What are you looking for?

I was raised to believe Bruce Springsteen was, indeed, The Boss. Vivid memories remain from my childhood with the windows rolled down in our old Ford LTD and Bruce’s “Glory Days” or “My Hometown” or “Born in the U.S.A.” blaring loudly. As a young adult, I found myself digging into the back catalog while appreciating each new release — from the beauty of “Badlands” to more recent gems like the entire second half of Magic. The truth is, I’m a sucker for similar artists as well, with a hearty appetite for what you might consider heartland rock or barroom rock. Everyone has their own terms for it; all I know is that I’m just fine if you wanna play Tom Petty or Ryan Adams or Dawes or Jackson Browne or Neil Finn or Van Morrison. These artists are storytellers. They’re also straightforward. There’s a sincerity at work in their compositions, honest men telling honest tales with their hearts always tucked inside their rolled up sleeves. I bring all of this up because I’ve always been surprised that John Tibbs has never received any real attention around the Rabbit Room. His influences are largely the artists I’ve already mentioned along with bands like The Lone Bellow. His last album was produced by Ben Shive and features Ellie Holcomb as a guest vocalist. He’s toured with Audrey Assad, Crowder and Matt Maher along with CCM heavyweights like Casting Crowns, Jeremy Camp and Newsboys. He even just wrapped his 2016 touring calendar with a show with Jason Gray. In other words, you should be surprised that you’ve never his music (if you haven’t already). But sometimes these things take a proper introduction, so allow me to give you one. John released his first full-length album, Dead Man Walking, last year on Fair Trade (Phil Wickham, etc.), which was produced by Shive. Here’s the opening track, “Silver in Stone.” The title track features Ellie Holcomb, so of course you need to hear “Dead Man Walking.” For a closer look at John’s worshipful side (since he got his start as a worship leader in Indiana), you might enjoy “Everything I Need.” And if you’re interested in finding out more about John’s music, ministry and upcoming tour calendar, you can find all kinds of details at his website. #JohnTibbs

Sarah Arthur, a writer and speaker, is one of the preliminary fiction judges for CT’s annual book awards. She put a list together of what she’s looking for as she wades through the potential finalists, and it’s a good reminder for any of us working to write a novel. (Read the list here.) Early on in the piece she makes an important disclaimer: I’m one of those grumpy English majors who walks into a Christian bookstore and wants to know why Charles Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities or Fyodor Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment or Anne Tyler’s Saint Maybe aren’t on the shelves. As authors of faith, we stand in a long literary tradition that did not start with Frank Peretti’s This Present Darkness and is not limited to the Christian Booksellers Association. It goes much further back and reaches much farther out. This is how the good news of the gospel works. This idea is one I’ve heard N.D. Wilson point out—that Christians have zero reason to be embarrassed about the art the Church has put into the world over the centuries, and I would argue that some, if not most, of the greatest novelists of our age have been Christians. I would add Gilead, by Marilynne Robinson, The Lord of the Rings, Till We Have Faces, and The Book of the Dun Cow to the list. What else?

The church in Ephesus had a fascinating back-story. Made up of people from every social and cultural background imaginable, from those steeped in Old Testament law to others raised in a culture of ritual prostitution and sorcery, it was as diverse as any modern church. Men and women who once stood on opposite sides of the ancient canyons of sex, race, and social standing now found themselves shoulder to shoulder, facing the enormous challenge to live and love as the body of Christ. As Paul writes his stunning letter to the Ephesians, deep fatherly love evident in every line, he begins by reminding them of their story. For three chapters blessing upon blessing tumble over each other, coming to a crescendo as he prays that the reality of their position before God would take root, deepening their understanding of who God is and transforming their lives. Fast on the heels of this outpouring of favour comes the question raised at the beginning of Chapter 4. “If all this is true, then what?? How do we respond to this undeserved torrent of grace?” You have a part to play in building and nurturing the body of Christ Heidi Johnston It is often said that wisdom is asking the right questions. If this is true then the prevailing questions, particularly within Western Christianity, reveal not only a growing lack of wisdom but also a tendency towards a highly individualistic view of the Gospel. Again and again we ask; What is God doing in my life? How are my needs being met by the church? Where can I find a place where my talents are appreciated? Pushing back against this mind-set, Paul reminds the Ephesians that grace not only sealed their place as children of God but also placed them firmly within His Kingdom. When we are welcomed by God, we are welcomed as part of His Church. While our individual, intimate relationship with God is both beautiful and crucial, it cannot properly exist outside of the rag tag bunch of broken souls who have been touched by the same grace. As God’s people, indwelt by the same Holy Spirit, we have been given a pre-existing supernatural bond that supersedes our differences. Paul, knowing the importance of this gift, urges the church in Ephesus to preserve it, doggedly clinging to unity as they give sacrificially of themselves for the good of the kingdom they are now part of. Like Jesus, Paul sees the way we respond to others as the first indicator of our intimacy with God. It is in this context of intentional community that Paul turns to the subject of spiritual gifts, taking an approach that is perhaps very different from the one that has been sneaking into our collective understanding. There is a beautiful passage in C. S. Lewis’s The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, when, in the midst of a long and difficult journey, Father Christmas arrives with gifts for the Pevensie children. The conversation goes like this: “These are your presents,” was the answer, “and they are tools not toys. The time to use them is perhaps near at hand. Bear them well.” With these words he handed to Peter a shield and a sword. The shield was the colour of silver and across it there was ramped a red lion, as bright as a ripe strawberry at the moment when you pick it. The hilt of the sword was of gold and it had a sheath and a sword belt and everything it needed, and it was just the right size and weight for Peter to use. Peter was silent and solemn as he received these gifts, for he felt they were a very serious kind of present.” There is a gift for each child – a sword and shield for Peter, a bow and horn for Susan, and a dagger and cordial for Lucy. Each gift is directly related to the personality and role of the child but each is given for the good of Narnia. Rather than diminishing the value of the gift itself, this knowledge adds a solemnity and significance that would otherwise be lacking. While it is important to know what your gift is, I think it is equally important to understand the purpose for which it was given. Rather than simply a pat on the back from a benevolent father or a weapon in the fight for pole position, any gift we have is given as a crucial and integral part of the battle to defend, strengthen and build the Church of Christ. Eph 4 v11-13 says, “And he gave some as apostles, and some as prophets, and some as evangelists, and some as pastors and teachers, for the equipping of the saints for the work of service, to the building up of the body of Christ; until we all attain to the unity of the faith, and of the knowledge of the son of God, to a mature man, to the measure of the stature which belongs to the fullness of Christ.” Whatever it is that demonstrates God’s character at work in your life, according to Paul, you have a role in getting God’s people ready for service. You have a part to play in building and nurturing the body of Christ and encouraging others towards wisdom and holiness, mending broken bones and helping other believers walk their road with a surer step. Paul reminds the Ephesians that the gifts they bring, however small, form part of the glue that holds the Church together, helping God’s people to cling to the supernatural unity that will mark them out as followers of Jesus. As we each, individually, lay down our skills and talents for the good of the Kingdom, we help one another come to an intimate, authentic, life shaping knowledge of God. Together, we are better equipped to fulfill our created purpose, reaching maturity in faith and living lives that are marked by and reflect the fullness of Christ. [continued in Part 2]

What does it look like when writers, artists, poets, musicians and storytellers choose to use their gifts for the glory of God? Have you ever wondered why God chose to work into you a love of words? A vivid imagination? An ability to write poetry or compose music? An appreciation of colour and form and an ability to translate that into something tangible? At Hutchmoot 2015, Michael Card spoke about the importance of imagination when coming to Scripture. Not imagination in the sense of dreaming up something that is not true, but the kind of holy imagination that helps us engage more deeply with truth. If I could point to one thing that has changed my Christian life it would be when I began to see Scripture as an epic story rather than disjointed books. We can be so factual about our faith. So theologically correct. I believe good stories help us exercise our imagination and awaken the sense of wonder that allows us to view God’s word with a sense of holy awe. Whether it is through stories, songs, poems, art, or some other creative expression of the heart of God, the role of people with gifts like these cannot be underestimated within the Church. Heidi Johnston I will never forget the first time I read about Aslan’s death on the stone table. I was a small child but I remember sobbing uncontrollably, totally overwhelmed by the enormity of it. Even then I think I knew on some level that my tears were for something more than Aslan. The power of that story took the truth of the cross and buried it deeper in my heart, allowing me to feel the awesome truth of Jesus’ sacrifice in a way that went beyond mental understanding. I know that I am better for it. I am not suggesting for one moment that we abandon theology in favour of stories but I do believe that the one can be better understood in the presence of the other. In many ways the storyteller also plays the role of prophet, allowing us for just a moment to see something beyond our natural vision. Last year, my friend Lanier Ivester wrote a beautiful post called “Creativity: Spiritual Battle and Spiritual Discipline” which changed my understanding of this. Sarah Clarkson had previously written about a time when she had asked God to give her a picture of what he was calling her to do through her writing. She says this: Instantly, I do mean instantly, a Millais painting came to my thought. It has long enchanted me for its vivid, startling image—that of a blind young girl sitting amidst a glory of a golden field with two rainbows like stairways to heaven behind her. Not a bit of it can she see. But in that painting, a small child sits next to the blind girl, peeking out from under her cloak, neck craned in awe at the glory, telling the blind one of all the beauty. And I knew in that image that my task, as a soul, but particularly as a writer, is to be that child. Lanier responded by asking God for a similar picture and I in turn did the same. On both occasions God answered in a way that was different and yet full of the same sense of purpose. I love the way Lanier sums up Sarah’s picture: “Write the rainbow, God told her. Tell this broken world of things it cannot see.” A few years ago I was speaking at a conference in Edinburgh and during my talk I mentioned the Chronicles of Narnia. Afterwards a lady came over and told me this story. She was a teacher in an inner city school. Some of the kids in her class had really difficult lives, evidenced by the defensive hostility they instinctively employed. As part of their course the teacher read through The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. At the end of a class, as everyone filed out, she noticed one particular girl at the back of the room. Visibly upset, the girl remained in her seat. When the teacher asked her what was wrong the girl mumbled through her tears, “I just wish Aslan was real. I feel like he would understand me.” Stories have a way of slipping past our defences in a way that can both break and heal us, softening hard ground in readiness for the Sower. In a similar way, stories allow us to step back and view our own lives from a distance, perhaps seeing things we were otherwise too close to notice. The story of David and Nathan, in 2 Samuel 12, is a powerful example. After David’s adultery with Bathsheba and subsequent murder of Uriah, Nathan the prophet comes to visit him. Instead of confronting him with his sin, Nathan tells David a story about a rich man who took a poor man’s lamb and slaughtered it for a banquet, despite the fact that he had countless animals of his own. Incensed, David applies Scripture and pronounces judgement. When the truth is revealed, the power of the story is such that David is utterly broken by the revelation of his own heart, throwing himself on God’s grace with the raw grief of Psalm 51. I grew up outside Belfast at a time when there was a sharp divide between the Protestant and Catholic communities. With very little contact between the two communities I had a subconscious wariness of those on the “other side.” When I was ten, I read a book called Across the Barricades. Telling the story of two teenagers from opposite sides of the peace wall who embarked on a relationship, it was a Northern Irish Romeo and Juliet that was based in a culture I knew. It brought a sense of familiarity to people I would not otherwise have come into contact with at that stage in my life. In allowing me to enter their world, it chipped away at the distance between us and broke down the prejudice that could easily have taken root. Stories can deeply influence and develop our sense of community. When I read sweeping stories like Narnia or the Wingfeather Saga, or watch movies like Star Wars, they stir within me a sense of common purpose that can only find it’s true expression in the Kingdom of God. I don’t believe it is a coincidence that the picture of community modelled so beautifully amongst those who gather at the Rabbit Room goes hand in hand with a profound love of story. There are times in our lives when we are faced with things that weigh down upon us and stop us in our tracks. For me, this has often been when the poets, songwriters, and musicians step in like angels of light, helping me name the struggle and grieve it’s presence, while at the same time bringing hope. Biblically, this is the world of the Psalms. The place where questions are asked, hurts are expressed, and trust is affirmed, even in the darkness. It is a place to wrestle with deep questions, acknowledging the pain and yet, at the same time, choosing to cling to the belief that God is good. For me, the most moving example of this is Psalm 73. Alongside guttural cries of deep pain and confusion come beautiful declarations of faith. Pain and trust, co-existing around the central truth in verse 17 that only God’s presence is the difference between struggle and despair. This is the tension that is so beautifully expressed in songs like Andrew Peterson’s “The Rain Keeps Falling,” anthems that step in again and again to strengthen us in our weariness and walk beside us in our searching. Music has a mysterious power to move us. While I have little musical ability, my appreciation of music has been forever altered by Ben Shive’s Hutchmoot session on the language of music. Despite the fact that most of what he said was far beyond my understanding, I left the session deeply moved by the ways that different music can make us feel. In some ways the patterns and their affects can be understood (well, by Ben anyway) and yet there is still mystery. Why does music impact us the way it does? It seems, even from the womb, God has breathed into us a response to music that goes beyond our conscious thought. It is interesting that in 1 Samuel 16, when Saul finds himself repeatedly gripped by an evil spirit, the only relief he can find comes when David is summoned to play his harp. Similarly, in 2 Kings 4, when Elisha is faced with a situation which makes him so angry that he struggles to hear God’s voice, he calls for a musician to play so that he will be able to listen to God. Life, of course, is not all shadow. There are seasons when light breaks through and illuminates the path ahead. In the paradox of God’s sovereignty, there are often times when the sorrow and the rejoicing go hand in hand. Whether in joy or suffering, the poets and songwriters and musicians have a glorious role in calling God’s people to worship. There is a beautiful moment in 1 Chronicles 15 v 16, when David asks the Levites to “appoint their relatives the singers, with instruments of music, harps, lyres, loud-sounding cymbals, to raise sounds of joy.” Similarly, the ability of visual artists to change the way we look at the world astonishes me. Throughout Scripture God repeatedly uses the visual to communicate with His people. In a bush that was ablaze and yet growing within the flame, God called Moses, teaching him about His character and preparing him for the role he would play in the nation of Israel. For Peter in Acts 10, the image of a blanket let down from heaven and filled with all kinds of unclean animals was the catalyst for the welcome of the Gentiles into the Church. With one image God was able to sum up his call to Sarah and Lanier. Whether it is through stories, songs, poems, art, or some other creative expression of the heart of God, the role of people with gifts like these cannot be underestimated within the Church. In Ephesians 4 v14-15 Paul gives us a glimpse of the impact this sacrificial offering of our gifts will have. “As a result we are no longer to be children, tossed here and there by waves and carried about by every wind of doctrine, by the trickery of men, by craftiness in deceitful scheming; but speaking the truth in love, we are to grow up in all aspects into Him who is the head, even Christ.” In bringing our gifts to the Church we help each other to stand firm, protecting one another from being tossed here and there by everything that comes our way. For weeks now the words of a hymn have been lodged in my heart and mind. Still my soul be still Do not be moved By lesser lights and fleeting shadows Hold onto His ways With shield of faith Against temptations flaming arrows (Keith & Kristyn Getty / Stuart Townend) Until recently, I tended to think of temptation only in terms of sin. While that is an obvious and very real part of the struggle, I have been learning that there is also a temptation to despair. In a season of struggle, that is the temptation I have faced. Yet, as proof of what I thought I already knew, the gifts of others, in so many forms, have helped me to stand firm. Pointing me again and again to the One who is the source and the reason for hope. Not only do we have a role in helping others hold fast, we also teach one another to handle truth well. Not just to know it and let it change us, not just to speak it out but to do it all in love. Has there ever been a time when we needed this skill more? To invest intentionally and sacrificially in each other is to mature together, gradually growing in understanding, holiness, and humility and becoming more like Christ. Paul finishes this section with a final emphasis on the importance of this growing together and the part we each play in the process. “ …we are to grow up in all aspects into Him who is the head, even Christ, from whom the whole body, being fitted and held together by what every joint supplies, according to the proper working of each individual part, causes the growth of the body for the building up of itself in love” (v16). If we as the Church are “fitted and held together by what every joint supplies,” if the body grows “according to the proper working of each individual part,” then the roles we have been given are not optional. According to Paul, if we choose not to offer our gifts to God’s people the church is impoverished. Madeleine L’Engle said, “We can’t take any credit for our talents, it’s how we use them that counts.” It is important that we are good stewards of our gifts, honing them and making them the best they can be, all the time remembering that the wisdom and strength we need to use them comes only from God. A friend of mine said recently that your prayer life is a barometer of how much you need God. We may have been given gifts but the task is still bigger than we are. There is great freedom in understanding that. Without grounding ourselves in God’s word and cultivating His heart we will fail, either because our strength gives out or because we begin to believe we have strength enough without him. The stirring exhortations of Ephesians chapter four are always a response to the grace of chapters one to three. In the same way, our service for God rings true when it is a response to everything God has already done for us. If you don’t understand how important your gift is the church will be weaker for it. However, the responsibility that comes with that knowledge must be balanced with an understanding of the fact that we exist as part of the Kingdom. We are not lone rangers. Not even the introverts. We are not created to exist in solitude, or even to hang out in groups of like-minded people, praising and seeking praise. Paul makes it clear here and also in 1 Corinthians 12 that our gifts are for the common good. People who consider a love of stories to be an indication of spiritual immaturity have often mystified me. I wonder if one of the reasons they devalue story is that they have a narrow view of the collaborative nature of Kingdom work? If I, alone, am called to fully explain the gospel in everything I do, then stories or songs or art, in isolation, will have limited benefit. On the other hand, if they form part of a richer tapestry, where artists and theologians and caregivers and mums and pastors and teachers each bring their gift and offer it for the good of the Kingdom, the result is a fuller, more authentic picture of the heart of God. We are called to step into a story that is bigger than ourselves and to bring every gift we have to the collective task of telling it. Individually, we can perfect and master the gifts and talents God has given us. And so we should. However, unless they are offered sacrificially to the Church, for the glory of God, they will always fall short of the very purpose for which they have been given. Gifts of and for the Church (Part 1)

One day Rebecca Reynolds sent me these poetic lyrics combining the imagery of a dead leaf falling to the ground, evensong floating out from a cathedral, and sunlight through stained glass, evoking thoughts of times of burnout, the still small voice, and the varied colors of personality which light up when God is held in trust. C. S. Lewis said, “How monotonously alike all the great conquerors and tyrants have been; how gloriously different are the saints!” I had the chorus melody as it is, but the verse melody needed some work. Jeff Taylor came into it and gave us a beautiful, quiet verse to contrast the strength of longing in the chorus. Ellie Holcomb was an easy choice to sing it; she does the job supremely. Never having worked with her before in the studio, I found her to be eminently professional, wonderfully personable and likeable, and of course a stellar singer. Her voice rings with truthfulness and honesty. Big thanks to her for such a quality job. I sang the lead vocal on the chorus and she pushes so well against my voice, sailing up there with ease. Jeff and I recorded this on piano and guitar with Barry Bales on bass, Stuart Duncan on fiddle, and John Mock on bodhran. Jeff added accordion, and I added several guitars and two banjo parts. It adds a higher dynamic of longing to the record. “Alight Thou In Me” – featuring Ellie Holcomb Music: Jeff Taylor/Seek 1st/ASCAP and Ron Block/Moonlight Canyon Publishing/BMI Lyrics: Rebecca Reynolds/Wynken Owl/BMI Soft bends the morn, Slight and grey, Bruised by the span of the night. Fragile and frail, Dust to dust. Deep calls to Deep, calls to Deep, To Deep. CHORUS Alight Thou in me, Thy spectrum a hymn, Vision indwelling, Burn bright, Thou, within. VERSE TWO Blown evensong, Poor and dim, Worn to a sigh in the loss. Flutter and fall, Hush to stone. Death calls to life, calls to Life, To Life. CHORUS Alight Thou in me, Thy spectrum a hymn, Vision indwelling, Burn bright, Thou, within.

One of my favorite anticipations of the new year is the first book I will read. Some time ago, for a few years in a row, I started each new January rereading Frederick Buechner’s Godric. And I’ve returned more than once to Augustine’s Confessions. This year I wanted to start fresh. Thinking about it, I recalled a piece in The New Yorker about Ursula K. Le Guin (here’s the link), an author I’m ashamed to say I had never read. I was attracted to Le Guin and her husband Charles’s evening ritual and thought, “Surely she must write the kinds of stories I like to read.” She does. I began 2017 reading The Left Hand of Darkness. The book won both the Hugo and Nebula Awards in 1970 for Best Science Fiction Novel of the Year. It is an installment in Le Guin’s Hainish Cycle, the next one of which I’m attracted to is The Dispossessed. The story of The Left Hand of Darkness is worth discussing. Yet, that is not what I want to do here. You see, in the reprinted editions of the book, Le Guin added a provocative introduction. Let me quote some of it: Science fiction is not predictive; it is descriptive. Predictions are uttered by prophets (free of charge), by clairvoyants (who usually charge a fee, and are therefore more honored in their day than prophets), and futurologists (salaried). Prediction is the business of prophets, clairvoyants, and futurologists. It is not the business of novelists. A novelist’s business is lying. In reading a novel, any novel, we have to know perfectly well that the whole thing is nonsense, and then, while reading, believe every word of it. Finally, when we’re done with it, we may find–if it’s a good novel–that we’re a bit different from what we were before we read it, that we have been changed a little, as if by having met a few face, crossed a street we never crossed before. But it’s very hard to say just what we learned, how we were changed. Why is that? How come I can finish a novel and be sure that it has influenced my life in some profound way, yet when I go to explain what way I have been changed, I cannot easily do it? What is it about truth that makes it so hard to articulate the way it changes us? It occurs to me that day-to-day we are not very close to truth. From the most petty of untruths, for example, how we reply, “Doing fine,” to the question, “How’s it going?” to the most exaggerated untruths, like how we might respond, “Unconditionally,” to the question, “Do you love me?” Moment-by-moment we live not completely truthful lives. Untruths and half-truths sound familiar to us in our finite experiences. Le Guin says that the novelist’s business is telling lies in an effort to shed some light on the truth. The storyteller makes up something that, strictly speaking, is not true in order to elucidate what is true. When done well, the novelist’s message is at the same time irresistible and odd. It draws in readers, but, because truth is so unfamiliar to us readers, it is difficult to explain what we have been drawn closer to. It is a fine way to begin a new year, reading fiction that’s about truth which I cannot quite put my finger on. Now I have something to ponder in 2017!

I experience winter, if not as a kind of death, then at least as a closing in of the margins of life. The light grows shorter, the cold creeps in. The days betray, ending too soon. I tend to take this personally. I sink into winter. I sink into places inside. Places where fears, regrets and insecurities gnaw in the long darkness like rats beneath the planking. Places where hope is no longer a given, but a thing that must be hard won in the battle for each moment. My heart drifts sometimes into a blanketed hibernation. Grey hours smear into days that blur into bleared weeks. I raise my head to realize, sometimes, that I’ve gone seven days without leaving my house. On a practical level, productivity plummets. I’m still trying to jumpstart the day when it’s suddenly over, the hours unredeemed. It is all about the loss of light. My brain knows this. It’s physiology. I need more sunlight than these days have to offer. But that’s not how my heart experiences it. My heart is certain things have somehow gone wrong in ways that cannot be put to rights. That today’s losses might never be restored. My heart cries out that this condition is spiritual rather than merely physiological. At the lowest moments, my fears tell me my life is a waste. That I have achieved nothing. That I’ll never be able to make a living at what I do. That those who depend on me are doomed to perpetual disappointment. That the things I create are without practical value. That God is no longer present with me, or I with Him. That I am alone. That I stand outside the bright, advancing kingdom, passed over and deemed unfit for service, while my life devolves slowly downward, parts flying off at odd angles like a slow motion car wreck. . . . there will be no hope of real comfort if we do not first acknowledge that a great and perplexing gulf of grief and sorrow is present in our world and, at times, in our own lives. Douglas McKelvey Perhaps that’s why I have dreams sometimes, of driving at night on dangerously dark and steep and winding roads. Dim headlights barely penetrate the shadows. Sometimes I realize I’m driving in reverse though I don’t know why. The gas and brake pedals are strangely unresponsive, or I forget how to work them altogether. I anticipate the crash to come. I know I’m plummeting over the cliff or certain to hit another car or, in the worst of such dreams, to run over a pedestrian. I know it long seconds before it happens. Waking from one of those dreams sometimes means that I carry through the morning a lingering sense that is not unlike the experience of my passage through the dark days of winter. For in these months I also can’t see where I’m going. The light I have no longer illumines my path. The darkness closes in. The road is unknown and treacherous. I don’t remember my destination or understand what to do next. I fear it’s too late to do anything, that the crash is now unavoidable, or has perhaps even already happened. The psalmist says: I am like a desert owl, like an owl among the ruins. I lie awake; I have become like a bird alone on a roof. And again: My days are like the evening shadow; I wither away like grass. And I say, Amen. I too have felt this: The hollowing of life. The collapse of days and dreams. The loss of light. I long for the return of warmth and light as I long for a resurrection. Perhaps that’s why I’ve found myself again and again writing stories of characters whose lives are upended, whose hopes are dashed, whose strength—as it turns out—is not enough. Characters who find themselves wandering the shadowed valleys, haunting the ruins of their own former dreams. Owls among the ruins. A bird alone on a roof. For me, such stories are like the writing of a kind of psalm. They ask the same questions: Is God yet present? Is He mindful of me? Is He disappointed in me? Am I abandoned? What has become of my heart? I know that pain and loss and sorrow are real. They are part of our experience in this world. So I find myself compelled to ask Is there a grace and a love that can coexist with that and, rather than being nullified by it, somehow be more profoundly manifest in the midst of it? These questions of theodicy cannot be satisfactorily approached by anything less than story, I think, for any mathematical solution, however elegant, would forever ring hollow in the ears of Job. Or in the ears of any of us, for that matter, who suffer loss and confusion even of the lesser, daily varieties. But I’ve always instinctively held that any answer that could not address Job’s devastating losses would be an answer fatally flawed and ultimately without power to comfort or to heal or to redeem. Anything less is a lie, no matter how well-intended. For there will be no hope of real comfort if we do not first acknowledge that a great and perplexing gulf of grief and sorrow is present in our world and, at times, in our own lives. One does not receive the Angel’s blessing without the sleepless wrestling and the wounding, it would seem. One does not see God in the whirlwind without confronting the whirlwind. So for me, the reason I sometimes write stories (and the reason I usually cannot plot a narrative out in advance of writing it), is because the act of writing has become a way of chasing God into the darkness and impenetrable shadows of fear and grief and loss and sorrow and abandonment. Because a grace that cannot be found in those places is ultimately a lie. And if I were to predetermine how a story must end before I even began writing it, then there could be no honest wrestling with those enduring questions. The struggle would be stillborn, never incarnated in the story. And where there is no honest wrestling, I believe there can be no meaningful resolution. Grace, after all, is not a thing that can be quantified or forced. If it does not somehow surprise even the writer when it enters the story, then it is probably just an artifice of his or her own devising, calculated, and without effect. Such false grace is the literary equivalent of telling a friend who has just lost a child that “It happened for a reason.” This is why writing some stories hurts. I fear in the writing of a story, as in the living of life, that I will venture into the narrative and not be met. That my needs and inadequacies and poverties will be exposed in the process, and I will die the death that follows such revelations, and there will be no resurrection and no redemption. That I will end the attempt in a more confused and degraded state than that in which I began, crouched alone in the bomb crater of my own failures. Flannery O’ Connor wrote “The Christian writer does not decide what would be good for the world and proceed to deliver it. Like a very doubtful Jacob, he confronts what stands in his path and wonders if he will come out of the struggle at all.” "The ability of the writer to pen a narrative with any real power in it rests at least in part in a willingness to let the story play out on its own terms. The writer must not assume that grace is going to intervene in the narrative." - Douglas McKelvey It doesn’t matter how many stories I write. I doubt to the very end of most whether I can come out of the struggle. I am forced to my knees by the process, pleading that I will be met and not abandoned. Fears and insecurities swirl and assail chapter by chapter, paragraph by paragraph, sentence by sentence. It does not get better with age and experience. It gets worse. To write a story sometimes is to be stripped of all dignity. It is not merely to acknowledge, but to experience moment by moment my own utter helplessness. But where else can I go and what else can I do? This is my vocation. Perhaps, though I don’t know how to quantify such things, it is even my calling. So even when I cannot be cheerful therein, I still wish to be faithful. But on some level, it seems that writing is the place I go to die. I did not realize that until this moment, but there it is: Writing is the place I go to die. Epiphanies for me are usually instinctual, requiring afterwards a long, slow process to work their way down through layers of cognition and translation. So if you can allow me some months or years to more fully understand the ways in which that statement is true and why I instinctively know it to be true, perhaps I’ll be able to give a more satisfactory exegesis. In the meantime, here’s the point I was heading towards: The ability of the writer to pen a narrative with any real power in it rests at least in part in a willingness to let the story play out on its own terms. The writer must not assume that grace is going to intervene in the narrative. That urge to easily relieve the tension of unanswered questions, to tie things up neatly, must be resisted. Only then can the presence of a greater mercy become manifest in some wild way that in the end is authentic and organic and as unexpected as it is inevitable. And I have found that the soul is likely to be wrung like a dishrag in the process. The story bleeds into one’s own life, opening the old wounds. Twenty years ago I wrote my first published book. It was an emotionally discordant time in my life. I felt suckerpunched. I was grieving the loss of things I had not previously considered I might lose. I was also reading the works of Solzhenitsyn and Dostoevsky, both of whom displayed that Russian penchant for raising questions of evil and suffering and of the presence or absence of God, and also that (sometimes jarring to Western readers) habit of not tying up all the frayed threads and loose ends of their stories but letting them play out more like the subjective experience of real life. The gravity of those writers nudged my own orbit, affirming the sanctity of leaning into those frayed edges of life, of mining the roots of those cragged and weather-beaten mountains. So I began my literary endeavors (small though they’ve been), in that very spot: a sort of Ground Zero of the soul, asking the question What becomes of people emerging from the rubble of what had been their lives? I asked the question, at least in part, because I personally needed to know if there was a satisfactory answer. Where do we go and where do we turn and what narrative do we hold to when our own best plans have failed, when our long labors have come to nought, when the hopes we planted have bloomed as fields of sorrows instead? Who, or what, can hold us then? Are we truly alone and adrift and pushed by mindless winds? Or is there a presence that holds us yet, a presence that transcends and quiets those very questions? Will we be met? Will we be met amongst these ruins? I wrote my first book twenty years ago, flinging those questions into the darkness ahead of me, hoping they would somehow be answered. In The Angel Knew Papa and the Dog there is the character of a gentle widower who faces the threat of even greater loss than what he has already endured. His young daughter, who is also the narrator, faces the threat of deeper sorrows as well. Can I see now that that man stood in the place of my fears and that the girl stood in the place of my own heart? That she was the embodiment of the hope and faith I wasn’t certain could survive intact if the peace of existence was suddenly overturned? If all that had been settled was suddenly thrown into doubt? If everything didn’t work out okay? Can I see now, though I didn’t know it then, that the story was a psalm, acknowledging My days are like the evening shadow, and then moving on to the refrain: Will I be met? Will I be met? Will I be met? As I wrote, I did not see the grace approaching in the way that it finally manifest in that story. Its arrival was sudden, unexpected, and more costly than I had anticipated. And yet, I knew on some deep level that it was true to the narrative that had preceded it. I lived through the story emotionally as I wrote it and there were points at which I wept. The answer given to the questions I asked was not, in the end, even about answers, but about presence. And confronted with such presence, I suddenly knew my questions were all the wrong questions anyway. They weren’t even the right category. And maybe it’s that very experience I’ve now lived through more than once as a writer, of venturing into the wilds of an uncharted story, risking and fearing utter failure, and yet then of somehow finding myself met, maybe it’s that experience that keeps me in the fight now—or at least in the daily struggle to return to the fight—through these dark, cold days. Maybe it’s that which stops me from just giving in to the collective weight of winter and numbing myself till spring. Maybe it is when I can step back to see my own life as story, that I can recognize the same pattern at work. There are days, yes, when I don’t feel much tangible hope of a variety solid enough to latch onto. When the narrative running in my head has gone off the rails. There are weeks and even months when my life isn’t really working very well—not by any objective measure I would place on it. There are seasons when I am like an owl among the ruins, or like a man crouched in the gray ashen fallout of a former city who wants nothing more than a warm blanket, a stiff shot of vodka and a long sleep without dreams. But I know this now: I know that a life of obedience cannot be about my feelings. I know in my head even when I cannot grasp it in my heart, that we will sail this ship across the winter solstice and the days will begin to lengthen again and the world will slowly warm and my own circadian rhythms will swing back into balance and all existence will reawaken into light and hope. It will not be my life circumstances that change. But hope will have returned, and that feeling, that sense of hope, will change my perspective and my vocation will grow easier again. And when that awakening comes, I know that I will either awaken from an anesthetized hibernation in some deep snow den, having lost months with little to show for the days, or I will awaken to turn and look at the fields behind me, at the path I have forced (even if I was sometimes sleepwalking) through six-foot snow drifts, dragging the dead weight of my heart on a chain behind me. I will turn and see the work I have completed in that time. I will see that even these hard days have had their good redemptions and their forward movements. Maybe, in hindsight, I will see that I was not so alone as I imagined. And so I write now as a means of calling my own heart back. It has taken me four days to weave this one short essay, because the light is so transient, so insubstantial, and my hope is always caving in. I confront again and again the doubt that I can finish even a short essay. Sometimes the doubt wins and I collapse and retreat from the task. But the next morning, I call my heart back again, and I make another run at it. I try to still the voices and the fears enough to sit myself down, just to write a few more words, just to show up and see what might happen. Just to be present once again. And if I am present today—if despite what I feel and fear, I am present—who knows what might come of it? Perhaps, somehow, I’ll even be met. Rabbit Room Press is set to reprint Douglas Kaine McKelvey’s first book The Angel Knew Papa and the Dog, in March of 2017. Boasting a beautiful new cover painted by Zach Franzen, this reprint will mark the first time in fifteen years that McKelvey’s critically-acclaimed frontier fantasy tale will return to print and to wide availability. The Angel is now offered for pre-sale in the Rabbit Room Store. With enough pre-sales momentum over the next few weeks, we’ll be able to budget some of those funds for interior sketch illustrations for the book as well. If you’d like to play a part in making that happen, please pre-order a copy and spread the word: More pre-sales = more interior illustrations! #writing #depression #DougMcKelvey #Story #hope #struggle #McKelvey #AngelKnewPapa #Stories

We want North Wind Manor to be a hospitable place for everyone. We had such a great response from Open Hours: Fika (Swedish coffee break) each Wednesday from 1:00 - 4:00 that we later added Quiet Hours: Stilla (Swedish for quiet and peaceful) each Friday morning from 9:00 - 12:00. Fika, with its community, coziness, and intentional pause brings to the space a vibrant hum of conversation, laughter, and music, whereas Stilla quiet hours is to provide a calmer space for deeper focus. These times have been so wonderful and each week offers a different group and energy based on those who choose to join in. That said, we’ve had a sad ache in our heart of hearts knowing that something is still missing. So it is with great joy that the Rabbit Room proudly presents…. Open Hours: Pyjämaslëëpövr (Swedish for slumber party). Although American culture has no exact cultural equivalent, the Nordic countries have a long and deep tradition of Pyjämaslëëpövr. It fills the mysterious liminal space between a junior high girls' slumber party and a networking cocktail party for local professionals. Starting at midnight each Tuesday night and wrapping up with a collective primal scream as the sun rises in the east. We’ll be eating Köttbullar, round hand-formed meatballs made from pork, slathered in lingonberry jam, Pannkakor, pancakes slathered in lingonberry jam, and Surströmming, fermented herring slathered in lingonberry jam, while we dance the Dansa runt stolen, and play round after round of our favorites, Kalle Anka-leken and Spelet med äpplet, till we pass out from a mixture of exhaustion and glee. And hey, if a pillow fight breaks in the midst of all that, that would be seen as a success as well! So pull out your pajamas, don your Svenska mössan, grab your favorite stuffed animal and come on out ya’ll! [Editor's note: now that April 1 has passed, I am at liberty to add the disclaimer that this was an April Fool's joke. While we celebrate whatever Scandinavian-inspired traditions you get up to between midnight and dawn... please don't do them at North Wind Manor.]

Over the last few years, I’ve found myself in several situations where someone’s asked me a question about The Fiddler’s Gun or Fiddler’s Green and I legitimately couldn’t remember the story well enough to answer. If that sounds ridiculous to you, you’re not wrong—it sounds even more ridiculous to me. But it’s true. Each time that’s happened, I’ve had the nagging thought that I should re-read the books sometime just so I know what they are about if someone asks. But that’s also a terrifying thought. I’m well aware that I’ve grown as a writer since that first novel, and the thought of going back and witnessing that reality first-hand sounds humbling. I mean, it’s in print now. It’s too late to change it. What if I hate it? Then I realized that 2019 is the 10-year anniversary of the publication of The Fiddler’s Gun, and I thought I ought to celebrate that somehow. My brother has been bugging me for a long time to publish an omnibus edition, putting both books into one volume with fresh artwork. I like that idea, but if I’m being pragmatic, I wonder how many people would really buy a book that’s over 600 pages long. Some would, sure. But enough to make it worth the time and expense? I remain suspicious of this idea. And besides, if I ever do decide to re-issue these books, I’m bound and determined that they be heavily illustrated, and that’s going to be a lot of work for some poor artist. So not yet, I say. Maybe some other anniversary. But for this 10th, I did have an idea. I needed to read those books again after all. Tap-tap. Microphone? Check. Books? Check. Reading voice? Doing my best. Recording studio? My closet works, right? You heard me. I’m recording all of this in my closet. Laugh it up—it works. But why a podcast instead of an audiobook? Good question. People have been asking for an audiobook for years. My wife would probably tell you that I’m oppositionally defiant and therefore will always do the opposite of whatever I’m asked. That’s not true (at all), but in this case, I just thought a podcast sounded like more fun. Part of the reason for reading the books is to re-evaluate them with fresh eyes, and that’s not something for which an audiobook provides an avenue. But a podcast gives me the leeway to record other material, like backstory that got cut but remains compelling, or to provide reflections on the hows and the whys of the writing process itself in the form of bonus episodes. That’s the kind of thing I can get really excited about. So a podcast it is (though once complete, I’m sure I’ll compile it all for the audiobook market). And so here we are. This is going to be fun. In fact, it already is. I asked Tyler Rydosz, a local musician, to compose the music (which makes me cry almost every time I listen to it), and I asked Stephen Crotts to create some new artwork (which is completely awesome). The rest is up to me. I’ll be spending a lot of time in the closet in the next few weeks, and I’ll be brushing up on my French accents (gulp!). Pray for me. An introductory episode and the prologue, “The Beginning,” are available now. “Part I: Foundations” (season 1) will go live, appropriately, on July the Fourth, Independence Day, and Parts II-V will follow in August, September, October, and November with over 70 episodes all told. Click here to view the podcast page, subscribe wherever you get your podcasts, and enjoy the ride. Welcome to Fin’s Revolution. An American legend, one chapter at a time. Bonus Announcement: After great strife and terrible contention with Amazon, The Fiddler’s Gun and Fiddler’s Green are now available on Kindle once more. Pete Peterson is the author of the Revolutionary War adventure The Fiddler’s Gun and its sequel Fiddler’s Green. Among the many strange things he’s been in life are the following: U.S Marine air traffic controller, television editor, art teacher and boatwright at the Florida Sheriffs Boys Ranch, and progenitor of the mysterious Budge-Nuzzard. He lives in Nashville with his wife, Jennifer, where he's the Executive Director of the Rabbit Room and Managing Editor of Rabbit Room Press.

“My name is Maximus Decimus Meridius, Commander of the Armies of the North, General of the Felix Legions, loyal servant to the true emperor, Marcus Aurelius. Father to a murdered son, husband to a murdered wife. And I will have my vengeance, in this life or the next.” Thus the eponymous Gladiator, known as “The Spaniard” (aka Russell Crowe), unmasks his true identity to the emperor (Joaquin Phoenix) before the Colosseum masses. The emperor now faces an awkward political calculation: this brilliant fighter is no mere slave—he is the chosen successor of his father, Marcus Aurelius, and therefore his most dangerous rival. Fear of the mob drives him to spare Maximus’s life and the crowds are ecstatic. Here at last is true leadership, true resilience, true power: in the valiant but wronged soldier unjustifiably enslaved, not their sybaritic Caesar draped in perfumes and purple. Throughout the movie, Maximus has faced intolerable odds, as the hero of any rattling yarn must. Survival, quite apart from restitution, is improbable. The empire’s once-loyal servant has become the emperor’s most intractable foe. But it’s an asymmetrical contest and therefore, to the majority of armchair spectators, an unwinnable one. And yet our noble hero overcomes, through a superhuman combination of special-forces-toughness, whip-smart opportunism, and, quite naturally, the fact that he is Russell Crowe. Power and nobility. Or as Maximus’s comrades’ motto would have it, Strength and Honor. If there is a moral to the story at all, it’s that we should never cease to wonder at that elusive Hollywood holy grail, the human spirit (whatever that is). Just search for the hero inside of yourself! Yup, you too can be Maximus, or Katniss, Luke or Rey, Po or Elsa! But the grand story at the heart of Ephesians won’t let us be content with such hackneyed fictions. It subverts this and every other human story, at almost every significant point. Yes, there are peculiar parallels: we read of asymmetrical power relationships, epic battles requiring armor, defensive and offensive maneuvers, a fight against overwhelming odds. There’s even a nice Ephesian resonance with Maximus the Roman citizen spending his entire professional life serving earth’s greatest city despite never having laid eyes on Rome. But that’s where the similarities end. An Asymmetrical Relationship This ought to go without saying, but every person who comes into contact with the living God finds him or herself in a profoundly asymmetrical relationship. How can it be otherwise? The Creator who provides for his creatures, yet creatures we remain; the Omniscient who accommodates himself to those who can know only in part; the Omnipotent who deigns to employ the frail, finite, and deeply flawed as his “coworkers” (1 Cor 3:9); the one whose name is Love and who loves the ones that hate him. No, there is no equality here and never can be. The only way we can possibly relate to God is if he takes the initiative to stoop and to keep on stooping. For all its controversies, that is perhaps why we find that unsettling asymmetry in Ephesians’ so-called Household Code. As was clear in last week’s chapter, there is an equal demand on all believers to “submit to one another out of reverence for Christ” (5:21). That doesn’t mean, however, that its applications are identical. Paul grants different roles to different groups. But the key to the husband’s lengthy injunction to love for his wife comes in 5:25: “as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her.” That is no small task. It is far easier to grasp why the child-parent, and perhaps even the slave-master relationships, are necessarily asymmetrical. In the Roman Empire, age, gender, and freedom status profoundly shaped a person’s options. Jesus-shaped power is a threat to the status quo. It is also very hard to do. Mark Meynell In itself, that would have surprised nobody in Paul’s day. There is plenty of evidence that the Household Code was a relatively common ethical form: it’s found most famously in Aristotle’s Politics (Book 1, XIII), but also alluded to in Stoic writings such Seneca’s letters. What is revolutionary about Paul’s household codes is how he subverts them. Even to address wives, children, and slaves at all was startling. Previously, the head of the household (the paterfamilias) was the sole recipient of these codes, because husband, father, and master tended to be one and the same man. But then look what Paul expects of that man: to sacrifice himself for his wife because Christ did, to bring up his children for the Lord, to treat slaves justly because he shares the same heavenly master. Christ takes precedence over each and every role. Christ’s authority relativizes a man’s. Always. That is why African American slaves would often address the Lord Jesus as “Master,” a deliberate reminder both to themselves and their owners that they all submitted to a higher authority. He is the ultimate owner. Such absolute authority might be the grounds for deep anxiety. Indeed, when the prophet Daniel is confronted by a vision of “one like a son of man” who is granted all divine, cosmic power and authority, he is justifiably terrified. (Daniel 7:13-15) Like Tolkien’s ring, such power is too great for a mere mortal human being—until we see what the Son of Man did with it. He had compassion for the most vulnerable to asymmetrical power dynamics (especially if religious): the widows and orphans, the outcasts and aliens, the sinners and tax collectors. He accompanied, he encouraged, he honored, he healed, he taught, he loved. Why would anyone object to that? An Alternative Road The problem is that society has never traditionally recognized such behavior as “power.” If anything, it is its polar opposite. So when worldly powers encounter it, they either smirk and jeer with effortless superiority or attempt to neutralize and crush in bewildered hostility. Jesus-shaped power is a threat to the status quo. It is also very hard to do. It demands a willingness to trust in God, the ultimate Master, often despite what every sense in your body is communicating. But “all that is required” is to stand and remain standing against the devil’s schemes. (6:11-12) No wonder that Christians down the ages try to fight fire with fire. A militaristic passage like Ephesians 6:10-20 might (at first sight) seem quite the justification (and don’t get me started on Joshua’s conquest of the Promised Land). Yet from Peter lopping off a soldier’s ear to notorious episodes in Christendom’s history, the results of conflating God’s kingdom with human empires and states never look pretty. Paul teaches that there is a battle; of that there’s no doubt. But it’s primarily a spiritual, rather than material, duel against “the cosmic powers over this present darkness” (6:12), demanding disconcerting strategies and defenses. It pits a Christ-like wielding of power (which puts a premium on sacrifice, altruism, and even submission) against the bullying cruelty of hellish power (which relentlessly exploits, subjugates, and destroys). The outcome of such a battle seems like a foregone conclusion, doesn’t it? Of course hell’s powers will win. How on earth can the former avoid annihilation against such sulfurous, or dare I say it, hideous strength? The clue comes in 6:10. Paul makes no appeal for intensive workouts to build up core strength. In fact, he doesn’t think we need to be strong at all, at least not directly: “Be strong in the Lord and in the strength of his might.” This is a matter of deciding which power center to align yourself with. The primary requirement of the disciple here is to cling on tight to the Lord. The phrase translated “strength of his might” has twice appeared before in Ephesians (1:19 and 3:7), the evidence for which is clear: the Resurrection (1:20). Who wouldn’t want to be on the death-conqueror’s team? That’s awesome power. The challenge is that he had to go to the cross first, which, paradoxically, was the supreme sacrifice of power. As Chesterton pointedly put it, “You cannot defeat the cross, because it is defeat.” How bizarre to have as a rallying point a symbol of weakness and dishonor. No wonder being a foot soldier in this cross-shaped conflict demands an unconventional approach, to say the least: It will be grounded in truth—or to unpack Paul’s metaphor, held together by truth (6:14). So never be deceived by the mere appearance of power, by mistaking barking for biting. It will be a true path to true goodness—this breastplate of righteousness, like the gospel, is a gift. (6:14) Anything less will have “no value in stopping the indulgence of the flesh,” as he puts it in Colossians 2:23. It will constantly be prepped for action, like any soldier—but the action is to bring peace, ultimately with God, but in consequence between people(s) (6:15). I suppose it makes the kingdom soldier more UN peacekeeper than imperialist invader. It will defend itself by trusting God’s promises against the Accuser’s barbs and lies (6:16), in particular to guard the head with the confidence of salvation. But because it is a divine gift, assurance is not just possible—it is inherent. It will have only one offensive weapon: a sword. This is not designed to sever limbs but to cut to the heart—with divine truth. And thus we come full-circle. Maximus would never have survived the gladiatorial arena with these defenses. But nobody can ever withstand the devil without them. But the most extraordinary truth of all is that we know the outcome in advance. In movies, that can spoil the effect somewhat. But in the Christian life, it simply makes it livable. Artwork Credit: “Desert Wind” by Joshua Smith

There’s a certain kind of loneliness that comes of never being asked the right questions. Many of us go years at a time subsisting on questions like How’s the job? and How are the kids? Even the slightly superior How are you? without a foundation of relational intimacy and plenty of time to dig in, can be glossed over as easily as a question about the weather. One of my frustrations with social media is the endless stream of information about the people in my life. I receive constant updates on their activities, opinions, and preferences, yet I feel no closer to them. When we meet face to face, I find the flood of digital information has disrupted the normal flow of conversation and deepening relationship. If I’m up to the minute on everything, what remains to be asked? But this problem also exists inside strong communities and friendships. Few people ask questions at all, much less good ones. I’ve paid counselors and spiritual directors for their wisdom and insight, knowing our time together was necessary for my growth. But my deepest hunger was simply for someone to ask the right questions, the ones that press into the pain and joy of my experience. Why should that need be so difficult to meet? Why is that experience uncommon? Perhaps we don’t have time. To ask a thoughtful and probing question carries with it the burden of listening to the answer, of focusing on another person’s story and sitting with the weight of her feelings. Whose schedule has margin for that kind of nebulous encounter? We don’t have the patience. According to John O’Donohue, “greed for destination obliterates the journey,” and an obsession with destinations, with end goals, is a fair diagnostic of our time. We want financial success without labor and sacrifice. We want the pleasures of sexuality without trust or commitment. We want insta-communities that develop without the years of face-to-face interaction that deep relationships require. Or perhaps we don’t know how to make ourselves vulnerable to the risks of relationship. It is easier, after all, to know about five hundred people than to know five. We harbor a secret wish that everyone would arrive on the scene with a bio, a handful of photographs (for reference), and a list of guidelines. Something in my soul sighs deep at that—the idea that all my relational investments could be guaranteed, all outcomes assured. The idea that I could keep the world at arm’s length while appearing to live a full life. Isn’t it fascinating that an omniscient God, the God who knows us inside and out, should be so determined to ask questions? Turn to any passage of Scripture, Old Testament or New, and there’s a good chance you’ll catch him in the act. In the gospels, for example, Jesus is always walking up to someone with an obvious malady, an obvious need, and asking, “What do you want?” He makes no assumptions. Whatever information he’s gained through observation or revelation, he never misses an opportunity to ask a good question. Jesus honors the suffering people he encounters by allowing them to voice their feelings and desires. In person. Face to face. He is relentless in his pursuit of genuine relationship. One stunning example of this commitment takes place on the morning of the resurrection. Jesus, having descended into the depths of human darkness, has risen triumphant. He is Lord of the universe, and he holds the keys of death and hell in his hands. Surely this is a moment to celebrate, to proclaim his unrivaled cosmic power to the world. But Jesus pauses at the garden tomb to talk to a grieving friend. And he doesn’t lecture her about his promise that he would rise again on the third day; he makes no mention of the doctrine of the resurrection as presented by the prophets. In fact, he gives no answers at all. He asks questions, entering Mary’s pain and gently drawing her out as a friend would do. This Jesus, being the same yesterday, today, and forever, and being the exact expression of the person of God the Father, is behaving in the same way God behaves in the Garden of Eden. We’ve missed the connection because for centuries now our focus in the story of the fall has been on the sin of eating the fruit. God said “no,” and man ate, and the rest is history. We see two trees in the garden, one of them bearing the label Immortality, the other Sin. It’s easy to forget that the second tree, the forbidden one, was The Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. In eating from it, something was changed, something broken. But what? The thing that was broken when mankind ate the fruit was not a moral directive. The thing that was broken was a relationship. Helena Sorensen Last year I bought a language arts curriculum written by a Mormon woman who designed the curriculum to be appropriate for people of all Christian faiths. The emphasis of the text? Morality. It was this woman’s belief that all of us Christian folk could agree on one thing: right and wrong. I’ve heard parents name the knowledge of good and evil (knowing right from wrong) as their chief goal in raising children. This is the fruit the church offers the world. We have a book with all the answers, don’t we? Properly understood and interpreted, the Bible will tell us everything we need to know about good and evil. So we’ll be safe. So we’ll be holy. So we’ll make God smile. Could it be that while claiming to point the world to Christ, we have gorged ourselves on the fruit of the wrong tree? The thing that was broken when mankind ate the fruit was not a moral directive. The thing that was broken was a relationship. Yet in that moment, the moment we name as the darkest in human history, how does God respond? He asks questions. “Where are you?” “Who told you that you were naked?” Knowing the answers, still he persists. He presses into relationship. The God whose holiness, whose “otherness,” is defined by the relationship of the Trinity—the Three who commune together, who know one another, who love by nature without the need for hierarchy—that God can do nothing else. We shrink, as Adam did, from the mysteries of relationship and instead embrace the categories. We divide the world into good and evil. The Pharisees mastered the art of categorization, yet Jesus condemned their efforts. “You search the Scriptures, because in them you think you have life. But you won’t come to me that you might have life.” The only possible fruit of searching the Scriptures to figure out what is right and wrong—to gain the knowledge of good and evil—is death. Why? Because of the terrible distance between knowing about and the kind of knowing that happens in relationship. Distance yourself from the One who is Life, and you enter the realm of death. There are those who prowl the New Testament, studying Jesus, trying to understand the rules by which he lived and mimic them. Jesus confounds them by never doing anything in exactly the same way twice. Does he sleep through storms or rebuke them? Or does he ignore the boat and walk on the water? Are people healed when he anoints them with spit and clay? Or when they turn away believing? Or when they touch the hem of his garment? We can’t nail him down. “I only do what I see with my Father,” he explains. In other words, “I live in relationship with God the Father, through the power of the Spirit, and out of that union I operate moment by moment.” It’s what makes him the most complicated, infuriating person ever to live. The Jews kept waiting for his actions to line up with the “good” side of the chart, while Jesus was off asking questions like, “Woman, where are your accusers?” You can spend a lifetime avoiding the mysteries of relationship, relying on categories to save you. These people are right and those are wrong. Forever and ever, Amen. You can lean into the comforting sterility of checklists. Press this button. Pay this fee. Attend this service. Read this book. Check. Check. Check. Buy your spouse an anniversary gift and call that a good marriage. Have the same conversation every time you bump into a friend (How was your trip? How are the kids?) and call that connection. Check, check. Or sit with someone who is weeping and feel the exposure of silence. Endure the stilted conversation. Share the meal. Take the risk. Ask the hard question. There’s a certain kind of healing that comes of being asked a good question, or many good questions. Where are you? In your heart, in your mind, in your journey? How does that feel? What are you hoping for? What are you afraid of? Questions, and the exchange of hearts they invite, open the door to deep intimacy. They bridge the chasm between knowing about and knowing. When no one is hovering over you, waiting for the right answer, clutching a gavel in judgment, you are free to offer the truth of yourself. Free to be known and loved. It’s the life you were destined for before the foundation of the world, the life of perfect union with the God who asks questions.

For most of us, the idea of sharing something we’ve crafted, even after several editing passes, is terrifying. It’s the reason why we stack paintings against garage walls, and why we occupy the back rows of the local open mic night—content to allow the bravest among us to serve as a proxy of sorts. Imagine how much more vulnerable it would feel to make up something on the spot, to create in the present, and allow a room full of people to take it in. What if there was no timeline, no barrier between creation and release? If you’ve ever seen indie folk duo Lowland Hum in concert, you know the reference. Daniel and Lauren Goans are not only capable of crafting acclaimed acoustic releases—filled with wise, poetic lyrics and sparse, beautiful melodies. The married duo is also known for leaving space in their live shows for spontaneous creativity to burst forth—no matter how vulnerable that might sound. For the Goans, it’s an exercise in courage. It’s trusting the muse. As Lauren says, she can feel like an imposter with nothing to bring to the table. What better way to combat those feelings than to dive into the deep end, as they say, and defy those doubts with a courageous act of creation. Click here to listen to Episode 4 of The Resistance. You can visit the official website of The Resistance here. Special thanks to our Rabbit Room members for making these podcasts possible! If you’re interested in becoming a member, visit RabbitRoom.com/Donate.

These days, I tend to find myself bemoaning my own easy distractedness. I took a little bit of a social media fast in the opening weeks of the year, and I resolved at the end of that experience to be more measured in my use of social media, but let’s be honest: I fell pretty quickly back into old habits. I guess it’s at least good that I’m aware of my backslide? Gotta start somewhere. I certainly make the effort to get away from busyness and distraction through nature, as hard as that is at times. But I’m realizing that even that is not always enough. I was listening to a friend’s sermon recently about Jesus’ retreats into the wilderness, and he expressed how it isn’t that hard for him to be solitary or get away from distraction, yet the greater difficulty is often that of achieving internal silence. I couldn’t agree more, particularly as someone who tends to run hamster wheels in my head. How do we stop long enough to hear our own thoughts, and to let those settle down into stillness? All this brings me to something else that occurred a few months ago. We lost Mary Oliver, one of America’s greatest living poets, on January 17th. While I haven’t spent as much time with her poetry as I’d like, I’ve spent enough to feel her impact on me. In her poetry I’ve found a kindred soul who wanted to walk in nature and write. Mary Oliver’s writing has been somewhat ridiculed as less than sophisticated by some critics, but for me, the appeal of her work has always been its deceptively simple attentiveness to the small things around us in the natural world. I think she recognized this criticism and pushed back against it in poems like “Foolishness? No, It’s Not” (one of my favorites): Sometimes I spend all day trying to count the leaves on a single tree. To do this I have to climb branch by branch and write down the numbers in a little book. So I suppose, from their point of view, it’s reasonable that my friends say: what foolishness! She’s got her head in the clouds again. But it’s not. Of course I have to give up, but by then I’m half crazy with the wonder of it — the abundance of the leaves, the quietness of the branches, the hopelessness of my effort. And I am in that delicious and important place, roaring with laughter, full of earth-praise. It would be easy to look at Oliver’s life as one of romantic abandon, endlessly wandering in and rhapsodizing about nature. But underlying her work is a discipline of attention. As her poem “Yes! No!” so simply states, “To pay attention, this is our endless and proper work.” Tangible Items I’m realizing that part of my distractedness and lack of internal stillness is this lack of paying attention, which, by the way, is not the same as “paying attention” to what’s happening on social media. I need to give myself time, not only to escape from distraction, but to observe and listen to my own inner life and the life happening around me. I’ve also realized that I need tools to help me practice this. Here are some of the ones that have been helping me. Back in April, I bought a rosary, and I’ve found it helpful in focusing when I go for walks or pray. Just wrapping it around my wrist and fingering the cross while walking has been a way to bring my wandering thoughts back over and over. I also had this image from artist Scott Erickson tattooed on my forearm just a few weeks ago as a reminder to bring my full heart and attention to each day. Speaking of Scott Erickson, I’ve previously written about the book he created with writer Justin McRoberts called Prayer. I’ve found the short, meaningful prayers and images in it very helpful in forcing me to stop and listen to my own life, motives, actions, etc. Habits, Practices, and Rhythms I think if we want to be more attentive in our lives, we have to create habits and practices and rhythms that foster this. I’ll be the first to admit that I am not all that great at doing this consistently. But some of the things I’ve already mentioned above have been ways I’ve tried to implement some rhythms in my life. Two things that are important for me and that I’m pretty good at are walks in nature and reading thoughtful, reflective books. One new habit I’ve incorporated is following people who are different than me (a white, middle class, cisgendered man) on Twitter so that I pay attention to what life is like for people outside of my own socioeconomic bubble. Sabbath I think the third important aspect to paying attention that I’ve found true in my own life is creating Sabbath, or rest. I’m actually writing this while sitting in a cottage on the water on Mt. Desert Island in Maine. My wife and I have made a habit of coming here most of the years we’ve been married, and you can read about some of those experiences here. We usually come right after I’m done teaching for the school year. There’s something about this island, with its rugged rocky coasts, pine trees, mountains, and the surrounding ocean that’s good for my soul. I feel a little slower and more in tune with nature, for at least the few days we’re here. Maybe you can’t escape to an island (and frankly I get to do this maybe once a year), but can you create spaces of rest in your life that allow you to stop, slow down, and be attentive? What I’ve realized in engaging these practices and rhythms and rests is that my attention has become a form of prayer, of communion with God. I grew up sometimes thinking that prayer was this strange one-sided conversation with a man in the sky where we just asked for things. As I’ve grown older I’ve realized that God is always speaking, in your heart, in the birdsong, in the ocean’s roar, in the quiet among the trees. We’re often just too busy to notice. May that be less and less so.

Today marks the end of our collective study of the book of Ephesians! Thank you for walking through this endlessly fascinating letter with us. We hope you’ve learned something new about this particular letter, the New Testament letters in general, and the way we can relate to them across time and space. To close out, here’s a list of resources for further reading, watching, and listening as well as links to each individual post in this series. Resources The Bible Project Videos NIV Cultural Backgrounds Study Bible by Keener & Walton How to Read the Bible for All Its Worth & How to Read the Bible Book by Book by Stuart & Fee Ephesians Commentary by Stephen Fowl Living-letters.com (Stephen Trafton’s ministry, reading New Testament letters from stage) Instagram/Facebook: @experiencelivingletters Ephesians Study Series Heidi Johnston’s Interview with Stephen Trafton Michael Card’s Introduction to Paul’s Letter to the Ephesians Ephesians 1: The Lyric and Music of the Gospel by Russ Ramsey Ephesians 2: The Cosmic Drama of Redemption by Rob Wheeler Ephesians 3 and the Big Picture by Rebecca Reynolds Ephesians 4: Living Together in Grace & Truth by S. D. Smith Ephesians 5: Walking in Love by Heidi Johnston Ephesians 6 and the Road Less Traveled by Mark Meynell

As the great philosopher once said, “Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.” I think I deceive myself into believing I’m pretty good at following that advice. I take time to stop and engage meaningful art on a daily basis, sure. But I’m an expert in avoiding life’s stresses by lesser means too. I play mini-golf on my iPhone enough to be counted among America’s top 1,000. I turn that off and check Twitter, then Facebook, then Gmail for new messages and validation. Then I cycle back to Twitter to see if anything new had appeared in the previous two minutes. Somehow, I don’t think this is what the philosopher meant when he invited us to “stop and look around once in a while.” But still, I’d rather be on my phone than actually be at rest. In listening to The Arcadian Wild’s newest record, Finch in the Pantry, I heard these struggles and insecurities echoed back to me. Of course, the delicate bluegrass instrumentation and three-part harmonies made the pill a little easier to swallow. The album begins with “Hey, Runner,” a blistering tune filled with intricately interwoven mandolins and guitars. “You better run fast / Get it done even if it takes all night,” the chorus warns, reminding us of the world’s mantra to prioritize work over rest and quantity over quality. As the song continues at an anxiety-inducing tempo, The Arcadian Wild ask us to examine the speed at which life is currently pushing us. However, distraction is often a much easier route than quiet self-examination. Even as I try to write this, I feel a million urges to direct my attention elsewhere, a sentiment intimately expressed in the song “Silence, A Stranger.” The pleading ballad begins, “Silence is a stranger that I’ve never let inside / I hear him knocking, but I do not dare reply.” Silent reflection is such a vital precursor to personal and spiritual growth, yet it remains a constant adversary to our insecurities and self-dissatisfaction. The daily struggle with silence reminds me of Paul in Romans 7 as he laments doing what he hates and not what he knows is right. However, there is a hope which cuts through every distraction and commands, “Peace, be still.” Our only requirement is surrender, like in the song’s final stanza, “Quiet, I’m listening this time / I need you on my side / I’m out of reasons why / I can’t keep up this fight / I want to feel alive.” Even when we’re able to confess surrender and embrace internal quiet for a time, the world continuously throws stumbling blocks in the way as the very next song explores. The ironically upbeat “Food Truck Blues” reminds us that the daily grind is necessary since “We’re all trying to get our bread, pay rent, and just survive.” Our need to move up in life from “fry cook to the Opry” pushes us to continue taking life into our own hands instead of resting on the hope we’ve found. Despite moments of clarity, it seems the mental “Civil War” wages for eternity. “What if we never really stop?” The Arcadian Wild ask, acknowledging the tendency to remain busy even when they shouldn’t. In this light, eternity is exhausting—an endless “wondering if and when you’ll reach the other side,” as they sing on “The Graduate.” However, there’s more of the story to tell, and eternity itself has already been redeemed. In one chorus, The Arcadian Wild have so passionately and gracefully conveyed foundational theology and exhorted us to hold on tightly to these wonderful and eternal gifts. Chris Thiessen As I listen to the album’s penultimate track, I’m filled with thankfulness for two of the greatest gifts we are given in this life. The first is the confidence which allows us to instead wonder “when, not if, we’ll reach the other side,” no longer burdened by the world’s anxieties. The second is the church, a “body of broken bones” built together on the promise that “together, we’ll make our way home.” In one chorus, The Arcadian Wild have so passionately and gracefully conveyed foundational theology and exhorted us to hold on tightly to these wonderful and eternal gifts. As the album neared its close, I couldn’t help but think again about the album’s title, Finch in the Pantry. I’ve never asked them what it means or what the inspiration is. However, it reminds me of one of my favorite passages of scripture. “Look at the birds of the air: they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them.” Finches don’t belong in pantries, spending their days worrying about their food stock and stuffing themselves with what they’ve accumulated. In the same way we have no need for anxiety about our pantries, whether it’s the literal kitchen pantry or the ones we own for storing money, social status, etc. Finch in the Pantry reminds us that we have no need for the “get it while you can” or “live while you’re young” attitude propounded by the great philosopher. “Life moves pretty fast,” it’s true. But what the philosopher didn’t realize is that it never ends. As the album’s final “Benediction” tells us, “Death has already lost.” Eternal life has won. I hope I can experience it as God intended, always embracing the freedom to wander through and enjoy this infinite wild. Click here to visit The Arcadian Wild’s website.

Denison Witmer could no longer comply with demands. Back in 2013, the singer-songwriter was tired of trying to make everything work. He was pushing the proverbial rock uphill in a number of ways—from being a family man for a wife and two young children to his role as a singer-songwriter to making money as a carpenter and craftsman. There was a passion for each, but there was also the pull. The strain felt to keep up with each facet became too much, and in the end, Denison says he was a frustrated artist who was not doing anything particularly well in a life that was already too full. So he did what few of us often have the courage to do. He pulled the plug. It’s been six years since we’ve heard from Denison the Artist. In that time, he’s settled into normal life of work and play, friends and family. He’s nurtured the relationships that mattered most without ever knowing if his passion and talent for music would ever come back around again. Maybe he would shy away from such comparisons, but the sacrifice feels a bit Abrahamic. These days, Denison Witmer has a new full-length album in the works and a beautiful new song, “Augustine.” His perspective has shifted after several seasons away from the craft. He’s learned a lot about himself, his family, and the staying power of his artistic community. Click here to listen to the new episode.

You are not too old for lullabies. But you may have forgotten how good they are for your soul. C. S. Lewis believed a children’s story that could only be enjoyed by children is not actually a good children’s story at all. For proof of his success in defying such a trend, I can readily confirm that his heart-gripping Narnia series moved me more deeply as an adult than it ever did as a child.* * See, for example, the time my college roommate walked out of her bedroom on a Saturday morning to find me in tears at our apartment’s kitchen table over the de-dragoning chapter in The Voyage of the Dawn Treader. Surely the same is true of lullabies—those mind-easing, spirit-softening, heart-assuring melodies that tuck us into love and peace—which means the best ones must be just as good (or better) for our adult souls too. J. J. Heller explained that she wrote her lullaby albums to be songs that spoke just as deeply to adults as children so that parents could enjoy them too—even if (when?) their kids tirelessly requested that they be played over and over again…because honestly, has anyone over the age of three ever wanted to hear “If You’re Happy and You Know It” more than once? (And all the parents said, “Amen. Preach. Come, Lord Jesus.”) I’m so thankful for these artists. I’m so thankful for their work. And I’m most thankful for the great Author of our faith moving them to pen lullabies for both his grownup children and their children too. I’ve lifted my eyes once again to the hope of Heller’s “In the Morning” when the sun sets with a heaviness of uncertainties and disappointments, looking ahead to the promises of new mercies (Lamentations 3:22) and joy for sorrows (Psalm 30:5) as he satisfies us each morning with his steadfast love (Psalm 90:14). We need lullabies. We need them to restore our childlike heart to childlike faith, reminding us that we are smaller and more dependent than we think—but also more deeply loved and perfectly taken care of than we can imagine. Kaitlin Miller I’ve fought for resilient joy in sorrow with the defiantly gentle battle cry of Christy Nockels’ “Pitter Patter Goes the Rain,” and have been captivated by the bedtime story fairy tale of “Always Remember to Never Forget”—which actually is no fairy tale at all, but our own divine love story of a “maiden so lovely and a Hero so true.” I’ve set my morning alarm for Scripture Lullabies’ “Steadfast Love” to waken me into the day with a crescendo of gratitude and trust. I’ve clung to the assurance of Audrey Assad’s “Little Light” that God is always near, even when the shadowy voices of empty spaces threaten a darker tune. I’ve laid my head down under the banner of Ellie Holcomb’s “He Loves Us,” as the sign-off of one day and the starting point of the next. And I’ve sat under the flood of a father’s love washing over me in Slugs & Bugs’ “Beautiful Girl,” overwhelmed by the unconditional steadfastness of a good father and our Good Father too. We need lullabies. We need them to repeat the sounding joy of the Lord our God singing over us (Zephaniah 3:17). We need them to restore our childlike heart to childlike faith, reminding us that we are smaller and more dependent than we think—but also more deeply loved and perfectly taken care of than we can imagine. We need them to lay us to rest, just as our Good Shepherd makes us (not just “allows us” or “advises us”) to lie down in green pastures (Psalm 23:2), ceasing from our striving, toils, and fears. And we need them to assure us that the safety we felt in the protective embrace of those who have cared for us pales in comparison to the safety of being held in our Good Shepherd’s arms—tender enough to carry us close to his heart (Isaiah 40:11), but strong enough to defend us from any harm that would threaten us in the night. The word “lullaby” comes from just what we would expect: being lulled into saying goodbye. And goodness, how we need this even more desperately as we grow—to be continually lulled by our Heavenly Father into saying goodbye to the temporary, visible shadows of this passing earth, always at rest in him with the sweet dreams of a new world and the sure hope that we will one day wake to find all those dreams come true. We’ve made a playlist that includes all the lullabies mentioned in this post—click here to listen on Spotify and here to listen on Apple Music.

If I were to pursue a blue collar career, I think I’d enjoy truck driving. It’s probably more stressful work than it seems, but the idea of having hours out on the road alone with my thoughts and music sounds like a dream to my introverted mind. There’s something about the road that invites a sense of wonder about infinite things. As Bilbo Baggins sings, “The road goes ever on and on / Down from the door where it began / Now far ahead the road has gone / And I must follow, if I can.” The road stretches forever into our past, reminding us of people who have traveled before us and places which we’ve called home. It also stretches forever forward, offering a lifetime of experiences and filling us with a yearning to see just what wonders the next stop holds. On the other hand, the road in and of itself is a lonely place—a wilderness with no specific address. When you’re on the road, you’re not really anywhere. You’re only passing through with the hope of arriving in a place where you belong. You may feel “Down in the Valley” for a time, but still, that hope is enough to propel us forward, foot still on the gas, down the long and winding road that leads to Love’s door. Musicians (like the one I’ve just quoted) have traveled the world’s roads for centuries, offering us a wealth of songs expressing each one of our wide-ranging emotions from loneliness to affection, homesickness to wanderlust. With this playlist, we hope to provide a soundtrack to your next trip out on the road. Whether you’re crossing the country via minivan with your family or driving alone in an 18-wheeler, may these songs encourage you on the journey and remind you of the glorious destination awaiting you. Click here to listen to our Road Trip playlist on Spotify. And here to listen on Apple Music. Thanks to all who contributed to this Rabbit Room playlist: John Barber, Ron Block, Matt Conner, Randall Goodgame, Lanier Ivester, Jonny Jimison, Pete Peterson, Jill Phillips, Jonathan Rogers, Joe Sutphin, Janie Townsend, Jennifer Trafton, and Chris Yokel.

If you check your internet sources, it’s either Teddy Roosevelt or a biblical figure. The source matters not. Rather it’s just important to know that someone once said it: Comparison is the thief of joy. Most of us have learned well the truth behind this phrase. Social media apps have us scrolling past one perfect life after another—perfect dishes next to perfect workouts next to perfect vacations. All the while we question our imperfect choices. Resentment builds. Jealousy surfaces. Our conversation with indie pop artist Sarah Jaffe speaks directly to the shadow side of comparison and how destructive it can be if we let it rule our mindset. As an artist, Sarah says social media can be her worst enemy, a distracting or even dangerous noise that steals her passion and fervor for what she loves most. Sarah, who has two new EPs on the way (This is Better Pt. 1 & 2) on July 19 has learned the hard way to be very intentional with her time and efforts in her hopes to keep the “Dark Energy” away, as she sings so aptly on her latest single: “Dark energy stay away from me / I’m gonna fight for myself / Lethargy, you can go to hell / You were never really a friend to me.” Join us for a new episode of The Resistance on comparison, intention, and the wrestling involved in it all with one of Austin’s best and brightest.

In 1905, a young Hilda Edwards entered onto the scene in Christmas Cove, Maine, likely weary from her trip from England. She was only fifteen years old and had come over from her home in Bristol to live with her uncle, a professor at Smith College. I imagine the cool, salty air hitting her nostrils for the first time. The sounds of waves lapping and sloshing. Her eyes would have scanned the pebbled carpet of the shore and the lavender-pink sky that fell as a blanket to cover distant islands, which were turning a deep purple in twilight. She may have wondered what on earth could be more beautiful. It wouldn’t be too presumptuous to think that she loved this place, because she traveled widely after her stint in Christmas Cove. And she came back. She saw the world, took in its beauty—and then, in her last act, Hilda returned to make her final home on Maine’s shore. And then she did something curious. She dropped flower seeds. In secret. She let them fall out of her pocket on her long walks to the post office. When she was feeling brave, she would toss them out of the passenger window of friends’ cars. The sharp and salty air from the opened windows made her hair dance wildly, the strands straightened and curled against her face. Maybe it hid a secret smile. If you feel familiarity rising, you may know the children’s story of Miss Rumphius by Barbara Cooney. Cooney magically wrapped all of these stories up in a little girl, Alice, who sits on the lap of her uncle. The uncle tells Alice (who is a young Miss Rumphius) that she must find a way to make the world more beautiful. Miss Rumphius, like Hilda, travels the world. And Miss Rumphius, like Hilda, comes back to settle in Maine and plant lupines. Cooney’s Lupine Lady planted seeds in response to her uncle’s charge to make the world more beautiful. But I think the real Hilda Edwards had a deeper storm brewing. I think Hilda planted lupines out of a longing for home, and I think they fell to the ground like hopeful tears. Lupines are not native to Maine; Hilda sent off for her seeds to be imported from her England home, where she would have seen them standing and leaning with the wind in familiar fields. It’s hard to imagine why she felt compelled to add to Maine’s native Lilies and Rhododendrons in this new land that she loved so much, unless she had a longing to walk with her palms spread and fingers combing through the lupines’ stalks— the way she may have done as a child. Hilda started with a garden of lupines in her own backyard, and then, in the fall, she would cut stalks of them and shake their seeds over a wider space. Next came her secret imports into town, as she quietly expanded her garden wider and wider. Hilda made the world more beautiful in secret, just like Cooney’s Miss Rumphius. But she made the world more beautiful as a secondary endeavor, after first making it look more like home. Maybe it's not that we must first do something, but that we must first long for something. Elizabeth Harwell Last summer, I saw Hilda’s lupines in Maine. These majestic spires spring up for a two-week show all along the Maine coast, and I was lucky enough to be there for it. The sight was arresting and seeing them stirred up the call in me: What must I do to make the world more beautiful? The lupines all stood with perfect posture, like purple and blue maidens, quietly watching the sea. Of course she wanted them here. Of course she couldn’t imagine her life without them. I loved seeing one woman’s hunger for home spreading like a purple-blue fire, burning Maine’s shore with a blooming nostalgia. When I first encountered the story of the Lupine Lady through Barbara Cooney’s storybook, I felt paralyzed by the charge: You must do something to make the world more beautiful. Because, like Miss Rumphius, I think the world is already quite nice. What could I add to it, really? Hilda’s lupines tell me that it will not be my striving for a purpose that will spill over with beauty. Beauty will come from a deeper place— a hunger for heaven and earth to collide. And maybe I have something to give there. Perhaps I can squeeze my wrist through the crack of the door to heaven and wiggle it back through with a bag of seeds. Maybe it’s not that we must first do something, but that we must first long for something. And our longings will fall out of our pockets on the walk to the post office, and they will be flung out into the wind from car windows. And they will grow purpley-blue on the seashore, watching and waiting with their faces to the sea. Artwork credit: “Ocean Coast Lupine Flowers” by Laura Tasheiko

This post is part of the "Behind the Curtain" series in which creators share about the process of making their work and the deeper themes behind it. Houston Coley and his wife Debbie are missional documentary filmmakers from 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. Read more of his work on Substack. Last summer, my wife Debbie and I spent three months at L’Abri Fellowship in Greatham, England. The two of us met there, so in many ways, it was like coming home. This time, though, we had a mission beyond the usual: we were making a feature documentary called A Kingdom of Tea & Strangers. If you don’t know much about L’Abri, it may be because they deliberately avoid advertising themselves; in fact, when the staff of the English branch of L’Abri agreed to allow us to make a documentary, they did it under the condition that it would not be a commercial trying to get people to attend L’Abri. Hopefully, rather than putting the particulars of this place on a pedestal to market to the world, the film awakens spiritual imagination about a “way of being” that can also be embodied elsewhere. L’Abri Fellowship was founded in 1955 by Francis and Edith Schaeffer in the Swiss Alps, with the second (and now, largest) branch opening in the rolling downs of South England in 1971. Among people who have been to L’Abri, it is infamously difficult to describe with one tidy label. I think the truest comparison might be Rivendell from The Lord of The Rings: a place for weary and wounded travelers to stop on their journey, to rest and engage with beauty and reality, to try and prepare themselves to head back out on their quest. Tolkien said, “Rivendell was the perfect house, whether you liked food or story-telling or singing, or just sitting and thinking best, or a pleasant mixture of them all.” For the many people who pass through the creaky front door at English L’Abri, it can feel much the same. English L’Abri is located in a 16th-century manor house in Hampshire, and students of all ages, backgrounds, and nationalities come to stay during three-month terms—some for a day, some for a weekend, others for the entire term. A Kingdom of Tea & Strangers, the film that my wife Debbie and I shot last year, is a feature documentary chronicling one summer at English L'Abri. The film follows a group of students as they look for belonging, wrestle with doubts & uncertainty, and grapple with finding spirituality and community in their ordinary lives back home. Making a Film About Community in Community During the first month, one fact became clear: making a documentary about community while living in community was going to be a far more complicated task than we’d anticipated. In French, L’Abri means “the shelter,” and as such, many of the people who come to L’Abri are seeking refuge from the busyness, distraction, trauma, or hardship of their normal lives; to make matters more complex, most of the students who were coming for this term did not know that we would be attempting to make a documentary during their stay. Many of the great cinema-veritè documentaries involve a filmmaker becoming so invisible that they’re able to exist as a fly on the wall. In the early weeks of our time at L’Abri, our experience could not have been further from that one; every time the cameras came out, people seemed tense and uncomfortable. At L’Abri, students are encouraged to keep most media technology (computers, smartphones, etc.) out-of-sight in their room, except on Thursdays, the weekly day off. To some, our cameras often felt like a breach of the commitment that L’Abri would become a shelter for those who came through its doors. Despite all of this, in the first few days of our stay, we attempted to be resolute. We were determined not to let a day go to waste without capturing something worthwhile on film; after all, we had two months ahead of us, but every day felt like a ticking clock of precious time (and potentially profound moments) going undocumented and unobserved. Very quickly, however, the workers at L’Abri gave us some pointed and deliberate advice: they encouraged us to spend the first three weeks of the term without filming at all, using that time to be present with the community and get to know the students around us. It was difficult wisdom to hear, but we heeded it nonetheless. Slowly, gradually, we accepted that these early weeks would be for sewing seeds, not harvesting. Fighting our fast-paced productivity-driven inclinations, it felt like God was directing our attention toward “people” over “project.” We needed to work to preserve the sacred shelter of L’Abri that had made us want to make our film in the first place—and as we slowed down, we started to get closer to the community around us outside the context of filming. As artists, it can be hard for us—all of us—to allow ourselves to be known without our cameras, paintbrushes, guitars, microphones, or the other instruments of our trades that can serve to give us a sense of purpose and identity in the face of a strange new community of strange new faces. But knowing a person’s art or knowing their skill with a guitar is not the same as knowing the person. For Debbie and I to gain trust, we first needed to be known also as dishwashers, as gardeners, as carrot-choppers, as guests at a lunch table, as volleyball players, as quiet listeners, and as friends. About three weeks into the term, the workers at L’Abri allowed us to have one of the weekly film discussion nights to show the students our previous documentary, Love In The Time of Corona, and our concept short film for the L’Abri documentary featuring former L’Abri workers Andy and Lindsey Patton. It was the first time we’d ever shown any of our films to an audience of more than one—and both seemed to resonate deeply. After showing both films, we had an open discussion with the community about our documentary plans, engaged with questions and logistics of when not to film, and ended with prayer. Going into the term, our clumsy approach to making the documentary had been to assume everyone was okay with being filmed unless they told us otherwise. In those early weeks of waiting, as we’d walked through the tunnel of overhanging trees on nearby Church Lane every day, it had become very clear that the more integral approach would be to assume no one was okay with being filmed unless they agreed to participate. As filmmakers, it was a difficult change of mindset to make, but one that would ultimately produce more fruit and personal trust in the long term. After our screening night, we requested that everyone come to speak with us personally in the next few days to tell us how they felt about being filmed, either in the background or in more focused interviews. What a huge answer to prayer it was when nearly everyone told us that they were okay with being onscreen! Filming throughout the remainder of the summer remained a bumpy road; some who were usually at ease with cameras could change their mind from day to day, new students continued to arrive from week to week, and the advance scheduling of our filming times meant that spontaneous moments were more difficult to capture. Even so, with every passing week, relationships and dynamics—both in front of the camera and behind it—only became more natural, more trusting, and more full of grace and understanding. As trust increased, our opportunities to capture spontaneous moments became more possible. As the summer drew to a close, there was more vulnerability in everything we shot—and a stronger dramatic question in every interview about returning to the “world outside.” Slowly, that question arose as one of the central questions of the documentary. Increasingly, the students were concerned about the challenges involved in leaving L’Abri to return home and try to embody it elsewhere. I don’t think we would have been able to capture these questions in the same way if we’d started shooting in the early weeks of term. It was because we’d been forced to slow down that our relationships were strong enough for our central idea to emerge. We walked away unsure of exactly what story we had, but certain there was something powerful in it. Sharing a Film About Community in Community In the spring of 2023, we had the opportunity to work on the documentary from North Wind Manor, the building that houses the Rabbit Room. Every day, we set up our laptops beside the fire, put our headphones on, and got to work editing the more than 70 hours of footage we’d shot at L’Abri. Words cannot express the comfort and catharsis of being able to work on A Kingdom of Tea & Strangers at North Wind Manor, a place that could probably also be described as a kingdom of the same things. Rewatching, transcribing, structuring, and editing has been its own tedious journey—one that we are still far away from finishing—but along the way, we found many reasons to praise God for the story he’d been telling beneath the surface of everything we captured. In a way we never understood at the time of filming, this is a story about spiritual imagination and the courage to pursue the vision of the New Creation even in your ordinary life. This past month, we screened one hour of the rough cut of A Kingdom of Tea & Strangers to an audience of around 80 people at Hutchmoot, the Rabbit Room’s annual conference. It felt like a culmination of a film about community to show parts of it in community. The difference between experiencing something at home alone on your laptop and witnessing it with a room of other people in fellowship cannot be overstated. I think, in many ways, art experienced in community becomes fundamentally different art, more like itself. The most cathartic part of showing A Kingdom of Tea & Strangers at Hutchmoot was the laughter. Contrary to the idea of L’Abri as a quiet, meditative monastery with little humor to be found, our documentary includes a lot of the whimsy and silliness of a typical term. Jokes and funny moments that made us chuckle during the editing process generated big, affirming laughs in the room at Hutchmoot. The more contemplative moments were elevated by people, too; watching a film in the presence of other people means that it’s difficult to check your phone when things get slow, forcing you to engage with patience and silence. More than anything, our experience of art nourished by community—both in making the film at L’Abri and in showing it at Hutchmoot—has encouraged us to hold more gatherings to show the film at churches and homes all over when it’s finished. The connectivity of the internet can be a beautiful thing, and we still plan to release the film for free online, but the value of art experienced in physical fellowship cannot be replicated. Funding a Film About Community in Community Early on in the process of funding A Kingdom of Tea & Strangers, Debbie and I received an offer from a small streaming service to pay for the entire film’s budget if we’d release it exclusively on their platform. We considered it for weeks, and eventually politely refused. From the start, our hope has been that the film would be accessible, easy to share without needing to pay for a subscription, and that the funding would come from a community of people who care deeply about the ideas it explores. Despite the finished trailer and preview at Hutchmoot, we still have a long way of editing, sound mixing, musical scoring, marketing, and touring to go. If funds allow, we’re even planning to do follow-up interviews with several L’Abri students again in their home countries around Europe. We’re also creating a L’Abri-inspired tie-in album called “Songs From The Shelter,” featuring music by artists who have had experiences with L’Abri—and our dream is to premiere the film at The Belcourt Theatre in Nashville in Summer 2024. Because of this, we’ve launched a Kickstarter this week to raise the finishing funds for the project with a deadline of Friday, December 1st. Backers of various tiers can get the physical version of the film when it is released, attend various showings when they occur, and be the first to know about our progress as we work to finish in the spring. We’d deeply appreciate having you along for the journey.

Andy Patton is on staff with the Rabbit Room and is a former staff member of L'Abri Fellowship in England. He holds an M.A. in theology from Trinity Evangelical Divinity School. He writes at The Darking Psalter (creative rewordings of the Psalms paired with new poetry), Three Things (a monthly digest of resources to help people connect with culture, neighbor, and God), and Pattern Bible (reflections on biblical images in the Bible). There are no two ways around it, Four Quartets is a dense and difficult poem. If you Google “I thought about getting into poetry and then decided not to because it was too complicated, obscure, and opaque”, you might see a picture of T. S. Eliot’s smiling face high in the search results. And this is coming from a guy who named his firstborn son “Eliot” because I couldn’t name him Four Quartets. Eliot can be downright inscrutable. He lapses into other languages without translation. He changes scene and tone without transition. He alludes to other works constantly without attribution. His poems need footnotes - which he sometimes supplies and sometimes doesn’t. Four Quartets is a labyrinth, and sometimes when you enter the labyrinth, you get lost. Despite that, it also might be one of the greatest Christian poems ever written. Though there is joy in wandering on your own through the beautiful labyrinth of the Four Quartets, if you bring along a guide in your initial forays into this masterpiece, you may save yourself discomfort and confusion. In preparing for the lecture below, I sought the counsel of many guides who had gone before me and written to tell about it. I collected their advice in the form of the lecture below. May it guide you safely in your wanderings inside this immortal and important poem. [Note: This lecture was given at English L’Abri, a Christian study center in Southern England that offers hospitality and shelter for people all over the world.]

It wasn't too long ago that music videos were somewhat of a luxury item in music - especially Christian music. In the decade of 2001-2010, it was a no man's land for music videos. MTV and VH1 had essentially pivoted away from showcasing videos, YouTube was in its infancy, and Instagram didn't even exist yet. Back in 2010, I interviewed Andrew Peterson, not long after the release of "Dancing in the Minefields" - his first career music video. Andrew shared, "We live in an entirely different world than when I started playing music ten or twelve years ago. It used to be, if you made a music video, where was it going to get played - on ZTV or TBN late at night? I don’t know how that works. But I knew that I wasn’t ever watching Christian music videos. Now with YouTube, the Internet, and blogging and stuff, I was like, 'Hey, maybe we should try doing this thing.' We ended up deciding in a meeting in about five minutes to make a video for 'Dancing in the Minefields.'" As of today, that music video has over 2 million views. Today, we live in a much more visual world, and videos of all varieties (lyrics, live performances, visualizers, conceptual, reels, etc) are nearly symbiotic with the making and releasing of new music. One of the wonderful gifts that music videos give us is to experience music with more than just our ears. This art form is at times a practical tool like an extra layer of marketing. But there are also magical moments where the music video showcases a deeper level of artistic expression that can make a good song great, and a great song iconic. Can you think of the songs "Thriller," "Take On Me," or "Single Ladies" without imagining the music videos? Here we have selected five music videos from artists of faith - all released in 2023 - that are beautiful visually and musically and draw us into a deeper story through the craft of music video making. "Two Sides" by Gabrielle Grace Creating a story around an artist's reflections on personal grief is not easy to pull off with integrity. The acting, story arc, videography, and artistic direction in this video pull me in and emotionally grip me every time I see it. I'm blown away that this is a fully independent video done on a shoestring budget. It shows that good storytelling is more valuable than high budgets. "Lead Us Again" by DOE The setting is one that many in the Rabbit Room have been a part of - planning and leading a worship service. This prayerful song aligns us with the Holy Spirit as our Guide, instead of yoking ourselves to human agendas and performance. The color orange takes on spiritual symbolism, and in one scene orange paint covers over a detailed worship service schedule. There are lots of visual and artistic nuggets in this one. "Hope" by NF We cannot talk 2023 music videos without this one - from a production standpoint one of the best music videos of the year in any genre, showcased by the over 100 reaction videos by vloggers on YouTube. It is symbolic, cinematic, and with better videography than many Hollywood movies. Plus, this track - visually and musically - wrestles with big themes like defining success, regrets, forgiveness, and mental health. "Kind" by Cory Asbury There is a trigger warning for this one as the concept deals with a death in a hospital. The concept of turning a music video into a full short film has been an effective medium for decades - for example, Michael Jackson's "Thriller," Celine Dion's "It's All Coming Back to Me Now," and Taylor Swift's "All Too Well." In this November 2023 release, directors Kaiser Cunningham and Taylor Kelly tell a gripping story of a marriage in crisis, the hope of restoration, and the bitterness of grief. A lot went into the making of this video, and it's worth the 7-minute ride. "Only Time Will Tell" by JJ Heller The video features a real-life couple who gave birth to their fourth child in 2019, and in early 2023 underwent a double mastectomy for a recent breast cancer diagnosis. The genuine personal footage (filmed by Joy Prouty and edited by Dave Heller) adds an intimate touch that gives the song a deeper context. The song tries to move love from a feeling, a romance, or even a vow and move it into a space marked only by the depth of years. In the same way, the personal footage of one family's real journey gives an incarnational space for this song to have a deeper impact. Dave Trout is a claw game conqueror, pepperoni pizza connoisseur, and indie music curator. As founder of UTR Media, he hosts four podcasts, manages six streaming playlists, and produces events, Kickstarters, and special projects. Find his work at https://utrmedia.org. Our weekly newsletter is the best way to learn about new books, staff recommendations, upcoming events, lectures, and more. Sign up here.

When it comes to information, humanity has been playing a vast game of Tetris for thousands of years. New blocks of information are constantly being formed as we acquire new knowledge. As we encounter them, our objective is to rotate and place these informational blocks into our experience. This was easier for our ancestors. The blocks were falling slowly from the sky. There was time to attend to each one, make a decision, and move on. But those were the early rounds. As any child of the 80s knows, the game of Tetris rapidly escalates. The blocks fall faster with each round until it’s hard to keep up. In the 21st century, information is coming toward us at lightning speed. We have less time to assess, order, and fit things together neatly. We live daily with our failure to join up our thinking. We have gaps in our knowledge and a growing number of things that conflict with what we thought we knew. Today, in the game of information-Tetris, we are in the lightning rounds. We can feel overwhelmed if we are conscious of losing control. We feel distracted when we are not, lacking focus and intention. Time slips away. The music of the game is playing faster and faster and we sense that something has got to give. Information overload and the toll it takes on our attention has become a cultural conversation. Self-help books and mindfulness courses proliferate as we try to get a grip on our productivity, our ability to process information, and our increasingly fragile memories. Often overlooked, however, is our informational environment’s profound effect on our capacity to love. Because love is intimately connected with attention, our habits of distraction shape the way in which we love or fail to love the people and places in our care. What is Love? This connection might sound tenuous to you at first blush. After all, in the Western tradition, we have tended to see ourselves as thinking animals, the objects of our affection determined solely by our decision making. The truth of the matter is that our desires tell us more about who we really are and what we truly love. For instance, I am fully aware of what healthy eating looks like. I know in my mind that it does not involve late night visits to the refrigerator. If my thoughts and beliefs were the decisive factor, I would never find myself spoon in hand, eating ice cream straight from the tub at 11:22 pm. But my ritual of late-night snacking has formed me into a lover of ice cream. I love the pleasure of ice cream more than I love the goal of health. Love is committed attending. Phillip Johnston Our love is the fuel of our action, drawing us toward the desires of our heart. We are driven more by desire than by knowledge. We bear in our hearts a vision of what we want and are propelled toward that vision, often in spite of firmly held convictions. “You are what you love,” writes philosopher James K. A. Smith, “but you might not love what you think.” Love is a fathomless mystery, but one possible definition of love is this: Love is committed attending. Attending is more than just showing up; it’s less “He wasn’t in attendance today” and more “Look how that mother attends to her daughter.” Attending means offering more than a momentary glance or a short period of concentration. Attending is active presence, the consistent application of energy toward something rather than away from it. Do you want to identify the objects of your love? If so, ask yourself, “Who or what receives the most of my active presence?” The honest answers to that question can be unsettling. I may say I love reading and I back up this claim by lining my home with books. What does it mean, then, if I spend the majority of my free hours scrolling through Instagram, playing games on my iPad, and surveying the Netflix terrain? Clearly, I don’t love reading as much as I think I do. I may have had a love for books once, but my committed attending has since found new objects. Or, think of a spouse who cheats on their beloved three times in a short span and each time comes back saying, “You’ve always been the one I loved the most!” The spouse might truly think they love their partner most, but their committed attending has been directed elsewhere, turned toward someone else whom they feel is more fulfilling than their spouse. The objects of our committed attending are the objects of our love. Love and the Attention Economy Once we understand how intimately love is connected with attention, we are ready to see the many ways that information overload inhibits our loving. In our data-rich world, each piece of digital information that distracts us claims a portion of our attention, a portion of our capacity to love. As our digital distraction levels go up, our capacity for real-life loving goes down. The more distracted we are by the digital, the more our love is turned away from those who need and deserve it, and toward the sources of our distraction. Where your attention is, there your love will be also. The struggle for love is only intensified by the fact that we live within the power structures of the attention economy. Our attention is a precious resource for us, but in the twenty-first century, our attention is seen as a commodity, a cash crop ripe for the picking. Tim Wu describes an “attention merchant” as someone who puts forward a product for a low cost or for free in order to harvest human attention and sell it to someone else. In the nineteenth century, the first attention merchants were newspaper publishers who offered consumers free tabloid newspapers chock full of advertisements. Readers thought they were getting a cheap paper, but the real customers were the advertisers.The newspaper was not the product; the readers were. In our day, the bulk of advertising growth from year to year is shared between two great attention merchants extraordinaire — Facebook and Google. With the world’s most sophisticated technology at their disposal, these Silicon Valley giants offer a bonanza of free (or affordable) products and services for the primary purpose of attention harvesting. The information collected from us reveals our interests, our habits, and even our weaknesses. The resulting data allows the attention merchants to profile each user and create an all encompassing climate of desire for each individual – an endless stream of product offerings, restaurant choices, likes, and glittering images of the lives we want but do not have. An internal report leaked in 2017 revealed that Facebook could identify when teen users were feeling “insecure”, “worthless”, or needing “a confidence boost.” As The Guardian recently reported, “Tech companies can exploit such vulnerabilities to keep people hooked; manipulating, for example, when people receive ‘likes’ for their posts, ensuring they arrive when an individual is likely to feel vulnerable, or in need of approval, or maybe just bored. And the very same techniques can be sold to the highest bidder.” It is no accident, then, that we are plagued by distraction here in the attention economy. It is partially, if not wholly, the result of thousands of hours of careful psychological research and data gathering by technology companies who are fully aware of what colors, sounds, images, notifications, and other persuasive tools have the highest odds capturing our attention. The next time you feel defeated after spending more time on your phone than you originally intended, think of it as a victory for the attention merchants. Your committed attending is their most valuable product. All they need is your love. Paying Attention As our attention is diverted for profit, we may come to neglect other things that have a more legitimate claim on our committed attending. That may be a job or an education, our communities or our environment. It may be the God we claim to worship. It could be our partner or spouse. Many children are growing up today with the ‘continuous partial attention’ of a parent on their smartphone. James Williams is a former Google employee who has used his insider knowledge of the attention economy to write critically about it. He came up with our opening Tetris metaphor, and in his book Stand Out of Our Light: Freedom and Resistance in the Attention Economy, he offers this axiom to help us understand technology in the twenty-first century: There’s a deep misalignment between the goals we have for ourselves and the goals our technologies have for us. Think about this as you scroll through Instagram and see an ad for that thing you didn’t know you wanted, and that you’ll now be thinking about for days on end. Consider it at 11:22 pm when Netflix starts autoplaying the next episode of your new favorite show. Remember it when you receive a bundle of notifications on your phone in those bleary moments before you crawl into bed to rest your body and mind. These moments of self-reflection will shelter you, if only for a moment, from the lightning rounds of information Tetris that thunder all around. It will provide you with even the smallest bit of energy necessary to take that salvaged portion of your love and to call your grandmother, take your spouse on a date, pray for your children, be emotionally available for your community, or unearth that forgotten hobby that once gave you such joy. In the attention economy, these deceptively simple acts of paying attention to the things that matter most are acts of resistance. They are the essential first steps to becoming a better lover. What exactly we are paying when we pay attention? James Williams says: You pay with all the things you could have attended to, but didn’t: all the goals you didn’t pursue, all the actions you didn’t take, and all the possible yous you could have been, had you attended to those other things. Attention is paid in possible futures forgone. … We pay attention with the lives we might have lived. Your attention is precious. Protect it with care. Offer it with intention in a lifetime of love. Phillip Johnston is an editor, researcher, and speaker based in Nashville, Tennessee. A former staff member at English L’Abri, Phillip is also the curator of Three Things, a newsletter digest of three resources to help readers better engage with God, neighbor, and culture. In his spare time, he geeks out on slow movies, Bach cantatas, liturgical theology, and all things food.

The weird thing is, I’ve never liked U2. From the few short clips I’d seen, Bono seemed arrogant and intentionally obtuse. Pictures of U2 concerts felt too big and too flashy to be sincere. I didn’t like how urban U2’s music felt—all that concrete, all those dirty streets, and so much black leather. His world was a foreign planet to a Wendell Berry country girl. Furthermore, the aesthetic of Bono’s music sounded angry, lost, and scratchy. I had trouble finding melodies and coherence. Lately, however, Bono’s thinking and writing has been used by God to teach me some things about faith that I needed to hear. This began when Mark Meynell challenged me to slow down and actually listen to Bono’s music. I endured a few links at first to be polite—building bridges and all that. But even as I fast forwarded through Bono’s tunes, barbs started to stick. As a former literature teacher, I felt that first twinge when I landed on the word, “Mephisto.” Here I hit pause, wrote Mark and said, “Wait. This has to be Mephistopheles. Did Bono know Dr. Faustus?” Surely he didn’t understand medieval literary figures. Surely he didn’t read books. Mark laughed and told me I had a lot more surprises ahead. Spot on. Again and again, similar realizations came to light. I began to see intentionality, artistry, and moreover, courage to express intense spiritual honesty with the Lord. “He’s a psalmist!” I wrote. “I didn’t realize Bono was a psalmist!” Mark sent a YouTube interview between Eugene Peterson and Bono, and I was stunned as I watched these two great men discuss components of an honest life of faith. This odd, urban creature I had mocked for years was what I call, “One of us.” I don’t find these people very often. The whole record—the doubt, the testing, the questions—is encased in a grace that cannot be broken. Rebecca Reynolds Several years ago, I was fairly irked when U2 released Songs of Innocence and Songs of Experience. In the immediate months before this news broke, I had been teaching William Blake, daydreaming about releasing my own creation with those titles. When Bono beat me to it, I assumed a vacant pop star had stumbled into a cute angle on old poetry and had wrecked the whole concept. But in the past few weeks, as I have listened to some of U2’s live concerts online, I have realized that Bono not only understood Blake’s tension perfectly—but that he had also hit on the core of why talking about this tension was vital to a postmodern world. So, I have gone back to the very beginning. I’m reading Bono’s records. Not listening—reading. Some of you will say that’s the wrong way to do U2, but I’m trained to be a literary critic, and this music holds up to that sort of scrutiny. Oddly, the Lord has used this exercise to help me learn to pray more deeply. As a firstborn doer, I easily slip into a faith driven by head knowledge and willpower—reading restlessly—trying to avoid pain, loneliness, and doubt. Bono’s lyrics are showing me that my hands weren’t made to carry all that alone. I need to make room and time to be with God honestly and emotionally as well—not just believe in him at arm’s length. Eugene Peterson wrote: “…prayer is personal language or it is nothing. God is personal, empathetic ally personal: three-personed personal. When we use impersonal language in this most personal of all relations, the language doesn’t work.” That’s what Bono is helping me attempt. Below are some of my impressions from U2’s first record, Boy. Before you read them, please know these are not interpretive arguments—just initial, reactive work. I haven’t studied Bono’s life enough to know him well yet, so if you are a hardcore U2 groupie, be gentle. (And literature nerds, this is more of a Reader-Response piece than a New Historical or Formalist response.) That said, I hope showing you how his writing impacts someone else will encourage you to get real with God as well. “I Will Follow” Here is the security of a mother-type love that chases after us relentlessly, even as we try things, and fail, and learn about our humanity. (This is a perfect theological image to begin a record that delves into devastatingly hard questions.) “If you walk away, walk away, I will follow.” What a promise. “Twilight” The transition from boy to man. Here is that liminal space of not being sure how to be. There seems to be a subtle Hamlet reference in one line and an influence throughout. (The late night play is everything. “The play is the thing.”—remember how the play was used to “out” Claudius?) Singer is afraid of being outed as a guilty imposter while trying to grow into this world where even the old aren’t sure how it works. (But the fascinating thing is—Hamlet is actually the rightful heir. I feel that undercurrent in this song, through he never writes it in.) “An Cat Dubh” Clearly, this is about a seductress. But it’s more than that. It’s about being hunted by people who want to use us without healing us. I think in Celtic culture, the blackbird is a symbol of impending war. (Which is why, I’m assuming, he used the Gaelic here.) It’s so interesting that he says, “She waits to break my will.” How does a seductress do this? By pretty, vulnerable, flattering allure. By promise of physical pleasure. A game of cat and mouse. “Into the Heart” Then, here is a post-bad-love affair struggle—a longing for innocence regained. Can we go back into childlikeness after being in such darkness? (This theme comes again later in his records, we know. But I see it starting here.) “Out of Control” Wrestling with the very first existentialist questions we hit. We had nothing to do with landing here alive, and we can’t determine when we are going to die. It’s this weird span of existence that seems irrational and undirectable. Meanwhile, looking back through human history, there’s blood at Eden’s gate—the gate that was supposed to keep us from paradise has been opened by blood if we will be childlike. (I wonder if “I fought fate, there’s blood at the garden gate” is sung by Christ.) It seems like this ties back to “Into The Heart.” The feeling that childlikeness is some sort of key, but we are often afraid to really go there. “Stories for Boys” Seems to be about escapism. But this song reads two different ways, depending on how you look at it. I think it relates back to “Into The Heart”-–but I can’t tell if it’s describing a healthy, redemptive, imaginative experience or if it’s showing how imaginative distraction can prevent us from achieving real childlikeness. Because of where it sits in the album, I lean toward the latter. Especially because of what’s in “The Ocean.” “The Ocean” Another landmark song in the record like “Into The Heart.” The drug-like imaginative distractions of “Stories For Boys” have been stripped away. The writer stands vulnerable and honest before the sea. It’s confessional, as he identifies with Dorian Gray, seeing himself in reality, with all of his inner workings. Weirdly, beautifully—this raw knowledge of his own fallenness seems to be the context for a potential future ministry (in our weakness, we are strong). Note that odd transition from identity as Dorian Gray to feeling like a star. And then, there’s almost a baptism. “A Day Without Me” After a strong realization that he could be significant as a healer on the planet, he goes into what reminds me of one of Hamlet’s suicidal soliloquies. The landslide into doubt—do I even actually matter? What would happen if I weren’t here? So fascinating that he put “The Ocean” and “A Day Without Me” together. It’s so much how this always works in a real soul. “Another Time, Another Place” I know this is set up like a song about a woman, but I just don’t buy it entirely. I think it’s about sehnsucht. It also works as the antithesis of “An Cat Dubh,” which fits if the album works a bit like a chiasmus. “The Electric Co.” So, electric shock therapy. A legalistic, materialistic, graceless jolt after catching a glimpse of Sehnseucht. And this is the worst possible thing that could happen to the kid in “Twilight” (chiasmus again). Brilliant placement here. Because we always just barely catch a glimpse of grace and then somehow land in the midst of a damning, condemning, unhelpful external modification plan. “Shadows and Tall Trees” This is the title of a chapter in Lord of the Flies. Why is this significant? Because on Golding’s island, all of the boys are without mothers—it’s a pocket of humanity that seems to have nobody chasing it. This chapter is one of the most haunting of all, the one most despair-laden. If this song had been on the record without “I Will Follow”-–if this album didn’t work like a chiasmus—it would end in hopelessness. But we already know that there’s a mother chasing no matter what. After several verses/choruses of existentialist doubt, there’s this brilliant bridge, “Do you feel in me anything redeeming, any worthwhile feeling? Is love like a tightrope hanging on my ceiling?” But he’s already given us the answer to this question in the very first song. “If you walk away, walk away, I walk away, walk away. I will follow.” It can’t be a tightrope because love is utterly secure. The whole record—the doubt, the testing, the questions—is encased in a grace that cannot be broken. Such security.