What are you looking for?

[Editor’s note: click here to read Part 5: The Case for Nostalgia by Leslie E. Thompson.] When I was twelve years old, my parents bought me the 10th Anniversary Concert recording of Les Misérables on VHS. I’d begun to demonstrate a zeal for musicals, starting with the Phantom of the Opera soundtrack, which I listened to on repeat until I could sing you the entire thing through—with all its varying parts—from start to finish. The only other musical recording we had was a VHS of CATS (which I also watched repeatedly and will unabashedly defend), and my parents figured that they ought to guide my budding passion toward a higher quality of musical theatre. Hence, my introduction to Les Misérables. To this day, I can vividly recall sitting at the foot of our tv (way too close to the screen) watching that concert over and over again. I can still feel my eyes locked wide in wonder, how the orchestral music hit me like a tidal wave and soaked into every cell of my little body and left my skin buzzing. I can still feel certain lyrics engraving themselves into my bones, and others that seeded in my mind to grow slowly over the years before blooming. I tell you this to demonstrate that I get it. I came up somewhere between the cassette tape era that Andrew and Jennifer described and Drew’s era of the iPod (though of course, I eventually got there too). Mine was the time of the CD—played on a clunky portable-CD-player that bounced against my leg, causing the track to skip every fifteen seconds or so, and a lavender boombox on my nightstand where I transitioned when the skipping got too aggravating. I understand what it is to have to wait for new music, to be forced to listen to one record at a time, to pore endlessly over the liner notes and learn the background of each song and its creators. I understand how scarcity can make a thing more precious. It’s easy to take experiences like that and conclude that scarcity is the superior musical experience. Drew likens our interaction with music to that of food and discusses the difference between consuming and savoring. Surely, we’re more prone to savor if we get only one meal a day, and we’ve had to scrape and scrounge to get it! I picture him hobbit-like at his metaphorical table, tucking into a delicious supper for which he can name every ingredient and treasures each flavor in its full magnificence. It’s an alluring image, but for me it begs the question: where is that meal collected from? In a place of scarcity, how do we encounter the music that we come to treasure? My parents introduced me to Les Misérables, Leslie talks about discovering music in her youth group, and Andrew reminisces about drooling over the tapes in his friend’s car and later offering album suggestions to his daughter. In a posture of scarcity, we’re compelled to collect our music from the people around us, from our families, and friends, and those we interact with day-to-day. There’s a certain beauty in that—a sense of community and commonality in beloved things (again, I think of hobbits with their close-knit culture and common, simple values)—but there’s a danger in it too. When our music is gathered by proximity, we risk only being introduced to and reinforcing our own cultural tastes. If we aren’t careful, what seems like depth can become entrenchment, and darkrooms can become echo-chambers. When our music is gathered by proximity, we risk only being introduced to and reinforcing our own cultural tastes. If we aren't careful, what seems like depth can become entrenchment, and darkrooms can become echo-chambers. Shigé Clark I’ll be forever grateful to my parents for guiding me toward Les Mis; yet, that same, thoughtful guidance would have never sat me down in front of the marvel that is Hamilton—in fact, it would have firmly steered me away. In the culture I grew up in, rap was generally viewed with disdain (the couple “safe” exceptions conspicuously being white guys, irrespective of theological richness), and the minute a cuss word showed up in the lyrics, forget about it. Coming from that culture, when people started telling me about this new musical where American revolutionary history meets rap and hip hop, I thought, “Well, that sounds terrible.” It was YouTube that recommended the video of Lin-Manuel Miranda being laughed at in the White House as he debuted Hamilton’s opening song, piquing my curiosity enough to check it out. It was Spotify that offered me the chance to listen to the soundtrack, when my skepticism of something outside my usual tastes would never have led me to risk the money and level of commitment to buy the full album on CD. No one I knew was listening to Hamilton (in fact, my friends and family were actively scoffing at it); no one was going to lend me their copy or vouch for its excellence. If the time of musical scarcity had persisted, Hamilton would have remained this peripheral thing that I heard about sometimes, some musical out there in the nether that people with different (clearly lesser) artistic tastes were raving about. I would never have experienced one of the most masterful and moving works I’ve ever encountered—one that, among other things, depicts the power of God’s forgiveness in a way that nothing has for me since Les Mis. After I’d fallen head-over-heels for the work, it was YouTube again that offered interviews from the creators and cast. There I learned about the influences that shaped the writing and composition, seeing for the first time the artistry that goes into rap and the unique capability it has to tell a story where other lyrical forms would fail. There I began to learn about the lineage of unfamiliar genres and those who helped form them. There my perspective on my country’s history was challenged by those who were seeing themselves in its founding story for the first time—a feeling that I’ve never had to face, despite being a third-generation immigrant. My new respect for this artform opened my mind to a thousand other works and artists that I had before automatically dismissed, and the accessibility of today’s music put them all at my fingertips. Beyond the rap and hip hop artists it sent me to, appreciation for Lin-Manuel Miranda’s work also lead me to his first musical In the Heights, where I got a second helping of raw perspective from a story set in an immigrant-dominated neighborhood, along with a healthy heap of Latin-American music influences that I had been similarly closed-off to. Far from surfing, each new discovery was like diving into a pool of water and exploring a hidden complex of caves, knowing I could swim deeper and deeper and never reach its end, and eventually resurfacing, just to dive into the next one. What Drew described in his article as “skipping across vast distances of data, but hardly ever stopping to taste what we’ve consumed” has for me, instead, been a tumbling down into endless, branching rabbit holes of ever-increasing depth, emerging in a Wonderland of music completely alien to my own experience. Here’s why this is important—music, I think more than anything, is dripping with the experience and perspectives of our fellow humankind, each an inimitable shard of God’s own image. It’s too easy—natural, even—to find the aspect of God’s nature that most resonates with us and cling to it, calling it good, calling it best, as though God Himself and all His image-bearers aren’t more multifaceted than we could ever hope to begin to grasp. If we aren’t careful, scarcity can become an excuse to maintain our blind spots in perpetuity. I’ve used Hamilton and my own cultural expansion as an example, but this concept is limitless in its application. Jennifer references our staff discussion of Billie Eilish, and how she and others like her speak to a generational perspective that is key to understanding some of our biggest current struggles (in that same conversation, Chris introduced me to the works of Mac Miller and Juice WRLD, who speak in that same space, and whom—I think it’s important to note—I would never have been willing to hear about, much less check out, if not for the way Hamilton had already opened me up to new forms of music). Mark Meynell has spoken to how Shostakovich’s symphonies can teach us about the experience of those who suffered under Stalin’s control in the Soviet Union. After last year’s Hutchmoot concert, my friend said that she almost walked out of Ella Mine’s remarkable record Dream War because the darkness it addresses was so uncomfortable for her. It’s just not how she thinks or wants to see the world, she said—but she stayed, because she recognized that this was some people’s experience, and she wanted to understand. Sure, we can stay in the Shire and revel in the Berry-esque beauty of knowing every path and neighbor’s name, but who among us would rather have stayed in the Shire than travel with the Fellowship? Shigé Clark And isn’t that the glorious divinity of it? The opportunity to step into another person’s perspective and feel it in a way that only music allows? We call music the universal language for a reason—it has the potential to be the most uniting force in existence. It can introduce us to levels of empathy we could never have imagined. Or it can be a source of further division. Scarcity of music carries on its back the risk of scarcity of mind, where we wrap ourselves in our warm, comfortable genre coats and throw on a nostalgia scarf for good measure and remark to each other how the world isn’t cold. To Leslie’s well-made point in the previous article, this doesn’t mean we need to be ashamed or can’t feast joyfully in the music that most resonates with us. After all this time, Les Misérables is still my favorite musical, and probably still the one I’ve listened to the most. But I needed Hamilton. I needed In the Heights. I needed the expansion of perspective that’s led to the 467 songs on my Musicals playlist. And you know what? This ubiquity of music hasn’t diluted the depth in that expansion. Are there songs and artists on my playlists that I know nothing about, and albums I’ve skimmed through, failing to give them a fair chance? For sure, and certainly there’s more to those artists and their works than my attention has credited them. But that’s only because I’m busy engaging just as deeply with other works as I ever engaged back in my times of scarcity. The fact that algorithms lead me away from Hamilton to discover the scope of other works hasn’t stopped me from soaking it up just as deeply as Les Misérables. I have sat in that same, rapt attention, with the same wonder thrumming through me, digging into every note, line, rhyme, refrain, and devastating detail of its 2hr23min soundtrack. In fact, as Chris alludes to in his post on the topic, the availability of the internet has only increased the depth with which I engage art. I’ve been able to dig further into the history and complexity of Les Misérables through the internet than I ever could have hoped to through a book of liner notes. Scarcity may call to us like the close-knit community of the Shire, but the splendor of the Lord of the Rings stories is that our heroes leave, and are made better for it. Andrew describes ubiquity as “the glut of new music at our fingertips,” but I see the current ubiquity of music less as a smorgasbord arrayed before us to gorge on without tasting, and more as the whole wide world opened up at my doorstep, waiting to sweep me away. If the constraints of the iPod are for Drew like Bilbo sitting down to savor a meal in its full magnificence, then YouTube and Spotify have been Gandalf beckoning me from my doorway with a company of dwarves at his back. “I’m looking for someone to share in an adventure that I am arranging.” Sure, we can stay in the Shire and revel in the Berry-esque beauty of knowing every path and neighbor’s name, but who among us would rather have stayed in the Shire than travel with the Fellowship? Would we really forego the unfamiliar beauties of Rivendell, Lothlórien, Moria, Rohan, and Gondor? Are we really content for our world to be so small, and our knowledge of the greater story so limited? And—as Jennifer alludes to in her post—perhaps traveling there and back again not only serves to expand our perspective and edify us as people, but will even serve to make us realize and appreciate, all anew, the familiar things we loved before. Click here to read Part 7: Can I Get a Witness? by Pete Peterson.

The montage that runs under the opening credits of Jojo Rabbit is one of the most insightful moments in a movie full of insights. Newsreel footage of Nazi youth rallies is accompanied by The Beatles’ “Komm, Gib Mir Deine Hand” (a German language version of “I Want To Hold Your Hand” that The Beatles recorded in 1964). Frenzied, dewy-eyed teenage girls scream “Heil Hitler!” But if you weren’t watching their lips closely, you might think they were screaming “Paul!” or “Ringo!” Arms wave frantically in the air, like those of excited fans at Shea Stadium. It is only after the second or third shot that you realize that the hands are extended in a Nazi salute. Likewise the hysterical cheering running along in the background might have been recorded at the Nuremburg rallies, or it might have been the crowd at the Ed Sullivan Theater (“Ladies and gentlemen . . . The Beatles!!”). Like a lot of the movie that follows, it’s a sequence that is simultaneously funny and unsettling. Probably (I was left thinking) some of the people carrying out the genocides of the 1940s spent the 1930s, not as little hardcore junior fascists, but as star-struck teenagers. Perhaps one of the greatest evils in human history had its roots, not only in twisted philosophy and racial hatred, but also in herd mentality, hype, and peer pressure. Could that be right? Could the same impulse that leads a teenager to wear a Billie Eilish t-shirt also lead him to wear a swastika? This idea, which is presented so powerfully in the opening sequence, is one of the subtexts of the entire film. Cruel and barbaric ideologies like National Socialism (the movie suggests) are fueled, at least in part, by pretty typical teenage impulses like hero-worship and the desire to be part of the crowd. For instance, Jojo’s indoctrination takes place at Hitler Jugend Camp, but it would only require minor adjustments to wardrobe and dialog to transform it into the camps run every summer by the Boy Scouts, the YMCA, or your local church youth group. Writer/Director Taiki Waititi very clearly plays up this wild incongruity for comic effect. (Nazi Summer Camp!! Crafts! Hand Grenades! Anti-Semitic Propaganda! S’mores!) “FRAULEIN RAHM: Now, get your things together kids, it’s time to burn some books! CHILDREN: Yayyyy!!!” —Jojo Rabbit screenplay Likewise, Jojo’s bedroom (to take another example) is plainly the bedroom of a 10 year-old boy, but with Nazi flags and propaganda occupying the places where one would normally expect to see posters of baseball players and Metallica. And of course, the central conceit of the film is that Hitler is not only the Führer of Nazi Germany, but is also Jojo’s imaginary best friend. (And he delivers exactly the sort of goofy dialog a 10 year-old might imagine.) Jojo Rabbit offers us Nazism refracted through the adoring eyes of a hero-worshipping, adventure-starved fanboy. But Waititi presses his point even further. It’s not just that National Socialism seems fun and exciting to pre-adolescents. The adult Nazis, the soldiers, and even the Gestapo are portrayed as credulous, grown-up teenagers. They exchange sensationalistic anti-Semitic tall tales, like kids telling fantastical horror stories at a sleep-over. They “heil Hitler” one another compulsively, like members of a treehouse club exchanging a secret handshake. In one of the movie’s climactic scenes, Elsa, the Jew hiding in Jojo’s crawlspace, insists on exposing this childishness as childishness: “You’re not a Nazi, Jojo. You’re a 10 year old kid who ‘likes’ Swastikas and ‘likes’ dressing up in a funny uniform and wants to be part of a club.” —Jojo Rabbit screenplay Elsa’s speech is wonderful. But the fact that she’s correctly diagnosed Jojo—and the dismissiveness in her voice—shouldn’t lead us to underestimate just how powerful that impulse is; that desire “to be part of a club.” There are few instincts more basic. If the God who exists in an eternal community of Father, Son, and Spirit has likewise made us for community, then the desire to be part—of a family, of a community—is at the heart of our human identity. I did not (thank you Lord God) have to struggle against a peer group fascinated by swastikas and hand grenades. But as a student, and then as a teacher, I have seen the same sort of group dynamic portrayed in Jojo Rabbit acted out dozens of times. In the course of their education people regularly undertake major philosophical and ideological shifts, not so much because of argument and reflection, but out of a vague sense of “this is how everyone looks at things,” and a desire to keep in step. If there’s one thing the film makes clear, it’s that groups are misled not by hearing too many voices, but by hearing too few. Steve Guthrie The fact that Jojo Rabbit is a comedy is fitting too. One of the most powerful ways groups exercise this compulsion toward conformity is through laughter. This is not only the case in the film, but in my own experience as well. Reflect for a moment on the persuasive power of humor; how firmly we feel drawn away from a prior certainty merely by an ironic eye-roll; how easily a sardonic grin can cause us to adjust the direction of a comment midstream; how decisively a chuckle and a shake of the head seem to defeat deeply held convictions. Everyone laughs at that way of thinking; therefore that way of thinking must be laughable! I had a significant crisis of faith my first year of college, and it was precipitated in just this way, by a classroom outburst of laughter. The simple evidence of my classmates’ reaction seemed self-evidently persuasive. I felt suddenly ashamed. Oh no—they’re laughing! The things I believe are ridiculous. In the movie as well, hatred of Jews manifests itself not so often in violence as in mockery. Immediately I think of the Great Precedent for this: “They twisted together a crown of thorns and set it on his head. They put a staff in his right hand. Then they knelt in front of him and mocked him. ‘Hail, king of the Jews!’” (Mtt. 27:29) “Then Herod and his soldiers ridiculed and mocked him.” (Luke 23:11) “In the same way the chief priests and the teachers of the law mocked him among themselves.” (Mark 15:31) When Gestapo agents discover Yoohoo Jew (Jojo’s illustrated “exposé of the Jews”), they page through the fantastical and grotesque depictions, dissolving into helpless giggles. “Oh, this is hilarious!” the head agent gasps. “I must thank you for this. You have really made my day.” Of course, mockery is not the only kind of laughter: “When the Lord restored the fortunes of Zion, we were like those who dreamed. Our mouths were filled with laughter, our tongues with songs of joy!” (Psalm 126:1-2) And even mockery can function, not only as an indoctrination, but as a kind of deliverance. This is the claim of the two quotations C. S. Lewis uses as an epigraph to The Screwtape Letters: “The best way to drive out the devil, if he will not yield to texts of Scripture, is to jeer and flout him, for he cannot bear scorn.” —Martin Luther “The devil…that proud spirit…cannot endure to be mocked.” —Thomas Moore In a way, this is the project of the entire film. Taiki Waititi has produced his own version of Yoohoo Jew: an exposé of the Nazis that unmasks them as not only cruel and inhuman, but also as childish and ridiculous. And if laughter can be not only corrosive but redemptive, the same of course is true of others’ influence. It’s easy to imagine watching the opening “Fascism-as-Beatlemania” sequence of Jojo Rabbit, and deciding that the wisest course of action is (to quote another Beatles song): “Think For Yourself.” Be an individual; don’t follow the crowd; don’t listen to others. Do what seems best to you and don’t give a rip about what anyone else thinks. This is, more or less, the Modern Western Enlightenment response to the dangers of credulity and herd mentality. The philosopher Immanuel Kant defined “Enlightenment” as having the “courage to use one’s own mind without another’s guidance. . . ‘Have the courage to use your own understanding,’ is therefore the motto of the enlightenment.” (Was ist Aufklärung?, 1784) So in other words, Kant’s prescription is resolute self-reliance; a refusal to base one’s beliefs on the testimony of others. This, I think, is precisely the wrong response. In the film, it’s not rugged individualism that rescues Jojo from Nazism, but love. Indeed, if there’s one thing the film makes clear, it’s that groups are misled not by hearing too many voices, but by hearing too few. Jojo’s problem is not a group that’s grown too large, but a group whose boundaries have grown too small. Similarly, the antidote for his anti-Semitism is not isolation but encountering a Jew. He is terrified by his first meeting with Elsa, which is telling. She is as much a threat to him as he is to her; though admittedly, they pose different kinds of threat to one another. Elsa needs to hide from the Nazis to remain alive; the Nazis need Elsa to hide to remain Nazis. If she reveals herself, she simultaneously reveals the silliness of their propaganda. (“How would you know if you saw [a Jew]?” Jojo’s friend Yorki asks. “They can look just like us.” “Oh I’d know,” Jojo assures him. “I’d feel its head for horns. And they smell like Brussels Sprouts.”) This is a sobering idea for those (like myself) who homeschool our children. It may be that the greatest danger to our children is not being exposed to the multiple sinful perspectives of the world, but being limited to the single sinful perspective of their parents. Jojo is rescued by finding himself in another, more life-giving and expansive community. He abandons Hitler when the boundaries of National Socialism prove too narrow to accommodate his devotion to his mother and his growing love for Elsa. The bonds forged with the Hitler Youth can’t be maintained without breaking other bonds that are deeper and more resilient. This, in fact, very much resembles the miracle that unfolds in the early church. The first Christians (just like many of us) were people who found their primary identity in family or tribe, in their social class or status, in their religious or cultural heritage. But Paul declares that now, “there is no longer Jew nor Greek, slave nor free, male nor female, for you are all one in Christ.” (Gal. 3:28) One of the most radical things the early church did was have Jews and Gentiles, slaves and free people, men and women share the same bread and the same cup. Shockingly, the members of this disparate body come to call one another “brother” and “sister.” Just as Jojo discovers (to his horror) that he loves the Jew living behind the hidden space in the wall, so first century Gentiles discovered that they loved the Jews seated around them at table. (And likewise, first century Jews discovered they loved the Gentiles seated around them.) Their new identity (“brother to a Jew;” “sister to a slave,”) overflowed the banks of their old identity (“Jew, NOT a Gentile;” “Free person, RATHER THAN a slave”). My daughter Sophie (at whose urging I watched the movie in the first place) tells me that one of the first decisions Waititi made when making Jojo Rabbit was choosing David Bowie’s “Heroes” to play over the final scene and closing credits: I will be king And you You will be queen Though nothing Will drive them away We can beat them Just for one day We can be heroes Just for one day —”Heroes,” David Bowie I don’t know the reason for Waititi’s choice, but to my mind the two songs at either end of the film—“I Want To Hold Your Hand” and “Heroes”—perfectly frame the tensions at the heart of the story. Jojo and Elsa certainly are heroes; each rescuing the other from the Nazis, in different sorts of ways. On the other hand, ironically, it is precisely hero-worship from which Jojo’s heroine rescues him. Likewise, Waititi uses the opening soundtrack of “Komm, Gib Mir Deine Hand” to showcase the destructive power of one sort of hero worship. And how can we counter the kind of fanaticism on display there? The answer the film offers is summarized in the same impulse for personal connection the song expresses: “Come—give me your hand.”

We’ve got a new episode of Fixed in Post—our podcast for the moviegoers among us, wherein co-hosts John Barber and Pete Peterson discuss films they love and what they would have fixed in post-production to make them even better. Except this time, John Barber is not joined by Pete Peterson. He is instead joined by the Rabbit Room’s Director of Sales & Event Programming, Chris Thiessen, who himself wields a sharp pop cultural eye. In this special quarantine edition of the podcast, Chris and John cover two of John’s favorite films—Children of Men and Phantom Thread. Will Chris end up with the same affection for them that John has? Spoiler alert: yes and no. Click here to listen to this special quarantine edition of Fixed in Post.

In Season 2, Episode 9, Drew Miller talks with Don Chaffer about the song “Be Invisible” from his musical, The (Almost) Unforgettable Edwin Booth. Drew and Don discuss the creativity to be found in the “fenced-in areas” of musical theater, the magic of seeing so many people bring your work to life on stage, and art as a way of practicing empathy. Click here to listen to Season 2, Episode 9 of The Second Muse. Transcripts are now available for The Second Muse! You can find them by clicking here. They are typically one or two episodes behind. Special thanks to our Rabbit Room members for making these podcasts possible! If you’re interested in becoming a member, visit RabbitRoom.com/Donate.

The Habit Podcast is a series of conversations with writers about writing, hosted by Jonathan Rogers. This week, Jonathan Rogers talks with Karen Swallow Prior, author of On Reading Well and Booked. In this episode, Jonathan and Karen discuss common mistakes in how we read classic literature, the vaster meaning of the word “comedy,” the excellent new film adaptation of Jane Austen’s Emma, and the difference between portrayal and endorsement in art. Click here to listen to Season 2, Episode 22 of The Habit Podcast. Check out Karen’s new edition of Austen’s Sense & Sensibility here, with a guide written specifically for Christian readers. Transcripts are now available for The Habit Podcast—they generally run one or two episodes behind. Click here to access them. Special thanks to our Rabbit Room members for making these podcasts possible! If you’re interested in becoming a member, visit RabbitRoom.com/Donate.

“Inside Bag End, Bilbo and Gandalf were sitting at the open window of a small room looking out west onto the garden. The late afternoon was bright and peaceful. The flowers glowed red and golden: snap-dragons and sunflowers, and nasturtiums trailing all over the turf walls and peeping in at the round windows.” —The Fellowship of the Ring “How bright your garden looks!” Gandalf tells Bilbo in the opening chapter of The Fellowship of the Ring. Indeed, the whole chapter has been bright with planning and anticipation for a great celebration, and the Shire glows verdant with meadows and trees. It isn’t popular to start or finish stories with such happiness these days. A ready eye to life’s darker realities is the thing. (I don’t necessarily disagree.) And J. R. R. Tolkien, along with C. S. Lewis, are fast falling out of fashion, partly because of overuse (Give us new Christian writers to read!), partly because of this penchant of theirs: telling stories that come full-circle, and that keep their eye on hope and beauty all the way ’round to the end. Postmoderns cringe, alongside a growing number of Christian writers who want to make sure the grim realities that the gospel addresses get told. (Again, I don’t disagree.) But don’t let’s forget that when Gandalf praises Bilbo’s flowers, this particular tale—Frodo’s tale, at least—is only at its beginning. The battle for Middle Earth has not yet begun in earnest; it certainly hasn’t reached the round windows or doors of Bilbo’s beloved home, Bag End. Gandalf, sitting by Bilbo’s sunny window, knows a broader reality, a tale more akin to those we hear later from Tom Bombadil about dying kingdoms spanning the warring centuries. “How bright your garden looks.” How can he say such a thing? Gandalf, as it turns out, is not merely commenting on the greenery outside the hobbit hole; his words bear the weight of all that Tolkien had seen. And J. R. R. Tolkien had seen a darker side of things. So had C. S. Lewis. Both men had been to war. Both, in fact, saw front line action, Tolkien in the earliest, most horrifying days of the Battle of the Somme, and Lewis a year later in the same region. (It would be a solid eight years before they actually met each other, at an Oxford University faculty meeting.) Lewis was wounded, Tolkien sent home with trench fever. Though Lewis later described his experiences in most grueling and gruesome terms, he also claimed he never thought much about his time in the war, that it hadn’t left lasting memories with him. In his autobiography Surprised by Joy, he can hardly speak of battle training or combat without veering into happier tangents about books, friends, or imaginative fancies. The horrors of his time in France are “cut off from the rest of [his] experience” and are “even in a way unimportant.” I disagree. (So does Joseph Loconte for the length of an entire, excellent book. And even Lewis contradicts himself mightily, relievedly, about this in his letters.) Tolkien never made such a claim. His response to his own time in the trenches of World War I is more definitive, and more definitively negative. In a letter years later to his son Michael, who was enlisted during World War II, Tolkien had certainly not forgotten the suffering and bitterness of the previous war—“One war is enough for any man”—and laments the start of a second. No, Tolkien’s dubious denial about his war experience concerns his fiction: “Personally I do not think that either war had any influence upon either the plot or the manner of its unfolding. Perhaps in landscape.” Ah. The landscape. He means, of course, settings like Helms Deep, the Pellenor Fields, the Middle Earth fighting grounds that reflect the grimy trenches and bleak battlefields he’d actually seen. But there is that other type of landscape even more pervasive in Tolkien’s books, a brighter one. And it begins with Bilbo’s garden. Bilbo’s garden offers a glimpse into the world as it once was, and as it might be again—a reminder of the ordinary things the hobbits set out to save, and of the homely things they are ultimately saved unto, in all their potential nearness and glory. Rebecca D. Martin Bilbo’s garden. Both Lewis and Tolkien approved the value of green spaces and growing things, and both men abhorred their opposite: the ugly machinery of industrialization and purported “progress.” Also, both men were walkers, amblers and observers of the English countryside and of Oxford’s own green meadows and tree-lined college pathways. They were also both medieval scholars, and medieval literature is rife with gardens in a multitude of meanings. For the medievalist Tolkien, as for Bilbo, the garden is a place set apart, separate from the world and its concerns. And it is a common space within the world, too, through which enter friends, family, and even the unbidden stranger. Which means it is also the space through which the adventurer must pass in order to leave home and enter the wide world. Frodo “turned and (following Bilbo, if he had known it) hurried after Peregrin down the garden path.” But along the road, his gate and garden remain ever before his mind’s eye, representing the highest of hopes: returning home. “Then world behind and home ahead / We’ll wander back to home and bed.” In short, Bilbo’s garden offers a glimpse into the world as it once was, and as it might be again—a reminder of the ordinary things the hobbits set out to save, and of the homely things they are ultimately saved unto, in all their potential nearness and glory. For C. S. Lewis, the idea of a garden is the very beginning of imagination. He describes the mossy garden of a biscuit tin lid that his brother, as a young child, had once brought in from outside and decorated: “That was the first beauty I ever knew.” The garden is also, for Lewis, a place of ultimate glorification, an end goal that hearkens back to a perfect beginning. (Think of the Pevensie children in The Last Battle, running up mountain after mountain to reach a hilltop garden again and again that is, each time, more vibrant and real than before.) Tolkien brought the concept full-circle, too: garden was both beginning and end. Here in the opening pages of The Lord of the Rings is Gandalf’s high praise of Bilbo’s yard. And in the very, very end, Sam returns through the same garden’s gate to “yellow light, and fire within,” from garden to garden, from home back to home. “There and back again.” Could this be the trajectory of our own lives’ stories, whatever happens in between, whatever horrors we must walk through to get from start to finish? Tolkien hoped so. Because in the end, it isn’t actually Bilbo’s garden, is it? Some go so far as to say that this isn’t Frodo’s or even Bilbo’s story. Some (including Tolkien) propose that the story ultimately belongs to Sam, who is the faithful gardener. We often think of the ent Treebeard as voicing Tolkien’s clearest statement on the earth and trees and growing things; we hear him in the film version of the story, booming out against Saruman’s environmental destruction: “Gnawing, biting, breaking, hacking, burning!” But Sam Gamgee’s actions resonate louder than any words when he returns from Mordor to quietly, diligently plant grains of Galadriel’s dust. He scatters the contents of her box to flourish the trees and flowers and gardens of the Shire till his homeland is more beautiful, more heavenly, and more distinctly home, than it ever was before. Some readers have accused Bilbo (and hobbits in general) of excessive pining for home. “He wished again and again for his nice bright hobbit-hole. Not for the last time.” But this is neither naiveté nor, worse, denial on the part of the hobbits. Theirs is a poignant response to the gritty actualities of life. So it is that Tolkien, in his fiction, did not stay as quiet on his war experience as he claims. Nor did Lewis remain unaffected. Both men had been up to their necks in mud, grime, and far worse. Bleakness and gunfire, fear and death. In Lewis’s words, both men had seen “the frights, the cold, the smell . . . , the horribly smashed men still moving like half-crushed beetles, . . . the landscape of sheer earth without a blade of grass.” And what did they return home to write about? Narnia, of all things. The Shire, and the reclamation of Middle Earth. For the poet T. S. Eliot—a contemporary of Tolkien and Lewis, though not one of their writerly circle—“the last of earth left to discover / Is that which was the beginning.” In the beginning was a garden. In the beginning of Bilbo’s story is a window overlooking the yard at Bag End. “How bright your garden looks!” This is not empty chatter. Against the blackest smoke of Mordor, through the awful memory of world wars, despite the darkest pain and loss in bleak everyday life, how bright home shines: the green garden; the ordinary, safe space behind gate and door; the community that peoples our days; the affirmation and hope of bettered things to come. Upon returning from his big adventure in The Hobbit, years before Frodo sets out with the Ring, Bilbo catches sight of “his own Hill in the distance.” He stands still to take it all in, and he waxes poetic: “Eyes that fire and sword have seen and horror in the halls of stone Look at last on meadows green And trees and hills they long have known.” There, also, stand Lewis and Tolkien, one in Narnia, one in the Shire, with all their knowledge of war and worse. Their gaze is toward home, and they are commenting, as it were, on Bilbo’s garden. In literature, as in life, there are worse places to set off from, and there couldn’t be a better place to fight for, and to arrive at in the end.

[Editor’s note: click here to read Part 6: A Scarcity of Mind by Shigé Clark.] Several weeks ago when we began this series on the “lost art of listening,” I don’t know that any of us knew exactly where it would end up. But it’s been a delight to watch the topic develop and gather steam. Andrew, Chris, Drew, Jennifer, Shigé, and Leslie have all articulated valuable facets of why and how we listen to music and carry it with us. It’s my turn now, and I came into this weekend, challenged to write something but honestly having no idea what I might be able to add to such a rich conversation. Like Jennifer and Andrew, I grew up before the digital age and I look back fondly on the charm of those analog systems and the precious scarcity of music in an age when it could be so elusive and impermanent. And like Chris and Shigé, I’m thankful for the marvel of the streaming age and the multiplicity of options and perspectives to which it gives me access. I, too, like Leslie, cherish a massive catalog of beloved music that I recognize leaves a lot to be desired, but I’ve made peace with those deficiencies and give thanks for the good I’ve taken away in spite of them (looking at you, Meat Loaf). And as Drew says, I enjoy chewing the cud of all this goodness, savoring the flavors I’ve come to love over the years and cherishing those tastes as they grow deeper and richer. But what do I have add to all this? Is there anything left to say? A few days ago, I didn’t have any ideas and I told the team I’d probably pass. But then George Floyd. But then Minneapolis. But then Seattle and LA and Atlanta and New York and Charlotte. But then Nashville. I have something to say after all. Listen: Several years ago, I wrote a play called The Battle of Franklin. It was based on the Civil War battle that took place a few miles down the road from where I’m sitting, and I didn’t know what I was getting into. I’m not a historian. At that point I wasn’t even a playwright. I didn’t even know where to start until Matt Logan, the director of the play, handed me several books containing the collected letters of the townsfolk during the Civil War. So I went home and spent hours and days quietly sitting and listening to the people that lived through it, listening to them talk in their own words to their own families about their fears and hopes and anxieties. Out of those letters, a voice and a story slowly emerged. At its heart, I think the play is ultimately about the lost art of listening. It’s about what happens when we cannot hear one another in the midst of our own cacophony. I went on to use those letters as the jumping off point of my writing, and I’m thankful for them and for those who preserved them. But tragically, of all the letters I read, every single one of them was written by a white person. Most slaves, you see, could not read or write, and certainly couldn’t use the postal service. There are no letters left behind to tell of their fears and hopes and questions (at least not in Williamson County, Tennessee). How can we listen to those who cannot speak? One of my hopes for that play was that it would give voice in some small way to those who had been silenced, and based on the reception of the show, I think we did achieve that in some respect. A few years later, I was asked to adapt Corrie Ten Boom’s The Hiding Place for the stage. Hers is a tale of courage, sacrifice, suffering, and forgiveness amid the horror of Nazi Germany. But in the process of living with her book and her story, I finally came to understand that one of the most important aspects of it was the nature of witness. Corrie saw and lived through things that we can scarcely imagine, and she dedicated the rest of her life to testifying to what she’d seen to anyone who would listen. That’s what a witness is, someone who proclaims what they’ve seen to whomever will listen. And we need witnesses because none of us have a complete understanding of one another, much less of the world beyond our doors. We need witnesses like Corrie to call us to account and make us look into the darkness if we’re ever to see the light that shines from beyond it. But a witness alone isn’t enough. Someone must listen. To hear is only to collect information; to listen is to follow that information as it leads you into the mystery of another person, of another image of God, of an experience precious beyond words because it is one you cannot access through your own actions or understanding. Pete Peterson The trouble is this: humankind loves to hear, but struggles to listen. And that struggle is getting harder all the time. Social media lets us curate our personal view of the world so we can shut out the voices we don’t want to listen to. And even if we’re not shutting people out, our often insular circles of friends can be entirely excluded from the voices and witness of others we might need to hear in order to have a more complete understanding of those around us. Add to this a 24-hour news machine that has largely given up the honorable calling of journalism in favor of policital opinions and finger-pointing and the peddling of emotion to keep readers clicking. Even those who are trying to listen have trouble knowing who to listen to. When everyone in the room is yelling, is listening even possible? So I think this is what music does. This is what art is for. It bears us witness of mysteries when we have lost the art of listening. When we cannot see the bigotry in our own hearts or actions and cannot bear to hear ourselves mocked on twitter, it may be that Marvin Gaye is the only voice we’re able to hear, maybe for the groove, maybe for the soul, maybe for the nostalgia, but “something’s happening here” and we can’t escape it altogether. I keep thinking about those missing letters. The never-written letters of slaves whose voices are long-lost to the sands of time. Oh, how I wish we could listen to them. Of what deep sorrows might they tell? But then I realize that we are everywhere haunted by their ghosts. The groanings of those voices echo through halls of our history. They took root in jazz and blues and rock and roll and have left no corner of American music untouched by their cry. And now in rap and hip-hop and R&B they have taken on flesh from beyond the grave. They bear witness in a thousand notes and rhymes. They testify to realities that many of us cannot fully know or percieve, yet we have largely deafened ourselves to their testimonies so that we can live in the relative quiet of our incomplete understanding. And so in the absence of a willingness to listen, we have given ourselves over to a cacophony of self-defense that cannot possibly be a joyful noise to anyone. What then are we to do? In the Rabbit Room, for the past few years, we’ve taken on an intentional posture of listening for unheard voices. We’ve recognized that for the most part, we listen primarily to people who look like us, sound like us, think like us. Yet we’ve grown into the conviction that if we’re going to be a community that truly and bodily reflects the Kingdom of God, we need to listen for those unheard voices and welcome them into the room. We also need to look for opportunities to be guests in their rooms. The fact of the matter is that we’re surrounded by witnesses everyday, witnesses to bigotry, systemic racism, poverty, economic inequality, sexual abuse, and a hundred other evils, yet we often only hear rather than listen. To hear is only to collect information; to listen is to follow that information as it leads you into the mystery of another person, of another image of God, of an experience precious beyond words because it is one you cannot access through your own actions or understanding. Indeed, there is loving in listening. A song may lead you out of yourself for three-and-a-half minutes and into the fresh universe of another’s mind. A musical composition may, through the miracle of vibration and resonance, open up a well of empathy that can be accessed in no other way in the world. And for those who have ears to hear, the simple witness of a fellow human may be the difference between life and death, not just for one, but for everyone. And if that’s so, that’s an art that we cannot afford to lose. I want that high and holy art of listening for myself, for my community, for my country. This past year at Hutchmoot, Buddy Greene and Odessa Settles held a session called “We Help Each Other See,” in which they discuss (and sing about) some of the ways in which music has helped them each to better understand the other. Odessa grew up in Nashville amid segregation and she has a wealth of stories to tell and bear witness to. I once asked her how things had changed since then, and she said “Not much.” Here’s an opportunity. Listen: click here to download. Also at Hutchmoot, Mark Meynell and Ruth Naomi Floyd held a discussion called “Music for the Broken: How African-American Spirituals and Shostakovich Sustain Us in the Midst of Suffering.” Do yourself a favor and immerse yourself in Ruth’s otherworldly voice as she sings the testimonies of lost voices. Listen: click here to download. Do you enjoy podcasts? Listen to Jemar Tisby’s Pass the Mic for a wealth of African-American Christian discussions of how to make sense of what’s going on around us every day. Start with this retelling of the story of Fannie Lou Hamer, a name you probably know and a story you probably don’t. Listen to Jemar tesitfy to the passion of a modern saint. You may or may not have seen the movie, but I urge you to read the Bryan Stevenson’s Just Mercy. It’s a window into a world of justice system nightmares that many of us don’t want to admit exists, and unless we start listening, innocent men and women will continue to die right under our noses. It’s terrifying and tragic and beautiful and deeply Christian. To date, I consider Toni Morrison’s Beloved the finest novel I’ve ever read. It’s a triumph of structure, language, and image and I’ll never forget it. It’s a “ghost story” but don’t let that throw you off. It’s about the traumatic effects of slavery and every adult ought to read it at least once. Both Beloved and Just Mercy are availalbe in the Rabbit Room Store. This all began with music so let me bring it back around with this. A few years ago I discovered the music of an artist named Propaganda, and no sooner had I discovered him and started to dig into his music, than he released a new record called Crooked. Here’s what I wrote about it back then: “It’s an album about problems and anger and frustration and the complicated nature of relationships, but it’s not only about how crooked the world is, or about how crooked our hearts are, it’s about making things right. Prop’s ability to paint a landscape of America in all its darkness and light reminds me of the best of Springsteen, and his ability to diagnose social issues with appropriate anger yet without losing hope recalls the best of U2. And it’s all done in his own unique and articulate style mixing spoken word, rap, and R&B together into a symphony of sound and words. If you love poetry and wordplay, you owe it to yourself to pay attention.” That record shook me to my core and I still listen to it on a regular basis. I chew its cud. I listen to it from beginning to end because it’s a beautifully cohesive series of songs put together into an album with an emotional arc and something important to say. The whole album is a testimony. Right now I’m doing my best to be quiet. I’m doing my best to listen. It’s on Spotify, go immerse yourself, and then go look up Sho Baraka and Jackie Hill Perry and so many other voices. But if we’re to reclaim the lost art of listening, in the end we’re also responsible for what we do with it. After all, hearing is passive, but listening is active. To listen is to be moved not only emotionally or empathically, but to action. I cannot receive the testimony of witnesses and remain silent, doing nothing. When I worked with Walt Wangerin to publish a new, expanded, edition of his Miz Lil and the Chronicles of Grace, a beautiful collection of stories that recount his experience working as the pastor of a predominately African-American church, I listened carefully to the testimony of Walt’s tales, but I noted the absence of a voice. Walt’s stories are, of course, brilliantly told and they honor and hallow the community out of which the come, but ulimately, I thought, here are stories of color painted solely in white, and so I asked Walt if we might give the book a fuller sense of itself by commissioning an African-American artist to illustrate the cover and interior. Walt nodded emphatically and a few months later the acclaimed print artist Steve Prince graciously agreed to the work and delivered a handful of exquiste prints that give Walt’s stories back to the silent voices out of which they arise. Some, however, saw those works of art and worried that they were too ethnic, that they would offend those they attempted to depict. So we sent the book to multiple people of color and asked for their reactions, fearing to make a misstep. But “This is us,” they told us. “We feel heard,” and “Thank you.” I talked to Walt about the varying reactions to the artwork and he told me that when he gave the book to his daughter, who is African-American, she was “over the moon” about the pictures. The point is this: had we not first heard the absence of that voice, and then actively included in the process those for whom it spoke, what good might we have failed to do? So listen, yes, but let our listening be as rest before the day’s labor begins—whether that means writing, or playing music, or fighting injustice, or caring for the poor, or serving your church, the Holy Spirit will surely answer. And so, O Lord, let us listen, that we may be listless no longer. Amen.

I make the sign for birch in the gray soil of thought. A tree springs up, its trunk white and straight, its leaves small and rounded. “The birch is the tree of beginnings, of purification, of fire. Let the birch stand in honor of the Bard, who summons the inner flame. The Bard will be poet, musician, and prophet. He will learn the history of our people, all our laws and our lore. The Bard will be Keeper of the Word.” —Helena Sorensen, The Door on Half-Bald Hill If such language and imagery calls to something deep within you (as it does me), then you likewise will not want to place The Door on Half-Bald Hill on your bookshelf once you turn the final page. Rather, you will want to keep it nearby so that re-entry occurs soon. Your mind will keep wandering back, mulling, wondering, the same way that it does with parts of Lowry, MacDonald, Rothfuss, Le Guin. . . even of Tomm Moore as he invokes Yates. Not in the sense that you will be drawing direct correlations to these writers, but in that this is the sort of company that The Door on Half-Bald Hill will keep in the bookshelf of your mind. Distinguishing further: once on that shelf, The Door on Half-Bald Hill will sit closer to Till We Have Faces than Narnia, awaiting readers equipped to participate in mythic telling. For like Till We Have Faces, this is a bardic tale for adults, not for children; a tale for the reader ready for more than entertainment. When I first stepped into this Celtic world summoned by Sorensen, wondering what magic would begin to weave around me, I had to learn to see through protagonist Idris’ eyes, and then to second-guess him and realize that I needed to also look through the eyes of the others. The text kept me wondering, questioning. Is the despair warranted, is it as bad as they think? Worse? Is there a solution? Are the pleasures deceptive, or true joys? Whose visions do I trust? This is a tale of desolation and consolation; a tale that remembers there is a Deeper Magic. Kirstin Jeffrey Johnson And as the story pulled me back into the time of the Oldest Tales, it yet propelled me into the time of the Unfolding Now—not only in its telling of fears in a time of pestilence, of poignant struggles of love and endurance, fear and self-doubt, but also in its showing how perennially necessary is rooted particularity: in, say, the gorse, and sloes, and primroses, the birch, and oak, and yew, without which Britain would not be Britain. Indeed the flora and fauna are so integral to this tale that it becomes obvious that place is an inextricable aspect of community; as the named-&-known species disappear from the landscape, so too do means and ways of a community’s self-knowledge. Not just in jeopardizing occupations, incurring loss of sensory pleasures and of physical sustenance—but by becoming irretrievable images in the very stories of identity. Relationship is central to this tale—in how it develops and grows amongst the persons of course, but also in how it plays out between the dwellers and the land, the hearers and the tales, the traditions and the manner in which they are indwelt. This is a tale of desolation and consolation; a tale that remembers there is a Deeper Magic. And thus Sorensen’s story is also prescient, for the world of her readers currently teeters on the edge of the same losses and needs (of story, identity, persons, place). What acts of courage, of wisdom, of holding the old with the new with the Deeper will pull us back into balance? What might it look like to defiantly choose Life More Abundant? To refuse to lose either memory or metaphor? How do we ask the right questions? This is the journey into which Sorensen invites the reader of The Door on Half-Bald Hill, and in so doing proves herself a sure seanchaí, a “Keeper of the Word.”

Christ Our King, Our world is overtaken by unexpected calamity, and by a host of attending fears, worries, and insecurities. We witness suffering, confusion, and hardship multiplied around us, and we find ourselves swept up in these same anxieties and troubles, dismayed by so many uncertainties. Now we turn to you, O God, in this season of our common distress. Be merciful, O Christ, to those who suffer, to those who worry, to those who grieve, to those who are threatened or harmed in any way by this upheaval. Let your holy compassions be active throughout the world even now— tending the afflicted, comforting the brokenhearted, and bringing hope to many who are hopeless. Use even these hardships to woo our hearts nearer to you, O God. Indeed, O Father, may these days of disquiet become a catalyst for conviction and repentance, for the tendering of our affections, for the stirring of our sympathies, for the refining of our love. We are your people, who are called by you, We need not be troubled or alarmed. Indeed, O Lord, let us love now more fearlessly, remembering that you created us, and appointed us to live in these very places, in the midst of these unsettled times. It is no surprise to you that we are here now, sharing in this turmoil along with the rest of our society, for you have called your children to live as salt and light among the nations, praying and laboring for the flourishing of the communities where we dwell, acting as agents of your forgiveness, salvation, healing, reconciliation, and hope, in the very midst of an often-troubled world. And in these holy vocations you have not left us helpless, O Lord, because you have not left us at all. Your Spirit remains among us. Inhabit now your church, O Spirit of the Risen Christ. Unite and equip your people for the work before them. Father, empower your children to live as your children. In times of distress let us respond, not as those who would instinctively entrench for our own self-preservation, but rather as those who—in imitation of their Lord—would move in humble obedience toward the needs and hurts of their neighborhoods and communities. You were not ashamed to share in our sufferings, Jesus. Let us now be willing to share in yours, serving as your visible witnesses in this broken world. Hear now these words, you children of God, and be greatly encouraged: The Lord’s throne in heaven is yet occupied, his rule is eternal, and his good purposes on earth will be forever accomplished. So we need never be swayed by the brief and passing panics of this age. You are the King of the Ages, O Christ, and history is held in your Father’s hands. We, your people, know the good and glorious end of this story. Our heavenly hope is secure. In this time of widespread suffering then, let us rest afresh in the surpassing peace of that vision, that your whole church on earth might be liberated to love more generously and sacrificially. Now labor in and through us, O Lord, extending and multiplying the many expressions of your mercy. Amen. From Every Moment Holy: Death, Grief, and Hope

The Habit Podcast is a series of conversations with writers about writing, hosted by Jonathan Rogers. This week, Jonathan Rogers talks with Scott Sauls, Senior Pastor of Christ Presbyterian Church in Nashville and author of Jesus Outside the Lines, Irresistible Faith, and most recently A Gentle Answer, which released two days ago. In this episode, Jonathan and Scott discuss the difference between being for and being against, why we’ve recently seen such a renewed interest in Fred Rogers, writing as an instrument of peace, and how gentleness can survive in a world that has made hostility into an asset. Click here to listen to Season 2, Episode 23 of The Habit Podcast.

In Season 2, Episode 10, Drew Miller talks with Taylor Leonhardt and Lucas Morton about the making of Taylor’s new song “Hold Still” from her upcoming album. Drew, Taylor, and Lucas discuss Taylor’s quest to dig deeper into the songwriting process for her second album, songs as streams of water always seeking new spaces to fill, and the imperfect magic of recording an album live in the room with other musicians. Click here to listen to Season 2, Episode 10 of The Second Muse. Transcripts are now available for The Second Muse! You can find them by clicking here. They are typically one or two episodes behind. Special thanks to our Rabbit Room members for making these podcasts possible! If you’re interested in becoming a member, visit RabbitRoom.com/Donate.

I thought I was a peaceful person. I’ve been given titles like “Laid-Back, Chill, and Easy-To-Get-Along-With” all my life, and I thought that was peace. I thought keeping the peace meant being a level-headed bystander, one who doesn’t stir the pot or get involved in arguments, but instead avoids conflicts and keeps conversations lighthearted and surface-level. Because creating conflict or inviting others into my pain or the pain I see in the world would hinder peace, right? This is the philosophy I’ve lived by all my life. In tense situations, I try to change the subject or leave the room. Otherwise, things might get ugly. And ugliness and peace can’t coexist, I told myself. Lately, I can’t stop thinking about peace. Let me explain. Ever since I was first introduced to the Enneagram system a few years ago, I believed myself to be a Five. For those unfamiliar with the Enneagram system, Fives are The Investigators. They’re “the intense, cerebral type: perceptive, innovative, secretive, and isolated.” I saw myself in all those adjectives (well, maybe not the “intense” bit). I thought it all made sense. I’m a nerd. I’m curious about the world. I thought I was a world investigator, devoted to life-long exploration. Just two months ago, I realized I hadn’t even investigated my own Enneagram type closely enough. It turns out I’m not the investigative Five at all, but a Nine, otherwise known as The Peacemaker. This should’ve been clear to me from the beginning based on the Enneagram Institute’s description: “Nines are accepting, trusting, and stable. They are usually creative, optimistic, and supportive, but can also be too willing to go along with others to keep the peace. They want everything to go smoothly and be without conflict, but they can also tend to be complacent, simplifying problems and minimizing anything upsetting.” Well, that all sounds too familiar. These new revelations sent me into a minor existential crisis. I couldn’t stop thinking about the weight of this title—Peacemaker. It hadn’t occurred to me until I saw it spelled out on the Enneagram’s website that I hate the definition of peace I’ve created for myself. I’ve embraced the complacent resistance of conflict as the ultimate vessel of peace when I should have embraced the resistance of injustice and untruth instead. As this sank in and I began to question how I could make peace in this world, Ahmaud Arbery—shot. Breonna Taylor—shot. George Floyd—publicly executed by asphyxiation. It’s become painfully clear that peace is not a status quo to keep. For so many, it doesn’t exist. I need to play a part in making it. I’ve embraced the complacent resistance of conflict as the ultimate vessel of peace when I should have embraced the resistance of injustice and untruth instead. Chris Thiessen In the wake of this violence, I attended a vigil held in the parking lot of a Missionary Baptist Church (situated directly behind our city’s police headquarters). Many spoke. Many prayed. But I was most struck by a young high school student who shared his experience as a black American. He was shaken, nervous. He stumbled through his notes a few times. Heck, he was speaking in front of a thousand people and vulnerably asking, “Why is there no peace in the ‘Land of the Free’?” I don’t think I could share my fears in front of a thousand people today, let alone when I was a high schooler. But this high school student was making peace by sharing himself—his voice, his fears, his hopes for the future—with an audience he didn’t know. Despite the fear he may have experienced—the anxiety about saying the right thing, the worry about what response he would elicit from the white people in the crowd—he did it anyway. The courageous speech of this young high schooler reminds me of an entirely different voice which has played over and over in my head recently, that of country rock artist Jason Isbell. Through his 2020 album Reunions, Isbell shares in heartbreaking detail the shortcomings of his marriage, the guilt of self-preservation, and the pain of recovering from alcoholism. “Last night I dreamed that I’d been drinking / Same dream I have ’bout twice a week / I had one glass of wine / I woke up feeling fine / And that’s how I knew it was a dream,” Isbell sings on “It Gets Easier.” He continues to warn that doing the right thing and overcoming your demons will never be easy, no matter how much progress you make. It’s a courageous record in which Isbell invites us into his process of making peace with himself, his wife, and God, even when it hurts. For Isbell, this process boils down to a simple, unshakeable mantra which offers the perfect definition of peace-making courage: “Be afraid, be very afraid / But do it anyway.” Friends, I’ve been afraid, and I’m ashamed to admit the inconsequential objects of my fear. I’ve been afraid a post on Facebook might make a family member uncomfortable. I’ve been afraid to share my opinion or challenge a joke made in bad taste. People have been afraid of much darker and harsher realities than I, yet here am I, trembling at the keyboard and second guessing every word. I’m not going to change overnight, but I long to share myself with the world without these inhibitions of fear. Be afraid, be very afraid. But do it anyway. Jason Isbell I’m comforted knowing even Jesus, full of sorrow, longed for a different way of making peace. He agonized in the garden with a pain I can never know. He had spent three years of ministry making peace in so many ways—healing sickness, flipping tables, imparting wisdom, embracing the broken, rebuking Pharisees, raising the dead. Still, there was work to do. Jesus was afraid of this work, yet he offered himself for the peace of the world anyway. He shared himself totally—his body, his blood, his breath—so we too could overcome our brokenness. He didn’t avoid the conflict. He dove headfirst into its midst and wrestled and anguished and after three days, he conquered. He may have upset thousands, especially the overly-religious, in the final days before his crucifixion, but countless brothers and sisters remain united in his resurrection. It’s become clear to me that I have not been a peaceful person. I haven’t earned that title or followed Christ’s example of making peace even when it’s agonizing. I’m afraid of what that means—for my habits, my relationships, my choices. But even if that fear never subsides, I pray Christ grants me the courage to share my blood, sweat, tears, time, fears, hopes, attention, and passion with my neighbor. I pray Christ will make me a peacemaker. Right now, we’re faced with a global challenge to see injustice undone and hearts drawn toward Christ. Thousands are fighting this battle in myriad ways and locations. At the Rabbit Room, we believe music is a real vessel for change, and so we have curated a playlist titled A Lament For Justice. Our responses to injustice are always varied and progressive. In that spirit, I’ve ordered these songs to reflect this progression. We begin with songs of lament where we’re faced with the evil in our world and ask God, “How long, O Lord?” We then move to songs of action, songs that remind us to be the hands and feet of Christ in crises, songs that remind us to break chains where bondage remains. Finally, we land in the comfort of Christ and the hope we have to embrace the peace he has already made. I pray these songs challenge you and minister to you in this present crisis of justice and in whatever future crises may come. Take heart. “For in him all the fullness of God was pleased to dwell, and through him God was pleased to reconcile to himself all things, whether on earth or in heaven, by making peace through the blood of his cross.” Click here to listen on Spotify. And here to listen on Apple Music.

[Editor’s note: What follows is the text of Andrew’s commencement speech, which he gave last week to celebrate his daughter, Skye, on her graduation day. We offer it here for all of 2020’s graduates, and all humans living in this calamitous year of 2020.] It’s an honor to be with you all today, in these uncertain times. In these uncertain times I’m very proud of my daughter and all the work it took to get to this point. I’m also very proud of my wife, who successfully homeschooled all three of our kids and is now, in these uncertain times, home free, in these uncertain times. Okay, I’m going to make a confession: if I have to hear the phrase “in these uncertain times” again, my brain might explode. I get it. Truly, the world feels unfamiliar and unsettled right now. It’s not just that the COVID-19 stuff utterly disrupted life as we knew it, but that many thousands of people have suffered and died. Add to that the murders of George Floyd in Minnesota and Ahmaud Arbery in Georgia, and the waves of grief and rage we’re all experiencing, and add to that all the troubling news from around the world, and I’d agree that yes, these are uncertain times. My heart aches. Six months ago things (for me, at least) were kind of chugging along, and no one had ever heard of COVID-19. But in a flash, everything changed. Now our history has a new dividing line: before Coronavirus and after Coronavirus, kind of like 9/11. I used to have a pretty good idea what was coming, but now I haven’t a clue, from one day to the next. I watch the news with a desperate hope that they’ll tell us this pandemic is going to be over in a week, that systemic racism is finally banished from our hearts and our nation, that the world, at last, is at peace. I long for it. Everything feels so crazy that I just want to make some soup and get a blankie and let John Krasinski to tell me some good news. But to say that these times are uncertain implies that the time before was certain. Graduates, these times aren’t any less certain than a year ago or 100 or 1,000 years ago. The times have always been uncertain. We have no idea what’s coming in five minutes or five years. It is precisely when all hope seems lost that hope is most important. Andrew Peterson We have some friends in Iowa named Bill and Jo Anne Schuster. I met them many years ago on a tour, because the pastor at the church put us up at their house. He told me they had a great story. I got to the house and liked them immediately. Bill was a tall, lanky guy with a white mustache, a bald head, and an easy laugh; his wife Joanne was thin and quick and boisterous for her age. They’re the kind of people who see you, who ask you good questions and genuinely want to know the answers. I liked them immediately. “So what’s your story?” I asked at dinner. They told us that their marriage wasn’t the first for either of them—that they had each lost a spouse. Bill lost his first wife to a car accident and Joanne lost her first husband to cancer. Here’s the crazy thing. Bill and his wife were best friends with Jo Anne and her husband. The couples vacationed together, went to church together, and their kids all grew up together. When the spouses died around the same time, Bill and Jo Anne leaned on each other for support, and after a few years, they fell in love and got married. That meant their two sets of kids suddenly became step-siblings, and they all loved it. Crazy, right? The next day I saw a painting on the wall and at the bottom was the inscription, “To the Schusters.” I asked Jo Anne who gave them the painting, and she grinned and said, “My husband and I gave it to Bill and his wife twenty years ago. I never realized at the time that I’d be a Schuster someday!” I laughed uncomfortably; she laughed from the belly. Both Bill and Jo Anne were quick to talk about how each of their lives had fallen apart, and how they never would have imagined that things would turn out like they did, nor that they’d be so happy again after all the grief. Now we’ve been friends for fifteen years or so, and I’ve never had a conversation with them when they didn’t remind me and Jamie that life is far from certain. They learned the hard way that it can all change in an instant. In ten years you will almost certainly be in a place that you can’t imagine right now. Bill and Jo Anne remind me to hold loosely to my notion of the future, because you just never, ever know what’s around the bend. In these uncertain times it’s a tough time to be a graduate in these uncertain times. I’m truly sorry that college (or whatever you’re doing) in the fall likely isn’t going to be what you thought it would be. So many of us are waiting for someone else to make decisions so we can make our own. That’s the bad news. The good news is, it’ll make a great story someday. You’ll be able to tell your kids about how crazy the world felt in 2020, and how sick you were of hearing the phrase, “In these uncertain times.” So I want to offer up two things to remember in these uncertain times. 1. Time is a painting. Hold on to your seats, because I’m going to get philosophically theological on you. Have you thought much about Time? I mean Time with a capital T. What is Time? Have you thought about how weird it is that things happen? That anything happens at all? Have you ever considered how weird it is that in the vast universe, from the Milky Way, to black holes, to the rings of Saturn, that there is such a thing as IHOP? Isn’t it weird that IHOP is an actual place? Pancakes exist, in time and space. But God, for whom a day is a thousand years and a thousand years a day, exists beyond time and space, eternally present to himself and to everything he made. He wanted children, so he made the world. He wanted us to know his love, so he painted a picture of how great his love is and called it TIME and hung it on a wall called SPACE. We can only know something by experiencing it. I could tell you all day long about pancakes, about what they’re made of and how they taste, but until you sit down and move through time and space by pouring the syrup on the steaming pile of goodness, then gobbling up the glory of it all, then sitting back from the table with a sticky chin, and finally nodding off to sleep in the IHOP booth, you don’t really know pancakes. We’re not computers. We can’t download pancakes; we have to eat them. So when God decided to have children (that means us), and wanted to demonstrate his love, he did so by inventing TIME and SPACE, a vast painting that he, who sees the beginnings and the ends of things, can see all of. To him the past, the present, and the future are of a piece. To him, the painting is already complete. But you and I are in it, a part of it, moving across it without being able to see where we’re going or what the point of it all really is. The Biblical prophets are like docents in an art museum, helping us, by the Holy Spirit, to understand the painting a little better by either telling us what’s coming or enlightening us about what is or has been. The great mystery of the Incarnation is that God stepped into TIME and SPACE and became man. Now that you’re thoroughly confused, I’ll get to the point. We can’t see all of the painting. But scripture tells us that it is glorious. At the resurrection, when we’re able to stand back and see what God was always doing, we’ll fall to our knees in worship. COVID-19, war, racism, tragedy—all of it—is somehow a shadow on the canvas that will make the light more lovely. I don’t mean to be trite. Sometimes I hate that it works that way. But we have all seen, when looking back, the way suffering shapes us and makes room for joy. These times may be uncertain, but TIME itself is not. It is a finished masterpiece, and in Christ we’ll live to see it the way he does. Time is a painting. 2. Speaking of masterpieces, I’m a big Lord of the Rings nerd. I heard a scholar talking about one of the major themes of the story, which is the triumph of hope over despair. Despair, he said, isn’t just a sin, theologically speaking, it’s also a mistake. It’s a mistake because despair assumes that you know the end of your story. As I said, as creatures of Time, we can’t see the future. No matter how bad things seem, we don’t know for certain that the good guys won’t win—and in fact a good author makes it look like they won’t until the very end. That means that there’s always, always, always reason to hope. Eucatastrophe is a marvelous concept. It means “good catastrophe.” If a catastrophe is what happens when everything’s great and then it tears apart (think COVID, or the death of George Floyd), then eucatastrophe is when everything’s terrible and suddenly, out of nowhere, light and beauty heals what was broken. Tolkien called it “the sudden, unexpected, joyous turn:” “In such stories when the sudden ‘turn’ comes we get a piercing glimpse of joy, and heart’s desire, that for a moment passes outside the frame, rends indeed the very web of story, and lets a gleam come through.” We get a glimpse of the painting from God’s perspective. (Think about the end of Avengers: Infinity War, when everybody who you thought was dead shows up to fight Thanos. That’s eucatastrophe.) Tolkien argued that God is telling a eucatastrophe story with all of creation. That’s the finished painting. He said that Jesus’s birth was the eucatastrophe of creation’s story, and the resurrection is the eucatastrophe of Jesus’s story. The author is Good, and has written a glorious ending to our story. That’s why we can’t allow ourselves to despair. It is precisely when all hope seems lost that hope is most important. Denethor threw himself from the tower at Minas Tirith. All he saw was orcs and evil. “Choose how you will die,” he said, more or less. “All hope is lost.” He couldn’t imagine a good ending, and to be honest, when we’re reading the book, neither can we. But it’s coming. The Shire will be scoured clean. The author of the story knows more than we do. There’s always, always, always reason to hope. So, to summarize: These times are no less certain, from our limited perspective, than any other time. Time is a painting. All of creation is a masterpiece that God, who is greater than time and space, has already painted. We are creatures of time and space, so we can’t see the whole thing yet. But in Christ, we will. Read Revelation 21 for a glimpse of the glory. Because we can’t see the end of the story, or the whole painting, we always have reason to hope for a sudden, unexpected, joyous turn—a brushstroke of light, a flourish of redemption. We can trust the author, the artist, the King of Creation. Pull the weeds of injustice and evil. Plant so much beauty that it chokes out the poison. Andrew Peterson So if that’s true, what do we do? There’s a big temptation to just hunker down and wait it out, to let things get back to normal so we can get on with our lives. First of all, I think this pandemic is a wonderful excuse to not just get back to normal, but to make some good changes. There are some things about my life (and the life of the world) before all this happened that I hope never come back around—like constant busyness, or taking for granted the joy of gathering with the saints at church on a Sunday, or America’s long indifference to our oppressed brothers and sisters. My prayer is that things would be better than normal on the other side. The other problem with hunkering down and waiting it out is that we have no idea how long we’re waiting. The Old Testament book of Jeremiah tells of the Israelites’ exile in Babylon. Imagine their lives before: vineyards, schools, synagogues, friends, cities and towns where they lived and loved. Then one day the Babylonians took over and shipped them all off. It sounds horrifying. They believed God would deliver them, but how long would it take for them to return to Jerusalem? Here’s what God told them through Jeremiah: Thus says the Lord of hosts, the God of Israel, to all the exiles whom I have sent into exile from Jerusalem to Babylon: Build houses and live in them; plant gardens and eat their produce. Take wives and have sons and daughters; take wives for your sons, and give your daughters in marriage, that they may bear sons and daughters; multiply there, and do not decrease. But seek the welfare of the city where I have sent you into exile, and pray to the Lord on its behalf, for in its welfare you will find your welfare. —Jeremiah 29:4-7 Uncertainty is no reason to stop adding to the beauty of the world. We don’t know what’s coming. Write songs anyway. Make pies. Plant gardens. Why? First of all, you might be in Babylon for longer than you think. Second of all, gardens are beautiful. And beauty is one of the best ways to fight the darkness. I love Skye’s song “Sandcastles,” because it’s a reminder to get busy, to “color the world in your own little way,” because the love that lives in beauty lasts forever. It is unshakeable. So step out into the post-Coronavirus world and plant whatever garden God has called you to plant. Pull the weeds of injustice and evil. Plant so much beauty that it chokes out the poison. My friend Doug McKelvey wrote Every Moment Holy, a wonderful book of liturgies. In his liturgy for the planting of flowers he wrote: In a world shadowed by cruelty, violence, and loss, is there good reason for the planting of flowers?Ah, yes! For these bursts of color and beautiful blooms are bright dabs of grace, witnesses to a promise, reminders of a spreading beauty more eternal, and therefore stronger, than any evil, than any grief, than any injustice or violence.What is the source of their beauty? From whence does it spring?The forms of these flowers are the intentional designs of a Creator who has not abandoned his broken and rebellious creation, but has instead wholly given himself to the work of redeeming it. He has scattered the evidences of creation’s former glories across the entire scape of heaven and earth, and these evidences are also foretastes of the coming redemption of all things, that those who live in this hard time between glories might see and remember, might see and take heart, might see and take delight in the extravagant beauty of bud and bloom, knowing that these living witnesses are rumors and reminders of a joy that will soon swallow all sorrow.In the planting of these flowers, do we join the Creator in his work of heralding this impending joy?Yes. In this and in all labors of beauty and harmony, praise and conciliation, we become God’s co-workers and faithful citizens of his kingdom, by acts both small and great, bearing witness to the perfect beauty that was, to the ragged splendor that yet is, and to the hope of the greater glory that is to come, which is the immeasurable glory of God revealed to us, in the redeemed natures of all things.What then is the eternal weight of these flowers?Though our eyes yet strain to see it so, these tiny seeds, bulbs, or velvet buds we have planted are more substantial than all the collected evils of this groaning world. Their color and beauty speak a truer word than all greed and cruelty and suffering and harm.What is the truer word spoken by these flowers?They are like a banner planted on a hilltop, proclaiming God’s right ownership of these lands long unjustly claimed by tyrants and usurpers. They are a warrant and a witness, each blossom shouting from the earth that death is a lie, that beauty and immortality are what we were made for. They are heralds of a restoration that will forever mend all sorrow and comfort all grief. They declare a kingdom of peace, of righteousness, of joy, of love, and of the great joining of justice and mercy into a splendored perfection in the person of a king whose wonders eternally upwell, beautiful beyond the grasp of human imagination. —Doug McKelvey, “A Liturgy for the Planting of Flowers” Graduates, the only certainty in these uncertain times is the resurrected Christ, our great High King, who works all things together for the good of those who love him. May your lives, like these flowers, bear witness to the great work of God to be unveiled, in a sudden joyous turn, when Time itself reveals what it hides from us now. Now may the God of peace, who through the blood of the eternal covenant brought back from the dead our Lord Jesus, that great Shepherd of the sheep, equip you with everything good for doing his will, and may he work in us what is pleasing to him, through Jesus Christ, to whom be glory for ever and ever. Amen. Featured image is anonymous street art captured by Toni Reed via photograph.

In this episode, we’re joined by legendary musicians Buddy Greene and Odessa Settles. As they tell their stories, they explore the ways in which we grow in our understanding of the world, of each other, and of God when music allows us to see the world through someone else’s eyes. After all, none of us can see the whole picture alone, and the arts are a vital way in which we discover a fuller view of everything around us. Click here to listen to this episode of the Hutchmoot Podcast.

In this second-to-last episode of Season 2, Andrew Osenga joins the podcast to interview Drew Miller and Evan Redwine about Drew’s song “Death of a Dream.” They speculate on what precisely the dreams are that died and how this song and its accompanying Desolation and Consolation EPs came about. Then they geek out about how Evan played Pro Tools plug-ins like instruments to achieve that spooky, decaying sort of sound that defines “Death of a Dream.” Click here to listen to Season 2, Episode 11 of The Second Muse. Transcripts are now available for The Second Muse! You can find them by clicking here. They are typically one or two episodes behind. Special thanks to our Rabbit Room members for making these podcasts possible! If you’re interested in becoming a member, visit RabbitRoom.com/Donate.

If you’re like me right about now, you’re looking for just about anything to give you a glimpse of joy and beauty in a world that feels like it’s burning to the ground. And if you’re a maker of beauty, you might also be struggling with trying to draw anything remotely creative out of yourself during this season. Despite what the productivity gurus might suggest, it’s kind of hard to get things done with the underlying anxiety and fear so many of us are dealing with (much less working and parenting from home 24/7). Maybe the next best thing is watching others delight in the joy of creativity right now. Enter Making It. Making It is the brainchild of longtime pals, co-stars, and everyone’s favorite Ron and Leslie, Nick Offerman and Amy Poehler, who also serve as the co-hosts of the show. Now having just finished its second season, Making It is a competition show that brings together eight different crafters to undergo weekly creativity challenges such as designing your own mailbox, repurposing an office space in your style, or reimagining a favorite childhood toy. While it is a competition show, it doesn’t come across as very competitive—in fact, the crafters are often shown encouraging each other and helping each other out. If anything, each contestant is challenging themselves and each other to do their absolute best. In contrast to many other reality TV and competition shows, there’s not really any drama, real or fabricated, amongst the competitors. If anything, Nick and Amy sometimes humorously elevate non-existent drama to poke fun at the trope. Another great thing about the show is how they highlight projects the creators are doing that could also be done by viewers like you and me. Nick and Amy and the competitors constantly encourage viewers to try their own hand at “making it” as a way to encourage everyone to be creative. In a world of increasing cynicism, Making It is a bright reminder that we can still find and create beauty in small and simple ways. Chris Yokel One last thing I appreciate about the show is that it rewards imagination, not TV looks or appeal. The two winners so far have not necessarily been the most charismatic of the competitors, but they won because of their consistent skill and imagination. During these past few quarantined weeks, I’ve looked forward to sitting down every night with Jen to watch an episode or two, excited to see what the competitors would do with the challenges and where their imagination would take them. We finished Season 2 last night, which makes me a little bit sad, but it has also left me inspired to figure out new ways I can explore my own creativity. In a world of increasing cynicism, Making It is a bright reminder that we can still find and create beauty in small and simple ways. Season 2 of Making It is currently available to stream on Hulu and NBC.com.

“The pneuma blows where it chooses, and you hear the sound of it.” (John 3:8) “When the day of Pentecost had come, they were all together in one place. And suddenly from heaven there came a sound. . . ” (Acts 2:1-2) One of the scribes . . . asked him, “Which commandment is the first of all?” Jesus answered, “The first is, ‘Hear, O Israel . . . ’ ” (Mark 12: 28-29) This past semester I’ve been privileged to be “Scholar in Residence” at the Rabbit Room. My ordinary full-time job is Professor of Theology at Belmont University, but this semester I’ve been on sabbatical, engaged in research and writing. Even “mental work” has to happen in a place however, and so I’m very grateful to the Rabbit Room for providing me with someplace to set up my desk and do my research. For the first several weeks (before social distancing) my residency also meant that I got to spend each day around the wonderful group of funny, creative, and good-hearted people who make up the Rabbit Room staff. It’s been terrific, and encouraging to be part of such a remarkable community! When I return to Belmont in the fall, I’ll have to provide the university with some account of how I’ve spent my sabbatical. (This is the faculty version of the “How I spent my summer vacation” essay you had to write in Middle School.) It’s occurred to me that in the same way, it might be good to offer the Rabbit Room some report of how I’ve used the space they have so generously provided. The big project I’ve been working on during my residency is a book on the “pneumatology of sound”—a phrase (I recognize) that is illuminating to pretty much no one. So to clarify, first of all: in Christian theology, “pneumatology” is the study of the Holy Spirit (“pneumatology” coming from “pneuma”—the Greek word for Spirit). And what does the Holy Spirit have to do with sound particularly? Good question. Each of my children went through a phase when they were fascinated by names. At some point each discovered that names—which at first just seem like brute facts of the world—must be given, and so, could have been other. “Noah” could have been called “Joseph” or “Doug.” “Lucy” could have been called “Ella.” That’s mind-bending enough for a four year-old. But it suggests something more besides. If the same person could have had some other name, then the name she has must have been chosen for a reason. And in fact that is the case. We name our children (or our pets, or maybe even a car, a house, or a guitar) in order to affirm something, or remember someone, or to offer a vision for the life ahead of the one being named. Sometimes names have stories attached to them, and these can tell us about the name’s bearer. (“Your middle name is Steven,” I would tell my son Joel, “because that’s my name. My middle name is ‘Richard,’ because that’s my father’s name. And my father’s middle name is ‘Earl,’ because that was his father’s name.”) Sometimes names also have “meanings” rooted in an etymology or a more personal association. (“‘Joel’ means ‘The LORD is God,’ and your mother wanted to name you that, because . . .”). So my kids asked their questions, sensing that knowing more about someone’s name might also help them know more about the one named. That intuition seems entirely right to me, and it brings me back to the “pneuma” in “Pneumatology.” In a very famous biblical passage, Jesus explains the activity of the Holy Spirit by reflecting on the name “Spirit” (pneuma). The Jewish leader Nicodemus has come to visit Jesus by night, and has just asked how someone can be born a second time. Jesus answered, “Very truly, I tell you, no one can enter the kingdom of God without being born of water and spirit (pneuma). What is born of the flesh is flesh, and what is born of the spirit (pneuma) is spirit (pneuma). Do not be astonished that I said to you, ‘You must be born from above.’ The wind (pneuma) blows where it chooses, and you hear the sound of it, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes. So it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit (pneuma). —John 3:5-8, NRSV, altered I’ve highlighted the places where some form of the Greek word pneuma appears, because the exchange depends on the various meanings of that word. As the footnotes in most study Bibles will tell you, Pneuma can be translated not only “Spirit” but as “breath” or “wind.” (Interestingly the same is true of the Hebrew word ruach and indeed, the Latin spiritus.) But Jesus isn’t just engaging in casual wordplay here. “Pneuma/Spirit” and “pneuma/Wind” are not just homonyms—like a “plane” that flies through the sky and a “plane” a carpenter draws over a piece of wood. Rather, Jesus tells Nicodemus that the activity of the pneuma is pneuma–like. There is a wind-like, breath-like character to the Spirit’s activity. As we’ve already said, names are chosen for a reason, and sometimes they tell us something important about the bearer of that name. Spirit—ruach in the Old Testament, pneuma in the New—is the name scripture has given us for the third person of the Trinity. And I think that this name is meant to tell us something about who and how the Spirit is. That’s what’s going on in Jesus’ conversation with Nicodemus. So, in just what way is the Holy Spirit “breath-like” or “wind-like”? Consider the words of the Nicene Creed: We believe in the Holy Spirit, the Lord the Giver of Life Who proceeds from the Father and the Son, who together with the Father and the Son is worshipped and glorified. He has spoken through the prophets. —The Nicene Creed Two of the activities mentioned here are very clearly connected with the “breath-like” character of the Spirit’s work. First of all, as the Breath of God the Spirit is the “Giver of Life.” We see this in Genesis 2, where the dust of the earth becomes a living being through the breath of God. The same connection between Spirit, breath, and life appears throughout scripture. (One example is Job 34:11: “If it were his intention and he withdrew his spirit and breath, all humanity would perish together and return to the dust.”) In addition to this life-giving work, the creed indicates that the Spirit speaks (“He has spoken through the prophets”). This is another action that clearly points to the Spirit’s breath-like character. Throughout the scriptures we see the Spirit bringing life; and in the same sort of way, throughout the scriptures, when the Spirit shows up, there is speech. Indeed, when we talk about the prophetic messages, or the giving of scripture in general, we describe this in terms of “in-spira-tion.” The prophets are breathed into. (2 Peter 1:21 says, “Prophecy never had its origin in the human will, but prophets, though human, spoke from God as they were carried along by the Holy Spirit.”) That I live by the Breath of God means that God not only wants me to exist; God wants me to say something. Steve Guthrie If this is true of the prophets, it’s true of Jesus’ words as well. At the beginning of his public ministry, Jesus announces (reading from Isaiah): “The Spirit of the Lord is on me because he has anointed me to proclaim good news to the poor. . . to proclaim freedom for the prisoners. . .to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.” (Luke 4:18-19). The Breath of the Spirit carries Jesus’ voice out in proclamation. Significantly, it is not until after he is anointed with the Spirit in the Jordan River that Jesus begins his ministry of preaching. Jesus promises his disciples that the same Spirit will likewise enable them to speak. At his ascension, he tells his followers to wait for the gift of the Holy Spirit, because (he explains) it is “when the Holy Spirit comes on you” that “you will be my witnesses in Jerusalem, and in all Judea and Samaria, and to the ends of the earth.” (Acts 1:8) Bearing witness to the gospel in this way will mean that his followers will be dragged before rulers and authorities, but Jesus reassures them: “Do not worry about how you are to speak or what you are to say; for what you are to say will be given to you at that time; for it is not you who speak, but the Spirit of your Father speaking through you.” (Matthew 10:19-20, cf. Luke 12:11-12) This is a promise we see fulfilled throughout the book of Acts: “Then Peter, filled with the Holy Spirit, said to them . . . ” (Acts 4:8) In the same way, we’re told that members of the synagogue “could not stand up against the wisdom the Spirit gave [Stephen] as he spoke,” (Acts 6:10). In each instance, the Breath of God enables speech. The place where this connection is probably clearest is at Pentecost (Acts 2). The Spirit is poured out on the apostles and immediately there is speech; and not just speech, but profligate prodigies of speech, welling up and bursting the banks of communication, spilling out in a profusion of tongues. Drawing all of this together, we can say that as the Breath of God, the Spirit is not only the “Life-Giver,” but is also the “Word-Bringer.” The supreme instance of this of course is when the Spirit brings not only words from God, but the One who is the Word of God: Now the birth of Jesus the Messiah took place in this way. When his mother Mary had been engaged to Joseph, but before they lived together, she was found to be with child from the Holy Spirit. Her husband Joseph, being a righteous man and unwilling to expose her to public disgrace, planned to dismiss her quietly. But just when he had resolved to do this, an angel of the Lord appeared to him in a dream and said, “Joseph, son of David, do not be afraid to take Mary as your wife, for the child conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit.” —Matthew 1:18-20 (see also Luke 1:35) All of this goes some way to explaining why we might undertake a “pneumatology of words” or a “pneumatology of speech.” The Spirit is the Word-Bearer; the Breath of Inspiration; the One who speaks through the prophets. But why a “pneumatology of sound”? That’s a good question as well, and one I’ll take up in another post. For now though, it’s worth pointing out how these twin activities of the Spirit—life and speech—point to the generosity of God and the generativity of his goodness. For one of the most basic and obvious facts about respiration (re-spiration) is that breathing in is followed by breathing out. God, in other words, not only desires to send his Breath out into the world, he likewise desires that we should send our breath out into the world as well. (Or perhaps better: God desires that we should breathe His breath back into the world, mingled with our own.) The biomechanics of respiration mean that God wants us to be not only receivers of life, but givers; not only the objects acted upon by God, but agents acting upon the world as well; not only those who are breathed upon, but those who breathe upon others. But we can say more than this. The very means by which God gives us life also gives us a voice. The breath God puts into us flows out from us again, and as it does, it brings sound with it; not just the sound of God’s breath, but the sound of God’s breath in my lungs, passing through my vocal cords, resonating in my physical person. That I live by the Breath of God means that God not only wants me to exist; God wants me to say something. The Word that speaks all things into being in the beginning wills that there should be other, created words resonating in creation along with it. And he gives life to us in just such a way that this comes about as a matter of course. So, a pneumatology of sound begins here. The life of the world flows from the Breath of God, and the sounding of the world does as well. Every breath that passes my lips testifies to my intimate dependence upon God. Every sound that reaches my ears testifies to the generosity and humility of a God who not only speaks, but wants to hear his creatures speaking. [Editor’s note: click here to read Part 2: The Breath Between Us.]

In our age of fresh harrowing, of renewed raid, and lamented loss, Beowulf may yet come to our aid. The power and elegiac majesty of this most renowned of Old English poems has ensured its continued cultural significance, though the mead halls are long derelict, the days of hoard and heraldry long past. As a piece of literature, Beowulf provides a stark reminder of the ominous possibilities of a sin-wracked world, the need that remains for the heroic and altruistic, and the virtue of courage in the face of seemingly unassailable evil. This ancient poem offers many points of contact with the vexations of the second decade of the twenty-first century. In its narrative arc, rough-hewn poetic language, and insistence on supernatural realism, I am convinced we may find a vantage point from which to view our present horrors and find future hope. The Happiness of the Hall & the Harrowing of the Earth In what ways might this poem yet help and bless us? Early among our answers must be that the sheer realism of Beowulf’s joy and terror gives us room to explore the “wound-slurry” that evil visits on society while also rejoicing in the warmth and welcome of the hall in our periods of respite. The skill of the Beowulf poet is most finely displayed in the poem’s juxtaposition of the fields of the hearth and the lair. Seamus Heaney’s translation has liberated the text to sing the solace and kindness of fellowship alongside the irreducible and intractable nature of evil. The peaceful moments of the poem remind us that while our shore might be brine-bashed, while our nemesis might ride on the wings of nightfall, there is shelter and fellowship at the meal board and joy in the company of our comrades. Beowulf neither sugars the goodness of gathering with others nor mitigates the resolve and resource of evil, but portrays these polar experiences in all their resplendence and malevolence. Beowulf may yet come to our aid in these days when our halls are plundered, when lives are lost, when hope splutters close to the wick, and when rest is only a brief respite from battle. Andrew Roycroft This benefits us in our age, as our twin temptations of denial and depression are punctured by the inhabitants of the hall. Beowulf’s characters can rejoice in merriment and mead, yet stand stone-faced against the force of evil, gripping the sinews of Grendel (one of the poem’s chief antagonists, “devourer of humankind”) with the same hands that have embraced one another in rejoicing. This, the poem insists, will always be our paradox. Grendel is followed by his grief-stricken mother, who is followed in turn by a dragon which will fell the hero of the poem. Such times are terrible, but the haven of home and hall provide respite even when evil is seldom far from the door. Our modern Grendel, the creeping thief of health and wealth we have come to know as COVID-19, is perhaps making us more aware than ever of the need to link arms and share swords when the enemy comes, longing for the day when we touch tankards and rejoice in the rubied light of being together once more. Beowulf only ever provides respite from evil, never full resolution, and this is the space in which we congregate our joys and recalibrate our weapons for the next skirmish. This is a much healthier space than waiting for a “happily ever after” stalked by the undeniable shadow of our next nemesis. The Call for Courage Behind the fantastic tales of beasts and conflict, a real political heart beats in Beowulf. Faced with existential threat, the society of the poem is still riven by political vice and exploitation. The horrors of Grendel and the dragon are foes whom the hero faces head on and grapples with at close quarters, but the other ills of the epic remain unresolved. In Beowulf’s actions we see the glory of conscience and nerve pitted against prevailing evil, but we also witness the capitulation of a culture to future political defeat. The cowardice of Beowulf’s comrades guarantees the downfall of the Geats at the hands of old enemies; the dragon may lie lifeless by the hero’s side, but hard times are yet to come. The battle at hand is not always capable of addressing the prowling malevolence of political movers. This is of help to us in our age as well. Today’s existential threats call up our courage, enlist us to bear arms, to grit teeth, and to summon valour in the face of vicious opposition, but we must not allow it to bewitch us into thinking that lasting change will follow by necessity. When the dragon is slain, there will still be manipulation on the part of politicians, petty wars, and narcissism. The fresh battles with prevailing enemies will soon give way to the old perennial battles of personality and self-aggrandizement on the part of those who wield power. Our calling is not to be surprised when this is so, nor to give in when it happens, but to embody the justice that Beowulf does in the face of such things. Part of the hero’s character is that he walks well in peacetime in the same way as he wages war in battle; the fierceness of his grip is matched by the evenness of his hand when the ordinary resumes. Our calling will be the same as that of Beowulf. It takes courage to rip Grendel apart, and it takes bravery and honour to stand straight in a crooked world, to speak truth to power, and to take our place for justice when Machiavellianism is the main modus operandi of those who should serve our society. Beowulf may yet come to our aid in these days when our halls are plundered, when lives are lost, when hope splutters close to the wick, and when rest is only a brief respite from battle. It will also serve us well in the anomalies and angst of a world almost devoid of public heroes, and where poisonous politics can be more monstrous than the most fiery dragon. Featured image is an illustration by John Howe called “Beowulf and the Dragon.”

How can you give away what you’ve lost? That was the dilemma facing singer-songwriter John Mark McMillan for most of the last decade. As an artist known for his lyrical substance and spiritual perspectives, McMillan’s listeners are often clamoring for more than his infectious melodies on albums like his latest, Peopled in Dreams. They’re hungry for meaning. Unfortunately, McMillan himself has been wrestling with his own beliefs, a 10-year descent into confusion and doubt. All the while, he was tasked with crafting albums for fans wanting answers when all he knew were questions. These days, McMillan has found a newly centered self, one enamored with the idea of re-enchantment. He’s faced plenty of Resistance on the journey to this point, and it’s all part of our latest conversation. We hope you enjoy our latest episode with John Mark McMillan. Click here to listen to this newest episode of The Resistance. And here to learn more about The Resistance Podcast.

The Habit Podcast is a series of conversations with writers about writing, hosted by Jonathan Rogers. This week, Jonathan Rogers talks with Amy Alznauer, author of The Boy Who Dreamed of Infinity and The Strange Birds of Flannery O’Connor, professor of calculus and number theory at Northwestern University, and writer in residence at St. Gregory the Great, a Catholic church in Chicago. The Strange Birds of Flannery O’Connor just released yesterday, June 16th. In this episode, Jonathan and Amy discuss Flannery O’Connor’s early-onset fascination and self-identification with birds and the way they taught her how people react to strangeness, how Amy’s father taught her to love mathematics, and the ways in which both math and writing invite the discovery of a happiness that was there before you found it. Click here to listen to Season 2, Episode 25 of The Habit Podcast. Transcripts are now available for The Habit Podcast. Click here to access them. Special thanks to our Rabbit Room members for making these podcasts possible! If you’re interested in becoming a member, visit RabbitRoom.com/Donate.

[Editor’s note: click here to read Part 1: The Sound Breath Makes.] I have spent the past few months thinking about what it means to say the Holy Spirit is the Breath of God. (For more about this, you may want to have a look at the first post in this series.) I’ve been writing about this theme in connection with the arts, not current events. But the Spirit (as Jesus says) blows where it pleases, and it’s seemed almost impossible to think about breath without also thinking about the conversations going on all around me. On May 25th 2020, as I was just beginning to work on this particular essay, an African American man named George Floyd was killed by a white police officer, who knelt on Floyd’s neck for eight minutes and forty-six seconds. The nation has been transfixed and horrified by the video of Floyd’s death—haunted both by his increasingly desperate pleas and the obvious indifference of the police officer to those pleas. In the weeks that have followed, Floyd’s final words—“I can’t breathe”—were taken up by millions of protesters around the world. This response to George Floyd’s murder is poignant testimony to the relationship between breath, life, and voice. Take away someone’s breath, and you take not only his life, but his voice. And indeed, in the protests that spread across cities everywhere, activists demanded much more than that African Americans should be allowed to live. Signs and posters announced: “WE WILL NOT BE SILENCED;” “OUR VOICES WILL BE HEARD.” The loss of one’s voice (these protesters seem to say) leads to the loss of life, just as surely as the loss of life means the loss of one’s voice. Life and voice are bound up with one another. When violence accompanied some of the recent demonstrations, many were reminded of Martin Luther King Jr.s’ words: “A riot is the language of the unheard.”1 The title of the address from which this phrase is taken is “The Other America.” There are “literally two Americas,” King says, one of which “has failed to hear” the other. And what is it that America has failed to hear? It has failed to hear that the plight of the Negro poor has worsened over the last few years. It has failed to hear that the promises of freedom and justice have not been met. And it has failed to hear that large segments of white society are more concerned about tranquility and the status quo than about justice, equality, and humanity. —Martin Luther King, Jr., “The Other America” But of course (we might say), clearly, in this context “voice” and “hearing” are being used metaphorically. And that’s true. “Voice” and “hearing” mean more than generating and receiving sound; but neither do they mean any less than that. Life, and living together, means being present to one another’s sounding. The boundaries of a community are fixed, at least in part, by the reach of our voices, and when we are separated from one another’s sounding—indeed, when (as in the instance of George Floyd) we prevent the breath-life of another from reaching us—there is no possibility of shared life. Breath, life, and sound are bound up with one another. The protesters responding to George Floyd’s death want more than merely to be allowed to breathe; they want to be heard. And the rioters King mentions want more than to be heard; they want to be able to enter into “the fullness of life.” The murder of George Floyd has occurred in the midst of another worldwide crisis: the COVID-19 pandemic. There is a lot the medical community still doesn’t know about COVID-19. One thing that we do know however is that both the spread and the effects of the disease are deeply connected with breath and breathing. COVID-19 is a respiratory illness. People get infected . . . by breathing in tiny liquid droplets containing virus particles. Those particles gain entry to the lungs, where they start reproducing themselves. If the immune system does not stop it . . . the virus causes so much damage that the lungs can no longer do their job. —“Briefing: Paths of Destruction. How SARS-CoV-2 causes disease and death in covid-19” in The Economist, June 6 edition The suffering caused by the disease, however, extends far beyond those infected by the virus. The current pandemic has meant that in order to protect our own ability to breathe, we must shield and isolate ourselves from the breath of others. In-person meetings have been replaced with video-conferencing, Skype, and Zoom sessions. We are still able to see and hear one another, but we are no longer touched by one another’s breath. And we come away from these meetings slightly disoriented by the strange experience of having been present to one another without being in one another’s presence. Return for a moment to the objection about “sound,” “voice,” and “breath” being metaphors only. We might consider the Zoom call as a kind of thought experiment, in which the metaphor is separated from the object behind and beneath it. The disorientation and dissatisfaction we feel may be some measure of the distance between hearing a voice and hearing a “voice.” Or perhaps it allows us to measure the volume of the empty space that remains when we have separated breath from sound; when mere “content” is distilled from “presence.” Breath, life, and sound are bound up with one another. The meaningful experience of sound is connected with presence and breath. The living of life includes the making of sound. The breath by which we draw life into ourselves is likewise the breath by which we move outside of ourselves, in the form of sound. Breath, life, and sound are bound up with one another. All of which brings us back to the Holy Spirit. The Holy Spirit is the Breath of God (ruach in Hebrew, pneuma in Greek). And this Breath is (in the words of the Nicene Creed) both “the Giver of Life,” and the One “who has spoken through the prophets.” We might say then (with respect to this second work) that the Holy Spirit is “the Word-Bearer”—and that would be true. But the Holy Spirit is not only the author of words, but the generator of sound. I may or may not agree with someone else’s analysis of a situation or the particular remedy they propose. What I cannot disagree with are their groans. These are too deep for words. Steve Guthrie Why emphasize that point particularly? The title “Sound Bringer” is awkward. (“Sound Maker” is even worse.) It’s not nearly so elegant as “Word Bearer.” But one reason it’s worth thinking about the Spirit as “Sound Bringer” is how readily many of us in the 21st century associate “speech” and “word” with text—with something static and silent. “Typographic folk,” says Walter Ong, “forget to think of words as primarily oral, as events.”2 But for most of the church’s history, the speech inspired by the Spirit (even inspired writing) was encountered first of all as a sounding word—an embodied word; a word that would speak of presence. Scripture gives us the image of “Breath/Wind” for God’s Spirit. And if we reflect carefully on that image given to us by scripture, it becomes clear that “Word Bringer” doesn’t mean “Text Sender;” still less “Idea/Concept Bringer.” If the Holy Spirit is the Breath of God then the word the Spirit brings is a sounding word. This emphasis on sound opens up a few insights. First, the Holy Spirit gives life, not only to humanity but to all that lives. There are not multiple sources of life, nor is it that human beings receive their life from God’s Spirit while the non-human creation receives life elsewhere. All creatures look to you to give them their food at the proper time. When you give it to them, they gather it up; when you open your hand, they are satisfied with good things. When you hide your face, they are terrified; when you take away their breath (Hebrew: ruach), they die and return to the dust. When you send your Spirit (Hebrew: ruach), they are created, and you renew the face of the ground. —Psalm 104:27-30 So all things receive their life from the Spirit. But because the Spirit is the Breath of God, in giving life, the Spirit also gives voice. The Spirit causes the created world to sound. As the Breath-Wind of the sounding Spirit moves in creation, it speaks through the prophets, but it also elicits sounding testimony from the trees, rocks, and waters. The Bible describes a creation that sings, mourns, shouts, groans, and declares. The Reformer John Calvin says that the “Book of Nature” is a text of exceptional clarity and eloquence: “on each of [God’s] works his glory is engraven with characters so bright, so distinct, and so illustrious, that none however dull and illiterate, can plead ignorance as their excuse.”3 Indeed (he continues) nature is not only a text; it has a voice. So “the Psalmist attributes language to celestial objects, a language which all nations understand.” What this means is that human beings—we speakers of words, makers of sounds, possessors of voice—we are situated in a world that has its own voice, that makes its own sounds, that speaks its own word. God, by his Holy Spirit, has given us both life and a voice, but not us only. We are not the creators of reality. The world is not whatever we make of it. When we speak, whether as artists or in the business of everyday life, we do so in dialogue with a reality that is already sounding; a reality to which we should attend carefully. So, Job says: Ask the animals, and they will teach you, or the birds in the sky, and they will tell you; or speak to the earth, and it will teach you, or let the fish in the sea inform you. Which of all these does not know that the hand of the Lord has done this? In his hand is the life of every creature and the breath [ruach] of all mankind. —Job 12:7-10 Augustine will echo this passage in a moving Easter sermon he preached sometime around 411: Question the beauty of the earth, question the beauty of the sea, question the beauty of the air, amply spread around everywhere, question the beauty of the sky, question the serried ranks of the stars, question the sun making the day glorious with its bright beams, question the moon tempering the darkness of the following night with its shining rays, question the animals that move in the waters, that amble about on dry land, that fly in the air . . . question all these things. They all answer you, “Here we are, look; we’re beautiful.” Their beauty is their confession. Who made these beautiful changeable things, if not one who is beautiful and unchangeable? —St. Augustine, Sermons, 241, Easter: c.411 A.D. The sounding Spirit has given a voice to both the human and the non-human creation. That’s one thing we learn. The sounding Spirit also enables us to sound in ways other than words. That’s the second thing we can learn. Romans 8:22-26 is an eloquent testimony to the limits of eloquence; or perhaps better: it puts into words the limits of what can be put into words. The creation, Paul says, groans (v. 22) as it strains longingly toward its liberation. We who have the firstfruits of the Spirit likewise groan (v. 23), eagerly anticipating the completion of our redemption. And the Spirit as well “in the same way” (v. 26) prays for us “through wordless groans.” This passage tells us that ordinary words do not encompass the full range of meaningful sound, nor do they encompass the full range of the Spirit’s sounding activity. The Spirit prays with a sounding (“groaning”) that is meaningful. By this sounding the Spirit prays for and helps us. And yet this sounding falls outside or extends beyond the boundaries of ordinary words. These groanings are “unutterable” (alaletois)—“wordless” (NIV)—but that “wordless-ness” isn’t a deficiency or short-coming. Rather these are “sighs too deep for words” (NRSV). This passage tells us what we already know: that we learn, that we come to know others and make ourselves known to others through sounds that are not words; through sighs, groans, laughter, and song. It tells us what we already know: that part of the meaning of a word is the sound of it. (And so we say: “It’s not what he said; it’s how he said it.”) This feature of our engagement with one another and with the world arises from our breath. And we have breath by the Holy Spirit, who is the Breath of God. All of this has huge implications for the artist particularly, but rather than focusing on that, I’d like to return again to where we started: to a man who couldn’t breathe, and a community that feels unheard. To a world of people sharing words without sharing breath. First, all of this reminds us that the Holy Spirit does not only speak, but groans. The Spirit groans on behalf of the groaning creation, and the groaning people of God. If we are people filled with the Spirit of God, then we will likewise be attentive not only to others’ words, but to their groaning. I may or may not agree with someone else’s analysis of a situation or the particular remedy they propose. What I cannot disagree with are their groans. These are too deep for words. If I am filled with the Spirit, then like the Spirit, beyond the words, beyond the debates, I groan with those who groan. One of the great dangers of our particular historical moment. . . is that we are now able to share our words, without sharing our breath; we can present things to one another, without being present to one another. Steve Guthrie Second, because the Holy Spirit is the Spirit of Life, we who are filled with the Spirit of God are also called to be People of Life—committed to life and its flourishing everywhere. If the Holy Spirit likewise gives humanity a voice, then we who are filled with the Spirit should be equally committed to allowing every voice to be heard. This is the will of God who gives breath to all creation. It doesn’t mean that everyone will use their voice well, any more than it means everyone will use their life well. But when voices are silenced, something given by the Spirit is taken away, just as surely as when a life is extinguished. In scripture, the Holy Spirit does not speak directly very often. Rather, the Spirit “speaks through” the prophets (2 Peter 1:21)—in the same way that the wind doesn’t sound on its own, but causes the sounding of the trees through which it blows. God does not often speak audibly from the heavens, but rather, “the heavens declare the glory of God.” It has pleased God to so make the world, that we should hear the word of God through one another’s voices. When we silence one another, we risk closing our ears to the voice of God. Finally, it reminds us that (biblically), the word is only shared by the breath. The prophetic word of God, the written word of God—these both come by the agency of the Holy Spirit. In the same way Jesus Christ, the eternal Word of God, “came down from heaven and was incarnate by the Holy Spirit.” Apart from the breath, the Word remains dis-incarnate. Does that matter? Couldn’t God have just sent us the text of the Sermon on the Mount, and saved himself all the trouble of incarnation? No—because it is only by the breath of God in our midst that the Word becomes God with us. One of the great dangers of our particular historical moment, and one reason—I’m convinced—for the isolation and polarization that so marks our culture, is that we are now able to share our words, without sharing our breath; we can present things to one another, without being present to one another. Of course, there is a place for texts, blogs, articles (like this one!), and so on. Paul wrote letters to the New Testament church. But God has made humanity so that by our speaking we likewise share one another’s breath, and so one another’s life. “Breath” and “life” in this context (it seems to me) are more than metaphor; more than some extraneous form which can be disposed of, provided that the content gets across. This in fact is how God has related to us—sharing with us not just some information, but God’s own Word, carried by God’s own Breath, which is therefore, God’s own presence. At this particular moment in the life of our world, it seems vital that we be people of the Spirit in just this way. Featured image: “Breath of God” by Deb Brown Maher [Editor’s note: click here to read Part 3: God in Motion.]

We moved house in 2019, just at the springing of spring. There was untold renovation work to be done, but we managed to get a small garden into the ground. There were enough tomatoes and cucumbers to put back, although to my shame, I over-salted my bread-and-butter pickles to the point of inedibility. This year, though, was to be the year. My in-laws gifted us their old tiller, and my wife and I laid out ideas for the plot: six hundred square feet, well situated in the best sun, while leaving the kids plenty of yard to play in. We would array appropriate companion plants and multifarious heirloom varietals. We would work in herbs and well-timed cold-hardy vegetables in a potager able to withstand the soggy, chill winter. Yet, it was not to be so. Firstly, I started too early. Hoping to get the jump on things, I seeded kales, snow peas, and shelling peas in a window in little cast-off cans and halves of food cartons. They looked so hopeful, drinking up the light. Then came dogwood winter. We’re in Hardiness Zone 7, but temperatures in April and even in May dipped into the thirties. I had already planted tomatoes outside, and I purchased cheap bedsheets to shield them from frost. The seedlings in the window waited and waited. Having sucked up all the nutrients in their store-bought potting soil, they began to pale and yellow, beginning at the stems and moving outward in a slow tide of papery bleaching. Finally, the weather turned, and I made a novitiate’s foray with the tiller—by the way, never till wet—and put the plants out, mulching or feeding by turns. It all seemed too little too late. Besides, I was avoiding my least favorite activity, the nemesis of all my procrastination: weeding. Smart gardeners will tell you that weeds illustrate what kind of soil you have. Dock likes over-wet ground. Wood sorrel and crabgrass show a lack of calcium and generally poor dirt. Henbit is a litmus test for appropriate nitrogen levels. These little harbingers are all helpful, but still the task remains of pulling them. I have to kneel in the heat, Tennessee sun beating down, and wrench up every little tussock individually. Weeding after rain is easier. The soil is looser; you grab the offending sprout just near the ground—by the scruff, as it were—and work it round in little jiggling motions until it comes free with the roots intact. But they come back. Again, and again. This is me, I thought. A friend of mine put on a recent online conference, a series of conversations about being black in America. It consisted of black voices, assessing issues. For me and my white experience, it was incredibly eyeopening. I began to see my weeds. Weeds invade good ground on a regular basis, and we all have work to do. Adam Whipple I daresay that many of us, prior to the conversations sparked by George Floyd’s death, imagined ourselves as essentially unbiased, as people not given to racism. I know I did, mostly due to fear of the stigmatizing nature of being labeled as racist. However, in the same way that there is no hard and fast divide between good ground and weedy ground, the world isn’t divided into racists and lovers of all mankind. Weeds invade good ground on a regular basis, and we all have work to do. My work begins with me, and lies continuously with me. On occasion, it also lies elsewhere, but weeding one’s own garden is an ongoing process. Racism is a sin, a thought-sin (see The Great Divorce, chapter 5, for Oxford-Inkling theory regarding thought-sins), and like all other sins, it makes continual encroachment upon the redeemed, earth-bound soul. Weeding it out on a regular basis cultivates good ground for the fruitful spirit to flourish. The labor of imagination is necessary here. With gardens, I must look at the plant and imagine how much dirt it needs to eat from. I must consider what I cannot see—minerals and elements hoarded in microscopic troves within each ruddy clod. This is the food of plants, the making of fruit in a twenty-by-thirty foot kingdom of Knoxville soil. Give plants appropriate ground, un-pilfered by pirating weeds, and they will produce fruit to nourish you. By the grace and labor of God and the patience of my community, as I weed out racism from my soul, I am more fit to serve and nourish my neighbors and my city. Truth be told, it’s awful. It isn’t just a patch of dirt you’re clearing, it’s yourself. There is due sorrow, shame, and much fear. Yet, the consequences of disregarding this particular brand of what we call sanctification are dire and fearful in their own right—for our neighbors, for our towns. No one is an island, and failing to pluck the offending invaders from our own heart-soil chokes out the life that we may offer others. I still hate weeding, but I love fresh, homegrown garden pickings. Whatever the case with dogwood winter, soil pH levels, and the like, my desire for fruitful harvests necessitates doing the hard work, enduring the punishment of June and July afternoons in order to bring about something worthwhile. To bring about that which is life-giving, we must undergo personal hardship—a self-sacrifice, as it were. In the Latin, the word is passion. Hopefully, these efforts will pay off, and if you stop by the house this year, we’ll bake some kale into a gratin or whip up some pesto or fry a tomato green, because that’s what neighbors do, and hopefully, with time, we will begin to help each other heal as well.

Jonathan Rogers loved Matt Conner’s interview with Jericho Brown so much that he wants you to hear it, too. Jericho Brown won the 2020 Pulitzer Prize for Poetry for his collection The Tradition and is one of America’s great literary geniuses. Originally aired on The Resistance Podcast, Matt and Jericho discuss the necessarily conflictive posture of the poet as one who speaks truth to a culture he must also inhabit. Jericho’s work has called him to become both insider and outsider, and it’s taken a special kind of resilience to follow that call. Click here to listen to Season 2, Episode 26 of The Habit Podcast. And you can follow The Resistance wherever you listen to podcasts. Transcripts are now available for The Habit Podcast. Click here to access them. Special thanks to our Rabbit Room members for making these podcasts possible! If you’re interested in becoming a member, visit RabbitRoom.com/Donate.

The constant din of voices swirling and opinions flying in today’s physically-distanced, yet socially-shrinking world is overwhelming. Searching for trusted information from diverse points of view is daunting. Like many of you, we at the Rabbit Room are processing current events, both as an organization and personally, and are seeking to listen and act with empathy, peace, and grace in Christ. More than ever, we believe in the power of stories that draw us closer to the hope of Christ and empower us to love our communities more powerfully and passionately. This summer, we’ve curated a list of books—fiction and non-fiction, written for children and adults—that achieve that goal, offering glimpses of reconciliation and challenging us to do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with our God. Arranged from young readers to adult fiction and non-fiction, here is the Rabbit Room Summer Reading List! And don’t forget to enroll in our Rabbit Room reading group led by Dr. Steve Guthrie on John Perkins’ book Let Justice Roll Down! ColorFull: Celebrating the Colors God Gave Us Dorena Williamson (@dorenawill) Imani and Kayla are the best of friends who are learning to celebrate their different skin colors. As they look around them at the amazing colors in nature, they can see that their skin is another example of God’s creativity! This joyful story takes a new approach to discussing race: instead of being colorblind, we can choose to celebrate each color God gave us and be colorFULL instead. I Have A Dream Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.; illustrated by Kadir Nelson (@KadirNelson) On August 28, 1963, on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial during the March on Washington, Martin Luther King gave one of the most powerful and memorable speeches in our nation’s history. His words, paired with Caldecott Honor winner Kadir Nelson’s magnificent paintings, make for a picture book certain to be treasured by children and adults alike. The themes of equality and freedom for all are not only relevant today, 50 years later, but also provide young readers with an important introduction to our nation’s past. Included with the book is an audio CD of the speech. Just Like Me Vanessa Brantley-Newton From Vanessa Brantley-Newton, the author of Grandma’s Purse, comes a collection of poetry filled with engaging mini-stories about girls of all kinds: girls who feel happy, sad, scared, powerful; girls who love their bodies and girls who don’t; country girls, city girls; girls who love their mother and girls who wish they had a father. With bright portraits in Vanessa’s signature style of vibrant colors and unique patterns and fabrics, this book invites readers to find themselves and each other within its pages. So Tall Within: Sojourner Truth’s Long Walk Toward Freedom Gary D. Schmidt; illustrated by Daniel Minter (@d1minter) Sojourner Truth was born into slavery but possessed a mind and a vision that knew no bounds. So Tall Within traces her life from her painful childhood through her remarkable emancipation to her incredible leadership in the movement for rights for both women and African Americans. Her story is told with lyricism and pathos by Gary D. Schmidt, one of the most celebrated writers for children in the twenty-first century, and brought to life by award winning and fine artist Daniel Minter. This combination of talent is just right for introducing this legendary figure to a new generation of children. The Bark of the Bog Owl Jonathan Rogers (@JonathanHRogers) Aidan’s life changes forever on the day Bayard the Truthspeaker arrives at Longleaf with an astonishing pronouncement: it is Aidan’s destiny to be the Wilderking, who will ascend to the throne from Corenwald’s wildest places. Only the Wilderking can balance his people’s civilizing impulses with the wildness that gives Corenwald its vitality. But not just yet. Many trials and adventures will shape the shaggy-headed shepherd boy into the man who can bring the kingdom back to its former glory. $12.00 now in the Rabbit Room Store The Watsons Go to Birmingham—1963 Christopher Paul Curtis Enter the hilarious world of ten-year-old Kenny and his family, the Weird Watsons of Flint, Michigan. There’s Momma, Dad, little sister Joetta, and brother Byron, who’s thirteen and an “official juvenile delinquent.” When Byron gets to be too much trouble, they head South to Birmingham to visit Grandma, the one person who can shape him up. And they’ll be in Birmingham during one of the darkest moments in America’s history. The Wednesday Wars Gary D. Schmidt Meet Holling Hoodhood, a seventh-grader at Camillo Junior High, who must spend Wednesday afternoons with his teacher, Mrs. Baker, while the rest of the class has religious instruction. Mrs. Baker doesn’t like Holling—he’s sure of it. Why else would she make him read the plays of William Shakespeare outside class? But everyone has bigger things to worry about, like Vietnam. His father wants Holling and his sister to be on their best behavior: the success of his business depends on it. But how can Holling stay out of trouble when he has so much to contend with? A bully demanding cream puffs; angry rats; and a baseball hero signing autographs the very same night Holling has to appear in a play in yellow tights! As fate sneaks up on him again and again, Holling finds Motivation—the Big M—in the most unexpected places and musters up the courage to embrace his destiny, in spite of himself. Words With Wings Nikki Grimes (@nikkigrimes9) Gabby’s world is filled with daydreams. However, what began as an escape from her parents’ arguments has now taken over her life. But with the help of a new teacher, Gabby the dreamer might just become Gabby the writer, and words that carried her away might allow her to soar. Written in vivid, accessible poems, this remarkable verse novel is a celebration of imagination, of friendship, of one girl’s indomitable spirit, and of a teacher’s ability to reach out and change a life. Ender’s Game Orson Scott Card (@orsonscottcard) The war with the Buggers has been raging for a hundred years, and the quest for the perfect general has been underway for almost as long. Enter Andrew “Ender” Wiggin, the result of decades of genetic experimentation. Is Ender the general Earth so desperately needs? The only way to find out is to throw him into ever-harsher training at Battle School, to chip away and find the diamond inside, or destroy him utterly. Ender Wiggin is six years old when his training begins. He will grow up fast. But Ender is not the only result of the experiment. His two older siblings, Peter and Valentine, are every bit as unusual as he is, but in very different ways. Among the three of them lie the abilities to remake a world. If, that is, the world survives. The Faithful Spy John Hendrix (@hendrixart) Adolf Hitler’s Nazi party is gaining strength and becoming more menacing every day. Dietrich Bonhoeffer, a pastor upset by the complacency of the German church toward the suffering around it, forms a breakaway church to speak out against the established political and religious authorities. When the Nazis outlaw the church, he escapes as a fugitive. Struggling to reconcile his faith and the teachings of the Bible with the Nazi Party’s evil agenda, Bonhoeffer decides that Hitler must be stopped by any means possible! The Battle of Franklin A. S. Peterson (@Pete_Peterson) Through the power of music and drama, this original work takes us back in time to witness the tragic struggle between father and son, between master and slave, between North and South. It’s a tale of a broken family and a broken nation. But in the end, the story of the Battle of Franklin is about more than mere history–it’s about the conflict in all of us, and our hope of restoration. Cry, the Beloved Country Alan Paton Cry, the Beloved Country is the deeply moving story of the Zulu pastor Stephen Kumalo and his son, Absalom, set against the background of a land and a people riven by racial injustice. Remarkable for its lyricism, unforgettable for character and incident, Cry, the Beloved Country is a classic work of love and hope, courage and endurance, born of the dignity of man. The Killer Angels: The Classic Novel of the Civil War Michael Shaara In the four most bloody and courageous days of our nation’s history, two armies fought for two conflicting dreams. One dreamed of freedom, the other of a way of life. Far more than rifles and bullets were carried into battle. There were memories. There were promises. There was love. And far more than men fell on those Pennsylvania fields. Bright futures, untested innocence, and pristine beauty were also the casualties of war. Michael Shaara’s Pulitzer Prize–winning masterpiece is unique, sweeping, unforgettable—the dramatic story of the battleground for America’s destiny. Miz Lil & the Chronicles of Grace Walter Wangerin, Jr. Miz Lil & the Chronicles of Grace leads readers on two parallel journeys: one a series of tales from Wangerin’s youth as he reveals his descent into human sinfulness, the other a chronicle of his awakening to the great grace of God through relationship with his congregation while pastor of an inner city church. So Brave, Young, and Handsome Leif Enger (@reuben100) In 1915 Minnesota, Monte Becket—“a man fading, a disappointer of persons”—has lost his sense of purpose. His only success long behind him, Monte lives a simple life with his loving wife and whipsmart son. But when he befriends outlaw Glendon Hale, a new world of opportunity and experience presents itself. So Brave, Young, and Handsome is the next book from the mind of Leif Enger, the author of Peace Like a River. Though a different book entirely, So Brave is equally unique in its vision and voice. It’s a western on the edge of a fading west and journey in search of grace. Not to be missed. A Tale of Two Cities Charles Dickens The storming of the Bastille…the death carts with their doomed human cargo…the swift drop of the guillotine blade—this is the French Revolution that Charles Dickens vividly captures in his famous work A Tale of Two Cities. With dramatic eloquence, he brings to life a time of terror and treason, a starving people rising in frenzy and hate to overthrow a corrupt and decadent regime. With insight and compassion, Dickens casts his novel of unforgettable scenes with some memorable characters: the sinister Madame Defarge, knitting her patterns of death; the gentle Lucie Manette, unswerving in her devotion to her broken father; Charles Darnay, the lover with a secret past; and dissolute Sydney Carton, whose unlikely heroism gives his life meaning. The Color of Compromise: The Truth about the American Church’s Complicity in Racism Jemar Tisby (@JemarTisby) The Color of Compromise takes readers on a historical journey: from America’s early colonial days through slavery and the Civil War, covering the tragedy of Jim Crow laws and the victories of the Civil Rights era, to today’s Black Lives Matter movement. Author Jemar Tisby reveals the obvious—and the far more subtle—ways the American church has compromised what the Bible teaches about human dignity and equality. Free of Charge: Giving and Forgiving in a Culture Stripped of Grace Miroslav Volf (@MiroslavVolf) We are at our human best when we give and forgive.But we live in a world in which it makes little sense to do either one. In our increasingly graceless culture, where can we find the motivation to give? And how do we learn to forgive when forgiving seems counterintuitive or even futile? A deeply personal yet profoundly thoughtful book, Free of Charge explores these questions–and the further questions to which they give rise–in light of God’s generosity and Christ’s sacrifice for us. Miroslav Volf draws from popular culture as well as from a wealth of literary and theological sources, weaving his rich reflections around the sturdy frame of Paul’s vision of God’s grace and Martin Luther’s interpretation of that vision. Blending the best of theology and spirituality, he encourages us to echo in our own lives God’s generous giving and forgiving. Just Mercy Bryan Stevenson (@eji_org) Bryan Stevenson was a young lawyer when he founded the Equal Justice Initiative, a legal practice dedicated to defending those most desperate and in need: the poor, the wrongly condemned, and women and children trapped in the farthest reaches of our criminal justice system. One of his first cases was that of Walter McMillian, a young man who was sentenced to die for a notorious murder he insisted he didn’t commit. The case drew Bryan into a tangle of conspiracy, political machination, and legal brinksmanship—and transformed his understanding of mercy and justice forever. Let Justice Roll Down John M. Perkins (@JohnMPerkins) His brother died in his arms, shot by a deputy marshall. He was beaten and tortured by the sheriff and state police. But through it all he returned good for evil, love for hate, progress for prejudice, and brought hope to black and white alike. The story of John Perkins is no ordinary story. Rather, it is a gripping portrayal of what happens when faith thrusts a person into the midst of a struggle against racism, oppression, and injustice. It is about the costs of discipleship–the jailings, the floggings, the despair, the sacrifice. And it is about the transforming work of faith that allowed John to respond to such overwhelming indignities with miraculous compassion, vision, and hope. Real Love For Real Life Andi Ashworth As society grows increasingly technological, isolated, and lonely, those who take their caregiving gifts seriously can fill a tremendous void. In Real Love for Real Life, caregivers of all kinds can find the help and hope they need to fulfill their calling. Through personal illustrations, timely research, and thoughtful quotations, Ashworth addresses the practicalities, philosophies, challenges, and joys of providing care in the relationships of home and community–leading readers to a greater understanding of the value and the validity of their call to be caregivers. Strength To Love Martin Luther King, Jr. In these short meditative and sermonic pieces, some of them composed in jails and all of them crafted during the tumultuous years of the Civil Rights struggle, Dr. King articulated and espoused in a deeply personal compelling way his commitment to justice and to the intellectual, moral, and spiritual conversion that makes his work as much a blueprint today for Christian discipleship as it was then. Individual readers, as well as church groups and students will find in this work a challenging yet energizing vision of God and redemptive love. Click here to view the entire reading list in the Rabbit Room Store.

It’s funny how forgotten, yet familiar books suddenly suggest themselves in lockdown! I have been re-reading a lovely old copy of The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, in Edward Fitzgerald’s famous verse translation, and taking comfort, pleasure and fresh insight from it in this isolation. I’ve also been re-entranced by its elegant form. Fitzgerald cast his translation into a series of little quatrains: four line stanzas, each chiming sonorously on a single rhyming sound. They start with a couplet, and then he allows himself a free unrhymed line to gather energy and momentum before ringing the quatrain to a close as the final line returns to the first rhyme sound with renewed emphasis, and satisfying finality. So here, for example is the famous first verse: Awake! for Morning in the Bowl of Night Has flung the Stone that puts the Stars to Flight: And Lo! the Hunter of the East has caught The Sultan’s Turret in a Noose of Light —The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, trans. by Edward Fitzgerald Spurred on by this example, I have been composing some “Quarantine Quatrains” of my own, in a kind of leisured conversation with the original Rubaiyat, but also as something of a lockdown journal. Looking back on these, I see a progression or pattern through which many of us have been moving: I started with a sense of the unexpected opening out of time and apparent leisure: Awake to what was once a busy day When you would rush and hurry on your way Snatch at your breakfast, start the grim commute But time and tide have turned another way… This morning’s light is brighter than it seems Your room is raftered with its golden beams The bowl of night was richly filled with sleep And dawn’s left hand is holding all your dreams But soon, of course I found that Zoom came zooming in, and I had to negotiate the strange ambivalence of that medium: the way the closeness of familiar faces on the screen teases you with connection and at the same moment only emphasizes distance: Alas that all the friends we ever knew Whose lives were fragrant and whose touch was true Can only meet us on some little screen Then zoom away with scarcely an adieu. We share with them the little that we know These galleries of ghosts set in a row They flicker on the screen of life awhile But some have left the meeting long ago. We used to stroll together on the green Who now divide the squares upon the screen, The faces of our friends, so far apart Tease us with tenderness that might have been But when I retreated, zoomed out again, to my garden hut, I found myself bathed and soothed by birdsong: Here in my garden hut, just on the brink Of making some new song of all I think, A sudden thrill and ripple of true song Makes mockery of my poor pen and ink. Beyond my hut a vivid glimpse of red: A bright-eyed robin by the garden bed Sings his mellifluous and liquid notes, That utter more than all I’ve ever said. Like many of us I was becoming aware of how widely nature is returning, of the natural “rewilding” that is taking place all around us. And here the original poem once more proved suggestive, if not prophetic, so I began one of my own quatrains with a couplet of Khayyam’s: They say the Lion and the Lizard keep The Courts where Jamshýd gloried and drank deep: But now in every corner of the world The wild things flourish whilst the cities sleep. Such reflection led me, as it has so many others, to wonder whether this crisis might lead us to a chastened, and gentler way of being in the world: Perhaps in all this crisis, all this pain, This reassessment of our loss and gain Nature rebukes our brief authority Yet offers us the chance to start again And this time with a new humility, With chastened awe, and mutual courtesy; To re-accept the unearned gift of life With gratitude, with joy and charity. Perhaps we’ll learn to live without so much To nurture and to cherish, not to clutch, And, if I’m spared, I’ll hold the years I’m given With gentler tenure and a lighter touch. You can find Malcolm Guite’s books of poetry in the Rabbit Room Store.