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Last week, we introduced you to a beautiful new documentary series on the spirituality of food called Taste & See, and invited you to attend one of the virtual screenings coming up on June 3rd. Over the next few weeks, we’ll be giving you various peeks behind the scenes of this project, starting with this in-depth interview with Director Andrew Brumme. Drew Miller: You mention on the Taste & See website that this journey of connecting food and faith began for you in earnest when you read Robert Farrar Capon’s The Supper of the Lamb. That book is foundational at the Rabbit Room, so I’d love to start there: could you elaborate on your experience reading that book? What were some of the central insights that got your wheels turning? And beyond Capon, what other influences led you into this project? Andrew Brumme: I still have a vivid memory of my first encounter with Capon’s writing. I’d never heard of him until my brother gave me The Supper of the Lamb as a Christmas gift in 2014. I savored the book slowly over the next few months. Even recalling the experience of reading it now, I feel much of the same delight as that first encounter. That’s really the word that stuck with me regarding Capon, delight. He has this light-heartedness that is profoundly rooted in the most weighty truths about who God is, and who we are in this delicious world. I always picture Capon with a perpetual twinkle in his eye, as if he’s been let in on the most awesome secret and there’s no longer any need to fear. We are simply invited to delight in God’s creation, to taste and see that he is good! Reading The Supper of the Lamb gave me that first taste, which led me to seeing the goodness of God vividly in all things related to food. Capon loved food and he loved God, and he so strongly emphasizes that it’s not one love at the expense of the other. The material and spiritual are inseparable because God loves, in Capon’s words, “the stuff of this world.” And as we come to love creation as God does, it whets our appetites for our true home. Growing up in a white suburban American Christian home, food was never really connected to our faith. The revelation Capon gave me was that eating is a profoundly spiritual act. He makes such a masterful case for paying attention, the chief example of course being the incredible chapter on the onion. Our producing team did the exercise of mindfully peeling and slicing an onion together while reading the chapter out loud as a way of kicking off the production process. It’s impossible to view onions in the same way after that! The astounding thing is that the same wonder and delight are available to us every time we come to the table, or spend time in the fields or the kitchen on the way there. Documentary storytelling is one of the ways I work things out and engage with the world. So my first thought as I finished the book was to locate the author and make him the star of a food documentary like none other. I was terribly disappointed when I learned Capon had passed away only a few years earlier. Undeterred in my newfound enthusiasm for all things food and faith, I dove headfirst into more expansive research. I found a feast of books and stories awaiting me, many similarly inspired by Capon’s work. Some of the earliest influences were Eat with Joy by Rachel Marie Stone, Food and Faith by Norman Wirzba, Take this Bread by Sara Miles, and Leslie Leyland Fields’ compilation The Spirit of Food. There are many others I draw from, especially as new stories in the series are developed. These are often inspired by a particular book. For example, the first film we’re releasing now got its initial inspiration from Fred Bahnson’s masterful Soil and Sacrament. It was a delight to discover a diverse food and faith movement, united in the idea that tasting really can lead to seeing. I became convinced that it was through the stories of people actively engaging with food, deeply rooted in their faith, that I could bring alive the spirituality of food in a documentary series. DM: Taste & See explores the intimate, oft-forgotten relationship between the spiritual and physical, especially as it unfolds within the richly layered context of a shared meal. Could you give us a slow-motion play-by-play of all the layers of meaning that unfold in concert with one another during a shared meal, from preparing to serving to tasting? AB: This is an ambitious question! Whole books have been written on the subject. I’d especially recommend Norman Wirzba’s Food and Faith, which has informed so much of my own understanding. But here are a few thoughts about what I understand is happening as we eat together beginning in the field, moving to the kitchen and finishing around the table. A central theme when we eat is in fact death. We can’t escape the fact that something (be it plant or animal) had to die in order for us to live. And we must eat, or we ourselves will die. So the sustaining of our lives is constantly requiring the death of something else. If we start with the land that provides our food, the soil is literally “eating death” and turning it into life. Anyone who composts can attest to this wondrous fact! Moving to the modern day kitchen, which is often far removed from the realities of death if we aren’t preparing or cooking with real ingredients. We have to admit that whether we’re butchering an animal or dicing an onion, something that was living is dying in our hands (or on the way to them) in order to feed us and feed those we love. Then finally at the table, food takes its final journey as we receive it into our bodies and it nourishes us, keeping us alive for another day. Life from death. The question then is, what can we do with the energy we’ve been given through our eating, to make our lives worthy of all this death? It can be a pretty uncomfortable and depressing question if you sit with it a bit. Those who follow Jesus can’t help but recall that incredible mealtime scene on the eve of Jesus’ own death as he passed around bread and wine to his closest friends, and told them it was his own body and blood and they were to eat and drink it in remembrance of him. Jesus essentially told us to eat him! Talk about a mystery we need to sit with. I think it’s essential to apply this to all of our eating, not just a ritual during a worship service (and don’t get me started on flavorless wafers and shots of grape juice). What does it mean to eat eucharistically? I think it’s being mindful of the death constantly required to give us life, especially the life of Jesus given for us. This earth-shattering truth is present in every part of our engagement with food. If we’re aware of this, how can we not respond with gratitude, joy, wonder, and ultimately, worship? DM: The filmmaking process is shrouded in mystery for most of us. How did you decide whose stories to explore, and how did you go about getting to know these people? What was filming like, and how has the pandemic impacted the production of this series? AB: Mystery is a good word, because I think the verité style of documentary filmmaking is very much about being a witness to an unfolding mystery. This process is an unscripted approach where, as much as possible, we are a “fly on the wall” to what’s taking place. My job as director is to be fully present and listen, actively discerning what story we are being given and to follow the breadcrumbs where they lead. It’s terrifying and thrilling at the same time, because we never know if we’ll return from a shoot with something we can edit and use in a film or not. But it’s so much fun when we are given such a gift. There is also plenty of preparation involved. While we don’t write a script, we do try to assemble the right ingredients so that when our crew shows up, there is the potential for a story to emerge. For Taste & See, rather than an educational film with a bunch of talking heads waxing eloquently about food and faith, we are taking a story-driven approach, anchoring each film in one individual’s journey. We were looking for people wildly passionate about food, with expertise and credibility in the food world, as well as a deeply rooted faith—chefs, farmers, bakers, winemakers, and other visionaries engaging significantly with food as a profound spiritual gift. We were intentionally staying away from the preachy types and those who view food as a cheap spiritual metaphor. Rather, we sought out people with a contagious joy for life and a particular window on that joy through food. Those who are tasting and constantly seeing afresh, and whose experiences could help us to do the same. One of the biggest challenges was that so many people had incredible experiences from their past, but we needed to capture an actively unfolding story. I am always asking what they’re doing now with food, looking for opportunities that might set the table for something to emerge when our crew shows up. The actual production shoots were really short, usually less than a week. We always began our time in person with a subject sharing a meal, before we brought out all the cameras. We found that breaking bread together allowed a human connection so that when the gear came out (which by definition is a really unnatural context for genuine human connection), we had more of a foundation to build upon. The pandemic was a real challenge as you might expect, but nonetheless, we felt miraculously provided for during that time. Our last shoot for the first film was in San Francisco in March 2020. We had booked tickets from Europe (where our production team is based) earlier in the year, but the US travel ban was announced the same week we were supposed to get to the US. It turns out our flight was literally the last one leaving Europe, arriving within hours of when the travel ban went into effect. Because some of our team are European nationals, they would have had to quarantine for two weeks had we arrived hours later. This would have made the shoot impossible. We filmed for three days, capturing the critical final meal in the film, and then cut our trip short when Europe’s borders were closing. We came back with just enough material to edit together the first film, which I was able to do remotely with our LA-based editor doing the months of confinement. The two years of the pandemic that followed were challenging in terms of my own job situation. I’d hoped to be able to raise funding to keep producing the other films in the series, but apart from being able to edit the first film, the project really came to a standstill because we had no funding and I had to find other work. It’s been a very stretching journey, but I’m so grateful we seem to be emerging from that period. We’re really grateful for the virtual screening events coming up. We’re hopeful these will provide the necessary funding for us to continue producing the series. DM: I love that this docu-series is living out its mission not only in its content, but in the distinctly invitational way you’re choosing to share that content. Tell us about your decision to share this project via virtual screenings, where viewers are encouraged to invite friends and eat together. How do you hope for the sharing of Taste & See to embody its central claims about community and creativity? AB: There were two big influences that led us to release the first film as part of a virtual cinema event. The first was this Rabbit Room community! You all are so community-driven, it’s contagious. When we started talking, one of the first things Pete emphasized was that everything the Rabbit Room does grows out of relationship. It was important for me to come and screen the film for your community as a next step in us getting to know one another. I was also a participant in last year’s Hutchmoot: Homebound, your incredible conference that was moved online due to the pandemic. The team did such an amazing job of making it more than just a bunch of online videos. There was so much intention in the conference design to help build community in connection around the content. As we talked about partnering with the Rabbit Room, the conversation naturally turned to how fostering community could be a part of the experience. So that was one big influence pointing us to design a robust approach to virtual screenings. What does it mean to eat eucharistically? I think it's being mindful of the death constantly required to give us life, especially the life of Jesus given for us. This earth-shattering truth is present in every part of our engagement with food. Andrew Brumme The second influence was the frustrating reality that we had hit a wall. As we looked for a home for this project to get out in the world, we discovered that the mainstream distribution thinks our project is “too spiritual,” but the religious distributors think we’re “not spiritual enough“ for their niche audiences. We’ve been caught in this middle space of thoughtful, spiritually-themed content designed for a diverse audience. We know this audience exists, the Rabbit Room community being a chief example! So rather than wait for distributors to get on board, we decided to bypass the traditional gatekeepers and make Taste & See directly available to audiences through a virtual cinema event. The exciting potential of the virtual cinema event is that the model has allowed us to design an experience that fosters connection, which is a core theme of Taste & See. Eating connects us to the land, to each other, and to God. In essence, the virtual cinema event is designed to be more than just watching the documentary online. Each ticket includes access to the first film as well as a panel discussion with Andrew Peterson, Norman Wirzba (agrarian theologian, and subject in one of our next films), and me, moderated by Lindsey Patton. Beyond the content, we’ve also worked with the Rabbit Room to design an event guide with discussion questions and a recipe inspired by the film. Our hope is that people will watch the film and panel, and then connect more deeply with their family or friends as they eat together, interacting about what they’ve just experienced. I’d love people to really make an evening out of it and gather in person or virtually with a few others to watch and discuss the film, and share a meal. A premise of Taste & See is that mealtime and eating is sacred, and not just at special celebrations or holidays. Every time we come to the table, there is the potential for encounter and connection if we mindfully and prayerfully engage the experience. I really hope Taste & See opens people up to what the table can be, or rather, what the table already is. We just need eyes to see and taste buds to taste the reality of it! DM: What is the most memorable meal you’ve ever eaten? Who were you with? Were you celebrating something together? Set the scene for us. AB: The most memorable meal I ever shared was an amazing meal in and of itself, yet the weighty significance of it was realized only two years later. Three college friends and I were hosted by dear friends, Jason and Michelle, several years after we graduated. They lived on our university campus where Jason worked, and the two of them had a hugely significant spiritual mentoring role in each of our lives. Since graduating, we had dispersed geographically so the four of us being together was unique, and the chance to visit Jason and Michelle together was even more special. We arrived at their Sacramento house after some hours on the road, and as we came through the door our senses alerted us to the fact that something extraordinary was happening in the kitchen. Jason had been preparing the meal for 24 hours. That fact alone was hard for me to understand as a 25 year old who didn’t pay much attention to what I ate apart from whether or not it tasted good. I later learned about a previous chapter of Jason’s life when he was immersed in the Sonoma County food scene and won local original recipe contests. He really was an incredible cook, and I think it all grew out of his deep love for local, seasonal ingredients and his deep love for people. These two loves were woven together as he cooked for us. The table was beautiful, each place set with a lovingly crafted menu card listing the courses we’d be enjoying together. A dual melon soup, gorgonzola stuffed figs with balsamic glaze, a smoked duck pizza, a homemade batard loaf…I know there were other incredible courses, but those were the details we can remember some 15 years later. It pains me now that I can’t remember every detail. Two years later, Jason passed away suddenly at age 36. That meal was the last time I was with Jason in person. My memories of the meal are infused with Jason’s contagious passion for life, which we could somehow palpably taste in that meal. The most vivid moment for me is when Jason served the cold melon gazpacho. I recall a sort of humorous confusion at the very idea of a cold soup, much less a sweet one. Who thinks of such things? I wondered to myself. The yin-yang pattern of the pureed green honeydew and orange cantaloupe was a visual feast before anything even crossed our palate. When it did, I remember a feeling of refreshing delight. The subtle sweetness, the notes of each melon intact and yet perfectly blended, it was the most surprising and wonderful experience. The whole meal was an absurdly extravagant gift from a generous and loving friend to a young man with an unrefined palate. I’m reminded of the words of the main subject in our first film, Shomriel Sherman, who lost her own mother suddenly, and reflects throughout the film on life and death as it relates to eating and the table. She sees mealtimes as serious times, though they are generally fun and joyful. It’s a weighty joy when we feast because there’s never a certainty that we’ll have another meal with these same people. When we screened the film at North Wind Manor, Pete concluded the evening by reading the Liturgy for Feasting with Friends from Every Moment Holy, and it opens with these lines, which I think are an appropriate way to end: To gather joyfully is indeed a serious affair, for feasting and all enjoyments gratefully taken are, at their heart, acts of war.In celebrating this feast we declare that evil and death, suffering and loss, sorrow and tears, will not have the final word. —Doug McKelvey, “A Liturgy for Feasting with Friends,” Every Moment Holy Click here to learn more about Taste & See.

We humbly offer Doug McKelvey’s “Liturgy for Grieving a National Tragedy” in the wake of recent mass shootings in Buffalo and Texas, in case you need words to lean on during this time. You can download this liturgy and others at EveryMomentHoly.com/liturgies or access it in the Every Moment Holy app. Leader: O God who gathers what has been scattered, People: Shelter us now in the shadow of your wings. O Christ who binds our wounds, Be our great healer. O Spirit who enters our every grief, Intercede now for this hurting people, in this broken land. Be present in the midst of this far-reaching pain, O Lord, for we are reeling again, at news of another loss of life that touches us all; news of flourishing diminished; of individuals harmed; of pain imposed, not only upon victims and their families who bear now the immediate brunt of it—but also upon our nation. For we are connected as a people, and this hurt, this grief, touches us all. Engage our imaginations and move our hearts to compassion, O Lord, that we would interact with these casualties, not as news stories or statistics, but as our own sisters and brothers, flesh and blood, divine image-bearers, irreplaceable individuals whose losses will leave gaping holes in homes, friendships, workplaces, churches, schools, organizations, and neighborhoods. Be merciful to those now wounded. Be present with those now bereaved. You do not run from our brokenness, O God. You move ever toward those in need. Your heart is always inclined toward those who suffer. Now let your mercies be active through the hands, the words, and the compassionate care of those who willingly enter this sadness to console and to serve. Be with all who move toward this need: the helpers, the counselors, the first responders, those who offer aid and protection, the pastors and intercessors, those who meet immediate practical needs, those who seek to heal physical wounds, and those who come after to carry on the long, hard work of rebuilding families and hearts and lives and community. Grant each of them wisdom, courage, vision, sympathy, and strength to serve effectively in their various capacities. Even in the shadow of such tragedy, let us not lose hope. Give us eyes to see the rapid movements of mercy rushing to fill these newly wounded spaces. Let us see in this the echoes of your own mercy and compassion— a foretaste of your kingdom coming to earth. And move our own hearts also, equipping us to intercede, to act, and to respond however we are able. Move, O Holy Spirit, in the midst and in the aftermath of this tragedy, in the wake of our wounding, in the shock and the sorrow. Arrest the hearts and stay the hands of any who even now might be plotting further evil and violence against others, O Christ. Turn them from hatred. Turn their hearts to you. You once brooded over the formless chaos of ancient waters and brought forth the order and flourishing of creation. Do so again, O Spirit of God. From the chaos of this tragedy call forth new life and order and flourishing. Take even what our adversary might have meant for evil, and from it bring forth eternal good. You alone have strength to carry this people. Carry us now, O Lord. You alone have wisdom and power to heal the wounds of a nation. Heal us, O Lord. You alone have compassion enough to enter our widespread grief, and turn it to hope. Be merciful, O Christ! Amen. Click here to download this liturgy at EveryMomentHoly.com/liturgies.

We’ve pulled together an incredible group of actors for our new production of The Hiding Place, and today I’m thrilled to be able to introduce you to some of the folks on the team. Conrad John Schuck is Caspar Ten Boom First, it’s an honor to announce that movie, television, and stage veteran Conrad John Schuck has joined us to play the part of “Papa” Caspar Ten Boom. His professional acting career began after college in The Cleveland Playhouse and in regional theaters in Cleveland, Baltimore, Buffalo, and eventually San Francisco. It was there, while acting at the American Conservatory Theater, that he was seen by director Robert Altman who cast him as Painless in M*A*S*H. His association with Altman led to a wealth of roles in other films including Outrageous Fortune, Finders Keepers, and Star Trek IV and Star Trek VI. His first screen kiss was with Elizabeth Taylor, and he has guest-starred in over 50 television shows including Gunsmoke, The Mary Tyler Moore Show, St. Elsewhere, Bonanza, Law and Order: SVU, and (this one is my favorite) Babylon 5. (If you remember the character of Draal, you’ll understand just how perfect he is for Papa Ten Boom.) Theater has always been his favorite type of work and he continues to work regionally as well as on Broadway, where he made his debut in the 1997 Broadway revival of Annie as Daddy Warbucks. On Broadway, he also appeared in Annie Get Your Gun with Reba McEntire and most recently in Nice Work If You Can Get It with Matthew Broderick. In London’s West End, he appeared in The Caine Mutiny Court-Martial with Charlton Heston. Schuck recently completed seven seasons in the national tour of Irving Berlin’s White Christmas. Locally, he appeared in Twelve Angry Men and the much acclaimed The Elephant Man for Studio Tenn. Carrie Tillis is Betsie Ten Boom Next up, in the role of Betsie Ten Boom is one of the most delightful people in Nashville, Carrie Tillis. Daughter of country legend Mel Tillis and sister to country star Pam Tillis, Carrie’s talents and experience stretch beyond the world of country music. Her résumé jumps from opera to Grand Ole Opry and Broadway to big band. After gaining notoriety via performances with her father, she traded his legendary Statesider Band for an even bigger orchestra, performing her first love—Broadway’s American Songbook—in theater and symphony concerts around the world. Leading a regional theater production of Keep On the Sunny Side (the story of country music’s Carter family) was a catalyst for other country musicals like The Tammy Wynette Story, of which she played several tours. Carrie has graced the stages of the Grand Ole Opry and the Ryman Auditorium as a featured artist and with Studio Tenn’s hit Legacy series. Other credits include: Mary Alice (The Battle Of Franklin), Sarah (Guys and Dolls), Principle (Big River), Marian Paroo (The Music Man), and Magnolia (Show Boat). Carrie was a supporting lead in the Kerem Sanga feature film, The Violent Heart, and a guest star on the hit TV series, Nashville. Nan Gurley is Corrie Ten Boom And finally, my good friend Nan Gurley is in the lead role of Corrie Ten Boom. If you saw the Houston production of the show, she’ll be no stranger to you. She was phenomenal in that production and we couldn’t imagine doing it here in Nashville without her. Broadway World called her performance “utterly brilliant” and “nuanced, strong and sincere”—and we can’t wait to see her shine with the new material in this version of the show. In addition to originating the role of Corrie Ten Boom, Nan has been a fixture on Nashville stages in a career that has spanned over 30 years and included iconic roles for Studio Tenn, Nashville Repertory Theatre, Nashville Children’s Theatre, Nashville Shakespeare Festival and more. A singer, actress, and writer, she has performed in more than 50 productions at Tennessee Performing Arts Center and has been a featured soloist with the Nashville Symphony. She’s a two-time Dove Award winner for co-writing two youth musicals, The Race Is On and Friends Forever. She’s also co-written a musical with Bonnie Keen entitled Women Who Dare to Believe, and she co-wrote and starred with Denice Hicks and Clare Syler in Shakespeare’s Case, which premiered at the Nashville Shakespeare Festival in May 2009. Her original one-woman show The Diary of Opal Whiteley was performed at the Piccolo Spoleto Festival in Charleston, S.C., and in several colleges and universities and performing arts centers in the Southeast. She wrote, hosted, and produced an educational television series on the performing arts entitled Front Row Center, which aired on PBS stations nationwide and won the Southern Education Communication’s Best Series of the Year Award. Additional stage credits include: Blanche DuBois (A Streetcar Named Desire), Mama Rose (Gypsy), Dolly Levi (Hello Dolly!), Mistress Quickly (The Merry Wives of Winter), Nana (Tuck Everlasting), Truvy (Steel Magnolias), Golde (Fiddler on the Roof), and Carlotta (Phantom). See what I mean? I’m genuinely baffled that I have the opportunity not only to work with such excellent and admirable folks, but to call them my friends as well. We’ve worked hard to re-structure the script and hone the characters and I’m humbled by the energy so many people have put into this story. I can’t wait for all of you to see the fruits of their labor. The show opens June 30th and runs through July 17th.

This week on The Habit Podcast, Jonathan talks with children’s authors Katy Bowser Hutson and Flo Paris Oakes about their collaborative book, Little Prayers for Ordinary Days. Flo Paris Oakes and Katy Bowser Hutson have been longtime songwriting collaborators through the Rain for Roots collective, which makes singable scripture songs for kids and grownups alike. Both children’s ministry directors, they think a lot and very deeply about the spiritual formation of children. In this episode, Flo and Katy discuss their most recent project, Little Prayers for Ordinary Days, a book of prayers for children which they wrote  with Tish Harrison Warren. Click here to listen to Season 4, Episode 21 of The Habit Podcast. Transcripts are now available for The Habit Podcast. Click here to access them. Sponsorship on the Podcast Network Are you interested in teaming up with us to support the work you love? Send an email to our Head of Development, Sarah Katherine Woodhull, at sarahkatherine@rabbitroom.com if you are interested in becoming a sponsor of our Podcast Network. Rabbit Room Membership Special thanks to our Rabbit Room members for making these podcasts possible! If you’re interested in becoming a member, visit RabbitRoom.com/Donate.

On this episode of the Artists & Podcast, Kyra and Jamin are joined by Tim Joyner and Ella Mine. They talk about creativity and discuss their views on inspiration: what it is, how they foster it, and what they do to move forward when it’s gone. Click here to listen to The Artists & Podcast on Omny, here to listen on Apple Podcasts, and here to listen on Spotify. Transcripts are now available for The Artists & Podcast. Click here to access them. This episode’s guests: Ella Mine With a mesmerizing combination of musical fluency and lyrical vulnerability, Ella Mine divines and names depths of the human experience that often go unnamed, creating a hospitable space where the listener might untangle the mystery of their own emotions. Her debut record, a concept album titled Dream War, weaves a surreal and otherworldly tapestry of poetic melodies and storytelling, sifting the ruins of devastating personal experience for shimmering gems of hope. You can learn more about Ella and view some of her art at her website and on Instagram. Tim Joyner Tim Joyner is an artist based in New England. Working primarily with natural pigments and inks derived from locally-foraged materials, his paintings are an inquiry into the mysterious, inner nature of the raw elements he uses. In elevating the most simple of materials to the status of “fine art,” things we often take for granted—stone, lichen, seaweed—are given voice to remind us of the sacredness of place and the beauty and goodness woven through all living things. You can follow Tim and his work on Instagram. Sponsorship on the Podcast Network Are you interested in teaming up with us to support the work you love? Send an email to our Head of Development, Sarah Katherine Woodhull, at sarahkatherine@rabbitroom.com if you are interested in becoming a sponsor of our Podcast Network. Rabbit Room Membership Special thanks to our Rabbit Room members for making these podcasts possible! If you’re interested in becoming a member, visit RabbitRoom.com/Donate.

Have you listened to the new Jill Phillips record yet? If you haven’t, stop everything and listen immediately. Then, when you’ve finished crying, come back here and read this beautiful interview where Jill asks Ben Shive (who worked with her to produce the record) some questions about the heart of his love for music, the complimentary gifts of writing and producing, the diverse destinies of various songs, and much more. Jill Phillips: I would love to know more about what moves you in a song these days, Ben. What are you focused on in your writing and what do you love listening to? Ben Shive: I had a pivotal moment about ten years ago when I was driving home, passing the Tigermarket on Nolensville Road, listening to a Local Natives record. Every sound was fresh and cool and the melodies were great and I was somehow totally unmoved. Until then, anything cool and indie was interesting to me, but since that moment I couldn’t care less about those values. Alt-rock is still a go-to for me but it can’t just be about the aesthetic. If it doesn’t move me, if it isn’t resonant on some deeper level, I just can’t be bothered. What moves me is truth and beauty and the joy of language. That’s probably why Andrew Peterson and I have always had such a great synergy. Stephen Sondheim is a big one for me because he does that so well. Paul Simon also checks that box. Skye Peterson turned me on to this new Anaïs Mitchell record and it really grabbed me for that same reason. In my writing, if I can find a structure that interests me and get myself into puzzling mode, that’s when I sound like myself. I like to write a line and then turn it over and over and replace one word at a time until there’s as much assonance, alliteration, and rhyme as possible. It’s one of the happiest feelings I know. One time I spent the whole day at a theme park writing a verse in my head where the game was to make every syllable in a 10-syllable line rhyme with the corresponding syllable of every other line so that syllable 1 rhymed with syllable 1 of every other line in the verse and so on. I got it done just before the park closed and I probably had more fun than anybody else. I’m surprised by how often just faithfully solving the puzzle unlocks a truth. I’m looking for an internal rhyme and next thing I know I’m crying because I just learned something I didn’t know I knew. Your work is now focused largely on writing and producing for other artists and I think you are uniquely gifted in this calling. At the same time, I am longing for a new Ben Shive record!  I know you know how much Andy and I loved your albums and I think The Cymbal Crashing Clouds is a work of pure genius. What are your dreams for your next solo project? That’s a good question. After Cymbal Crashing Clouds, I realized in a painful way that I had been idolizing other people’s opinion of me. This resulted in a turning toward home. I was sitting in church and I thought “I would rather be a doorkeeper in the house of my God than dwell in the tents of the wicked.” To me in that moment, that meant I would rather be known by the little flock of my church as a Sunday School teacher than be admired by a bunch of people that don’t even know me and that I don’t have the bandwidth to know and love in return. But I was still in good writing shape from the immense challenge of writing Cymbal Crashing Clouds. I wrote an album’s worth of songs for my family. I’m really proud of those songs. The idea was that these songs were only for their ears. It may have been an over-correction, but the idea of writing an entire album only for the five people I love most in the world appealed to me as a little revolt against my fame idol. The song I wrote for Beth was called “Ordinary Magic.” I got the idea that I wanted to record that one with Ben Rector singing, but when he heard it, he decided to release it himself (as “Extraordinary Magic”), so it has had a sweet little life in the world. I’m interested in recording the rest of the songs. I think it might even be necessary for me creatively at some point. But at the moment I’m raising four teenagers and production demands so much of me that I don’t know how to make it happen. I write best when I’m writing the things only I would even want to write. I don’t want those things to stop being born into the world. It’s just difficult to be human and have very limited capacity. You make sacrifices and you’re never sure when you’re making the right ones. I mentioned Galatians 6:4-5 in the first part of this interview and how I am trying, with God’s help, to make a careful exploration of who I am, the work I have been given, and sink myself into that without comparing my calling to that of others. What is bringing you the most joy in your work these days? What is the best frame for your unique gifting as you see it? I am working with JJ and Dave Heller on their I Dream Of You records. When we’re doing those I get to write for orchestra and it’s a great deal of material, so over the course of three months I’ll write 25 pieces for orchestra. I’m growing in my competence and my arrangements are starting to have a little more elegance about them. I’m also getting faster and more decisive. I just love to feel like I’m inside of a particular discipline and getting to know it intimately. In the process I’ve gotten to do transcriptions of some of the great arrangements of the 20th century—“Snow Snow Snow” from White Christmas, Nat King Cole’s “The Christmas Song,” etc.—so it’s been like getting a master’s in arranging. Working with the Gettys has been cool. I’ve longed for a long time to be a part of a big team. They’ve got this team of ten writers, of which I’m one, trying to give this beautiful gift to the global church. These are brilliant people. Everybody in that room knows all kinds of things I don’t know but I also have my little gift that I bring. It’s been very meaningful. I’m surprised by how often just faithfully solving the puzzle unlocks a truth. I’m looking for an internal rhyme and next thing I know I’m crying because I just learned something I didn’t know I knew. Ben Shive Production is really a good use of my gifts. I like furthering other people’s careers while practicing my craft. More than musical talents, willingness to play second fiddle and go the distance with people are what make me a producer. It took me a long time to see that. I can be pretty hard on myself for being grouchy with my clients but then I step back and go “I’ve been creating with somebody looking over my shoulder all day every day for twenty years.” I can have a little grace for myself and recognize that God has gifted me to be strongly opinionated (enough to get crabby when somebody asks for something I think is a bad idea) but willing to defer and see a different perspective. If you aren’t willing to put up with people, you’re not a producer. This is a different season of life for both of us as our kids are in or nearing adulthood and some are leaving home for the first time. What are you learning and reflecting on in this season? I have teenagers, so I’m learning how powerless I am. When I try to control them it always backfires. I had been feeling sidelined and then I heard an interview with John Eldridge where he talked about giving everything and everyone in your life to God and that has been very helpful. He calls it benevolent detachment and it doesn’t mean you abdicate your role. It means you play your role and recognize you are completely dependent on God to save and bring a good outcome. He also gets to determine what “good” is and I have to trust him. So I’m learning that dance of saying what needs to be said and being present but leaving the outcome to the Lord. There are always great books out in the studio when we are recording. What are the best books you’ve read lately? Are you drawn to particular themes or authors? Honestly, reading has been a struggle! I hate to say it, but it’s true. My circumstances at the moment make any kind of practice very difficult, and I’m poorer for it. My current book club book is The Office: The Untold Story of the Greatest Sitcom of the 2000s and it’s such an enjoyable read. It stirs this ache in me to be a part of something bigger than myself. I have that with Behold The Lamb and that community but I wish my production work wasn’t so solitary. The last fiction book I really loved was A Gentleman In Moscow. I love that book. And my last poetry find was Malcolm Guite’s collection, David’s Crown. There you go. Ask me again in about eight years. Click here to view Deeper Into Love in the Rabbit Room Store, and here to read Part 1, in which Ben interviews Jill.

This week on The Habit Podcast, Jonathan Rogers talks with author Robyn Wall. Robyn is the author of My First Book of Beards and My First Book of Tattoos (Random House Kids) along with a story in The Lost Tales of Sir Galahad. She grew up in Memphis, TN and now lives in New York City with her bearded husband, two daughters, and kitty, Fitzgerald. Click here to listen to Season 4, Episode 22 of The Habit Podcast. Transcripts are now available for The Habit Podcast. Click here to access them. Sponsorship on the Podcast Network Are you interested in teaming up with us to support the work you love? Send an email to our Head of Development, Sarah Katherine Woodhull, at sarahkatherine@rabbitroom.com. if you are interested in becoming a sponsor of our Podcast Network. Rabbit Room Membership Special thanks to our Rabbit Room members for making these podcasts possible! If you’re interested in becoming a member, visit RabbitRoom.com/Member

The Rabbit Room Podcast is your one-stop shop for all things Rabbit Room. Each month, co-hosts Drew Miller and Leslie Eiler Thompson discuss what you can expect from us in the next four weeks, from Rabbit Room Press to North Wind Manor events to our Podcast Network and more. And sometimes, they’ll even talk with a special guest. Be on the lookout for new episodes at the beginning of each month. Click here to listen on Omny, here to listen on Apple Podcasts, and here to listen on Spotify. Transcripts are available for the Rabbit Room Podcast. Click here to access them. In this first episode, co-hosts Drew Miller and Leslie Eiler Thompson discuss what June 2022 holds for the Rabbit Room, from new podcasts to new books to a new documentary series—and even a special Rabbit Room Trivia segment. This is the first of many monthly check-ins, gathering all Rabbit Room news into one convenient place. Show Notes Find Call It Good and the Artists & Podcast at RabbitRoom.com/podcast or your podcast app of choice. Hosted by Matt Conner, Call It Good is a limited series of conversations with authors, artists, and pastors about creative confidence and the invitation before us to join with the Spirit in the act of re-creating the world. The Artists & Podcast is a series of conversations about the visual arts, hosted by Kyra Hinton and Jamin Still. See upcoming North Wind Manor events at RabbitRoom.com/events—lecture nights, film nights, concerts, open hours, and more! Visit Galahood.com—if you dare—and learn all about The Lost Tales of Sir Galahad. Find The Last Sweet Mile and Every Moment Holy, Vol 2: Pocket Edition at Store.RabbitRoom.com. The Last Sweet Mile is a tale of both great loss and enduring faith, demonstrating that love is a refining fire, brotherhood a holy gift, and death itself a doorway to a wedding feast. Learn about Taste and See and get your tickets to a virtual screening at TasteandSee.RabbitRoom.com. More than just a film, tickets to these screenings include a recipe from the pilot film that you can make with your friends, discussion questions to facilitate meaningful reflection, and a panel interview with Andrew Peterson, author Norman Wirzba, and director Andrew Brumme, moderated by Lindsey Patton. Check back in July for more Rabbit Room news! [In addition to monthly check-ins, the Rabbit Room Podcast contains an archive of the 64 episodes of the original Rabbit Room Podcast that aired between 2008 and 2018. This podcast, as it existed for those 10 years, has been retired in favor of the more focused and diverse series that make up the Rabbit Room Podcast Network.] Sponsorship on the Podcast Network Are you interested in teaming up with us to support the work you love? Send an email to our Head of Development, Sarah Katherine Woodhull. if you are interested in becoming a sponsor of our Podcast Network. Rabbit Room Membership Special thanks to our Rabbit Room members for making these podcasts possible! If you’re interested in becoming a member, visit RabbitRoom.com/Donate.

Since completing The Last Sweet Mile in 2015, I’ve always assumed I’d read it again someday. As of this moment, I have yet to do so. In the seven years since I signed off on the final manuscript, I’ve only read one chapter, “Shovel,” which I did for a roomful of gracious souls at Hutchmoot the year after publication. I’m not afraid or embarrassed of what I’ve written. I’m not unwilling to read it. After all, I wrote the book as much, maybe more, for myself than for anyone else. I’m not worried it might trigger something unpleasant. Quite the contrary. It’s just that there is a private ceremony I’ve imagined, and tried to protect, ever since the book was published. I admit it’s a somewhat curious event I have in mind. Here’s how I picture it: I will be old, undeniably old, but still in my right mind. I’ll still be living alone, as I always have. I will set a date, maybe Gary’s birthday or a July 22nd or some holiday, and spend a week in preparation of its arrival. I’ll pull out old family pictures, comb through photo albums of trips he and I took together, and read through old sermon notes or letters he wrote during his years abroad. It will be a joyous immersion. On the chosen date, I’ll lock the gate (if I’m able to walk that far), cloister myself away from any disturbance, say a prayer (maybe read Doug McKelvey’s wonderful “Liturgy for a Purposeful Gathering”), and open the book. I’ll return to, and walk down, the Last Sweet Mile. Reading will begin during the early evening hours. I’ll pour a glass of port and sit in a favorite chair near the fireplace, in the light of a single lamp. At that moment, my brother—and all that is contained in the pages of the book—will stir to life. I anticipate laughter, tears, and surprise. “Oh, yes, I’d forgotten all about that!” I expect I’ll sense a mixture of gratitude for the far-behind and longing for the up-ahead. Most of all, I will feel what I felt when I first wrote these pages, not long after Gary’s passing, when my heart was still tender, my memories clear, and my emotions alive in ways I’d never known before. All the bittersweetness of that year will come to life in a way that might well leave me dazed for days. Dazed in a good way. And so, when my dear friend Pete suggested I reread the book to make edits and corrections, I flinched a bit. His aim—for correction, clarity, improvement—made perfect sense, but I was reluctant to deprive myself of the curious ceremony I hope to carry out someday. I was relieved when the decision was made to reprint the book “as is.” Right or wrong, I’ll only be able to feel once what I think I’ll feel when I read it for the first time. It will be a joyous immersion…I expect I’ll sense a mixture of gratitude for the far-behind and longing for the up-ahead. Allen Levi Presumptuous? Undeniably. The moment I am protecting so vigorously might never arrive, or might arrive after my poor brain is addled with age. I might forget who I am long before I try to recapture who Gary was. Still, I guard the possibility. At least for awhile longer. In the meantime, I don’t need a book or ceremony to bring Gary to mind. At present, the thousand blueberry bushes he and I planted on our farm years ago are lush with ripening fruit. I was in the patch this morning and thought of him. He would be pleased with this abundance. Sitting last night on the porch of his empty house (which has a splendid view of the rising moon) brought him vividly to mind. The recent re-learning of a song about caregiving reminded me of sleeping night after night on the floor beside Gary’s bed during our final days together. It was hallowed ground because he was there. Everyday. Everywhere. Reminders. Might I beg your indulgence? And ask your forgiveness for any uncorrected passages, for things I could have said more eloquently? The words I wrote in 2015 were written at a time when grammar and rules of writing were secondary to me. Not unimportant, but not most important. I was attempting the impossible feat of squeezing my heart through a cartridge of ink. The results were sure to be a bit messy. I hope what I wrote makes sense and paints, however dimly, a worthy portrait of my brother. In the best version of my ceremony, I finish the book, say my prayers, lay down to sleep with the windows open, and wake up on the other side. At the wild continuous party. With Gary. Click here to view The Last Sweet Mile in the Rabbit Room Store. On June 24th at North Wind Manor, Allen will share some songs and read from The Last Sweet Mile in celebration of its release in paperback form. Click here to learn more and purchase tickets.

Have you listened to All the Wrecked Light yet? It’s a gorgeous, collaborative album of music, a lyrical exposition of Psalm 90, and a meditation on Holy Saturday, all in one. Wait until it’s dark outside, light a candle, put on some headphones, and press play. And then, when you’re ready to dig deeper, read this interview. As you’ll soon see, creator and lyricist Hannah Hubin is full of insight and eloquence, and her observations here will assist you in savoring All the Wrecked Light for all it’s worth. Drew Miller: What initially drew you to Psalm 90 as a creative foundation? Hannah Hubin: That “drawing” was about four years in the making, starting the night before my high school graduation in 2017. I remember sitting down with my Bible on the couch in my parents’ living room, wanting to write a prayer for the next segment of life. The verse “teach us to number our days” came to mind, but I didn’t know the reference. Google got me to Psalm 90, and once I read through the whole Psalm, I was pretty sure those seventeen verses captured what I wanted to take with me into four years of college. So I wrote a prayer based on the whole Psalm. Over that summer, I compiled a liturgy of sorts, moving through that prayer, along with different psalms and prayers from folks like Augustine and St. Patrick and the Book of Common Prayer. It works through invocation, repentance, reconciliation, assurance of pardon, praise, prayer for vision, and benediction all in about fifteen minutes. It’s so strange how the same use of fifteen minutes, over and over again, can help me remember how to talk to the Lord again. Seems like I forget how to pray every day. But the repetition helped me get the conversation off the ground. My college met in an old antebellum church, and I’d take that liturgy into the chapel in the mornings before my first class—not everyday, but often, and through all four years. As many folks know, All the Wrecked Light started as my college capstone project. When I got to the end of those four years, it just seemed natural for me to end where I began with what had, more or less, been carrying me through each week. Walk us through the way that All the Wrecked Light interacts with and draws meaning from the liturgical seasons of Lent and Eastertide, as well as Holy Week in between. What’s happening narratively in these songs that situates them within these particular seasons, and what kinds of themes and phrases should we be listening for? After the psalm reading and two songs that orient us to the world and our place in it, Ella gives our hearts the weight of Ash Wednesday in “Dust”—”dust you are and to dust you shall return”—and with it the priestly promise in the grit: that he remembers our frame, knows that we are earth. This idea of dust and ash makes its way through the whole production, along with the Lord breathing life into man, then removing his own breath when he returns him to dust. Saint Dawn in Slumber moves us most of the way through Lent in their instrumental piece, so that by the time we come to Wild Harbors’ first song, we find ourselves at Good Friday: “All our days are just a holy loss / I staked it all upon a man / Who’s staked up to a cross / All upon a man who’s staked upon a cross.” The silence of God does not equal the silence of man. Hannah Hubin And then, well—the majority of this album takes place on Holy Saturday. From Good Friday, we move through a whole eight tracks, and after all that we’re still left “standing still here in the midnight / in the darkness of God’s sacred sight / in the tomb of my Lord dressed to die / in the tomb of my Lord dressed to die.” This feels ironic to me because I’ve always associated Holy Saturday with silence. But the silence of God does not equal the silence of man. I think sometimes God’s silence gives space for our questions, doubts, praise, and voice in a way that his speech doesn’t. I really believe he wants a relationship with us, and relationships require conversation, and conversation can’t be one-sided. I really don’t think God wants to be the only one talking. He’s a listening Lord. I don’t know what all the followers of Christ were up to that Holy Saturday, but I have no doubt there was a holy ruckus, in their hearts if not aloud. I think Justin’s song about Jodi, the poetry I read, Caitlin’s juxtaposition of man’s apathy against God’s holy anger, the flooding imagery of “Years,” and Ella’s questions and grief—all these capture that ruckus. Some liturgical traditions keep an Easter vigil on Holy Saturday, waiting until midnight for the heartbeat in the tomb. If you hit play on the album right around 11:13 pm Holy Saturday, you’ll come to the resurrection moment of “breath out” right at midnight Easter morning (give or take a few seconds). When Christ breathes in “all the ash I’ve ever been,” the image is of our Lord choking to death on our sin. But then, his breath out is not his alone, because he’s breathing into us again—the first fruits of our resurrection, recreating us in a manner not unlike the creation of Adam in Eden. All that’s left in the album after that is what’s left for us after resurrection: the joy of the new creation breaking through and the continuation of life here in the church as a new world makes its place in the old. How did you come to name this project All the Wrecked Light? Could you elaborate on that phrase, its context, and what it means in relation to Psalm 90? “All the wrecked light” is a line from Cardiff State’s second song and the penultimate track of the album: And I’ll tell old stories of all the wrecked light The memory just like a crack In the walk on a Saturday night And the breath come to dusty bones And I’ll tell of how a world on loan Was made into a footstool to a throne The whole album is organized by artist, according to chiastic structure: the first song connects to the last, the second to the penultimate, etc., with “Jodi” in the (almost) center as a specific, human microcosm of the album’s narrative. This method of pairing songs is important. Cardiff State’s first song is a creation song and their second is a re-creation song. We’re told in a familiar Scripture that: In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God. All things were made through him, and without him was not anything made that was made. In him was life, and the life was the light of men. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it. —John 1:1-5 The story of the album is both the story of the created light of Genesis being “wrecked” in the fall, which we acknowledged in Lent, and the Light himself—Christ himself—being wrecked on Good Friday. On the other side of the resurrection, though, in the new creation, both wreckages are “old stories” we tell of what is real but past, for ours is the resurrected Lord and the resurrected world. Over the course of the last several years, you’ve seen this album through many phases: extensive research, writing, collaborating with various artists to put lyrics to music, crafting a live production, and finally recording an album. How has your vision for All the Wrecked Light evolved with each of those steps? I think the primary shift has been from the content to the form. I started the project very interested in Psalm 90, very focused on the lyrics I was molding, and very excited and honored to be working with musicians who could add to that content and present it to the world. I really wanted the truths of Psalm 90 to be communicated—and I still do. But as the collaborative elements of this project have grown, I’ve heard the testimony of folks who have been drawn to the piece less by the ideas surrounding Psalm 90 and more by the collaborative act. The story of the album is both the story of the created light of Genesis being 'wrecked' in the fall, which we acknowledged in Lent, and the Light himself—Christ himself—being wrecked on Good Friday. On the other side of the resurrection, though, in the new creation, both wreckages are 'old stories' we tell of what is real but past, for ours is the resurrected Lord and the resurrected world. Hannah Hubin I knew going into the college project that I was beginning something I couldn’t finish, simply by nature of not being a musician. Seeing fourteen research assistants and seven artists step up and breathe life (in that same image of the creating Lord) into this project was a massive testament to the body of Christ as Paul talks of it—making and being made, all in the image of God, all needing each other and each other’s work. By the time we made it to the first live performance, I had about 50 folks to thank for pulling it off, and I was already feeling like I was part of something I barely started and certainly wasn’t finishing; I was on the edge, watching. The album project brought in another 20 artists. Even that doesn’t include the 307 Kickstarter supporters without whom we would never have been able to record the album. That means this album is a collaboration among nearly 400 folks. It may be an exposition of Psalm 90, but it also might just be the greatest image of the body of Christ I’ve had in my life. What was it like to bring your lyrics to life with different musical artists? How did that creative process differ from artist to artist? I’d love to hear a couple examples from specific songs. The extraordinary part of it all was that these artists were willing to jump on board this crazy idea with a college kid many of them had never met. We did all the writing in the thick of the pandemic (the first performance was masked and distanced), so many folks I didn’t meet in person until rehearsal night before the live show. I had all the lyrics drafted before I reached out to artists, so they could know what they’d be working with and could see the scope of the whole project. They’re songwriters; I’m not. I wanted them to choose the pace and work in whatever method was best to them, and all I could do was be available. I trusted every single artist on this project, and I knew that whatever they did would be intentional, thoughtful, and unique to them as musicians. These are all people who work to understand poetry, so I knew they’d try to be true to the lyrical intent; they are also all people who love Scripture, so I knew they’d try to be true to the purpose as well. I worked exclusively over FaceTime with Wild Harbors and Cardiff State; they’d play a bit for me, ask a few questions about lyric changes, then set up a time for another check-in a few weeks later. It was similar with Ella and Isaac, except that I’ve known them for years. Justin and I actually worked in person, by convention of being in school together. We were meeting each week to work on Greek noun paradigms for finals, and we finished “Jodi” during study breaks. When Christ breathes in 'all the ash I’ve ever been,' the image is of our Lord choking to death on our sin. But then, his breath out is not his alone, because he’s breathing into us again—the first fruits of our resurrection, recreating us in a manner not unlike the creation of Adam in Eden. Hannah Hubin Carousel Rogues’ pairing was the hardest to nail down. I was down to the wire on getting an artist to compose for them. I didn’t even know what genre I wanted. The two songs were juxtaposing and confusing pieces, and I was confused about them. I sent a message to Caitlin via Facebook between classes one day. Caitlin asked for a coffee date, we met, and she blew me away with how invested she was in the project as a whole and how excited she was about the “Wrath” pieces. Honestly, I was still pretty unsure about those songs, though. When she sent me the voice memos, I remember feeling a little confused, and it took me way too long to realize that she had done, in that, exactly what needed to be done. Dennis Parker sent me voice memos and told me he would keep working on the songs and praying about them until he was satisfied with them. He didn’t tell me until I met him for the first time at rehearsal that he lived in Alabama. I had no idea he was going to be driving to Tennessee for the show. See what I mean? The body of Christ. One challenge inherent in any collaborative project, especially one with as many creative voices as All the Wrecked Light, is to retain cohesion throughout the work while also spotlighting the uniqueness of each voice. How did you navigate that balancing act? Honestly, Caitlin is the mastermind behind that for the album. Her arrangements and production are extraordinary, and I’ve loved watching her navigate knowing when to engage more and craft more and when to step back and watch the craft just happen. She’s brought it all together into a cohesive whole I never imagined and certainly could not have ever brought about. In trinitarian theology, she’d be the holy ghost of the album, I think. For the original performance, I certainly wanted to write the lyrics as one story. Working with the idea of chiasm and song pairings helped with “spotlighting” whatever was to come from the artists. I prayed about it a lot. As the final notes of this album ring out, what do you hope listeners come away with? I kicked off work on the project with my first research meeting, an interview with Dr. Ross Blackburn, the founding rector of an Anglican communion in North Carolina. I remember he prayed over the project there at the start with the words of Isaiah 55:11—that the Word of the Lord would go out and not return empty, but that it would accomplish that which he purposes and succeed in the thing for which he sends it. For a project based upon the Word and brought to life by God’s people, that’s my hope, and I still pray that verse over the album. I want it to bring folks nearer to the Word. Click here to visit the official website of All the Wrecked Light, here to listen on Spotify, and here to listen on Apple Music.

Jennifer and I are taking something of a sabbatical this month and walking the Camino de Santiago, a 500+ mile pilgrimage from France, across northern Spain, to Santiago de Compostela, the traditional resting place of St. James. I’m writing a bit about the experience along the way. We made it across the Pyrenees and did it all in a cloud. Here and there, we got hints of the heights we’d attained but for the most part, it was an eerie wonderland of mist and trees and the ringing bells of wandering horses. After getting lost in the fog and wandering an unneeded four kilometers to find our way, we descended into the tiny town of Roncesvalles and spent the night in the ancient pilgrim’s hostel there with hundreds of other weary travelers. Before bed, we attended mass at the adjoining church. The service was in Spanish and we stumbled our way through the liturgy, not always sure when to stand or sit, but catching refreshing hints of familiarity when hearing and recognizing the creed or names like “Pedro” (Peter) or “Pablo” (Paul). Tired and footworn, my mind wandered and it wasn’t long before I found myself getting unexpectedly emotional. I was sitting in a chapel older than my country by centuries and the words of the Gospel were spilling over me in a tongue not my own. I marveled that for all these quiet hundreds of years in a Spanish wood shrouded in mist and trodden by legions of peregrinos from every imaginable walk of life and nation and tongue, the Gospel is preached each night over whomever will come—and the pews were filled with those who came. Whether we who gather understand the liturgy or not is ultimately irrelevant. After all, even in my own tongue, the Eucharist is a mystery. The added distance of a language puts it no further from my comprehension than it is on a Sunday in my home church. I do here as I do at home: I assent to the holy mystery and it envelops me, even in my ignorance. Praise God. At the end of the mass, the priest came down from the dais and asked everyone who was a pilgrim to gather around him. He called us all out by our nations: Spain, England, Germany, France, the United States, Canada, Hungary, Korea, China, Sweden, Switzerland, Poland, Ukraine, Mexico, Brazil, and so many more. There was kindness and laughter in him as he struggled to encompass us all. Dozens had converged from all over the globe, some in search of adventure, some looking for enlightenment, some come for quiet, or companionship, or health, or grief, or a hundred other reasons. Yet here we converge in our ignorance, and in mystery, the priest blesses us with a smile. People have sometimes asked me what I hoped to get out of walking the Camino. That word, by the way, means “The Way,” the way of St. James, and the layers of meaning the descriptor carries in it are still expanding before me as I walk its paths. But I’ve tended to be evasive when the question comes. “I’m just here to walk,” I say. I’m open to something more, but I don’t want to expect anything more than some quiet and some scenery. What is the work of the church if not to offer the world back to God, even in its brokenness, its unreadiness, its rags, its smells, its blistered feet, and limping legs? We offer it back to God. The rest, perhaps, is not our business. Pete Peterson Receiving the priest’s blessing that second night, though, would be my first clue that the Way is so much more than a walk. And the form of that clue was a vision of the church that opened up before me and suggested that her quiet work in the world goes on in loveliness and humility even when I’m tempted to fear it’s drowned out by furor, scandal, and misuse. Is this smiling priest not an icon of Christ? The world comes before him in ignorance, some believe, many may not, yet communion is offered (yes, even in this Catholic mass—for who can parse us), and all are blessed—we have only to come and stretch out our hands. What is the work of the church if not to offer the world back to God, even in its brokenness, its unreadiness, its rags, its smells, its blistered feet, and limping legs? We offer it back to God. The rest, perhaps, is not our business. We slept soundly. We woke early. And on the road ahead, the clouds began to clear. A blessed green country spread out before us like a gift. This is the Way. I was only just beginning to understand. Click here to read Pete’s first journal entry from the Camino and here to read his second journal entry.

Taste and See is now streaming! And to assist you in savoring the pilot film, the Rabbit Room has partnered with the Taste and See team to create a unique screening event guide. True to the spirit of the film, the event guide is designed to take you beyond the screen and into the company of friends and family around a table. Included in the guide are discussion questions and a simple, accessible recipe for homemade ricotta crostini—a cheese which figures prominently in the pilot film. This first Taste and See film takes place at a Jewish farming community where, among other things, the participants learn to make ricotta cheese together from their goats’ milk. The milk is traditionally one of the first fruits of the spring, and turning the milk into cheese is a part of stewarding the gift God provided through the herd. Many of us enjoy cheese, but how many of us have made cheese? Ricotta is a great introductory cheese that is very easy and delicious. The only essential ingredients are milk (cow’s milk is okay!) and acid (lemon juice and/or vinegar), plus salt. The process of making ricotta has the potential to be a delightful experience of discovery. We encourage you to gather as a group and make ricotta together as a part of sharing a meal together before or after watching the Taste and See film. Each household needs one virtual screening ticket. If you’re gathering a larger group, please be sure each household purchases a ticket in support of the filmmakers! P.S. In addition to your screening event guide with discussion questions and a ricotta recipe, each screening will be followed by a panel discussion with director Andrew Brumme, author Norman Wirzba, and Rabbit Room founder and president Andrew Peterson, moderated by Lindsey Patton. Purchase your tickets to a virtual screening of Taste and See at TasteandSee.RabbitRoom.com.

This week on The Habit Podcast, Jonathan Rogers talks with theologian, teacher, speaker, and musician Jeremy Begbie. Jeremy Begbie is the Thomas A. Langford Distinguished Research Professor of Theology at Duke Divinity School. He teaches systematic theology and specializes in the interface between theology and the arts. He is a senior member at Wolfson College, Cambridge, and an affiliated lecturer in the Faculty of Music at the University of Cambridge. Along with David O. Taylor and Daniel Train, Professor Begbie co-edited the recently-released collection of essays, The Art of New Creation, in which artists, theologians, and scholars explore the ways in which the biblical promise of new creation informs the work of artists of all kinds. Click here to listen to Season 4, Episode 23 of The Habit Podcast. Transcripts are now available for The Habit Podcast. Click here to access them. Sponsorship on the Podcast Network Are you interested in teaming up with us to support the work you love? Send an email to our Head of Communications & Development, Shigé Clark, at shige@rabbitroom.com if you are interested in becoming a sponsor of our Podcast Network. Rabbit Room Membership Special thanks to our Rabbit Room members for making these podcasts possible! If you’re interested in becoming a member, visit RabbitRoom.com/Donate.

New to the Rabbit Room Podcast Network is Call It Good: Conversations on Creative Confidence. Hosted by Matt Conner (host of The Resistance), Call It Good is a limited series of conversations with authors, artists, and pastors about the invitation before us to join with the Spirit in the act of re-creating the world. We’re excited to share with you the remaining four in-depth interviews on creativity, the Creation story, and what it means to bless the work of your hands. Read on for a word from Matt about each of these guests and what they bring to the conversation. Click here to listen to Episodes 5-8 on Omny, here to listen on Apple Podcasts, and here to listen on Spotify. Transcripts are now available for Call It Good. Click here to access them. Propaganda Beyond his substantive and compelling work in the arts, Propaganda also just released a new book Terraform, a series of thoughtful essays about this subject of building a better world. On this episode of Call it Good, Propaganda sat down to tell me about the wrestling he’s done over time when it comes to reflecting on his own art. The battle, he says, has been about identity and making sure that the work doesn’t reflect his worth. It’s a joy and freedom to participate in this act of building a better world, and that ability to call it good can be corrupted if we allow it. Carolyn Arends If you’ve followed along with Carolyn’s career over the 25 years since, you’ll likely agree with me that you’ve learned to trust her work and her voice. She’s released more than a dozen albums in the last quarter decade, along with three acclaimed books. In addition to her work as a creative practitioner, she has also taken up the mantle of Director of Education for Renovaré, a position that allows her to encourage and strengthen the spiritual formation of others. If you’ve been along on this journey with us on the Call It Good podcast, you’ll know we’re seeking to best understand what it means to create in the image of a Creator. How does Genesis 1 actually apply to us? And what does it mean to rest and reflect after we’ve actually made something? Because of Carolyn’s ability to speak to these topics with experience and grace from multiple angles, I knew that she’d be an ideal guest for the podcast. On this episode of Call It Good, she provides us with a wealth of wisdom from her experience as a multi-discipline practitioner and her perspective as an educator. Andrew Peterson For author and singer-songwriter (and so many other things) Andrew Peterson, the last year or more certainly presented some challenges as it did for everyone. But it was also an unexpected respite after a quarter-century of creative work, leaning into his considerable musical and literary gifts to release album after album and book after book. As Andrew explains in this episode, the pandemic provided him his first year at home in his entire adult life. It gave him a chance to reflect upon his own creative work, the mission of The Rabbit Room, and what Sabbath even means for him and his family. As something typically overlooked, ignored, or even treated as a hurdle, Sabbath is actually a beautiful rest intended for our benefit as creators made in the image of the Creator. We hope this honest and heartening conversation with Andrew encourages you in your own journey ahead to figure out what Sabbath means and how you can enter into it. Pete Peterson At this stage in our exploration of Genesis 1 in our Call It Good series, it felt important to sit down with Pete Peterson, someone who sits at an important nexus in relation to calling it good. As the Creative Director of The Rabbit Room, Pete is tasked with shaping a creative community whose mission is to “cultivate and curate stories, music, and art to nourish Christ-centered communities for the life of the world.” As an author and playwright, Pete knows and feels firsthand the tension that comes with serving the work and seeing it all the way through to its release. Are we allowed to reflect on what we’ve made and call it good, too? If so, then why does the sharing of what we’ve created feel so awkward? And how can community play a role in making all of this a healthier process? We spoke to Pete about his own creative pursuits, as well as the mission of The Rabbit Room, to gain a better foothold on this part of serving the work and what it means to see it through to its end. Sponsorship on the Podcast Network Are you interested in teaming up with us to support the work you love? Send an email to our Head of Communications & Development, Shigé Clark, at shige@rabbitroom.com if you are interested in becoming a sponsor of our Podcast Network. Rabbit Room Membership Special thanks to our Rabbit Room members for making these podcasts possible! If you’re interested in becoming a member, visit RabbitRoom.com/Donate. #semifeature

“Why do we eat—together?” This is the central question of Andrew Brumme’s exquisite new docuseries, Taste and See, a cinematic journey into the essential sacredness of food. As the pilot so winsomely insists, there is much more to eating than meets the eye: from cultivation to preparation, to serving and sharing, food is a vehicle for holy mystery and transformative grace. If this sounds like a recipe for lofty theological discourse, it’s not. Taste and See is, first and foremost, a story—a series of stories, in fact, living parables enfolding a central truth. Its profundity rests not in assertions and ideologies, but in the astonishing audacity of its hope: namely, that God really is good, and that he really does want us to engage with his goodness in daily, practical ways. In our gardens, in our kitchens, at our markets, around our tables. This hope is nothing new, of course: for centuries God’s people have fully expected to meet him amid the matter of life. Medievals were famous for reading the world like God’s “second book,” immortalizing the intersection of the sacred and the mundane in literature, music, and art. Our spiritual ancestors observed laws and feast days pertaining to farming and food, not because God was arbitrary, but because he was holy. If the Fall of Man rent the fabric of existence into the false divides of “spiritual” and “temporal,” the Incarnation of Christ stitched it back up again, endowing even the lowliest stuff of life with the potential to tell us something about who God is and what his love looks like. Somewhere along the way, however, we’ve lost touch with the essential earthiness of our faith. We have locked God up in churches and seminaries and ivory-towered constructs—or, at least, we have tried to. Taste and See is proof positive that God won’t be locked up, and that the world around us is fairly bristling, gleaming—one might almost say charged—with his glory. Through lush, often tender cinematography and vulnerable personal narrative, Taste and See invites viewers into the worlds of ordinary men and women, from all walks of life and vocation, who embody this extraordinary hope. In the case of the pilot, it’s the story of Shomriel, whose exploration of her Jewish roots after the death of her mother leads her to the Adamah farming community deep in the wooded hills of Connecticut. There, within rhythms of prayer, work, community, and rest, she discovers the sacredness of the shared meal and the labor that went into preparing it—work not only of the fellows and staff, but of the earth itself. More than mere sustenance, food becomes a meaningful engagement with the realities of life and death. In an era of disembodied religious practice and cultural isolation, Taste and See offers a delicious alternative: a faith that’s incarnational enough to pull up a chair to the goodness of God. Lanier Ivester It is this very candor about death which gives this film its power—I would even say its authority. Without shying away from the some of the messier facts of life, Taste and See treats such facts with reverence. It is true: in order for us to eat, something had to die. Animal or vegetable, the cost of our life is life. But death is never the end. Life is always what God has in mind, for us and for his earth. As the Adamah community demonstrates, this is a blessing, but it is also a responsibility—from compost to goat husbandry, to cheesemaking and the breaking of bread, every facet of the process is treated with a gentle awe, gleaming through each scene like a golden thread. Indeed, for a film so unapologetic about death, Taste and See is overwhelmingly characterized by delight. And not just in food, and the manifold tastes, flavors, textures and combinations God has provided, but in the people that delight is shared with. “It’s easier not to care about people,” Shomriel says near the end of the film. The risk, the very real prospect of loss, the uncertainties undergirding every meal we take together, threaten to keep us apart. Nevertheless, a very real joy prevails when we sit down at the tables of this life, opening ourselves, not only to community, but to a sense of our own belovedness. This, I think, approaches the question of why we eat together. As one of the directors of Adamah explains, the Temple used to be our point of communion with God. But the Temple has found a new altar in the Table—a table of which there are uncountable iterations the world over. Lesser iterations, to be sure, but no less equipped to connect us with something far greater than ourselves. It can be tempting to over-spiritualize such weighty themes, to explain away the mystery to the point of utter unrecognizability. But this is a temptation which this film has evaded entirely. Without imposing meaning or engineering moments to suit an agenda, you get the sense that Brumme has simply shown up to something remarkably active and present in our world, available to all who have ears to hear and eyes to see—and, yes tastebuds to taste. In an era of disembodied religious practice and cultural isolation, Taste and See offers a delicious alternative: a faith that’s incarnational enough to pull up a chair to the goodness of God. We’re all welcome at that table. Click here to get your tickets to a virtual screening of Taste and See. Want to learn more about the film? Click here for an in-depth interview with director Andrew Brumme.

[Editor’s note: Our friends at Square Halo books have a brand new collection of essays called Wild Things and Castles in the Sky. Together, these essays form one cohesive guide for choosing books for children. Today, we’re grateful to share with you an essay from the book written by Shanika Churchville, in which she discusses the ways that the book of Deuteronomy offers a guide to families on how to discuss race with children.] In Deuteronomy 6:4–9 and 11:18–21, as well as throughout the Pentateuch, God encourages the use of concrete images and tangible symbols.1 Symbols on hands, between eyes, and on doorposts would mark these ragtag nomads as the people of God and create a basis for lessons and conversations between parents and children, ones full of stories of God’s goodness and faithfulness.2 I suggest that Deuteronomy provides modern day readers not only with examples of how to talk with our children about God’s protection and provision but also with a model for conversations about race. The Black Church has historically claimed as its own the story of the 400-year enslavement of God’s people and his liberation of them in Exodus.3 Following in its steps, we can use Deuteronomy to frame conversations with children about race. While I write this, America is grappling with issues of race. Many are awakening to the experiences and realities faced by people of color related to racial injustice and centuries-old oppression. Some white friends and acquaintances have confided to my husband and me that they have never talked or thought about race and feel ignorant of the perspectives, experiences, and history of Black people. I’d like to suggest that God has given Christians of all races, but particularly white Christians, a pivotal opportunity to think and talk about race. If we want our children to grow into adults who can lovingly and respectfully engage across racial or cultural lines, we must begin by having conversations about race with them at home. With Deuteronomy as our guide, I’d like to offer myself to you as a fellow learner on this journey. I am a Sri Lankan American and have had the privilege of living in both Sri Lanka and the United States. While I’ve had to navigate life as a person of color in largely white spaces in the United States, I’ve also lived as a member of a privileged family of a majority culture in Sri Lanka. Two decades ago, I married my husband, who is Black. Over our years together, I have learned much about the history of this country and the beauty and suffering of Black people. I have had to learn the painful realities of historic and systemic racism. I have had to grapple with my own prejudice and ignorance and acknowledge the unearned benefits accorded me by my privileged background. God has blessed us with two sons. In raising them, I have had to become more intentional about learning and teaching them their history and the realities of living in a society that might misunderstand them at best and seek to destroy them at worst. It has been both exhilarating and incredibly painful, and it has been one of the most profound experiences of my life. I recognize that I have kept my focus very narrow here. I’ve chosen to share how I celebrate Black history and experience with my sons. I haven’t shared about how I communicate Sri Lankan culture to my sons or how a parent could teach their children about the varied ethnic and cultural experiences of white, Asian, Latino, Native, or multi-racial peoples. However, I believe the following principles hold true when making any intentional choice to enrich children’s reading experiences and expand their cultural competence and sensitivity. Be Concrete You shall bind them as a sign on your hand, and they shall be as frontlets between your eyes. —Deuteronomy 6:8 God reinforces the power of the concrete in his exhortation to parents. The beauty of children’s books is their power to deliver the loftiest truths and the deepest sorrows with simple stories and vivid imagery. I love sharing Faith Ringgold’s books with my boys. Her gorgeous, vibrant artwork provides a stunning and fanciful backdrop to her depiction of the Underground Railroad in Aunt Harriet’s Underground Railroad in the Sky. Picture books provide a solid, touchable way to engage in conversations about race with your children. Research shows that children as young as six months begin to nonverbally categorize race and that toddlers begin to make inferences connected to racial categories.4 It is never too early to begin talking about race in open, affirming, and age-appropriate ways. Books, particularly picture books, provide a marvelous way to do that. 5 Be Humble Know, therefore, that the Lord your God is not giving you this good land to possess because of your righteousness, for you are a stubborn people. Remember and do not forget how you provoked the Lord your God to wrath in the wilderness. From the day you came out of the land of Egypt until you came to this place, you have been rebellious against the Lord. —Deuteronomy 9:6-8 God reminds his people that their possession of good land had nothing to do with their faithfulness or goodness. He calls them to humility and to recognize himself as the source of their blessings. As Americans, we have also been given “this good land” and the accompanying freedoms many of our global neighbors do not enjoy. While we may enjoy certain rights and privileges, God calls us to remember that he is the source of those blessings, not our own goodness. It is humbling to face the guilt of oppression and injustice built over centuries. Books provide an age-appropriate way to exercise this humility, along with our children. Shanika Churchville In Deuteronomy 9, God also calls his people to remember their sins of stubbornness and rebellion. Our country’s history, while full of evidence of God’s goodness, has also been marked by a stubborn refusal to face and change deeply held beliefs about race. To engage with children about this stubbornness in our racial divide is to exercise humility. It is humbling to face the guilt of oppression and injustice built over centuries. Books provide an age-appropriate way to exercise this humility, along with our children. Read books such as Jeannette Winter’s Follow the Drinking Gourd and Deborah Hopkinson’s Sweet Clara and the Freedom Quilt and open your children’s eyes to the specifics of slavery and the Underground Railroad. Read Jacqueline Woodson’s The Other Side and Margaret Mason’s These Hands and facilitate discussions about the indignities of segregation. God does not protect his people from memories of disobedience and waywardness but recounts a story of both blessings and rebellion. Neither should we, in an effort to protect our children, whitewash memories of our disobedience to God’s commandments—disobedience that has included the subjugation and oppression of Black people.6 Be Amazed For your eyes have seen all the great work of the Lord that he did. —Deuteronomy 11:7 Any hearer of Moses’ words would be amazed, contemplating God’s “mighty deed and his outstretched arm” (Deut. 11: 2). Towards the end of Deuteronomy, we hear Moses praising God for his faithfulness (Deut. 32:1–4). Indeed, the book of Deuteronomy is a hymn to the amazing deeds of the Lord. When I look at my sons, I see in them the sheer determination and triumph of their ancestors who overcame historic hardships. I think of the following from Maya Angelou’s “Still I Rise”: Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave, I am the dream and the hope of the slave. I rise I rise I rise.7 —”Still I Rise,” Maya Angelou Don’t settle for the abridged and anesthetized version of Black history served up in elementary schools every February. Open your family to the glory and beauty of Black history. In our house we celebrate Martin and Malcolm, Rosa Parks and Harriet Tubman, Jackie Robinson and Muhammad Ali, as well as our Black students, colleagues, family members, and friends. Fight against the prevailing narratives, both the paternalistic ones that caricature all Black people as helpless and hopeless and the destructive ones that depict all Black people as dangerous and criminal. Share books with your children like Derrick Barnes’s I Am Every Good Thing and be amazed! Curated and edited by Leslie and Carey Bustard with Théa Rosenburg, Wild Things and Castles in the Sky explores topics like classic literature, imagination, art history, race, poetry, young adult novels, faith, and more. The aim and hope is that these essays would encourage parents, grandparents, teachers, and friends to share the power of a good story with a child they love. Click here to learn more about the book. To learn more about the book from its editor, listen to Leslie Bustard’s conversation with Jonathan Rogers on The Habit Podcast.

This week on The Habit Podcast, Jonathan Rogers talks with author and pastor Scott Sauls. Scott Sauls is the author of six books, most recently Beautiful People Don’t Just Happen: How God Redeems Regret, Hurt, and Fear in the Making of Better People. In this episode, Scott speaks with his old friend Jonathan Rogers about the beauty that can grow out of past hurts. Click here to listen to Season 4, Episode 24 of The Habit Podcast. Transcripts are now available for The Habit Podcast. Click here to access them. Sponsorship on the Podcast Network Are you interested in teaming up with us to support the work you love? Send an email to our Head of Development, Sarah Katherine Woodhull if you are interested in becoming a sponsor of our Podcast Network. Rabbit Room Membership Special thanks to our Rabbit Room members for making these podcasts possible! If you’re interested in becoming a member, visit RabbitRoom.com/Donate.

For the first half of my life, there was the sacred and there was the secular, and never the twain shall meet. I may not have heard this directly from the pulpit, but I definitely saw it lived out in the evangelical world of the eighties and nineties. We believed God was in church on Sunday, but we spent the rest of our days in the world, a world quite separate from anything holy. Yes, we prayed before meals. Yes, my preacher Dad led family devotions on Friday nights. Yes, we had Bible verses hanging on our walls, but the world outside those walls was dangerous—so we had lots of rules to keep it from getting in. Like listening only to Christian music, and reading mainly Christian books, and watching mostly Christian movies. No one was selling Christian clothes just yet, but we knew the rules of Christian dress and modesty. We were a people set apart after all, forced to be “in the world,” yet striving not to be “of” it. The idea of experiencing God in things that were not labeled Christian was foreign to me. Seeing God in the physical world around me, in the daily grit of life, was something I never considered until I went away to college. Before that I thought of God as spirit and everything else as flesh. Yes, God made the earth and yes, I lived on it; but that’s where the connection ended. I never saw the natural world as his present or presence to me. Everything I learned about spiritual life prior to leaving home was just that: spiritual. I viewed my sins as thoughts and words, or the occasional squabble with my siblings; and the solution to that sin was more words. Words about heaven. Words prayed to God. Words of forgiveness written in holy Christian Bibles. Words and thoughts were my only connection to the spiritual realm. It might be hard to understand if you didn’t grow up in this same atmosphere, but we evangelicals feared icons. Icons led to idolatry—the worship of things which were not God. God was something you couldn’t see; ergo, all the things you could see were not godly. Therefore, we would not worship anything we could see. Fine, good. What was wrong with this logic? Well, just one thing: Jesus. You see, the churches I attended during my childhood loved Jesus. We preached Jesus. We prayed and sang to him. We baptized folks in his name, and we were born again because of his death. We knew all about his perfect, sacrificial life, and we loved to tell the world about his wonderful love. But we wouldn’t hang a picture of him up in the sanctuary. We couldn’t place a statue of his likeness in the foyer. We would not allow images of a cross which bore his body. For he was not flesh anymore—Amen! He was risen—Hallelujah!! Alive, I say, and living in heaven with God the Father—Praise the Lord!!! You know, heaven—that far off place no one’s ever seen? That’s where Jesus was. Yes, his Spirit was present with us, but he was not part of the small crackers or grape juice we passed around once a quarter. We did not believe in transubstantiation. We would not stand for such heresy! Communion was merely a symbol, a flag you uttered a pledge to now and again; not a blanket to wrap yourself in every Sunday. Because our real work was saving souls, scrubbing the sins off those souls, and getting those spiritual souls up to heaven. There was no need to worry about redeeming material things or renewing the world around us. Souls lasted forever, but not this world. Therefore, the only hope we had was for resurrection. Deny your flesh, concentrate on the transformation of your soul, and hold on—heaven comes to those who wait. Heaven came to me when I left home for college. Like most freshmen, I felt like the whole world was in front of me, and the best part was being in charge of my own life. Finally. Now I could decide whether to move or stay put, because I didn’t have to follow Mom and Dad around anymore. They no longer had a say in what I wore, where I went, or how I spent my time. The freedom was overwhelming and wonderful, but I still felt like something was missing. In September of my sophomore year, a mutual friend introduced me to a skinny freshman suffering his first college heartbreak. The lead singer of a Christian Ska band, Kevin was not the kind of guy I’d ever imagined dating, but we hit it off due to our mutual love of literature and poetry. Kevin wore baggy pants, oversized flannel shirts, and was a bit too scruffy for boyfriend material in my opinion, but I was still drawn to him. He struggled to keep his extra large clothes from swallowing his small frame, and wore thick glasses that were nearly as big as his face, but he also had a scraggly beard and long wispy hair that made him look somewhat like Jesus in that Da Vinci painting. Add to that his great laugh, wonderful sense of humor, and love of nature walks, and he turned out to be a pretty great friend. There’s a difference between denying your flesh and pretending it doesn’t exist. We humans are more than mere souls dressed in three-dimensional costumes, and these bodies are an intentional element of our earthly experience. Janna Barber I reckon there were plenty of men with long hair back in 1995, but I’d never spent time with one before Kevin. All the boys I knew growing up had short, close cuts, because anything else (other than a mullet) was considered girly. Kevin, on the other hand, had battled leukemia in high school, and the chemo made his hair fall out, so when it grew back he couldn’t bring himself to cut it anymore. Kevin became like a younger, wiser brother to me. He seemed to know and love Jesus in a way I hadn’t seen before and there was great depth in him that anyone could see, but he never suspected himself. Struggling with cancer at an early age gave Kevin life experience the rest of us lacked. He told the greatest stories and made me laugh in a way few other guys could. Twenty years later we still email each other, to discuss our latest writing or new favorite works of art. Another gift I got at college was an introduction to Praise and Worship, a student-led service that met in an old chapel on Thursday nights. Two upperclassmen played guitars and sang choruses from Vineyard Church, Maranatha! and Hillsong (along with a few originals of their own) while the rest of us knelt on the floor, or stood and raised our hands, or even clapped along—gasp! The worship I’d known previous to that time was limited to three hymns and the occasional solo while members sat stiffly in wooden pews. But this new environment paid no mind to schedules or propriety, and reminded me of gathering around campfires late at night during church camp—and the intense devotion I’d felt to Christ as a kid. Between my friendship with Kevin and all the new things I was being exposed to, I began to see less of a division between sacredness and the “secular world” I’d been sheltered from for eighteen years. To echo Eugene Peterson’s paraphrase of John 1:14, it was sort of like the spiritual words I’d grown up with were becoming flesh and blood, and moving into my neighborhood. Four years later I was a new mom struggling with postpartum depression, so I reached out to another college friend and asked for advice. Neither of us had the vocabulary back then to identify what was going on, as PPD was something I learned about in 2003, but Jerusalem could tell I wasn’t myself anymore. So she suggested I meet with a lady she’d been seeing herself for a couple of months. Gail wasn’t the kind of therapist who just taught about Jesus; instead, she loved me like Jesus. And it was her flesh and blood, her steady gaze and calm voice, her listening ears and peaceful presence that saved me from hurting myself and my child, and helped me find hope and faith again. The kind of faith that turned me into a poet and led to me telling stories like this one. There’s a difference between denying your flesh and pretending it doesn’t exist. We humans are more than mere souls dressed in three-dimensional costumes, and these bodies are an intentional element of our earthly experience. So much so that God himself saw it fit to inhabit one for thirty-three years. The Old Testament warns its readers over and over again: “Do not worship idols carved from stone, or wood, or gold.” If you do, it says, you’ll become just like them, having “eyes that cannot see, ears that cannot hear, and mouths that cannot speak.” Centuries later, my idols look a bit different than those of the Israelites, but I don’t think they’re icons, nor the world I was warned against as a child. Instead, they’re much less tangible notions. For example, I’ve worshiped my own sense of health and beauty, as well as wealth, stability, and being part of a “normal” family. But the biggest temptation for me is to worship a God who never allows trouble, heartache, or grief into the lives of his children. And strangely enough, it’s the tangible elements of creation that lead me back to the truth of who God really is. Like how the first time I kissed each of my babies, I understood more what it means to bear his image. Or how when I listen to a babbling creek in a quiet wood, or smell fresh hyacinth, or taste the salty tears of grief and sorrow, I can sense the presence of the Holy Spirit in my deep breaths. And every time I see a handsome groom waiting for his beloved bride, I know I’m really getting a glimpse into the heart of Jesus toward all humanity. This post was adapted from chapter five of Hidden In Shadow: Tales of Grief, Lamentation, and Faith, now available as an audiobook. To get your copy, click here.

[Editor’s note: On Juneteenth in 2020, Ruth Naomi Floyd (known by many in the Rabbit Room readership for her amazing Hutchmoot sessions) shared a lovingly curated combination of her own words, two letters from former prisoners of the American slavery system, and her performance of the song “Oh, Freedom.” This story of a freedom “prayed for, hoped for, cried for, moaned for, even fought for” carries an abiding resonance that we want to extend to our readership this year as well. We encourage you to take in these words and melodies slowly and attentively.] “And are we yet alive to see each other’s face.” —an African prisoner of the forced labor system of American Slavery History would say that the Emancipation Proclamation on January 1st, 1863 ended American chattel slavery, thereby changing the legal status of the African prisoners of that forced labor system for good. Yet what is actually true is that emancipation on that day only freed the African slaves in the Confederate states. Slavery remained alive and well in Texas, due to the lack of the presence of Union troops whose responsibility it was to enforce the proclamation. Because Texas held onto slavery, many slaveholders relocated there along with their slaves and the slave population in Texas increased by tens of thousands. While millions across the Confederacy rejoiced in their new-found freedom—a freedom prayed for, hoped for, cried for, moaned for, even fought for—still so many in Texas were not included in that freedom song for a very long time. However on June 19th, 1865, two and a half years after the Emancipation Proclamation, the people of Texas were informed that they too, were indeed free. Lively celebrations of dancing and singing followed the pronouncement. Finally, every freed prisoner of the American slavery system could rejoice and let freedom ring! This is what Juneteenth commemorates: the day when those enslaved in Texas received word of their freedom. In the midst of the celebrations, however, remained a bittersweet reality, that this so-called freedom would still be laden with oppression and dehumanization. For those descended of the American slave system, life continued to be permeated by inequality and injustice—a reality that remains ever present today as those who were historically emancipated still have not been fully delivered. An African prisoner of the forced labor system of American Slavery Jennie Hill 96 years old Born 1837 Enslaved in Kansas & Missouri Interviewed in 1933 “Those masters were cruel. They carried rawhide whips and if the women dragged a little in their long march they were lashed with the whips until the blood streamed from their poor cut backs. Some people think that the slaves had no feeling—that they bore their children as animals bear their young and that there was no heartbreak when the children were torn from their parents or the mother taken from her brood to toil for a master in another state. But that isn’t so. The slaves loved their families even as the Negroes love their own today and the happiest time of their lives was when they could sit at their cabin doors when the day’s work was done and sing the old slave songs, ‘Swing Low Sweet Chariot,’ ‘Massa in the Cold, Cold Ground,’ and ‘Nobody Knows What Trouble I’ve Seen.’ Children learned these songs and sang them only as a Negro child could. That was the slave’s only happiness, a happiness that for many of them did not last. When Lincoln freed the slaves, I knew of dozens of children who started out to search through the southland for their parents who had been sold down the river. Parents left in the north country searched frantically for their children. But I only know of one case where the family was ever united. Some perhaps were killed in the battles, but in the majority of the cases the children of slaves lost their identity when they were taken from the place of their birth into a new county.” An African prisoner of the forced labor system of American Slavery N.C. (Name not available) 100 years old Born in 1810 Enslaved in Alabama & Texas Interviewed in 1910 “When you were a hundred years old, you see the stars fall, and the other night when I went out I saw all the stars drop from the sky. I was at a wonder when I saw it. Oh the stars in the elements are falling, And the moon drips away in the blood. We looked out on the red fields where men guided the mules in the plowing. It must be a hundred years ago. I have seen and heard a sorrow and trouble, but it is over for me. I thank the Lord that I am free, that us all, children, and women, and men are free.” To explore more of Ruth Naomi Floyd’s work, check out her Hutchmoot session “A Theology of the Blues & Belonging” and her interview with Jonathan Rogers on The Habit Podcast. Click here to follow Ruth Naomi Floyd on Facebook, here to follow her on Instagram, and here to check out her website. The excerpts above are from Slave Testimony: Two Centuries of Letters, Speeches, Interviews, and Autobiographies by John W. Blassingame, LSU Press, 1977. Artwork credit: “American Uprising” by Kadir Nelson for the Rolling Stone

This week on The Habit Podcast, Jonathan Rogers talks with author (Shiloh series, The Door on Half-Bald Hill), speaker, and writing coach Helena Sorensen. In this episode, recorded live at the first Habit Writers’ Retreat at Nashville’s North Wind Manor, Helena speaks with Jonathan Rogers about the particular challenges faced by women (especially mothers) who are struggling to find the permission they need to write. Click here to listen to Season 4, Episode 25 of The Habit Podcast. Transcripts are now available for The Habit Podcast. Click here to access them. Sponsorship on the Podcast Network Are you interested in teaming up with us to support the work you love? Send an email to our Head of Communications & Development, Shigé Clark, at shige@rabbitroom.com if you are interested in becoming a sponsor of our Podcast Network. Rabbit Room Membership Special thanks to our Rabbit Room members for making these podcasts possible! If you’re interested in becoming a member, visit RabbitRoom.com/Donate.

As a child, I was terrified of being asked to pray aloud. It always seemed like other people—usually adults—knew all the right words and how to string them together. And even if I thought my everyday words were good enough, there was the problem of focusing so hard on finding those words that I was no longer praying with my heart, only my mouth. If you assume this is something I just grew out of, you’d only be partially right. Of course, it wasn’t (and isn’t) true that my prayers were less. After all, Jesus set apart special time for children whose requests and questions weren’t so different from mine. Many adults benefit from written prayers to guide their conversations with God like The Book of Common Prayer or Every Moment Holy. The new book Little Prayers for Ordinary Days by Katy Bowser Hutson, Flo Paris Oakes (you may know Katy and Flo from Rain for Roots), and Tish Harrison Warren aims to do the same for children. At first glance, this book of thirty short prayers is deceptively simple. But as a picture book writer, I can tell you it’s actually much easier to write lots of words than winnow down to just the few perfect words. These prayers are short not because they were written quickly, but because they were labored over. And though these prayers are made up of everyday language, they model many types of prayer: praise, thanksgiving, petition, repentance, requests for God’s closeness, and even statements of theology (e.g. reminders of God’s goodness or that he rested after creation). It’s easy for children, or any of us, to fall into one kind of prayer. Often we’re asking God for things, which he loves for his children to do. But sometimes that’s the only thing we’re doing. I love that in these prayers, when something is asked of God, the prayer always closes with a reminder or praise of who God is. One example is the prayer “For when I have lost something,” which closes with the reminder that God “always, always, always comes after me to find me.” This helps reframe the child’s frustration with a reminder of the gospel. Each prayer is short, just the right length for a child’s wandering attention span. But their brevity also models that longer prayers aren’t more holy or worthy than short ones. The prayers are short enough that a child will naturally memorize the ones they use frequently without even trying, giving their heart a language to use when they turn to God on their own. You might be surprised to find prayers for taking a bath or brushing your teeth included in this book. But Paul exhorts us to pray without ceasing. These prayers for everyday moments model what life can look like, giving kids the freedom to talk to God about everything, not just the big things. As the authors exhort their young readers in the forward, “There is nothing that you’re not allowed to say to God. God always listens. God always loves you. You can tell God anything.” Some of my favorite everyday prayers include “For reading a book,” “For making something,” and “For trying something new.” This sweet book is full of simple, calming illustrations with plenty of white space. It’s small enough for little hands to hold or for a parent to tuck into a purse or backpack. Whether or not your child struggles to pray aloud, these prayers can be a helpful guide, prompting them to draw closer to their creator and reminding them, and you, of his love. Click here to pick up your copy of Little Prayers for Ordinary Days.

This week on The Habit Podcast, Jonathan Rogers talks with songwriter and author of The Last Sweet Mile, Allen Levi. Allen lost his brother and best friend Gary ten years ago this summer. He memorializes his brother’s life—and especially the year he was his brother’s full-time caretaker—in The Last Sweet Mile, recently re-released by Rabbit Room Press. In this episode, Allen and Jonathan Rogers discuss the impossible challenge of putting words to the things that matter most, and the reasons for trying anyway. Click here to listen to Season 4, Episode 26 of The Habit Podcast. Transcripts are now available for The Habit Podcast. Click here to access them. Sponsorship on the Podcast Network Are you interested in teaming up with us to support the work you love? Send an email to our Head of Communications & Development, Shigé Clark, at shige@rabbitroom.com if you are interested in becoming a sponsor of our Podcast Network. Rabbit Room Membership 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: In the spirit of Rilke's Letters to a Young Poet, Ben Palpant has written letters to his daughter to help her along the path of creativity and faith. He uses his hard-earned experience to help her learn to write and to live well and, by doing so, helps us do the same. He patiently and gracefully paints a vision of what it means to enter into one’s creative work as an act of generative obedience—an act that blesses the writer, the work itself, and the world that receives it. In this selection from Letters From The Mountain, Palpant reminds his daughter (and us) that God gave us solitude to feed our souls so that we could nourish the community for which we were made.] “The first stars hover and drift down. Like a roosting hawk, I listen to silence and gaze into the dark.” —J. A. Baker, The Peregrine Out of five hundred plus in my graduating class, I was voted most likely to become a monk. No, I didn’t find it funny at the time, but after nearly twenty-five years of marriage and five children, I can laugh about it now. Mine isn’t exactly the monastic life, but I know why they voted that way. I’ve always been at ease with solitude. I was the kid who would rather be left alone most of the time, free to think his own thoughts and do his own thing, a textbook introvert. Even today I feel most at home in solitude, and most like a foreigner in crowds. Maybe that’s why this quotation from Bonhoeffer’s Life Together keeps nagging at me. You read it to me yesterday because you share my aversion to crowds. I’m glad you gave it to me. His words have prompted me to meditate on the paradox of community, the necessity of being alone and together. “Let him who cannot be alone beware of community. He will only do harm to himself and to the community. Alone you stood before God when he called you; alone you had to answer that call; alone you had to struggle and pray; and alone you will die and give an account to God . . . But the reverse is also true: Let him who is not in community beware of being alone. Into the community you were called, the call was not meant for you alone.” —Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Life Together Called to Serve Community God calls you to serve community. Your community is more than your family and friends. It includes coworkers and strangers, too. Generative Christians engender loyalty and trust and affection from those people. We build relationships, not simply platforms. The former tend to stay people-centered, while the latter are focused on income and influence. Neither hardship nor prosperity should derail the proper prioritization of people over prestige. Christ prioritized people over power in this way and you’re an extension of his love. Generativity Thrives in Community I’ve been surprised in life to find that my writing generates in those around me new creative expressions that, in turn, inspire me to further work. This picture coincides with the garden metaphor. When I cultivate the garden around me—weeding, watering, planting, and fertilizing—those plants blossom and send forth their own shoots, their own seeds on the wind. You will find this principle true in your own life. Join a community that shares your love for God, for people, and for life. Share poetry together. Send each other quotations from the books you’re reading. Encourage them in their endeavors. That community is an important part of sustaining you on life’s journey. Eat together, play together, work together, and forgive each other. All communities are prone to flattery, passivity, gossip, alliances, or jealousy. That is no reason to avoid groups. Patiently work through those things together, candidly honoring each other and helping each other to greater faithfulness. If you learn to depend upon others, your community will guard you from lusts of the mind, from pride, and from an inordinate self-reliance. Fear these things as much as you fear the lusts of the flesh. They are equally dangerous to the soul. The Power of Community For good or ill, people living in community share with each other, compounding their resulting growth. This isn’t always a good thing. The flu, for example, spreads rapidly, building momentum within a community as its victims increase in number. Gossip has a similar contagious quality—be it in a family or a class at school, and technology and social networks only accelerate the speed and extend the reach. That’s the bad news. The good news is that many positive things are contagious, too, such as laughter or a strong work ethic. Gladness and hope are also contagious. Generativity is contagious. Friends who labor together for the same cause impact culture more effectively than one person who works in isolation. We desperately need community. Isolation amplifies our vulnerability and multiplies our insufficiencies. The human heart’s downward drag will inevitably shift our vision from Christ to self, from faith to fear, from dependence to self-reliance. We need other people to remind us of God’s faithfulness and conquering work. We need them to keep us from trusting in our own strength. And we need others to lift our eyes to Jesus as we help them lift theirs. We have a responsibility to cultivate an upward orientation in the community God has given to us. Consequently, one of the most important decisions we have to make is whom to befriend. Proverbs 13:20 says, “He who walks with wise men will be wise, but the companion of fools will be destroyed.” So find people whose faith seems stronger than yours, whose eyes are more fixed on the Lord than yours, and who verbalize thanks more often than you. Watch them. Imitate them. Walk with them. Eat meals with them. Pray for them. Thank them. Be vulnerable with them without dragging them down into your own self-pity. Fight the urge to become a vortex of selfishness. Finally, the great power of community rests on its ability to engender thankfulness. Where people serve each other, pray for each other, weep with each other, and laugh with each other, thankfulness abounds. Thanksgiving, like praise, gives the heart an outward orientation. Maybe God calls us to community in part because being alone for too long turns our attention onto ourselves. The more we verbalize thankfulness, the more we forget about ourselves. We start noticing others and what they are doing. We start finding reasons to be thankful. Ultimately, we start seeing abundance instead of scarcity. Start asking yourself, “How can I thank the person right in front me?” A teacher, mother, sister, stranger? Learn to ask, “What is God giving me right now?” Ultimately, your work is largely meaningless apart from community. You need readers, right? You need editors, right? You need to bounce your ideas off of others, right? Your writing is formed by others and for others. This realization should not surprise us since God is three persons in one, a community. He made us in his image and designed us for relationship. For this reason, the two greatest commandments offered by Christ to summarize the law given to Moses were to “love the Lord your God with all your heart, mind, and strength,” and to “love your neighbor as yourself.” Love, as found in God and described in his word, requires community. Writing Is Lonely Work Yes, we’re called into life together, but I couldn’t be a writer without time alone. Writing usually happens in solitude. Most of the time, I have to generate ideas alone, too. I certainly have to agonize alone. More often than not, I must motivate myself to work and keep myself determined as well. Other people stay involved, encouraging where they can, but actually running the engine, maintaining the engine, and driving the engine somewhere are my job and mine alone. I think you will find this true in your own life. The real substantive work must happen in your own heart and mind. You still have to wake up on your own and start writing. Once you are out of school, no one will make you do it. I doubt this news discourages you because you’re already wired to carry the writer’s lonely burden. But you may find that the hardest thing to do is find time alone. Something always intrudes. Solitude vs. Isolation I do not refer to family or friends who have every right to intrude, I refer to the myriad technologies that beckon to us: smartphones, social networks, immediate news alerts, YouTube. Despite our best efforts, we simply do not have the godlike ability to absorb and attend to so much information. As a result, I think our spiritual depths have shallowed, our inner landscapes have shrunk. Information’s incessant assault has made solitude—mental quietude—nearly impossible. Ironically, with this decrease of solitude has come an increase of isolation. The differences are subtle but important. Both words describe time alone. Solitude is sought by those who want mental space to think and fill the heart’s tank before returning to community. Isolation, however, is sought by those who want to be alone and who will put up any wall to stay there. Solitude does not push others away like isolation does. Or look at this way: love desires solitude, selfishness desires isolation. Christ desired solitude, an angry teenager wants isolation. Isolation amplifies the ego’s siren song; solitude exposes the heart’s unbridled babble. Solitude also affords the opportunity to feel mystery and immensity while encouraging an awareness of the inner life that relentless busyness and fear tend to arrest. In solitude, silence asserts itself. For these and many other reasons, isolation is qualitatively different from solitude. God blesses a measured amount of the latter; the former is a sign of the curse: “A man who isolates himself seeks his own desire; he rages against all wise judgment” (Prov. 18:1). God did not make you to be alone in a permanent sense. Such aloneness goes against his Trinitarian nature. Those who stay isolated for too long end up lonely. But that’s the world in which we live. Despite our increased connectivity, our homes have become isolation cells where we eat alone, watch TV alone, and sleep alone. Even within families, we push each other away. In private or public, we plug in to escape. I write these paragraphs while sitting in a shopping mall’s lounge. I’m taking advantage of the moment while I wait for friends. Five candy and soda dispensers line the wall to my left. From two enormous televisions on the wall, sports commentators analyze an athlete’s ten-second failure. They are animated, but I cannot hear them over the clambering children, the exasperated adults, and the pop music pumping over the speakers. I’ve plugged in my earbuds to drown out the banging noises with noises of my own choosing. The irony of my situation is not lost on me. So I’m faced with this reality and my own failure to handle it well. Can I concentrate only by plugging in my earbuds? Is solitude only possible with virtual detachment from reality? And when I detach in this way, do I usher in a loneliness I did not expect? Learning to Value Solitude Our Lord Jesus used solitude as a means of preparing for community and for work. If Christ needed to be alone in a boat or alone amongst the hills when he wanted to fellowship with his father, who are we to think that our souls will thrive on a diet of distraction and perpetual productivity? We need to get away, but we rarely do, so the pre-Socratic philosopher, Meno, asks a question still pertinent today: “How will you go about finding that thing the nature of which is totally unknown to you?” If solitude and mental quietude are utterly foreign to us, how are we supposed to experience them? How are we supposed to recognize them when we see them? I pause and stare out the window. I have no answer. Or maybe this moment is an answer. I have so much to learn. I’m trying to live out the paradox of community, taking time to be alone and living faithfully in community. I try to find small moments of solitude, no matter my station or duties in life. I try not to lie to myself about how little time I actually need to get away. I need less time for solitude than I generally think, but more than the world will offer. I’ve found that more frequent though shorter times of solitude are better than infrequent but long ones. A short walk is often enough. Dorothy Sayers remarked that while our lives are flooded with words, we do not know what the words mean, nor how to fight them or fling them back. She says we’re prey to propaganda, but believe ourselves masters of our desires and convictions. If she is right, then humanity is currently in a pitiful position. I think part of the reason for our societal gullibility is the lack of solitude. We have no quiet spaces in which the mind can think carefully, the heart can long for transcendent things, and the soul can stretch toward God. Contemplation is an endangered practice. BenPalpant is a memoirist, poet, novelist, and non-fiction writer. He is the author of several books, including A Small Cup of Light, Sojourner Songs, and The Stranger. He writes under the inspiration of five star-lit children and two dogs. He and his wife live in the Pacific Northwest.

In this episode of the Artists & Podcast, co-hosts Kyra Hinton and Jamin Still channel archeological metaphors to discuss the relationship between artistic voice and an artist’s style. Click here to listen to The Artists & Podcast on Omny, here to listen on Apple Podcasts, and here to listen on Spotify. Transcripts are now available for The Artists & Podcast. Click here to access them. Show Notes Sunga Park, the artist referenced by Kyra Park’s painting that inspired Kyra Close up of sky texture referenced by Jamin An archaeological dig An example of an evidence board (Jamin called it a “murder board”) Sponsorship on the Podcast Network Are you interested in teaming up with us to support the work you love? Send an email to our Head of Communications & Development, Shigé Clark, at shige@rabbitroom.com if you are interested in becoming a sponsor of our Podcast Network. Rabbit Room Membership Special thanks to our Rabbit Room members for making these podcasts possible! If you’re interested in becoming a member, visit RabbitRoom.com/Donate.

Last year in Nashville, I bought some pumpkin and caramel-scented candles. For the next few weeks, our home was filled with a smell that, in my mind, will forever be associated with Hutchmoot. While I burned my candles mercilessly, my daughter saved a small one and kept it in her room. A few weeks ago she burned it for a couple of hours, blew it out, and then accidentally knocked it over, leaving a pool of thick amber wax to spread across her desk. As the oils seeped into the tiny cracks in the wood, the fragrance filled the entire room, pouring out into the corridor and down the staircase. For days, every time I walked past her room, regardless of my mood, task, or the time of day, the waves of caramel pumpkin swirl involuntarily drew my thoughts to Hutchmoot. There is a link between memory and smell that is impossible to override. The faintest perfume of a certain flower can transport you instantly back to your childhood. The sharp, sterile blend of disinfectant and warm air drags you against your will to a hospital room you would rather forget, awakening pangs of anxiety or sadness you have tried so hard to bury. Even in the hardest hearts and the darkest moments the right scent is powerful enough to awaken longing. Heidi Johnston Some days there is nothing more comforting than opening my parents’ front door and finding myself cocooned in the smell that is particular to their house. Maybe it’s the blend of washing detergent, my Dad’s aftershave, the constant baking, and the subtle lingering presence of furniture polish. Whatever it is, it smells like home. This deep, involuntary link between smell and memory is something we cannot switch off. Overriding choice, it bypasses our defenses and compels us to remember. I wonder if this is why God’s design for worship in the Old Testament was always such a sensory experience? Nauseating, metallic blood pooled around the altar. Acrid smoke rose from the sacrifices. Thick, heady incense burned continually in the tabernacle. Each of these strong, distinct smells created associations in the mind of the Israelites, blending to form an inescapable call to worship. Whether they liked it or not. In the Gospels, we read about another time when worship and fragrance went hand in hand. Just a few days before his crucifixion, moved by overwhelming gratitude and love, Mary broke a priceless jar of perfume and poured it over Jesus. John 12:3 tells us that the smell of the perfume was so strong that it “filled the house,” which means as Jesus left the house the perfume went with him. Once the concentrated oil soaked into his skin and hair and clothes, the smell would have lasted for days. I don’t know whether Jesus would have changed or washed His clothes in the short period between this intimate anointing and the time of his arrest and crucifixion. Either way, I don’t think it’s a wild speculation to suggest that the smell of the oil continued to cling to him as he entered Jerusalem on the donkey. Like kings before him, his triumphal entry was perfumed by the smell of spikenard, immediately conjuring up pictures of kingship and majesty in the minds of onlookers, creating a sensory echo of their shouted proclamation, “Hail Jesus, the King of the Jews.” Perhaps even in the garden, mingled with the olives and the warm night air, the scent of the oil was present. As the soldiers moved in to take hold of Jesus, did the familiar smell cause their minds to wander for just a moment to something greater than their own short-lived authority? Is it possible that even as they stripped and beat him, his torn and bleeding flesh still carried the faintest scent of royalty? Even in our hardest hearts or darkest moments, the right scent is powerful enough to awaken longing. I have been wondering lately whether there is a way to harness this deeply instinctive connection, allowing us to tie our inner selves to memories of God’s word, to his faithfulness, and to worship in a way that is gentle yet intentional. I’m not sure how it would look practically, but I can’t help wondering what would happen if our times of intimacy with God, whether alone, together with our families or even in our churches were in some way linked to fragrances that, in darker times, would draw us back to the memory of intimacy with God. Would stubborn children, drifting far from the things they learned at home, deaf to the pleas of heartbroken parents, find themselves broken by a familiar smell and the wave of longing that came in its wake? Would we, in our days of self-satisfied arrogance, be reminded of the God who once filled our hearts to overflowing? Maybe I could choose to have the same flowers regularly in the place I tend to go to meet with God? Could it mean choosing to burn a particular scent of candle in the background at times when your family sits around God’s word together, so that the chosen fragrance becomes a marker farther down the road? Some of you may already have your own well-established rhythms in this area. I know that in some traditions fragrance and scent play a larger part than they do in my own and I’d love to know how that works. Does it impact you? Is it something you are consciously aware of? Are there particular fragrances that stir up memories for you? Has a certain fragrance ever triggered a memory that has stirred you to worship? I’m captivated by the possibility of setting in place these invisible markers for my future self. Of reaching forward to gently touch my children’s hearts with a familiar hope. I don’t know if these links between scent and memory can be intentionally formed but if God has planted this deeply rooted connection within us then perhaps it’s worth considering?