is goodness not enough?” Ironically, Colm’s pursuit of his great art leaves him completely unable to make it; by the end of the film, the man with no fingers on one hand is left humming a melody that he’ll never be able to play again. Maybe it wasn’t about the art, after all, but about something deeper and more existential. Maybe it was about finding or feeling something real. Colm forsakes niceness but eventually finds that he cannot help but love his friend even when he is thoroughly annoyed by him. Pádraic forsakes niceness and spirals into a vengeful rage, but the death of his donkey and the loss of his relationships also forces him to encounter grief for the first time and frees the negative emotions he’s refused to engage for so long. In his interviews about the film, McDonagh has said that Pádraic and Siobhan lost both their parents to suicide. Given what we know about Pádraic, it’s easy to imagine that he never really properly grieved this loss; the only time he mentions it in the film is when he’s drunk. Now, although he spirals out of control, he finally feels something real. Pádraic’s literal death threat to Colm, and decision to follow through with burning his house down while he’s sitting inside it, is a catalyst for existential change. Colm has been wrestling with his own morality and despair internally for ages, but the walls going up in flames around him as a result of his own decisions force him to decide whether there’s something to live for. Evidently, he believes there is. In a strange sense, though we never witness any reconciliation between Colm and Pádraic, the conflict brings growth for both of them. When Colm says “I suppose burning my house makes us quits,” there’s almost a sense of gratitude or relief in his demeanor. And when he says “thanks for lookin’ after my dog anyway,” and Pádraic replies “anytime,” with a quivering mixture of forced bitterness and tentative hope, it’s not hard to imagine that they’ll be having drinks again in a few days time with far less passivity in their friendship than before. Maybe they’ll find something closer to love—real, honest, brotherly love. That’s my optimistic interpretation, anyway. There’s another way of viewing it, especially through the lens of the Civil War happening on the mainland, that says this is only the beginning of a long and pointless conflict that will never end. But I’m something of a romantic, and I like to think McDonagh leaves things open for us to hope. Houston Coley and his wife Debora are missional documentary filmmakers currently living between Atlanta and Czech Republic. Houston is a YouTube video essayist, self-described 'theme park theologian', and the artistic director of a nonprofit called Art Within.

by Chelsea Barnwell I was recently asked to look through the children’s books in my church’s small library and resource center. We were a few decades past due for a careful evaluation of our book inventory. The library staff wanted to know if there were books that should be discarded and if I had recommendations for new books. I was thrilled to be able to assist and spend a few hours looking through picture books. I used this library as a child, probably more frequently than the public library. It was open before and after each service, Sunday morning, Sunday night, and Wednesday night. It quickly became our family “meeting spot” when my siblings and I were old enough. While others had library numbers like “462” or “1329”, my parents were so excited to join that their library numbers were “2” and “3”! This made it very easy for us as kids to check out our own books. We joked that number “1” must have been the senior pastor, though we never did find out for sure. While I sat on a library stool looking through the pile of possible discards, the process turned into an emotional journey. While some books were easily retired from wear and tear, others made us laugh with such dated artwork or cheesy titles. Then a nostalgic wave from a few special books made me a child again. I reverently handled works that had not only been well-loved but had been well-loved by me . Mine were the little hands that had left the “lift-the-flaps” limp with overuse. I was the one who’d creased soft covers by trying to cram too many books into my bag. I was the one who’d loosened spines by dropping books into the return bin over and over.  I am not sure if this book helped influence those desires or if my developing natural interests made this book a favorite. Perhaps it was a little of both. Chelsea Barnwell One book, in particular, caught my attention. It was a simple story titled Debbie’s Birthday Party. Its copyright was 1969. This book was already decades old before it found its way to this library for me to read. There wasn’t much plot, no problem to solve, or any unexpected turns. Honestly, I didn’t really remember the story. However, as I turned the pages, each illustration perfectly matched an image stored deep in my long-term memory. I hadn’t thought about this book since the last time I checked it out over twenty years prior, but from the feelings it stirred, I must have checked out the book repeatedly and pored over the pages for hours. Since I don’t remember the story or words, but the pictures were instantly recognizable, my guess is that this was a favorite of mine before I could read. It was interesting to note the different activities represented in the pictures: sewing, dancing, and hosting a beautiful party. These are some of my favorite things to do now! I am not sure if this book helped influence those desires or if my developing natural interests made this book a favorite. Perhaps it was a little of both. As I finish the task of winnowing the book collection, I now look forward to the task of recommending new books to fill the empty spots on the shelves. Clear words, a true message, the sweep of an imaginative story, and beautiful language all matter, but I am vividly reminded that the illustrations are just as important. I imagine little children in our church nursery or preschool classes “reading” a book by the pictures dozens, even hundreds, of times more often than their parents or Sunday School teachers are able to read the words to them. The illustrations imprinted in their minds should be beautiful and meaningful, not merely eye-catching. These little ones deserve both good stories and good art, feeding their understanding and imagination. Chelsea Barnwell is a writer, deep thinker, and avid reader. She makes art and writes her blog welcometothecarriagehouse.com in a restored carriage house in the Blue Ridge Mountains.

by Rachel Matar We’ve been hosting Open Hours for about a year now, and it’s become one of my favorite parts of the life of the Rabbit Room. We like having an excuse to get the fire roaring, bake something yummy, light the candles, and set out the mugs, but what we really like is you. So many of you have prayed, donated, and dreamed about this space with us. It’s been special to be able to open the doors and welcome you here. And while we think Open Hours are important because we appreciate you, we think they are fun because we like you. We want North Wind Manor to be hospitable for all of you, but we know that there are many varied definitions of what makes a space “hospitable.” Someone wanting to focus on a project and someone wanting to meet new people likely have different needs from a hospitable space. We’re excited about all of that stuff, so we are expanding Open Hours to better host more of you. Open Hours: Fika Jamie introduced us to the Swedish concept of Fika , which literally means “coffee break” but also carries lovely implications of community, coziness, and intentional pause. That idea was our original inspiration for Open Hours and has been what we’ve tried to cultivate all year. Every Wednesday from 1-4 PM, we open the doors to anyone who wants to visit. Fika feels different every week, but generally, it’s a vibrant hum of conversation, laughter, and music. You’re welcome to bring your laptop or a project, but if you need quiet, be aware that no one is going to tell the kids to stop doing science projects or playing tag. In fact, we might be playing, too. Quiet Hours: Stilla We love the vibrant thing that Fika has become, but we are also excited about the good things that come out of quiet places. New this month, we’re introducing Stilla (Swedish for quiet and peaceful) every Friday morning from 9 to noon. The idea for these quiet hours is to provide a calmer space for deeper focus. Bring your laptop to work remotely, work on a creative project, bring a book, or borrow one of ours. We’ll provide the coffee, and if we can’t help ourselves from playing a game of tag, we’ll make sure we take it outside. Another thing that is true is that many of you will never visit this place. Maybe you live far away, or your schedule is full. God gave you stewardship of a different corner of the world, and you’re faithfully tending that ground. Thank you! We’re so glad you’re “here,” even when you can’t be here. We want this place to be good for you, too, so we are working to expand the ways that we can share North Wind Manor with you. In the coming months, look for more ways to experience some of the special events that happen here, as well as ways to see, taste, and smell some of North Wind Manor’s wonderful ordinariness. You’re leaving this place better than you found it. Thanks so much for stopping by. #semifeature Rachel is a former Emergency Medicine PA, an unofficial yet enthusiastic ambassador for The Peach Truck, and the Head of Events and Hospitality at North Wind Manor.

by Matt Conner It’s no surprise to hear that Andrew Osenga is spinning multiple musical plates these days. That’s how most people know him as a career musician through his own music, his days with The Normals or Caedmon’s Call, or as a producer and label exec. What is surprising is where the music is coming from these days. There was a season, not so long ago, that Osenga says he thought he was finished—at least in any public-facing way. A trip to Laity Lodge followed a season of uncertainty and provided the sort of imagery that opened the doors to a new well for his music—what he calls finding “an honest muse.” A new album is on the way and a new EP arrives on Friday . There’s also a beautiful new hymns project alongside the community of worship leaders and artists that he’s nurturing through his day job. And it finally feels congruent for an artist who is settling into eldership. Just to start, I’d love to have you tell us about the musical plates you’re spinning these days. My day job is being one of the directors of A&R at Integrity Music where I work with artists making worship music and I oversee an imprint there called Running Club Records, which is kinda like my indie rock roster, with artists like Citizens, Mission House, Sarah Kroger, and Leslie Jordan. And then I oversee a couple of community projects: the Faithful Project and Anchor Hymns. As a musician, I’m out this spring with Matt Maher playing guitar. As an artist, I’m in the process of releasing a record called Headwaters over the course of several months. In between those releases, I’m doing a separate project called The Quiet Hours, which is acoustic vocal Fleet Foxes-y hymns with one mic and one guitar. It’s been a while since you’ve had some original music, right? Headwaters is the first album since The Painted Desert ? Yes, and it’s directly related. I made The Painted Desert and then two years ago, I went to Laity Lodge with Sandra [McCracken] and we made a record for her called Light in the Canyon . When I was there, I saw the headwaters of the Frio River. At one point there is nothing, just desert, and then suddenly there’s a big river and everything south of it all the way to the ocean is lush and green. Everything to the north is desert. I thought it was amazing to think that here in this desert, the water is never that far from you. We just aren’t aware of it. I had written The Painted Desert in this season of depression, a dark night of the soul… and I’m not saying everything is better now, but I do know that I’m not there now, and so this season needs a different kind of song. And so these days I’m much more concerned with what I want to communicate to my daughters and so my songwriting follows that thread. What do I want them to know about me and themselves and the gospel? That’s where these songs come from. These days I’m much more concerned with what I want to communicate to my daughters and so my songwriting follows that thread. Andrew Osenga I love that Headwaters picture, so do these songs feel informed by a recognition of that water being close? You said circumstances haven’t necessarily changed, but are the songs marked by at least recognition of the life that’s there? Yeah, the way you said that’s really wonderful. I’ve been going to this Anglican Church for a long time now and you say these liturgies over and over again and often you’re not paying attention to them. Then one day, you wake up and realize, ‘Oh that is deep in my bones.’ This is definitely the most gospel-forward project I’ve done personally. I’m usually more story-songs and slice-of-life poetry kind of songs, so this was a big change for me. Our church already sings a couple of these songs a lot, too, which has been really encouraging. Writing even slightly corporate songs is a lot different for me, but I’ve found myself in this community of people who are serving the Church with songs like this in my job and I’ve been inspired by it. As my kids are growing up in it, I love the thought of them encountering my songs from a place of “we sing these songs at church with all these people that I love and trust and who care about me, and all of them are standing and singing and agreeing with this thing my dad wrote.” That’s better than “I went to this thing and dad was sad again.” Which is what it was like for a while there. [Laughs] Did you notice when that turned for you—when songwriting went from a way for you to emote and process that sadness into something else— It was a very conscious decision. I actually thought I was done after The Painted Desert . The cards in my life have mostly been played, you know? I know what I’m dealing with. I felt like those are the best versions of the songs I’d been writing for a long time, so I didn’t think I needed to write them again. Until something else came along that made me feel like I need to process it. I’ve processed my own melancholy enough for one life! Ha. I realized I’d never processed the way that a community of believers had really profoundly shaped my life. I wanted to contribute to that in a different way. And it really was thinking about my daughters, but I want to be careful there. I don’t want to use them as a marketing tool. It was just the heart impetus of what I was doing for them. After a while, I found out I just really enjoyed it. Some people might not like it, but it feels like it’s an honest muse. I can say that. This feels like such a first half of life and second half of life difference. Yes, 100 percent. A Richard Rohr-ian— Yes, you’re dead on. You made it sound like you were glad to turn that corner away from the sadness or that phase, but was there a grief in being done with that in general? Even as a musical or career turn? Honestly, here’s the thing. I played a few shows this weekend and I have this song called “The Year of the Locust” on that Painted Desert record. It’s one of my favorite songs I’ve ever written and every night, the conversations about that song are something really special. That song impacts people in a deep way and I’m so grateful for it. Yet at the same time, I already have that song, y’know? We have this little photo printer that will print in three colors. It spits out the blue and then goes back in and spits out the red and then it spits out the green. After those three, the whole picture emerges. I feel like I’ve been communicating in mostly one color for a long time and I don’t think it’s been the full story. This is the part of the story that I don’t think is as cool or artsy, but it’s also a really, really true part of my story. Because of my own cynicism or ego or whatever, I’ve just not wanted to go there, but now I’m old enough to let some of that go. I’m also old enough to think maybe I have the tools to do it in a way that feels honest without just trying to regurgitate what others have done. It’s all too common to find art created from that first half of life. So much of pop culture is juvenile and it’s hard to make a career in the arts to even reach that longevity. Is there a part of what you’re doing now that feels important because it’s harder to find points of reference in a way? That’s a good question and I lament that. That’s why I love Paul Simon so much. In his seventies, he’s making records about being in his seventies and not doing greatest hits compilations, whereas U2 is doing their residency and playing their 40 biggest songs. I love U2 but that’s been my criticism: that they won’t grow up and accept that they’re old. That’s what I really want to hear from them, whereas Paul Simon has always been willing to go there. I feel like I’ve been communicating in mostly one color for a long time and I don’t think it’s been the full story. Andrew Osenga Can you tell us about The Quiet Hours? Where does that come from? I had this interesting realization that I grew up in this fundamentalist church where I learned from a lot of really wonderful people a lot of things about Jesus, but I don’t really agree with a lot of that theology now. Yet we sang the same songs then that I sing now in my church here in Nashville. I think there’s something about some of those songs that were true in a way that superseded each church’s theology and maybe even superseded the lyric of the song—more like the essence of the song? There’s some sort of intangible, sacred truth in these songs that we’ve passed down to each generation. I’m just so into that. I’m also sitting at the helm of this project at work called Anchor Hymns, where I’m the producer and director of it, whatever that means. But I’m shaping this community by trying to put new songs like that into the world. So in the midst of all of that, I was in England last year in May and I had the night off in this Airbnb in Brighton on the south coast. It was this super cool building and my bedroom was above this little cafe. I had a microphone in my bag and I set it up and started recording these intimate versions of a few old hymns. I loved it so much. So I decided when I travel, if I have some downtime, instead of watching a movie on Netflix, I’ll keep my mic in the bag so I can grab my guitar and record a couple of hymns in the way I’d play them if I wanted to sing the girls to sleep. And how are you releasing music there? As The Quiet Hours, I did a Christmas EP that came out in November. Then that one I recorded in May will be called Above A Cafe in Brighton and it will come out on March 24. I’m really happy with it. Between my solo Headwaters album, The Quiet Hours, and the Anchor Hymns community projects, I have something coming out every two or three weeks for the rest of the year. It’s fun to have been doing this for 25 years and be more excited about creating and releasing music than ever. You can check out more of Andrew Osenga’s music, tour dates, creative projects and more here . #semifeature Matt Conner is a former pastor and church planter turned writer and editor. He’s the founder of Analogue Media and lives in Indianapolis.

by Pete Peterson We’re delighted to announce that our keynote speaker for Hutchmoot 2023 is beloved author Katherine Paterson. Katherine Paterson is the author of more than 40 books, including 18 novels for children and young people. She has twice won the Newbery Medal, for Bridge to Terabithia in 1978 and Jacob Have I Loved in 1981. The Master Puppeteer won the National Book Award in 1977 and The Great Gilly Hopkins won the National Book Award in 1979 and was also a Newbery Honor Book. Her most recent book is Stories of My Life , published by Westminster John Knox Press. For the body of her work she received the Hans Christian Andersen Award in 1998, the Astrid Lindgren Memorial Award in 2006, and in 2000 was named a Living Legend by the Library of Congress. She is a vice-president of the National Children’s Book and Literacy Alliance and is a member of the board of trustees for Vermont College of Fine Arts. She is also an honorary lifetime member of the International Board of Books for Young People and an Alida Cutts lifetime member of the US section, USBBY. She was the 2010-2011 National Ambassador for Young People’s Literature. Her books have been a transformative force in the Rabbit Room community since its inception and we’re honored to be able to welcome her to the table for Hutchmoot 2023 this October. Tickets will be released during two windows with half becoming available on Wednesday, March 15th @ 10am Central, and the remainder going on sale Friday, March 17th @ 7pm Central. More speakers, artists, and musicians will be announced in the coming weeks and months. We look forward to seeing you in October. #semifeature

by Houston Coley It’s a recent storytelling trend, but the concept might be relevant to reality right now: sometimes, it can feel like we’re all living in alternate universes. We are currently suffering from a starvation of shared rituals, but most people don’t know they’re hungry. It’s no surprise that our moment feels divided and difficult to reconcile; the freedom to choose our own narrative and stream of information brings about an increasingly isolated series of bubble-colonies in an infinite “multiverse” of experience and choice. The West has always been a culture built on the bedrock of individual choice, but an increasingly interconnected world has made the number of individual choices (and possible “universes”) practically limitless. Private schools, curated dating apps, church shopping, overtly one-sided news stations – they’ve all got “individual choice” in common, catering to our own pre-conceived worldviews and moral imaginations. None of these options are sins, but collectively, they can destabilize reality. Many children no longer have an immediate community within walking distance, which pushes them further toward finding algorithmic connections online. Choosing a romantic partner now feels more overwhelming and loaded than ever, despite the limitless access to endless options via dating apps. The local parish church is mostly a thing of the past, which leads to geographically sprawling church communities (much like private schools) built more around shared preferences than shared day-to-day experience or companionship. And we don’t even need to elaborate on the destructive capabilities of our increasingly isolated news/information bubbles. But what if I told you that movie theaters might play a part in beckoning us back to a better world? The Death of a Theatergoing Culture I grew up going to midnight movie premieres. Ya know, when a movie was releasing on a Friday and everyone would line up on Thursday night to see it at exactly 12:00am? Big movies still open on Thursdays today, but they usually have dozens of showtime options starting anywhere from 3 pm to 8 pm to 2 am. Growing up, though, I loved the ritual of midnight movies. Sometimes, my friends and I would take a nap around 7 pm, sleep until 11, and then head to the theater to line up down the block. Other times, we’d just stay up counting down the hours and minutes until the big event movie would be released. If it was something nerdy enough, people at the theater would often be wearing costumes and taking photos and coming ready to cheer and applaud together. Looking back, the last few midnight premieres I went to— Harry Potter and The Deathly Hallows Part 2 was the last one, I think—feel almost like remnants of an era where nerdy fans would use internet forums primarily as a staging ground for real, in-person gatherings like book-launches, conventions, fan-musicals, and yes: movie premieres. Today, the relationship is flipped: conventions and fan gatherings still happen, but they feel almost like networking events to further a continued digital/social media existence. That might be a tangent, but the point is this: with the increased options for showtimes – and even the ability to stream some new-release movies near the day they hit theaters – the ritual of midnight fan premieres has declined significantly. And on a bigger scale: movie theaters, in general, have seen a significant drop in attendance in the last few years, sometimes for understandable reasons. Ticket prices, babysitting, and the ease-of-access of streaming platforms have all led to an increased hesitancy to leave the house to experience a movie. Oh, and uh: that whole pandemic thing probably played a part, too. When people do go to theaters, it’s usually for what Martin Scorsese would call “theme park movies”—spectacle-centric blockbusters that feel like they demand a big screen to be experienced properly. Anything below that bar—from romantic comedies to Oscar dramas to A24 indies and mid-budget thrillers—tends to find its primary existence on streaming, in the comfort of the viewer’s home. It’s hard to believe that mid-budget non-sequel films like Juno, Forrest Gump, The Sixth Sense, Saving Private Ryan, Twist, Home Alone, My Big Fat Greek Wedding, Napoleon Dynamite, American Beauty, or Fahrenheit 9/11 were once massive box offices successes that drew millions of people out of their homes and out to theaters to just see them together. Half of those movies would flop today; the other half would go straight to Netflix or HBO Max, joining the hordes of “content” options that leave couples swiping through Netflix every night, debating what to watch until they give up and scroll through Twitter. In a world of infinite options on our TVs, the 10-or-so movies playing in a given cinema at a time almost feel a welcome refinement of the potential palette. Even when it comes to watching things at home, the concept of watching a TV program at the same time as everyone else—like the nightly news at 11 or the latest episode of LOST or American Idol at 8 pm—feels almost alien in a landscape where we call the shots on what (and when) we want to binge. The shared ritual, the shared “universe” we once inhabited has been consumed by the limitless curation of our reality through ease of access. Theater marquees become the ever-growing “My List” on Netflix. Radio stations become Spotify playlists. Convenient things are gained, but foundational things are lost. In a world where everything is just  another piece of content  to consume at your own pace and leisure…ritual dies. Worship dies. Reverence for art dies. And reality fractures. But movie theaters are still just as magical—indeed, just as transcendent —as they’ve ever been. Sure, there are rude guests every once in a while—though I’d argue that the recent prevalence of reserved seating has limited the capacity for spontaneous rowdiness. And sure, tickets are still expensive—though if you get AMC Stubs A-List, Regal Unlimited, or the newly-resurrected MoviePass, seeing one or two movies per month will make the subscription fee pay for itself. But I’m firmly and vehemently planting my feet in the camp that despite all of the hurdles, theatrical experiences are still far more than a novelty. The Culture-Healing Power of The Cinema I believe there are three things that make movie theaters miraculous, even today, and they might sound something like artistic reverence, submission, and worship, and shared reality through ritual. Artistic reverence  is easy to describe but increasingly hard to embody; the rise of streaming and at-home viewing has led to a rise in “armchair criticism” and “CinemaSinning” where we watch movies on our laptops and phones—or, God forbid, on our motion-smoothed TVs—pausing to grab snacks and go to the bathroom and check social media and pick out plot holes and Google “ending explained” videos without giving the artistic work a fair shot to be viewed reverently in the way that the artist intended it. Even Wanda Sykes joked about this when she co-hosted The Oscars in 2022, saying  “I watched  The Power of The Dog  three times and I’m halfway through it.”  The camera cuts to the film’s director, Jane Campion, chuckling at the jab, but I can only imagine that the suggestion that viewers have been too distracted to even  finish  your excellent movie must sting a little bit. We’re living in an increasingly cinematically-illiterate landscape, but everyone also thinks they’re much smarter than the artist who made whatever they’re watching. I’d argue that the limitations placed on us during the theatrical experience are healthy, humanizing ones. It offers us the rare, sacred space to give our undivided attention to something that has no practical takeaways or functional utility, but an infinite amount of emotional significance. Houston Coley In an era where the “Hollywood elite” are jabbed constantly, and probably for good reason, it might be heresy to suggest something slightly less cynical, but I will: I think we need to bring back respect for artists as the potential prophets of our era, and that means giving them our attention and concentration in a world where those things have become commodities that every corporation wants to steal. It doesn’t mean we have to  like  every movie, refuse to think critically about what we’re seeing, or trust the artist’s worldview blindly, but it does mean that we should behave as though what we’re watching is something made by a  person  (or rather, thousands of people) with vision and purpose and perhaps even prophetic spiritual meaning. This leads us straight into submission and worship : the action of acknowledging something greater than ourselves and, if only for a brief two hours, submitting to where it will take us with awe and wonder. Filmmaker Jean Luc Godard famously summed up the difference between movie theaters and TV this way: “When you go to the cinema, you look up. When you watch television, you look down.” One conveys respect, the other conveys control. Film critic Jim Emerson elaborates on Godard’s quote by saying : “For a movie-lover, the theater is a sort of temple, and the experience touched with religiosity. You look up in hushed awe at the screen…and the darkness dispatches all distraction, leaving only the light and sound emanating from the screen. And then there’s the enveloping scale of the image…Most of all, you relinquish control over the movie by submitting to its (unbroken and continuous) terms, accepting its rules of temporality.” One of the most powerful cinematic experiences of my life was watching Terrence Malick’s A Hidden Life in theaters back at the end of 2019. I remember moments toward the ending thinking, “I can’t believe this is still going.” I remember wondering how long we had left. I remember squirming in my seat and longing to see an end to the suffering of a Christian martyr. The movie is lengthy and slow, but that discomfort is also part of immersing yourself in a story of a man stuck in prison for his faith. If I had watched A Hidden Life at home, I doubt I would have been able to get through it without checking my phone or pausing for a break. But the unyielding pace of the cinema screen meant that this story marched on in front of me, whether I liked it or not. And I was edified by the experience. For modern audiences, the loss of individual control upon entering a movie theater is often a point of annoyance; movie theaters don’t have a pause button or a fast-forward option – and we don’t always control who sits next to us, either. But I’d argue that the limitations placed on us during the theatrical experience are healthy, humanizing ones. It offers us the rare, sacred space to give our undivided attention to something that has no practical takeaways or functional utility, but an infinite amount of emotional significance. For someone with ADHD like myself, this forced concentration is unbelievably helpful…but beyond that, the submission and ‘worship’ of a movie theater allow us to exercise the muscles in our soul that long to connect with something greater than ourselves. Snowballed throughout years of moviegoing, this experience breeds humility, curiosity, and childlike wonder. And that brings us, finally, to shared reality through ritual. Philosopher Byung-Chul Han’s recent book The Disappearance of Ritual delves deep into the ways that the fabric of society has been affected by the lack of sacred rhythms shared with one another. In a description that bears striking resemblance to the movie theater, he says “ The Sabbath demands silence; the mouth must be closed. Silent listening unites a people and creates a community without communication . . . The divine commands silence . . . Today’s compulsion of communication means that we can close neither our eyes nor our mouths. It desecrates life. ” He goes on to say, “Rituals are symbolic acts. They represent, and pass on, the values and orders on which a community is based. They bring forth a community without communication; today, however, communication without community prevails.” While face-to-face community is sacred, another facet of existence may have been lost in the kerfuffle: side-by-side community.. Houston Coley The idea that movie theaters are a type of community might seem like a silly one at first; we don’t often get to know the strangers sitting around us, and they might seem like an annoyance impinging on our personal freedom to enjoy things with our individual preferences as priority. But even if the worst theatrical experiences—the ones you tell your friends about when you say you don’t want to go back to the theater—might be because of other people harming the moment, the best theatrical experiences are often because of other people elevating the moment. Watching a comedy at home alone just isn’t as funny as watching it for the first time in a crowded cinema with other strangers just as surprised by the punchlines as yourself. Even Martin Scorsese’s bemoaned “theme park movies” are titled as such because for better or worse; they demand a big screen and excite an audience…and the theater’s reaction when Captain America lifted Thor’s hammer in Avengers: Endgame is proof of it. Recently, Avatar: The Way of Water was the same way; Cameron’s 3D HFR vision was one that could not be properly experienced at home, like watching a Broadway show recorded instead of seeing it in person with others. But the necessity of the communal theatrical experience goes beyond riotous laughter and excitement or the football-stadium applause of superhero event cinema. I still remember the first time I saw Bong Joon-Ho’s Parasite in theaters, during the scene when a basement-dwelling character slowly peers his head above a staircase at midnight and makes eye contact with the audience. The collective chill that rushed through the theater was palpable and communal. And when the movie ended and everyone compulsively clapped, moved by the tragic ending and the journey we’d completed, it seemed like we were all a little closer and maybe the world wasn’t quite as divided as it was two hours before. Certainly, if I wanted to start a conversation with any of the people around me, I now had common ground to do so. That’s what shared movie experiences create. Steven Spielberg discusses this ritualistic community much better than me: “I’ve always devoted myself to our movie-going community — movie-going, as in leaving our homes to go to a theatre, and community, meaning a feeling of fellowship with others who have left their homes and are seated with us. In a movie theatre, you watch movies with the significant others in your life, but also in the company of strangers. That’s the magic we experience when we go out to see a movie or a play or a concert or a comedy act. We don’t know who all these people are sitting around us, but when the experience makes us laugh or cry or cheer or contemplate, and then when the lights come up and we leave our seats, the people with whom we head out into the real world don’t feel like complete strangers anymore. We’ve become a community, alike in heart and spirit, or at any rate alike in having shared for a couple of hours a powerful experience. That brief interval in a theatre doesn’t erase the many things that divide us: race or class or belief or gender or politics. But our country and our world feel less divided, less fractured, after a congregation of strangers have laughed, cried, jumped out their seats together, all at the same time. Art asks us to be aware of the particular and the universal, both at once. And that’s why, of all the things that have the potential to unite us, none is more powerful than the communal experience of the arts.” We might be tempted to believe that community and connection are only present when we are looking another person in the eyes and engaging face-to-face. That’s certainly what we tried to emulate when we connected with friends and colleagues over Zoom calls during the pandemic. But while face-to-face community is sacred, another facet of existence may have been lost in the kerfuffle:  side-by-side  community. Side-by-side community gives us something to engage beyond ourselves, outside our control. It takes relationship and makes it about more than just the exchange of individual experience and already-held opinions. As we sit shoulder-to-shoulder with others beholding something greater together, we are given the gift of a  shared reality.  And suddenly, after so much disconnection, we’re inhabiting the same universe again. Houston Coley and his wife Debora are missional documentary filmmakers currently living between Atlanta and Czech Republic. Houston is a YouTube video essayist, self-described 'theme park theologian', and the artistic director of a nonprofit called Art Within.

by Mark Geil On March 2-3, 2020, a devastating tornado outbreak tore through western and central Tennessee, destroying businesses and homes and killing 25 people. One of the 15 confirmed tornadoes, an EF3, crossed the Cumberland River and struck East Nashville, damaging or destroying scores of structures. Among those was the home of Eric Peters and his family. But this description is too detached and impersonal. It cannot convey the fear—mortal fear—and shock; the wounds, visible and invisible; the profound loss, both of possessions and their deep meaning; and the shattered sense of safety. It cannot convey the terror of a father reaching his son’s room just in time, diving in to shelter him before the room is destroyed. It cannot describe how three years on, wounds have healed yet scars remain.  It took every bit of those three years for Peters to write his 13th studio album, EP . This collection of six songs revisits that terrifying night, shines a brave light into the mines of depression and addiction, and seeks to understand—or at least name—some of the grace that keeps us holding on. “Run Away” opens the EP with an empathetic ear for the frightened hearts who have a tendency to shut people out. The song is a gentle admonition that is earned by a single line: “But you should know, when I run away, I feel the same way too.” EP is in many ways a redemption. It is acute anguish, emotions processed with some passing of time, and testimony of the longer and slower process of healing, all redeemed in songs that can sit alongside you while you grieve. Mark Geil “Same Four Walls” follows with a “last gasp prayer” from the depths. The song feels almost manic-depressive, with deeply personal and plaintive lyrics set to a surprising high-tempo synth beat. Peters calls this “approachable levity,” and it works as a disarming entry into a heart that “got crushed when the walls came down.” A refrain matches the paradoxical nature of the music, and speaks to the complexity of depression: “All I want is to be alone, but promise me you’ll never leave me alone.” “Disappointing Song” is a dear song of understanding from father to son. The tender lyric puts its arm around you and echoes “It’s gonna be alright.” “The Sea is Never Full” finds a tight groove in exploring the truth of fulfillment in Ecclesiastes. “That’s What the Loss Is” feels a few years removed from the tornado. When I hear about natural disasters, I try to pray for the people affected, whether I know them or not. What I too often fail to do is spare a thought for them during the long, long path of recovery. This song is a reminder of that process, full of trauma and full of grace. The standout track on EP is “The Bread,” one of Eric Peters’ greatest songs. Lyrically, it plants us in the terror of the storm: I was there in the moment of silence I was there with you just before Every room in the house exploded And I dragged you to the floor. Musically, the song feels more like the morning after. The neighborhood is devastated. The reality of what has just happened still feels impossible. And people come, and people help each other. There is gentle defiance in Peters’ voice as he invokes “Come, Ye Disconsolate” from his Hymns album: “Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot heal.” That community, that “communion in the streets” is one of the shining lights on EP. It’s fitting, then, that the album was formed out of devastation but among friends. Taylor Leonhardt guests on “Run Away,” as does Lori Chaffer on “Same Four Walls” and “Disappointing Song.” Gabe Scott is a powerful addition to “The Sea is Never Full.” Asher Peterson’s production takes some risks while always maintaining awareness of the expressive gift of Peters’ voice. One of the platitudes offered to console those who have suffered tragedy or loss is some form of, “Now you will be able to minister to those who go through similar difficulties.” In the moment, this is often unhelpful, but it is nonetheless well-intentioned. We do hope that the God who promises to work things out for good can somehow redeem our suffering as a gift to others. And He does. Sometimes, it’s enough for someone who knows some taste of your pain to just come and sit alongside you while you grieve. EP is in many ways a redemption. It is acute anguish, emotions processed with some passing of time, and testimony of the longer and slower process of healing, all redeemed in songs that can sit alongside you while you grieve. Eric Peters’ EP is available for download and on all streaming services on March 17. You can pre-order your copy here .

by Jenna Herrington A few years ago, I overheard a friend of mine ask a man from Nigeria what he thought was the strangest part of American culture. Without missing a beat, he answered, “Camping.” He thought it was ridiculous that people who live in nice houses with all the modern luxuries would go sleep outdoors for fun. Why would anyone subject themselves to that? At the time, I had never been camping and had no desire to try it. So in my mind, his question was its own answer. Why subject yourself to that, indeed? But a few weeks ago, my sister and brother-in-law (both avid campers) invited me to go camping with them in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. Suddenly that question, “Why go camping?” was no longer rhetorical, and, surprisingly, the answers were compelling—a beautiful place to explore, good company, a new experience. So I agreed to go. My main concern was whether February was really the best time to see how I liked sleeping in a tent. But my sister assured me that they had the right gear and that I would be warm enough. To be fair, if the forecast had been accurate, she probably would have been right, but the low that first night was 14°F, a full ten degrees colder than expected. None of us were warm enough. During the long hours in which I lay awake, shivering, that question returned with full force: Why did I think this was a good idea? The next day, we planned to do a fairly strenuous eight-mile hike. Somehow (we’re still not exactly sure what happened), when we were six miles in, we discovered that we still had four miles left to go. I was really feeling the lack of sleep at that point, and with no hot shower or a warm bed to look forward to, I briefly lost the will to trudge on. But trudging on was the only option. Perhaps fasting, like camping, is an opportunity to see things we don’t normally see—beauties off the beaten path. Jenna Harrington And yet, in the midst of the difficulties and discomfort, we also enjoyed moments of beauty and wonder. Majestic bucks strolled, relatively unconcerned, through the campground. The first night, as we were setting up our tents, a small hog tore past our campsite, squealing in panic, chased by two coyotes. The next day on our hike, a bald eagle circled overhead as we ate lunch. On Sunday afternoon, we watched an otter fish in the river. All weekend, we basked in the peacefulness of a beautiful place and in the glorious views we encountered while hiking. By the end of the trip, I was beginning to understand. Those moments are why you go camping. That’s why you sleep on the cold, hard ground; why you go without electricity and hot showers for a few days; why you hike eight (or ten) miles on just a few hours of sleep. The uncomfortable parts of the trip, I found, were worth it because of the beauty I was able to experience. Even the discomfort itself brought a certain kind of satisfaction, as I grew in my ability to endure difficulty. Here at the beginning of Lent, I have found myself thinking of this season of fasting as a kind of spiritual equivalent to camping. Lent is modeled after Jesus’ forty days (and the Israelites’ forty years) in the wilderness, so it seems natural to understand it as a kind of wilderness journey. And it can certainly sound as crazy as going camping in February. Why in the world would you give something up for six weeks? Especially if you believe that it doesn’t gain you any favor with God. Perhaps fasting, like camping, is an opportunity to see things we don’t normally see—beauties off the beaten path. Of course, just like anything that involves giving up our normal routines, this will involve discomfort. But we twenty-first-century Americans are so unused to discomfort that we are more afraid of it than we ought to be. We often don’t consider that there might be good things that we can only find by first giving up and going without. Maybe there are spiritual equivalents of the coyotes and the otter—things we will never see unless we go out into the wilderness. Maybe there is freedom in relinquishing comfort and ease for a time. Maybe there is joy in enduring difficulty and, as a result, gaining experience and wisdom we didn’t have before. Maybe there is renewed gratitude on the other side of deprivation. The point isn’t to wallow in misery or gloat in suffering as if it makes us more holy. Jesus endured the cross for the joy that was set before him. He tells us to lose our lives because that’s the only way to keep them. Paul wanted to know the fellowship of Christ’s sufferings because what he really wanted was to experience the resurrection from the dead. In the Bible, the wilderness is not usually a pleasant place to be. For the Israelites, it was a place of deprivation, testing, and judgment—a place of bitter water and fiery serpents. For Jesus, it was a place of hunger and temptation. But the wilderness was also where the Israelites were led by the pillar of cloud and fire and where they ate manna from heaven every day. The wilderness was where angels came and ministered to Jesus. Lent is a comparatively mild wilderness journey, but through this season perhaps we too can, in the midst of our discomfort, encounter God. Jenna Herrington lives in the mountains of North Carolina, where she writes as a way of paying better attention to the world around her. You can read more of her work at pilgrimatbrasstowncreek.substack.com .

by J Lind Because, really, I don’t think the two can be pulled apart. I have a new song out today, one that I wrote the morning after my wedding. Throughout our engagement, I’d had plenty of rational fears about the commitment of marriage, but one of my less rational (and more menacing) fears was that the “tragic artist” part of me, which I’d thrown so much of my identity into, would starve or go into hiding. I worried that I’d be too involved with Torrey to keep making art, or that the healing balm of writing would sublimate into conversations over dinner, or wasteful ruminations, or something like that. But this whole song arrived in about 30 minutes, and Torrey actually helped me finish the title and refrain. When responsibility and freedom each come with their own cost, where do I turn for rest? J Lind I think it arrived so fleshed out because it was an idea that I’d been chewing on for years: the tension between responsibility and freedom. Committing to one vocation, or to one person, requires sacrifice—every “yes” is the tip of an iceberg of “no”s, just as going through one door means not going through any number of others. So I tailspin.  But in seasons of freedom, of unadulterated choice, I find myself spinning for a different reason. The ocean of possibility, of potential mes stretching out in so many different directions, makes me anxious, and perhaps rightly so. If you aim your arrow just a bit more to the left, it could end up a quarter-mile from where it would otherwise have landed. I sometimes ruminate on how some decision here in my twenties might impact my 60-year-old self—which is helpful in small doses, but soul-sucking in its extremes. So, when responsibility and freedom each come with their own cost, where do I turn for rest? “The Potter and the Clay” is about the complicated dance of freedom and fate that adds so many colors to life. It’s a gift, and a burden, and another example of how the finding falls short of the seeking. You can listen to “The Potter and the Clay” here .