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I was fourteen when I came to Hutchmoot for the first time. My mom knew it would open my eyes to a whole new world of art and storytelling, and she was right. I had never seen anything like it and I was overwhelmed by the poetry and artistry all around me. I soaked up the words of speakers I had looked up to for years, listened to authors read aloud from books I loved, and admired the wonderful culinary creations that were set out for everyone who attended—but I admired the feast from a distance. At almost every meal, there was nothing I could eat. In eighth grade, I started having allergic reactions to a list of foods that slowly chipped away at my ability to eat at restaurants and friends’ homes, and that was just the beginning. When I came to Nashville for the first time, I packed a bag of snacks and bars and anything I could think of that would get me through Hutchmoot. In between sessions I sat at the table with a cup of water and tried to engage in the conversation without looking at people’s plates, trying not to be too self-conscious about the empty space in front of me. I was terrified of the inevitable and inexhaustible questions: Are you not hungry? Did you already eat? Really? Why can’t you have dairy? Afterwards, I would sneak out of the conference and eat almond butter and gluten-free crackers in the car. Hutchmoot was the best part of my year and I came back, time and time again—but that one aspect, the thing that brought everyone together on equal ground, the table set for hundreds of people, was impossible for me to approach. As high school wound down, I started dealing with strange symptoms that confused and concerned every doctor I saw. My brain was fuzzy, my stomach swelled, and I was fatigued and anxious all the time. I cut out more grains and that helped until it didn’t, so I kept going. Over the next three years I cut out every food that I was reacting to, one at a time. Bananas made me break out in hives. Anything with soy made me sick. Sugar made my heart race. Sugar replacements gave me such bad brain fog that I couldn’t do my homework. When my church served communion, I had to pretend to take it and hide the juice-soaked crumbs in my hand until I could throw them away. In the end, there were only six foods I could tolerate: two kinds of meat, three vegetables, and seeds. I was malnourished and exhausted. I kept telling myself that it would get better, that someday I would return to the world of taste and delight and community. I would return to the table at my church, at restaurants, at friends’ homes, and at Hutchmoot. Senior year of college brought COVID-19 and still no answers from my doctors. Hutchmoot: Homebound was a light in the shadow and I rejoiced when my Moot Kit arrived at my door. I opened the kitchen packet when instructed and realized I couldn’t use anything in it. I was six hours from Nashville in my own apartment with my own kitchen and I still couldn’t find a seat at the table. I made it through college…barely. At the end of my fall semester senior year, my parents had to come pick me up from school a few weeks early because my body shut down on me. I rested and recovered and finished my degree but the experience left its mark. There were a few dark moments when I didn’t think it would ever get better. Things have changed since then. Over the last year or so, I have started to improve, and right now the list of things I can’t eat is shorter than the list of things I can. Every new challenge that my body overcomes fills me with joy. I can go into a garden and eat the fruit off the vine. I can eat apples and artichokes and broccoli and blueberries and it feels like a miracle. I bought a gluten-free muffin at a farmer’s market the other day and there were tears in my eyes. Food is glorious and unique and beautifully created for the enjoyment of God’s people, and when I can share in that blessing, I can’t help responding with excitement and gratitude. There will be people who come to Hutchmoot who are hurting, who can only eat six things, or who struggle to celebrate God's good creation in freedom, but my prayer is that for everyone who gathers, whatever their meal looks like, wherever they are in the world, this Hutchmoot: Homebound would hold an image of the final feast where no one is left behind and everyone can be brought in. Carly Marlys Hutchmoot: Homebound is right around the corner, and finally, the subtitle “A Seat at the Table for Everyone” is true for me. I can’t eat everything, but my heart and my body are healing and I can truly celebrate the good creation of God with those around me for the first time. In the middle of a difficult season, this year’s Hutchmoot is a time of redemption and reclamation. I grieve the time that I lost and the time that I stood on the outside looking in, but I can celebrate the time that I have this year, as people around the world praise and magnify God’s creation in all its forms, whether that be a poem by Malcolm Guite or a perfect strawberry. There will be people who come to Hutchmoot who are hurting, who can only eat six things, or who struggle to celebrate God’s good creation in freedom, but my prayer is that for everyone who gathers, whatever their meal looks like, wherever they are in the world, this Hutchmoot: Homebound would hold an image of the final feast where no one is left behind and everyone can be brought in. May this conference be a hopeful marker of the better day that is coming. May we all taste and see that the Lord is good.

Jonny Jimison is back with the thirty-fourth edition of his beloved comic, Rabbit Trails. Click here to visit Jonny Jimison’s website.

Every year, as October approaches, I feel like there’s a little extra promise and anticipation in the air—partially just because I love the fall season, but in large part because October means Hutchmoot.⁣ Even though this will be the second year in a row that we can’t gather together physically, I can still sense the coming magic of a weekend where thousands of folks across the country (and across the sea!) are attending sessions together, eating tasty snacks, discovering new music, and meeting new friends. I’m no different from anyone else in that I find it difficult to describe Hutchmoot and what makes it special—but if I had to boil it down to a few things, I’d say it’s a lighthearted occasion of ceremony, of marking another year with another feast, of refusing to let cynicism and devastation keep us from the simple act of celebrating life and art.⁣ ⁣Put even more simply, Hutchmoot reminds me that humans make stuff. And that humans are really, really good at making really cool stuff. And that creativity is not a specialized trait, hoarded for the enjoyment of the privileged few, but the very condition for living in and making something of the world.⁣ This year’s Hutchmoot is a special one, and it starts tomorrow! If you want to jump in, you still can. At HutchmootHomebound.com, a $20 ticket will give you full access to a whole stinkin’ website crammed full with surprises, outrageous humor, rich conversations, new discoveries, and plenty of adventures that will take you 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺 from your computer.⁣ Creativity is not a specialized trait, hoarded for the enjoyment of the privileged few, but the very condition for living in and making something of the world. Drew Miller I speak for the whole Rabbit Room staff when I say that we are positively giddy with excitement. We cannot wait for all our work and play to spill over into this conference, and especially for that unique gladness of watching creativity unfold in new and unexpected ways among guests and participants. It’s truly an over-abundance, the kind of joy that isn’t complete until shared.⁣ I can’t believe I get to be part of this beautiful work. I’d love if you joined me and the whole Rabbit Room team this weekend! We’ll see you there. Registration for Hutchmoot: Homebound will remain open until the end of the day Sunday, October 10th, and 90% of content will remain available for the rest of October. Click here to register.

In his Sunday Chef’s Address, John Cal referenced The Little Prince and made an insight that has stuck with me. He said, “It’s like when the Little Prince discovered a planet full of roses, when at first he believed that his one single rose was unique and special in the universe. ‘It is special because it is your rose,’ the Fox tells him, ‘Not that it is unique, but that it is yours.'” Every year, Hutchmoot fills me with several nearly-indescribable gut feelings—and I know at once that I won’t feel them again at that intensity until next October. This Little Prince quote awakens one of those deeply-felt feelings in me, and I’ll try to describe it here. It’s the sense of having labored long and hard at the keeping of this rose which is mine, never sparing a moment to look up from the ground, until I’m tapped gently on the shoulder and beckoned to rise and see that planet full of roses—and not only the roses themselves, but the gardeners and caretakers of those roses, talking and laughing and showing one another the work of their hands. At that sight, two emotions course through me in rapid succession: first, the rather juvenile disappointment that my rose turns out not to be the only rose in the universe after all; and second, the more mature relief that I am not alone in this work, that there are voices other than my own, voices that have insights to share which I might not have considered before, voices that sound pleasant, welcoming, and so graciously new to my ears. To put it more conceptually, I experience Hutchmoot as a profound antidote to individualism—and yet, that doesn’t mean the forgetting of oneself. It means precisely what the Fox meant: the recovery of a true vision for why it matters that I tend to my rose. Not because it’s the only rose to ever exist—the fantasy of rampant individualism—but simply and unglamorously because it is mine. The true Story was still told, the songs of redemption still sung, and the vision of a new creation still imaged on canvas. We don't have to be at our best for these things to happen, and in fact, we may be nourished all the more for it. Drew Miller The beauty of this is that once I learn what gifts belong to me and honor them properly, I am freed up to notice and delight in the gifts that belong to others. Here’s some of what I noticed this weekend: nobody tells stories from such a deep well of faith as Walter Wangerin, Jr. The hospitality of Sho Baraka’s lyricism—how he teaches and encourages and challenges and tells the truth all at once—that is his rose. Whenever I listen to Sara Groves talk, I come away wanting so badly to write another song. She’s so very good at that. Dave Barnes is hilarious, but more than that, his humor is such a beautiful entry point into the vulnerability of not taking oneself too seriously. Kyra Hinton knows how to facilitate collaboration better than anyone I know, and the fruit of that labor was absolutely stunning in the art studio! Malcolm Guite has so thoroughly internalized the poetry of the gospel that it flows through him like an electric current, and that rose is marvelous to behold. And speaking of poetry, I hear Hannah Hubin’s work and am left wrestling with its implications and contemplating truths beyond telling. That’s her rose. And that is just a very small sampling of the roses that were on display this weekend! Not included in that list is the extravagant creativity of all the Hutchmoot posters that attendees shared on the virtual fridge, the whimsical playfulness of Huntmoot, and the list goes on and on. There’s one more gift that arises from the proper naming of the rose that belongs to me and the roses which belong to others: even the responsibility of caring for my rose does not fall entirely on my shoulders. It requires my care and attention, but it also requires sunlight, water, and mysterious gifts that only appear by God’s grace. And that’s another one of those indescribable feelings I experienced this year. I don’t think it’s overstating the case to say that every single speaker and artist contributed their rose out of a place of deep exhaustion from the past eighteen months of life on this planet. But the embarrassment of riches that we were still able to enjoy testifies to a source of life far more lasting than the dried-up wells of our own efforts. One miracle I saw this weekend, then, was dozens upon dozens of rose-keepers pointing us beyond their own work, to the Keeper of us all who has held us and sustained us in the face of immense pain, loneliness, and grief. The true Story was still told, the songs of redemption still sung, and the vision of a new creation still imaged on canvas. We don’t have to be at our best for these things to happen, and in fact, we may be nourished all the more for it. So allow me to ask—and please leave your answer in the comments section—what is your rose? What did it feel like to glimpse the roses of others? How have you been nourished? What did you notice, what spoke to you, and what will you carry with you from this weekend into your daily life? The Hutchmoot: Homebound website will be accessible to attendees throughout the month of October.

[Editor’s note: Needless to say, we at the Rabbit Room are among Ollister B. Pembrick’s biggest fans. So one can hardly imagine our surprise and delight upon being shown this recently discovered letter from Pembrick himself. It was brought to our attention by a student and eloquent writer named Calen Lotspeich as part of Andrew Peterson’s Creaturepedia writing contest. In fact, we are pleased to report that, with this letter, Calen won the 6th to 8th grade section of this writing contest! Well done, Calen. And to our readers: enjoy, and may you remain safe from all nibbles.] To my Dear Readers, It has been my pleasure to inform you of the many beasteries of this vast world. This is another confounding creature as documented by your humble servant. The woods were creaking as my beswaddled toes tread quietly along the trail of the most confounding of all Aerwiarian creatures, more even than the Snikbuzzard’s bellybuttoned girth. At last my searching eyes fixed upon a flaming fwooshy tail. The creature was hideously beautiful: its hoggish nose dribbled sluggish snot, its luxurious mane of many colors bounced upon its wrinkly head, and its robe-like body mostly masked its many legs. The beast’s thin coat was a riot of colors; like paint on a canvas of mold. My first inclination was to whip out my beloved sketching book and sketch the hoggish creature. My pencil began depicting in rapid swooshing strokes the Maker’s handiwork. I looked up from my art to find my eyes in close proximity with the snottish, dribbling nose of the very Snorthog I was sketching. I was startled but relieved when I realized that the millipeidish monster was but a gentle giant. It in fact seemed utterly absorbed in my work in effort to depict it. The creature’s flamed tail floofed happily amongst the dry grass where it stood, setting it ablaze. I fumbled with my water supply, and, removing the cap, doused the blaze into nothing. Illustration: “Snottamus” by Aedan Peterson Unfortunately, the quenching of the fire emptied my canteen and I was without refreshment. The Snorthog, sensing my need, helpfully dribbled into my jug. I thanked him but had to explain that however nutritious it was to him I could not (easily) drink the generous inundation of mucus that he had given me. It seemed to understand and slogged away in despondency. I attempted to overtake it to offer my apologies but, sensing a chase, it took to its heels and disappeared into the thick brush. And so, my fellow creature researchers, I end this letter and shall write again soon. Cordially, Ollister B. Pembrick P.S. Edd Helmer, if you are reading this, I am sorry about your ship, but at least we got to see a dagger fish feeding frenzy. [Editor’s note: This was the winning entry for the 6th-8th grade section of the Creaturepedia writing contest. Congratulations, Calen Lotspeich! The runner-up was Priya Gingrich’s Bean Brew With a Monster on the Side. Well done, Priya! To view the names of all the winners of the writing contest, click here. Next week, we’ll treat you to the winner of the 9th-12th grade section: Rose Swillum’s Out of the Deeps of the Dragon King.] Pembrick’s Creaturepedia is now available in the Rabbit Room Bookstore.

To accompany the release of the newest title to Rabbit Room Press, we invite you to join the Letters from the Mountain online reading group! It opens October 18th and will include weekly Zoom chats with author Ben Palpant. Read on for more information and a link to sign up. Think of this reading group as a chance to read over the author’s shoulder as he pens letters to his daughter on matters of faith and creativity in community. It’s your opportunity to enter the intimate friendship that they share, to ask questions that spring up along the way as they discuss living generatively, and to be shepherded both by the author and by each other as we learn to use the gifts God has given us for the life of the world. You’ll also be given a prompt each week to make something beautiful (in word, art, music, or whatever form you’d like) and share with the group. Letters from the Mountain is not just for artists and writers. It’s a book that addresses the issues every Christian faces: learning to see what God sees, handling criticism, facing anxiety, the gift of the mundane, dealing with self-doubt, and much more. The “live” version of this book group (including the online discussion forum) opens October 18 and will include Zoom chats with the author every Thursday night at 6:00 p.m. CST for four weeks (October 21, 28, November 4, 11). However, you are welcome to join at any time, even after the live chats have ended. The discussions will be archived, and the online forum will be open indefinitely for new registrants to continue reading and discussing the book. Click here to register for the online course.

This week on The Habit Podcast, Jonathan Rogers interviews Don Chaffer for a special episode of his Sad Stories Told for Laughs series. Don Chaffer is a singer-songwriter (Waterdeep), composer-lyricist-librettist (Son of a Gun, The Unusual Tale of Mary and Joseph’s Baby), and professor (Lipscomb University’s School of Music). His stories are often sad and often funny—and often at the same time. In this “Sad Stories Told for Laughs” episode, Don Chaffer talks to Jonathan Rogers about the difference between embarrassment and shame, ironic distance, and other matters. Click here to listen to Season 3, Episode 41 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 info@rabbitroom.com! 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.

When it comes to talking about poetry, there is often an invisible line that can prove difficult to navigate. On the one hand, in any mixed group of people, there will be those who are familiar with, and proficient in, how to approach a poem or a poet. Such people have found their own point of entry with poetic work, and need very little encouragement or instruction on “how to read.” On the other hand (and this may be the more sizable group), there are the uninitiated and slightly intimidated. They love words, they love poetic work, they have treasured a small bouquet of favourite pieces, but they live with a sense of alienation and inferiority about their approach. Aside from familiar lines, the idea of “studying” a poet sounds like a fearful enterprise, something which should only occupy those in the world of undergraduates or postgraduates. Anyone seeking to provide information or inspiration about poetry runs the risk of patronising the first group of people, or of marginalising the second. In this short series of posts, I have taken upon myself to strike something of this balance, but with a definite leaning towards encouragement of those suffering from a literary inferiority complex. My chosen poet is Seamus Heaney, partly because I have read his poetry since my early teens and am familiar with most of his work, and partly because he makes a superb case study. A few nudges and nods with regard to Heaney’s writing and biography can yield a rich harvest for those concerned to read him for themselves. To encounter his work on its own terms is a life-changing experience. In this post I want to suggest some guidelines for approaching and appreciating Heaney’s work, providing a basic tool kit for digging into his poetry. In subsequent posts I will highlight some themes and preoccupations which appear throughout his written output, and will provide some gentle and subtle pointers as to why these might be profitable areas for Christians, interested in the arts, to explore. Start at the beginning One of the dilemmas of becoming familiar with a poet’s work is the question of where to begin. A well-edited “selected” or “collected” works rarely gives a guideline about the sweet spot where the heart and soul of the poet can be located. Beginning with the later work of a poet can be attractive as the cream of their creative endeavours may seem to lie there, but we could be depriving ourselves of key connections and resonances from their earlier work. Starting too early might seem like the most obvious option in mere evolutionary terms, but occasionally early poetry (or “juvenilia”) is a pale reflection of the power a mature poet is capable of. The answer to this riddle often depends on the temperament and slant of the poet themself. Seamus Heaney’s early work is the best place to begin, particularly his first collection, Death of a Naturalist. Here Heaney is at his most transparent, his most personally confessional, and many of the keynotes he strikes in this work are sustained right across his later collections. Death of a Naturalist embodies much of what is best about Heaney’s poetry—lyrical skill, a slow savouring of words and sounds, and a locality of subject matter which gives way to universal human themes. These poems are riddled with the incidental, but they are charged with atomic poetic power in which the yard and the field, the schoolhouse and the flax dam, all provide a gateway into Heaney’s emotional life, and our own. This is a much more sound way of reading Heaney than jumping too quickly to his Selected Poems. There is a consistency and coherence in Death of Naturalist which is reliant upon hearing all of the poems in co-ordination with one another. The collation of these poems is almost as important as their original creation. Assume the ordinary One of the risks run by readers of poetry is that of forgetting the real world from which poems emerge and with which they engage. This is a particular problem for those who wish to appreciate Irish poetry. Perhaps because of the Celtic Twilight which the young W. B. Yeats conjured, there can be a temptation to look for a false significance in poetry. This means that the reader is so primed for a “hidden,” “deeper,” or “legendary” meaning that they allow the concrete details of the poet’s work to pass them by. This is a kind of allegorical reading which assumes that any “second level” of meaning on the poet’s part must be of primary concern. His style and demeanor were those of a neighbor speaking across the fence, and the humour of his words was most clearly betrayed by the continual sparkle in his eye. Here was a man at home in his world, and in love with the words that could capture its essence. Andrew Roycroft Seamus Heaney helps us to escape this. One of the chief things to bear in mind with Heaney’s poetry is that he is observing and describing his own world, and that his work is concerned to convey it with accuracy, poignancy, and significance. This was driven home to me on the one occasion when I heard Heaney read his poetry in person. His wonderful translation of Beowulf was just being released, and he spent an evening in Belfast reading from it, and reflecting on the work of the poet. What emerged from that evening, more than anything else, was how profoundly ordinary Heaney was as a man. His style and demeanour were those of a neighbour speaking across the fence, and the humour of his words was most clearly betrayed by the continual sparkle in his eye. Here was a man at home in his world, and in love with the words that could capture its essence. This is of fundamental significance for appreciating Seamus Heaney’s work. Assume that the material from which his poems spring is the ordinary matter of life in Ireland, the childhood experiences, the friends and acquaintances, the historical circumstances, the significant places and spaces. Heaney’s work advances themes from the flora and fauna of lived experience, and there is a literal earthiness and earthed-ness which demands that the reader come down to the soil before they think about scaling the heavens. Undoubtedly this ordinary matter is charged with, and upscaled by, the big human themes with which Heaney wrestles, but the things described are not a foil for propaganda or pontification. The material of life matters in Seamus Heaney’s poetry, and is the very medium from which great ideas are effortlessly mined. Hear Heaney himself Some poets’ work is best read by others, but not Seamus Heaney. Heaney’s voice is one of poetic integrity and transparency, and so the most natural way to encounter his writing is by hearing him read it himself. There is no divorce between his idiom and his accent, his poetry and his personality, and to hear him read his own work is to grasp something of its weight and dimensions. In 2018 Faber and Faber released Heaney’s Collected Poems on audio CD (or in a 3 part series on Audible) in which the poet reads his entire body of work. This not only an aural treat, but a vital point of content with the poet’s tone and his texts. Having read Heaney for many years, it was only when I heard some of his poems audibly that I grasped the emphasis and the heart of what he was saying. There is a care and gravity with which each word is handled, with which emphasis is laid, and this will gain a lot of ground for the reader in terms of understanding the context and content of the poems. Hearing Heaney himself is a joy, and he is a vital travelling companion through the wonder of his own work. In my next post I will isolate what is arguably Heaney’s most famous poem, “Digging,” and explore its preoccupations and living application for us as readers, and for those concerned with the dignity of their own creative vocation. [Editor’s note: Andrew Roycroft is an excellent poet himself—if you’d like to become acquainted with his work, click here to read his “Grace Triptych,” written during the initial COVID-19 lockdowns.]

When I think of the most impactful conversations I have had, the one hour I spent talking about art and poetry with poet and professor Scott Cairns several years ago stands at the top of the list. I can see now that some of my most cherished ideas about art and poetry—the importance of tradition, the necessity of discovery, the power of perseverance in the work, the fact that the writing life is just another way to live a normal life—were planted in me like seeds during this conversation. I want to share it now in hopes that Scott’s ideas will benefit you as much as they have me. Andy Patton: How do you create your work? How do you live the writing life? Scott Cairns: Just keep reading. The writing life is primarily a reading life, so you just keep reading. The writing life is healthy so long as you keep reading. As soon as you stop reading and imagine that you are on your own, you are pretty much done. Even if you keep turning out books. The funny thing about those books is that they will sound a lot like the books that came before, and that’s because you are running out of gas. I think that the only way to survive is to have a really vital engagement with the books that precede you. Literature is really a conversation, and when you are a writer you have to understand that you are now taking up your part of the conversation. You don’t walk up to a group of your friends and just start yammering—you listen for a while and find out what they’re talking about and then you weigh in. That is how literary study is. You engage the conversation and find out what we’re talking about, how we are talking about it, what the ways are that we might talk about it. You won’t be eclipsed by the tradition, and you won’t be stuck in a solipsistic, isolated sense of your own self-worth—which you will be if you don’t engage that tradition. AP: How do you live the writing life in the real world? SC: We have to learn not to say things like that. I don’t believe I have ever left the real world. I’ve been an academic for a while, but it feels pretty real to me. I have children and dogs, a mortgage. What’s not real about that? AP: I guess the question is, how do you make time for writing? SC: How do you make time for writing now? AP: It gets drowned out too often. SC: Do you have a prayer life? AP: Yes. SC: How do you make time for that? A: I suppose I just make time for it. SC: So you have a discipline? Well, maybe that could be the answer. You could develop a discipline for writing that is like your discipline for prayer. The reason I resist the phrase “real world” is that it is so commonplace. I think in many ways a scattered, distracted business world is a lot less real than one in which you are paying attention to your heart and your soul and your mind, and nurturing those things. AP: So your advice to the writer who wants to write, but doesn’t know how to begin to go about doing it, is simply to be disciplined and write? SC: To be disciplined and read with your yellow legal pad handy to write down whatever provokes you. It’s sort of like writing poems. When it’s time to work on writing a poem, I always begin with my legal pad and my pencils and I read until something provokes a response. Then I chase that on the page until I run out of gas and turn back to reading. It really is a dialogue and conversation which you establish with the text. It’s not like you are going to get through this text some ossified meaning; it is rather that you honor the text in front of you as vital and as having agency and power. AP: It sounds like you’re saying that in order to be original you have to be firmly grounded in others’ original work. SC: Well, sure. My sense of original writing is writing that bears the marks of its origins. And authenticity. The Greek word from which we get authenticity, authentes, is an old word that has to do with ceramic work and the mark of the hand. Authentic work has the mark of the hand that shaped it. So authentic and original—yeah, that’s what we want. You have to think of it as a collaborative endeavor. Vocation is finally not a way to do something; it is a means by which we are given something we would not otherwise receive. Scott Cairns AP: The common understanding of the meaning of the word original arises out of prohibitions against plagiarism, which separates what anyone else has done from what I am now putting forth. SC: Yeah, well. I don’t care about that. A good example is Samuel Taylor Coleridge, who read a lot and didn’t worry at all about how what he read found its way into what he wrote. Smaller minds did accuse him of plagiarism, mostly out of jealousy I presume, but if you look at what he did, he didn’t copy anything. He reworked everything. He was influenced and then kept the river flowing. Every art has a tradition. To understand a discrete work of art in the midst of a tradition requires—unless you don’t care about honoring it the way should—an awareness of the art that led to it. There are naïve practitioners of given arts who don’t know anything and they are mostly a product of good marketing than anything really worthy. The really interesting artists to me are the ones who know what came before them and have engaged it and take what they want from that tradition and employ it. Their own visions are influenced by the tradition. AP: What is the relationship between talent and training? SC: I don’t know if I believe in talent. I guess there have been times when I have had students who have really, really wanted it but couldn’t get it, so maybe there is some fire or gift that is required. I kind of think not, though. I prefer to think that we are all called to something and we must pursue that with all of our energy. In the case of writing, keep your butt in the chair until you’ve made something. Discipline is required, and perseverance, and not really caring about what anyone else thinks. That’s a part of it too. You can’t be writing in order to gain approval. That’s backwards. That dooms you to a certain kind of writing. I think that if there is such a thing as talent, it is worthless unless it is accompanied by discipline. I think those are some of the least happy people in the world, the ones who have a certain kind of gift and then squander it through laziness or whatever else gets in the way. I kind of resist the idea that some people have it and some people don’t. I think everybody has something. All the students I’ve seen have gotten better through discipline. AP: How long does it take you to write a poem? SC: There’s no one answer to that. AP: What is it like for you to be in the process of writing a poem? SC: Prayer and poetry haven’t much in common, but the one thing I think they share is a quality of stillness. You cultivate a habit of being able to descend. You descend into your heart and the word on the page and everything gets quieter and then you just mess with the words like they’re clay. That’s what it’s like to be doing it. Some people don’t like that. They don’t want to labor at that level. They seem to want to have an idea and then express it, so there is a lot of stuff that looks like poetry. AP: What do you think the fundamental difference is between merely having an idea and trying to express it, descending into that creative space? SC: One is expository writing and the other is poetry. There is a lot of expository writing that passes for poetry just because the writer doesn’t use the whole paper. You can make it look like a poem on the page but you are still making an argument. It’s essay writing. There is something that you want to express that precedes the making of the thing, but it will never be a poem then. It will only be a poem if you started messing with words and the words led you into saying something that you didn’t know to say—then you are in the presence of poetry and you can work with that, continue to shape it, find out what you want to say. That’s how you make a poem. AP: So it’s not a poem until you discover something? SC: Right. It is not a poem until someone discovers something. It may not be you. I think it really is a discipline. That’s what a discipline is. You have a sense of calling. I think a lot of us have a screwy sense of calling and think we are called to serve. A calling is really a gift. It is another way God reveals more things to you. So poetry, if that happens to be your vocation, the thing to which you are called, can’t be thought of as something by which you give something to the world. It is actually a way that you get something. Prayer is kind of like that, too. You have this idea that you need to pray to give God something, but that’s not really what prayer is. Prayer is an opportunity to hear something, not to say something. To apprehend a truth. So I think vocation in general, the vocation of prayer, the vocation of any art, is finally not a way to do something; it is a means by which we are given something we would not otherwise receive. AP: How do you know if you are called to be an artist? SC: I think the first thing is that it gives you pleasure to do it, and if it makes you feel joyful to do it even if it is hard. It can be hard in a joyful way. There is a word to characterize the disposition of Lent which means “bright sadness.” Lent is a way in which we are called to confront ourselves and our failures, and that confrontation makes us sad, but there is also this bass note of joy because the sadness is not an end in itself. It is a means to another end which is our resurrection. It is a bright sadness. It is a suffering which has a use. AP: You are saying that your calling can be like that? SC: Yes, it can sometimes feel like that. Because sometimes the joy is not immediately apprehendable. It is just glimpsed. What is more apprehendable is that this is hard. I am not getting this. This is tough. I want to give up. AP: What do you do in that moment? SC: Sometimes you give up, but that’s a mistake. But even knowing that it’s a mistake to give up doesn’t mean that you will never give up. Sometimes you will give up. You will make that mistake. You will have not gotten what you would have gotten on that outing. God willing, there will be another opportunity and maybe that time you won’t give up and you will find something else. You won’t ever get the thing that you lost, but you may get something. AP: Do you think that having something to say makes a work shabbier? SC: Shabby is a good word for it. Smaller. If all your work does is say what you already know, then that’s a pretty low bar. It’s not very ambitious to only want to say what you already know. It is more ambitious and more true to your calling to desire to find something meaningful to say. AP: Is there room for wanting to give people something through your writing? SC: I think maybe you are suggesting that there is a tension or a contradiction between laboring to find something or laboring to give somebody something. I would insist that they are not antithetical; they are necessarily the same thing. I think it is kind of illusory to imagine that you have something to give anybody without that discovery. This is really hard for Christian writers because they tend to have an idea that the story is pretty simple and it’s already been done—that all you have to do as a writer is repeat it clearly enough and the world will get better. I blame C. S. Lewis a little bit for this because he was so good at allegory, and when Christian writers want to point to some illustrious predecessor, they often point to Lewis. Allegory is not all that it’s cracked up to be. When you crack the code of an allegory, you pretty much know the story. As allegorists go, he was a really good one. But as artists go, allegory really isn’t high art. It is pretty much saying what you know and dressing it up to make it interesting. Christians have this notion that all art is allegorical and representational. The fact is that very little art is merely allegorical and representational. If it doesn’t require the discovery of something new and deeper and more, it’s probably not art. And literary art is funny because people think words are for expressing what you think you want to say. But that’s really not literary art. That’s how we use words most of the time, but that is not how we use words as a medium for art. Words as a medium for art are necessarily words employed to discover something. Christians often think that art is only good if it repeats the story they already know. This interview was originally published on Andy Patton’s blog, The Darkling Psalter.

I think my wife, Kelsey, said it best: “Find me in twenty years and I will still be listening to this warm, rich album.” Everything about Hold Still is a slow burn—even down to the process of making it, from what I’ve gathered. Begun before the pandemic and finished just a few months ago, Taylor Leonhardt sure had to hold still in order to make it. But the result of her patience is an abiding work which is sure to stand the test of time. Taylor is at her best as a writer when she spares her words. This much was evident from 2017’s River House, whose opening track manages to pack layers of meaning into the deceivingly simple line, “This is gonna change everything.” And if River House‘s strongest moments were marked by that instinct for sparseness, then Hold Still carries it into a new, more open horizon; as a listener, I not only appreciate this stylistic choice, but feel cared for because of it. Each song conveys a spaciousness which seems to say, There’s room for you here. The whole album, crafted out of deep patience, comes across as one extended invitation into patience itself, beckoning me to lay aside distractions and move into a more contemplative listening posture. Whether the subject is the vortex of social media jealousy (“Happy or Whatever”), the struggle of learning how to draw boundaries (“The Bridge”), the companionship of a beloved dog (“Someday You’re Gonna Leave Me”), or the miracle of a friendship that weathers our worst moments (“Keep Me Around”), each song presents the mundane stuff of our lives as worthy of our curiosity, and ultimately bound up in the very poetry of God, steadied by the assurance that “he won’t waste a word” (“Poetry”). These songs are humble offerings of our fragmented humanity, delivered without a trace of pretense, yet full of hope for the redemption of these fragments as part of a much larger story. One of the many delights of Hold Still is that these principles of patience, simplicity, and understatement operate far beyond the realm of Taylor’s songwriting. Producer Lucas Morton guided every step of the process with exquisite attention to the task of faithfully translating these songs into finished recordings—and it sounds that way. There’s not a shortcut in sight; every element of the mix has been added with careful consideration to how it serves the song as a whole. Much of this impression is owed to the performances themselves, and we have a world-class band of musicians to thank for that: Will Sayles, Tyler Burkum, Scott Mulvahill, and Justin Schipper are among the best at what they do, and their contributions are the epitome of tasteful. It’s so gratifying to witness an artist discovering a whole new gear they didn’t know was available to them. I already had great appreciation for Taylor’s work, but then she released “Poetry.” And it was no less than the sound of someone who has absolutely found their voice and is singing at the top of their lungs to the glory of God. To share that voice and these songs with us is an act of equal parts vulnerability and generosity, and I’ve rarely been so grateful to listen. Click here to stream Hold Still on Spotify and here to stream on Apple Music.

[Editor’s note: We are pleased to present the winner of the 9th-12th grade section of the Creaturepedia writing contest: Out of the Deeps of the Dragon King by Rose Swillum. Congratulations, Rose!] The dragonet sat twiddling his thumbs, waiting for his refill. When the innkeeper returned with a mug of ale, the pirate gulped half of it down and began his second tale. *** Not one of us said a word as we rowed away from where the Guilded Whilly went down with the great wyrm impaled on its heart-pike. We could feel the silence weighing down on us, and the setting sun cast a deep red glow on the water around us as if the water itself had turned red with the blood of the wyrm. Not many of us slept that night—we couldn’t, knowin’ the great crime we’d committed, knowin’ the danger of being out in the open sea. But nothin’ happened that night or the next day. *** “At this rate of rowin’, we’ll be back in Skree in a month,” growled Captain Whilly. “We’ve only got a bit of dried flabbit and some chortlenuts, and that’s not near enough to feed all of us hungry dragon hunters for a day, let alone weeks.” “We might try rowin’ ’round to find a school of glipper fish,” I suggested. “I’ve done a bit of fishin’ in my day.” They agreed, and I grabbed one of the harpoons from the bottom of our boat. We didn’t have to wait long before one of the sailors shouted that he’d spotted some fish and we quietly rowed among them. I raised my spear, aimed at a large glipper, and ran it through. These glippers were much larger than any we had ever seen, and much stronger, too. I let out a yell as I was slammed against the edge of the boat by the unexpected pull of the fish I had speared. “Don’t just sit there, HELP ME!” I yelled as I was almost yanked out of the boat by the fish. Captain Whilly grabbed me feet just in time and pulled me back into the boat, still grasping the spear with all me strength. The fish continued to wriggle weakly on the tip of it. We all stared at the creature. This was no glipper fish. This was a creature like none we’d ever seen. It was at least four feet long with razor-sharp fins and tail. Its scales were green and gold and so bright they hurt yer eyes. Its teeth were bright orange and looked like thousands of razor sharp needles. The strangest thing about it was its eyes. Huge they were, and a blazin’ blue color, just starin’ straight at ya. Illustration: “Daggerfish” by Aedan Peterson “What in the name of Brimney Stupe!” Podo gasped, wakin’ from his sleep. He stared at the fish in horror. “That’s a warklerboop sharkfish! What are ya doin’ killin’ one? If they find out you’ve killed one of their own, they’ll get their revenge by dicin’ ya to death with their needle teeth!” We quickly looked over the edge of our boats. Slowly surrounding us were the rest of the warklerboop sharkfish, hundreds of eyes, all the colors of the rainbow, starin’ at us. “Quick,” Podo said, “Throw it back in the water before it dies and start rowin’ like mad!” I hurriedly pulled the spear out of the warklerboop, and dropped it into the water and we all be-gan to row like our lives depended on it, which they did. All of a sudden we heard the sound of thousands of wings, and we looked up in the sky and saw a great cloud of birds flyin’ straight toward us. “Squibbles and quill diggles,” Podo cried, “Snickbuzzards! Row for yer lives, lads! They were after the sharkfish and now they be after us!” In a flash of colors and the blinks of hundreds of eyes, the warklerboops disappeared beneath the waves, but we now had a bigger enemy to fight. “Get yer swords and yer axes, and whatever you can lay yer hands on,” Willie yelled, “and keep rowin’!” The snickbuzzards came down on us and began to peck and claw. We fought with all our might, but with every downed bird, three took its place. I was battling with a fierce one when suddenly I felt a stabbing pain in me eye and all was black though I was wide awake. I felt blood all over me face and I realized I’d had me other eye poked out. Now that made me boilin’ mad and I fought with renewed vigor, swingin’ me ax in the air, hopin’ I might happen to hit one. Then someone grabbed me arm. “Stop, they’re flyin’ away!” It was Willie’s voice. “They’ve had enough of their flock killed and they’re retreatin’.” “Land ho!” Gnut yelled, “we’re nearly to the fishin’ village in Shard Harbor. Whoopee!” We yelled and laughed and cried and thumped each other on the back. A sailor bandaged up me eye sockets and we feasted on raw snickbuzzard— a squishy and fatty fare, but we were too hungry to care. The wind picked up, and a day and a half later we docked in Shard Harbor. Never had we been so glad to be home. We went our separate ways, changed in more ways than just the loss of an eye or a leg. We’d destroyed a beautiful thing, that dragon, a creature that wasn’t ours to kill. Not one of us will ever for-get it. Our crime will haunt us to our deaths. Only now do we truly understand the majesty of the drag-ons and the mystery they hold. To kill a dragon is to kill legend and magic itself. *** His second tale finished, the pirate leaned back in his chair. The man across the table looked back at him with wonder. “That was a tale worth telling,” he said, “you got any more good ones?” The dragoneer smiled, “I might, but I’d need another mug of ale.” He clunked his empty one on the table and called for the innkeeper. *** [Editor’s note: This was the winning entry for the 9th-12th grade section of the Creaturepedia writing contest. Congratulations, Rose Swillum! The runner-up was Illa Briar (parent: Lyndsay Greer) with The Marvelous Invention of Haric the Pungent. Well done, Illa! To view the names of all the winners of the writing contest, click here.] Pembrick’s Creaturepedia is now available in the Rabbit Room Bookstore.

This week on The Habit Podcast, Jonathan Rogers interviews Dave Barnes, singer-songwriter, standup comedian, and cohost of the Dadville Podcast. This episode, the 2021 finale of the Sad Stories Told for Laughs series, was originally released in video form as part of the Rabbit Room’s online conference, Hutchmoot: Homebound. In this episode, Dave talks about awkward radio promotions, disastrous shows, and doing standup comedy for patrons who thought they had come to hear music. Click here to listen to Season 3, Episode 42 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 info@rabbitroom.com! 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.

I’m not exactly sure where this journey began. It certainly didn’t start with us as a couple. It didn’t start with little Joe Sutphin drawing pictures on church bulletins with his dad. It didn’t start with little Gina Black singing into her hairbrush wanting to be Amy Grant. It didn’t even start with our parents, or Helen Taylor, or even John Bunyan himself. Parts of this puzzle probably began all the way back before God made humanity. It’s likely rooted somewhere in that space of existence and knowledge that reaches beyond what our finite mind can fathom and understand. I have come to accept that much of this experience we call life falls into that space. If you are unfamiliar with John Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress, it is the allegorical story of the Christian. We can theorize that Adam and Eve were the first people to start this journey even though they existed before Christ came to earth. This is because “The Fall” was the catalyst to open the door for all the other allegorical characters to exist and become part of the story. By the time Bunyan penned this famous work, it was the sixteenth century. Life as a Christian, post-Christ, was now a reality for many. But as humans do, no matter what century they exist in, they struggled. And in response to that struggle, Bunyan craftily weaved a journey filled with friends and foes that represented the challenges we face as we try to stay true to following the straight and narrow path. My first experience with Pilgrim’s Progress was as a child. I remember my mother reading it to us. I recall feeling that it was a bit overwhelming in its portrayal of what I was supposed to be striving towards. It also contained a lot of elements that were a little scary to me as a child. I honestly can’t say what my real take-away from the experience was, once we had come to the end. I don’t remember ever knowing there was a Little Pilgrim’s Progress version of the story that would have made it easier to grasp. I do remember that in middle school I tried to revisit it again through what I believe was an abbreviated version. But it just felt disinteresting. After that I mostly forgot about it. Throughout the years, if it was ever mentioned, I felt nothing more than a vague recollection of the story. But I certainly didn’t feel a connection to it. And then, several years into our crazy adventure of self-employment as artists, Joe was contacted by someone from Moody Publishing. I remember his first telling of the exchange to me—he wasn’t very enthusiastic about what he thought was being proposed. Drawing people (and lots of them) isn’t Joe’s favorite thing, even though he’s good at it, but we needed a paid project, any project! No doubt it would be a long slog to reach the end. But as conversations continued, several things came to light. Erik, the contact person from Moody, had actually found Joe through The Rabbit Room. And in further conversation about what drew Erik to Joe’s work, it became clear that he loved the wild woodland creatures and nature scenes that Joe loves to draw. And so, the idea to revamp Little Pilgrim’s Progress into just such a story was born. It was to be based on creatures and the natural world they live in. Within a moment, what seemed like a possibly necessary but dreaded job instead became exciting! Moody rightfully wanted to stay true to the narrative of Helen Taylor’s work and honor what she had done before, but they allowed the changes necessary to enable Joe’s envisioning of the entire world from the perspective of animals. Our part began shrinking from view, a tiny drop in this grand expanse of time and space, and instead of our accomplishments, I began to see the harvest to come spreading out before my mind’s eye. Gina Sutphin There’s something about animals that draws us in. Maybe it’s their innocence that endears them to us. Anyone who has ever had a beloved pet knows how that endearment can make us feel close to animals in ways that can sometimes prove difficult with humans. There’s even the likelihood that we extend a little more grace to an animal that is behaving badly than we do to a person. We have this understanding that they are, after all, just animals. It causes us to hold less against them and to be less judgmental. Potentially this is because we start with a more realistic and lower expectation than the lofty ones we place on our human counterparts. So, one unique thing that happens when we anthropomorphize a story is that it breaks down some of our barriers and disarms us of our defenses. This allows us to engage with the story from a relaxed posture, making it easier to reflect and connect with the struggles that these animals are dealing with—which are, of course, human struggles. Through the course of this project, Joe kept me connected to the creative process. He would share the ideas he was working on and show me each illustration as he finished. Many of them moved me to tears. Sometimes I would recommend a little tweak or give a suggestion that caused him to be more pleased with his final illustration. But for the most part, this world was flowing directly out of Joe’s mind. It was a story we were sharing in as it grew, and for a long time it was part of our daily lives. We were both a little sad when at last the creative process began coming to a close. Just before the final deadline, I took it upon myself to proofread the entire story. I read all 300+ pages in 2 days flat. I made minor text suggestions and flagged a few typos or omissions. But that was the work side of the task. From a personal standpoint, I was astounded! It was fascinating to watch these many months of labor come together as a whole. I could not believe how this vague beast of a tale from my childhood had been changed into something so relatable, so understandable and transformational. And in those moments of reading, all the hard work, late nights, and sacrifices faded. We became little in the process, so that He became much. Our part began shrinking from view, a tiny drop in this grand expanse of time and space, and instead of our accomplishments, I began to see the harvest to come spreading out before my mind’s eye. Sure, book releases are cool! It’s fun to see the fruit of all our long hours finally enter the world as a living being. And Joe truly has dedicated himself to his craft and become excellent at it. So yes, of course we always hope a book reaches a wide audience and is well enjoyed. But this one is different. We long for children and adults everywhere to have this story, this truth, this compass on their own individual journey. We pray it reaches far and distant corners of the world. And we pray for the eternal harvest to grow beyond anything we can think to ask or imagine! For those of you here in this community that we call brothers, sisters, and friends, we are extra excited to share this version of Little Pilgrim with you, because he is one of us—no, not in the same way that Joe and I are members of the Rabbit Room—but rather he, this Little Pilgrim is one of us, in that he is each of us. He is relatable. He is reachable. We can empathize with his plight. We can feel his emotions and be challenged by his journey as it resonates with our own. And companions like Hopeful, Help, Faithful and Great Heart are among us even now. Yes, we are he, and he is each of us. After all, this time, he is a Rabbit! Click here to view this newly illustrated edition of The Little Pilgrim’s Progress in the Rabbit Room Bookstore.

To become a Rabbit Room member is to invest in the creation and cultivation of story, music, and art in order to nourish Christ-centered communities for the life of the world. As a member, you’ll be the first to hear about exciting new projects, your opinion will be requested, and you’ll be let in on secrets. Not to be overlooked, however, is the healthy dose of fun and games that our members are privileged to enjoy—like Hutchmoot: Homebound’s Befuddlementorium. What in the world is a Befuddlementorium, you ask? Allow us to explain. This year’s virtual conference, Hutchmoot: Homebound, operated out of a metaphorical house of many rooms. The exclusive website which acted as the portal into the conference consisted of dozens of webpages—each one packed full with sessions, concerts, recipes, participatory games, and fun extras—all named after a room, like “The Study” or “The Great Room.” But there was one room that was only accessible to Rabbit Room members, and what went on in this room was a mystery to all other attendees. That enigmatic room was none other than the Befuddlementorium. And now that the conference is over, we are pleased to share with you the goings-on of the Befuddlementorium. Inside, members were greeted with Words of Befuddlement, an outrageous game of Dictionary in which the words in question are entirely made up. In the weeks leading up to the conference, we solicited definitions from members and compiled our favorites into a poll, which culminated in a vote for the best definition. Among the choices, we sprinkled in our own attempt at a definition, which was repeatedly superseded by the creativity of our members. Purely for fun, we share with you here the results. Each word has been assigned a primary and a secondary definition—the primary being the definition which received the most votes and the secondary being the Rabbit Room staff’s own definition. SCHOOMBA [SKOOM-BUH]: NOUN Primary Definition (Most Votes): large, ship-shaped brass instrument which makes a deep, multi-note fog-horn sound when blown into. An artifact of the sail age, used to communicate from ship to ship at sea, and from land to ship when the shoreline was obscured by thick weather. Secondary Definition (Ours):  the room inside a robotic learning facility in which vacuums are taught to suck. FLOGÉ [FLOW-ZHAY]: NOUN Primary Definition (Most Votes): Shigé Clark’s sister, whom We Do Not Talk About. Secondary Definition (Ours): a small, brisk river that wishes it were French. SYNTHEOCRAT [SIN-THEE-O-CRAT]: NOUN Primary Definition (Most Votes): an audience member who consistently claps on the off beat but is blissfully unaware. Secondary Definition (Ours): denotes those who perform the electronic anthems of a society governed by false gods. FUSSLE [FUSS-EL]: VERB Primary Definition (Most Votes): to return to a task that has already been deemed finished, only to nitpick and futz with it for a little longer to ensure it is, indeed, complete. Secondary Definition (Ours): to wrestle the source of one’s perturbation. MALC [MALC]: NOUN Primary Definition (Most Votes): milk, but with more poetry. Secondary Definition (Ours): chafing powder used by some English poets. STONGE [STAHNJ]: VERB Primary Definition (Most Votes): to stare blankly after being asked a question. Secondary Definition (Ours): to attempt a great leap whilst carrying a great weight. We are immensely proud of our members for their display of wild creativity, and we look forward to enjoying more silliness on future occasions! If you’re not yet a member and want to link arms with the Rabbit Room—in work both serious and sometimes-silly—then you can become a member at this link.

A language scholar told me this summer that, in the Hebrew culture, the imagined direction of man in time was reversed. While we in the modern western world see ourselves as moving forward in time, facing the future with the past behind us, the ancient Hebrew mind saw the opposite. For Israel, the known past that they could see and remember (namely, the faithfulness of Yahweh) was in front of them, and they were daily walking backwards into the unknown future. I don’t know Hebrew yet, but the professor explained that this paradigm impacts Old Testament metaphors, idioms, images, and verbs—along with its perspective for everyday life. I’ve thought about that image a lot as I’ve launched the Kickstarter campaign for All the Wrecked Light. I’m not facing towards the future of this project—it hasn’t happened yet, it doesn’t exist yet, and I just can’t see what it looks like. What I can face, though, is the past two years of thought and research and writing and performance. I can see the faces of all the individuals who gave of themselves into this work, the photos from the first performance last Holy Week, the video clips from Hutchmoot when we had the privilege to present the songs and poems a second time. I can see the Body of Christ rallied around this from the beginning, their notes and prayers and encouragement, the ebenezers of collaboration and companionship at every turn, the kindness of God to this work of so many hands. So as I back into whatever future All the Wrecked Light might have, I’m working hard to keep direction the Hebrew way. I want to steward this project well, and if that means a studio album, then I need your help to make it happen. We have five days left in the campaign, and those five days are crucial. I’m asking you to join me in them, looking backwards as we move forwards. In an effort to face the past and how this project began, I’d like to share with you today a video from my pastor Russ Ramsey, who served as my theology advisor for the project and helped me navigate the depths of Psalm 90—one he loves well. His perspective on the Psalm has been a true gift to me. I also had the chance to interview Jaron Kamin of Cardiff State about their experience composing music for the project and collaborating with me. I hope these pieces are encouraging to you. [Editor’s note: Today (Monday) only, donors are matching up to $2,150 in pledges to Hannah’s campaign. So if you’d like to give, now is the best time to make an impact! Click here to view Hannah’s Kickstarter page.] Russ Ramsey on Psalm 90 Interview with Jaron Kamin Hannah Hubin: How is this project different than other projects you’ve been a part of? Jaron Kamin: Well, usually we just work with each other to come up with material. A lot of the time with our process, Katherine will bring some lyrics and we will work out the music for it, so coming to a text and needing to bring the music to it is something that I’m comfortable with, however, I’ve never been a part of a project where the work intertwines with so many other artists. Plus, I’ve always wanted to be a part of a concept record and now I get to do that! What was the creative process like for you? Your prompts for the general feel of the songs were very helpful. I took that and just spent some time with the whole project’s lyrics and a good bit of time reading through the specific texts you gave us, and just kind of let the music come up. I tend to write from the gut. If it feels right while working with the lyrics, I try to roll with it. The main sort of “cerebral” element for me was bringing the melodic theme from the verse of the first song into the turnaround of the last song, just to tie them together a bit more. Since the settings of the songs are before time and at the consummation of all time, it felt important to carry a musical thread through. What did it mean to engage the themes of Psalm 90 musically? There’s a lot happening in the Psalm, and our focus was on some of the more cosmic or ethereal elements. I enjoyed that, but when I finally got to hear the other artists’ work, it brought so much more to the table. I think they captured the grit and honesty of the Psalm so well that it made it such a rich experience. What is your hope or vision for this project? I hope that when people hear this they will get to experience the relief of naming the hardship of this life—that it’s real and that it’s seen. It’s seen by God, and he hears us, and in the end, things will be made right to an extent and in a way that we can scarcely imagine. I think listening to these songs and hearing these words is a journey from confusion and even despair into hope and joy. I hope people are able to experience that. Hannah’s Kickstarter has 5 days to go! Click here to help make this project happen.

We’re so excited to celebrate the release of a brand new book by Andrew Peterson: The God of the Garden: Thoughts on Creation, Culture, and the Kingdom. It’s a lovely exploration of the intimate connection between humans and humus that began all the way back in the Garden of Eden—and yet it is firmly rooted in the present, drawing out implications for how we tend to our lives today. There’s a strong biblical connection between people and trees. They both come from dirt. They’re both told to bear fruit. In fact, arboreal language is so often applied to humans that it’s easy to miss, whether we’re talking about family trees, passing along our seed, cutting someone off like a branch, being rooted to a place, or bearing the fruit of the Spirit. It’s hard to deny that trees mean something, theologically speaking. This book is in many ways a memoir, but it’s also an attempt to wake up the reader to the glory of God shining through his creation. One of his first commands to Adam and Eve was to “work and keep” the garden (Genesis 2:15). Award-winning author and songwriter Andrew Peterson, being as honest as possible, seeks to give glory to God by spreading out his roots and raising his branches, trusting that by reading his story, you’ll encounter yours. Hopefully, you’ll see that the God of the Garden is and has always been present, working and keeping what he loves. Sometimes he plants, sometimes he prunes, but in his goodness he intends to reap a harvest of righteousness. Click here to purchase The God of the Garden in the Rabbit Room Bookstore.

In case you haven’t heard, Andrew Osenga has launched a Kickstarter campaign to fund his new album, Headwaters—a collection of songs written to be sung by families, friends, and churches that deals with themes of time, personal legacy, collective repentance, and more. I had the pleasure of asking Andrew some questions about his creative process, his hopes for this album, and where the idea for it originated. Enjoy, and be sure to back his Kickstarter! Drew Miller: So where did the name “Headwaters” come from? Andrew Osenga: The story of Headwaters begins in my last record, The Painted Desert. That album was made after a long season of loss and spiritual dryness, and the writing of it was a cathartic process that helped lead to some healing. Life changes, as it always does, and circumstances are different now. While I still carry many of those emotions and feelings with me, they’re not as heavy as they were at the time, for which I’m thankful. But I know that I would not be HERE had I not walked through THERE. Many rivers begin their journey in dry lands, even deserts, with just a trickle. The land surrounding their pathway grows ever more lush as it’s fed and nourished by the growing water, to finally spill into the ocean’s depths. That’s been the story of my past few years, and the story of my life, to be honest. In whatever season, my journey is headed towards the ocean of grace and love found only in Jesus. The richest stories I know never start in the flourishing. That’s the destination (and the journey!). No, the richest stories begin as headwaters in the desert. You’ve said that this project flows from a similar place as your song “Beautiful Places” from The Painted Desert, exploring the idea of legacy. Could you share more about that? What set you on that particular creative path? As I thought about legacy, and the story I’m leaving for my daughters, while I was proud of that last project, I didn’t want my final word as an artist to be a lament. I wanted to tell them about the God who knows them and loves them. The God who is absolutely present in the lamenting (which we must do as humans!), but who also leads us into seasons of joy and contentment. Often at the same time!! I wanted these to be songs that weren’t about me, but that were about God, and about us as His people. What was your songwriting process like for this album? You mentioned that you made it with the church in mind—how do you envision these songs in the context of church, and how did that influence your writing? It has been so fun, Drew. I’ve done a couple things on this project I’ve never done before, at least on any of my solo albums. The first thing was that I did some co-writing. I’ve done that before for other people’s projects hundreds of times, but never for my own. Now, however, part of my day job involves looking after the songwriting of some truly brilliant people—folks like Leslie Jordan, Dwan Hill, Sandra McCracken, Taylor Leonhardt, and Sarah Kroger—and as I shared this idea with them it led to getting to sit down and work on songs together. That was a real treat, and at this point about half of the songs on the project were written with friends. The second new thing has been writing straight from Scripture. Part of that has just been the natural outpouring of becoming a lot more consistent in my Scripture reading, and songs just start flowing. The most important part, though, has been to ask myself while writing: “Would my daughters want to sing this?” That question has helped me to look at phrasing and word choice in a different light. And then I get to share the song with them when it’s done and see if it resonates. I’ve definitely made some changes as they start to sing along and unconsciously change a rhythm or melody a bit. Their gut instincts have been a cool North Star. Are there any recurring themes throughout the album that you’d like to bring to our attention? What threads did you encounter that surprised you in the crafting of these songs? The biggest recurring theme has been about TIME. It’s probably a combination of writing from the idea of legacy and what will outlast me, mixed with sitting weekly under the liturgies of our Church, but actively remembering God’s faithfulness in the past gives us, as the hymnist says, “strength for today and bright hope for tomorrow.” The other major theme, which might be a little more surprising and potentially offensive to some folks (though it’s quite Biblical), is the idea of corporate repentance. The richest stories begin as headwaters in the desert. Andrew Osenga It’s impossible to spend much time in the Psalms or the Prophets and not hear God continuing to ask His people, His nation, His sons and daughters, to repent. And almost as often we read the follow-ups: “and the people repented,” “and the nation repented.” Corporate repentance is a real and tangible thing, and one that our American culture has decidedly little interest in. I was speaking a few months ago with an Asian-American New Testament scholar, a generally conservative guy, and he shared with me his deep conviction that the unrest and division in America is a direct result of our refusal as a nation to repent of our past (and current) treatment of Indigenous People and Black People. You may or may not agree with that, but it resonated with me and I’ve not been able to shake it. And there is deep Scriptural backing for this idea. Repentance is not easy. It costs us. Sometimes a LOT. But it is the only path to healing and redemption and unity. As much as it may cost, I long for this repentance and redemption; for our nation, for our churches, for our evangelical ministries and mega-pastors crumbling weekly under scandal, for our homes and families, and for our own hearts. Stephen Backhouse, another scholar I’ve been learning from a lot this past year, teaches that the word “Hosanna” doesn’t just mean “savior,” but is more accurately a cry for help TO a savior: “Save us! Free us! We need You!” Our united cries of praise and adoration are often also deep heart-longings for restoration and freedom. What’s your hope for all who listen to Headwaters? How would you describe the kind of impact that you’d like to see? Honestly, my biggest hope is that my daughters come back to these songs twenty years from now and it gives them hope, comfort, and a deeper drawing into intimacy with the Spirit. Second to that, I would love for churches to use some of these songs. God doesn’t need more songs, especially not from white, male Americans, but He did ask us to “sing a new song unto the Lord,” so here I am. If these are useful to somebody, what a cool thing that would be. Click here to support Andrew Osenga’s new album, Headwaters, on Kickstarter. P.S. A question from Andrew for anyone reading this: What kinds of songs do you feel the Church needs more of?

Did you miss out on registering for Hutchmoot: Homebound this year? Well, now is your chance to get in on the fun! Today through Sunday, we are re-opening registration. Just register at HutchmootHomebound.com today and you’ll have through the end of the day Sunday the 31st to enjoy the archived conference. P.S. Want to invite some friends or family to join you? Click here to download the graphic above and share it with them.

This week on The Habit Podcast, Jonathan Rogers talks with writer, poet, and lyricst Hannah Hubin. Hannah is the originator of All the Wrecked Light, a stage show that explores Psalm 90 through song and spoken poetry. In this episode, Hannah and Jonathan discuss collaboration as a way of reaching beyond one’s own limits and what it means to pray, “Establish the work of our hands.” Hannah is in the middle of a Kickstarter campaign to produce a studio album of All the Wrecked Light. Click here to learn more. Click here to listen to Season 3, Episode 43 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 info@rabbitroom.com! 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.

The Molehill Podcast is back for Halloween with a special, Lovecraft-inspired ghost story from Pete Peterson: “The Stephens Hill Horror.” Be afraid; be very afraid. P.S. There are rabbits. Scary rabbits. “The Stephens Hill Horror” originally appeared on the Rabbit Room blog all the way back in 2008—click here to read that blog post. Here’s what Pete had to say about the inspiration from this story, specifically the voice of H. P. Lovecraft: When I tried my hand at writing a ‘ghost story’ about my own neighborhood and its location on Stephens Hill I succumbed to my desire to write in the style of Lovecraft.  Anyone who’s a fan will recognize the structure, word choices, and even a certain (slightly altered) name.  As much as I like the way the story turned out, it’s so clearly Lovecraftian that I can’t really claim it as my own and prefer to think of it as an homage to a master of the genre. Click here to listen to “The Stephens Hill Horror.” And click here to subscribe on Apple Podcasts and here to subscribe on Spotify. Transcripts are available for The Molehill Podcast. Click here to view them. Original Molehill Podcast theme music by Zach & Maggie Other music featured in this episode: “In Union No. 2 (Part I)” by Thad Kopec “Eggshell,” “Erosion,” “Long Distance,” and “The Ghost” by Luke Atencio “Portrait” by Young Collective “Suspicion” by Cathedral “The Object” by Makeup and Vanity Set

I am a member of Church of the Redeemer, an Anglican parish in Nashville, TN. When our church observes All Saints Day (liturgically the Sunday nearest November 1), we take turns sharing stories about departed loved ones who strengthened our faith through their witness to Christ’s love. In a normal year, these times of sharing evoke both tears and laughter as we exchange remembrances and anticipate our own reunions with all those we have loved and lost. I look forward to it every year as a time to remember that death has been defeated and the Body of Christ exists beyond space and time. However, I never saw this particular All Saints Day coming. This year, my church and I approach All Saints Day with heavy hearts as we remember our beloved pastor, the late Reverend Thomas McKenzie, who, along with his oldest child Charlie, was killed in a car crash in August of 2021. As much as I wish I never had reason to write this article, All Saints Day seems like the best time to synthesize the myriad thoughts and memories of Fr. Thomas’s ministry and share them in the hope that his legacy will continue to draw people to the Gospel. The following ideas, therefore, highlight the many ways in which Fr. Thomas’s leadership fostered flourishing and suggest how we may learn from his example in ministry. Because this is about Fr. Thomas, I must start with a story, for no discussion of Fr. Thomas’s legacy could ever be true to that legacy without lots and lots of stories. The second time my husband and I attended Church of the Redeemer, Thomas invited us to lunch. The first thing that surprised us was that he meant it. The second thing that surprised us was, while at lunch, he told us that one of the great things about a liturgical church is that he could die and be replaced, because, at least in theory, priests have interchangeable heads. Emphasis on “in theory.” Six and a half years, dozens of friendships, and thousands of memories later, our church has been thrust into the nightmare of seeing that theory become reality. In the blink of an eye, we’ve lost a leader we admired, respected, and trusted. Thomas spent the last fifteen years nurturing a church body in ways other leaders rarely do, and while no one denies his brokenness, or credits him for the entire strength of our fellowship, his tenure saw our church flourish, and do so largely under his influence. Thomas helped sculpt our unique church culture through his eccentric humor, his fearlessness in truth-telling, his attentiveness to research, and most of all, his stories. Since his death, I’ve seen and heard dozens of accounts of his impact, almost all of them from people grateful to Thomas for helping deepen their understanding of the Gospel and expand their imaginations of what was possible with God. Countless people benefited from his comprehensive and compassionate approaches to complex topics and were healed through his deep focus during pastoral care. I don’t doubt that our church will continue to thrive, but while Thomas might have believed his head was interchangeable, I think most of us at Church of the Redeemer would agree: that particular head was unique. Back to that lunch. At the time, his comment about being replaceable struck us as bold, shocking, and marvelously refreshing. By the time we moved to Nashville, I had seen my share of Christian leaders obsess over their own gifts and struggles, people who loved the Lord but seemed trapped by temptations to micromanage and retain control. I regularly heard stories of celebrity pastors who attracted followers through their charisma and inevitably experienced a fall. Moving to the South for the first time severely emphasized this pattern. There is a church in our city where the senior pastor’s name is literally carved in stone, as if daring his demons to pick up the pace of destruction. In this context, therefore, meeting a leader who not only embraced his own mortality but also jested about his relative insignificance felt like a cool breeze on a sticky Nashville summer day. Indeed, that comment was central in convincing my husband and me to make Church of the Redeemer our home. (Again, it was supposed to be hypothetical.) Over the years, Thomas continued to teach and to lead in ways that regularly surprised and refreshed us. In both theology and leadership style, he modeled a thoughtful, and often unusual ministry, one characterized by authenticity, trust, compassion, and never taking oneself too seriously. In the days and weeks after Thomas and Charlie’s accident, I felt a mixture of different griefs: grief for the McKenzie family, grief for my own family and the lost future that might have been, grief for our church’s terrible pain and inevitable changes, and grief for all the people who otherwise might have benefited from Thomas’s wisdom should he have lived to work another twenty-plus years in ministry. But mixed with all this grief I also felt a call to action. I don’t know what exactly God wants me to do with this call, but I do know how incredibly blessed I am for the six years I learned from Thomas and witnessed his unique style of leadership. I want to document and synthesize those lessons so that I can, with God’s help, follow Thomas’ example, and maybe make it easier for others to do so as well. Therefore, what follows are some of my observations of the ways in which Father Thomas excelled in encouraging the flourishing of our church. First, a few caveats: these reflections are not comprehensive; I would never reduce Thomas’s legacy to a few bullet points. But I have to start somewhere. Second, because I was neither a close friend nor a coworker of Thomas’s, my observations are limited to that of a parishioner. I was never privy to his deepest interests, his biggest mistakes, his working style, or any opinions he didn’t share publicly. Given this, readers might see gaping holes or misinterpretations in my reflections. But like I said, I have to start somewhere. Consider this, then, a limited and early mediation on the legacy of Father Thomas McKenzie. Lesson No. 1: Be a Morpheus. Back again to that lunch. Thomas also surprised and pleased us with another comment over those club sandwiches. We told him how we had recently moved from Chicago where we had left a robust bible study group and we were eager to join a similar group in Nashville. Thomas told us first that Redeemer often starts groups in September, and as it was January, we might have to wait for a space to open up. Redeemer had not been the first church to tell us that their groups were closed to newcomers. But, unlike the others, when I told him that I would be willing to start a group, he immediately said, “Absolutely. Do it. In fact, you are among several young folks who have come to me asking for more connection opportunities, so why don’t we get you all together for a lunch and see where it goes?” On the one hand, his response may seem like a logical progression, but not all leaders would have jumped to action like this. For one thing, at that time, Thomas didn’t know us at all. We could have been nutjobs, heretics, or worse. We had been to Redeemer only a handful of times and weren’t even close to considering ourselves Anglican. For another thing, hosting an event would risk wasting a lot of time on an idea that might not yield fruit—a normal concern in a world of limited resources. But he seemed to have no interest in vetting us, in setting the curriculum for a group, or in overseeing its launch or its growth, and he didn’t hesitate on experimenting with a gathering. All he knew was that something was stirring, and he was going to facilitate whatever it was to see if God was in it. And he was true to his word. A couple weeks later he arranged a lunch for young adults looking for fellowship. He told us he expected a handful of people to come. More than fifty showed up, and from that number we gathered about fifteen to start our Bible study, and that group has been meeting ever since. In the six years of its existence, Thomas never asked to attend, never asked what we’re studying, and never imposed anything on the group. Some people might see this as ambivalence—or even negligence—on Thomas’s part, but as the group’s leader I deeply appreciated Thomas’s confidence not just in me, but much more importantly in the power of the Holy Spirit to lead our group where it needed to go. Thomas only ever expressed joy at the group’s continued existence and helped us whenever we reached out. Whenever I asked Thomas to point new people toward our group, he would seek out folks needing connection. When our group struggled to meet consistently because there were too many toddlers to wrangle, Thomas agreed to have the church pay for childcare. When we needed a new place to meet, he offered his own office. In a sermon given by Father Kenny Benge, our church prior and now interim rector, Kenny shared that he and Thomas believed that their job was always to look for where the Holy Spirit was working. Kenny said that for Thomas, that meant putting his energies wherever he saw movement through the body of believers. He also said that Thomas would shut ministries down once it was evident that the Spirit was no longer working through them. Both he and Thomas were committed to being leaders who followed this movement, instead of constantly generating activity and busyness. Though it seems self-evident, I must say: more Christian leaders ought to lead this way. Put another way, Thomas was a Morpheus. I got this idea from my friend, Grant, when he and I were talking about an article our friend Caroline wrote a few days after Thomas died. In the article, Caroline described how our church had lost our Dumbledore and our Gandalf, the wise and confident teachers and mentors from the Harry Potter series and The Lord of the Rings. Like the characters in both of those stories, we were now left on a continuing quest without our guide. Grant liked these parallels, but wished that Caroline had included Morpheus from The Matrix series. To explain, Grant recollected visiting Thomas’s office and noticing a picture of Morpheus on Thomas’s desk. He asked about it and Thomas said, “I use that to remind myself that my job is to open doors for the Holy Spirit to work through other people. I am not Neo. I am not the hero of this story. I just open the doors.” Lesson No. 2: Don’t be vanilla. Unless you are vanilla. Then vanilla it up. As I noted before, I can’t claim to have known Thomas well on a personal level. But in the six years of hearing him preach, interacting with him during events, and the times I asked him for pastoral care, he never betrayed any hint of two-facedness. On the contrary, in the days following his death, many people referenced his occasional abrasiveness, his eccentric sense of humor, his sarcasm, and many qualities other pastors may have tried to tone down, if not hide completely. But Thomas had bigger fish to fry than trying to appease everyone. In fact, he seemed to appease more people by not defaulting to a bland noodle. A friend, Eric, recalled on Facebook how he too went to lunch with Thomas as he considered making Redeemer his home. Eric asked all his questions and suffered an awkward pause, which he broke by cussing. Thomas—clerical collar and all—cussed right back, and a friendship was born. He could have tried to be more neutral, more diplomatic, more—well, vanilla. This may have put some people more at ease. But he didn’t. He was a whole human, uninhibited by expectations of decorum or coolness. He sang Bon Jovi karaoke at the top of his lungs. He recounted adolescent stories about setting a car on fire and finding a dead body in a river. He relished burning Christmas trees in the Epiphany bonfire. He frequently referenced the violent and explicit television he regularly consumed. He hosted a Dungeons and Dragons gathering in his office. He wouldn’t shy away from talking about current events from the pulpit, knowing full well he would insult multiple people simultaneously. He would greet people with, “Oh, it’s you,” or “What are you doing here?” and if you didn’t realize he was being sarcastic, he wouldn’t help you get there. Even if he greeted you normally, he was terrible at small talk (I should know—I’m the worst). I think he knew that compromising his authenticity would have done more damage than good. I think he knew that he couldn’t argue from the pulpit that Jesus loves us as we are if he didn’t demonstrate vulnerability and honesty himself. He knew that churches are, paradoxically, where people often feel the need to hide their humanity the most. I know there are probably many things he didn’t share with us, and probably for many different reasons. But what he did share was genuine, and he won not only our affection, but also our trust. And with this trust he did wonderful things. He argued uncomfortable truths without losing credibility. He prayed from the heart during pastoral counseling without sounding artificial. He made kids feel as welcome and respected as the adults, because he never took himself too seriously. He helped people feel their feelings and not be ashamed. In the midst of paralyzing grief, and on this All Saints Day, I sense the Holy Spirit calling all of us who were blessed by Thomas’s life to make use of our blessings, to ponder the grief alongside the wisdom he leaves behind, and to commit the work of our hands to the God who promises resurrection and the hope that we will see Thomas, Charlie, and all our beloved lost again. Emily Capo Sauerman This brings me to a huge point: through his openness and vulnerability, Thomas modeled a theology of emotion. He expressed emotions regularly and publicly, and encouraged us all to do the same, even when those emotions involved anger and sadness with God. One of the first times I visited Thomas for pastoral counseling, I mentioned losing my mother to cancer, and I immediately burst into tears. I think I apologized for crying, which, incidentally, is a knee-jerk reaction many of us do too often, even if the person in front of us is a pastor. But Thomas seized the moment: “Why are you sorry? That’s really, really sad. Be sad.” It was such a simple thing. I didn’t need permission to feel sad; except that I did, and a lot of us do. In fact, in the week after Thomas died, dozens of people shared stories similar to mine, of Thomas modeling and encouraging emotion, legitimizing it in our minds and our hearts, and overcoming a variety of cultural, familial, and theological barriers to the flow of emotion. Thomas encouraged us to see how often God acknowledges and invites emotion in Scripture, how deeply Jesus felt the joys and sorrows of his earthly life. God can speak to us through feelings as much as through our thoughts, and they are an important part of the mystery. I think it’s safe to say that if Thomas had a battle cry, it would be: FEEL YOUR FEELINGS! So many of Thomas’s sermons focused on the invitation to emote, and none more poignant than the sermons addressing Leah Stufflebaum’s death. Leah was a friend of mine who found out she was pregnant, and then discovered she had cancer. As the parish administrator with her own spirited personality, she was both a friend and foil to Thomas. Leah fought her way through her pregnancy and gave birth to a healthy second son, but ultimately lost her battle a few months later, in October of 2019. Thomas made no secret of his fury with God. He hated everything to do with this loss. He hated not having the answers. He modeled lamentation and drew our attention to the huge portions of the Bible that invite and encourage us to lament, whether or not our theology is completely orthodox in those moments of pain. He also always, always drew our attention to the Table where, through Christ’s mysterious power, we share the Body and Blood with all believers across space and time, including with those saints who died before us. He reminded us that our sorrow is not for nothing, that it has an end, and that when we eat and drink, we kneel at the same mystical table with all Christ’s followers: with my mom, with Leah, and, now, with Thomas and Charlie. Lesson No. 3: Be rad and ready. While reminiscing about Thomas, our friend Brian told us about how he had called Thomas three weeks before he died. He reached out on Thomas’s personal cell number, and Thomas picked up in spite of clearly not being in the office. He was in fact on a long walk to train for the Camino de Santiago, the pilgrimage that he had planned to take for his sabbatical. He took the call even though he was out of breath, and spoke with Brian as if there was no intrusion into his final preparations before what would have been a ten week trip. Even before the accident, Brian was grateful, and marveled at Thomas’ generosity. There is a Christian buzz term that’s been around for a while now: radical generosity. I have no qualms with the term or the concept, but too often we think about generosity as having primarily to do with money. There are so many other ways to be generous. As someone who struggles with limited energy, for instance, I catch myself obsessing about how to best spend my hours, in the same way I often obsess about how to spend my money. Some people can be generous with their energy, always ready to assist people in need with ideas and hands and connections. One can be generous with time, and be available to friends and neighbors to listen thoroughly and to serve. One can be generous with their attention, and make people feel like they are always the highest priority. There is a generosity of hospitality, to provide an atmosphere of uninhibited welcome. And there are many more. When I think about Thomas, I want to gather several of these generosities together under umbrella term because his leadership style exemplified so many of them. Thomas modeled something more like radical readiness: he made himself available to meet whatever tasks God placed in front of him, and he approached them with focus, energy, dignity, and thoughtfulness. He excelled in preparing himself for action by setting healthy boundaries, and then he met the tasks in front of him with a thoughtful philosophy of service. These together formed the blessing of his radical readiness, which enabled him to be radically generous in a multitude of ways. First, the boundaries. We all know Thomas was prolific, but to my limited knowledge, Thomas was not a workaholic. Maybe people who knew him better would disagree. But he seemed to know when he needed to rest, and he thoroughly advocated for Sabbath rest in various forms. Before Covid, Thomas always went to see a movie in a movie theater on his day off. It was one of his favorite things to do, and it was a non-negotiable form of rest for him. Thomas was an oblate at a monastery in the New Mexico desert, and he went there once or twice a year to completely disconnect. For many years he and his wife Laura would vacation in Martha’s Vineyard where he would be revived by the ocean and would collect shells to use for the upcoming year’s baptisms. Around the time my husband and I began going to Redeemer, Thomas had been going through a terribly dark time, and he took a leave of absence knowing he could not minister well until he reestablished a baseline of health. In that moment, Thomas knew that he needed to stop, so he did. In addition to rest, Thomas knew that his work would suffer if he failed to guard his closest relationships. Several of Thomas’s friends noted this in their eulogies, both at the funeral and printed elsewhere. Thomas met every Wednesday morning with a group of friends at what they called “Dude Breakfast,” where they would gather to enjoy one another but also to share what was really going on in their lives, their minds, and hearts. Having never been a pastor, I can only imagine how emotionally weighty the role must be, and Thomas found critical support in his commitment among the closest of friends. These friends also emphasized Thomas’ devotion to Laura and their daughters. Several of the friends commented on how eager Thomas was to serve his wife, often in the smallest ways: to get her a diet Coke, to kiss her during communion, to hold her hand during meals. Thomas’ friends also made clear that he constantly strived never to prioritize work over quality time with his girls. So, going back to Brian’s story, I do wonder why Thomas picked up the phone. He didn’t have to. He could have let it go to voicemail and called back at a more convenient time. His commitment to boundaries would suggest that he should not have answered. But my guess is that it was precisely his commitment to boundaries that allowed him to answer and to focus on Brian’s question. Thomas was about to go on a sabbatical. He knew he needed closure on many things before his absence. He also knew Brian needed closure on his own question, and in that moment Thomas could provide it. He also loved Brian, and he answered out of this love. In other words, Thomas was ready to serve generously. If he wasn’t ready, he would have stepped back until he was. This isn’t to suggest he did this perfectly every time, but I have never seen another leader appear so focused in a conversation, produce such concise and well-researched sermons and lectures, and model such decisiveness all in the same role, and I think these boundaries are why. At least in my experience as a parishioner, Thomas never seemed harried or tempted to multitask. He never seemed to wish to be somewhere else or talking to someone else. He didn’t check his phone during important conversations. He was ready to address the needs in front of him with a generous spirit. He was ready to take cues from the Holy Spirit, and if that’s not the true goal of ministry I don’t know what is. This brings me to the philosophy of service. Thomas always emphasized our human limitations, and so to be ready often meant being simultaneously realistic and prayerful. One of the ways in which he illustrated this was mentioned by Father Kenny in sermon a few weeks after Thomas and Charlie’s accident. Kenny said that he and Thomas embraced the limitations of the church building. They both believed that if the church outgrew the space, it was neither an indication to add another service or to add on to the building, but rather to plant another church. Kenny said that Thomas believed that there was no point in having a congregation so big that it would outgrow the staff’s ability to meet the needs of the congregants in personal ministry. This is a bold belief in an era of megachurches. But as I reflect on the last many years, Thomas and the staff were able to be generous, focused, and present because they made sure of that ability, and made sure they were ready to follow the Spirit in regard to growth. Whenever I meditate on this idea of readiness, I think about the story of Philip and the Ethiopian eunuch. Philip is dropped by the Spirit on the side of a road. If that happened to me, I think I’d have some questions, for starters. But then a man shows up with questions, and Philip engages in conversation, ready, willing, and powered by the Spirit to listen and lead him toward salvation. As we consider Philip, and Thomas, and anyone else who models this readiness well, we can reflect on how little of what keeps us busy really matters. What matters is making space in our lives and being available to the Spirit to be used by him in ministry. Lesson No. 4: The leg-work of truth-telling. In the aftermath of the accident, I heard many people comment on Thomas’ boldness in truth-telling. Now, while we often hear phrases like “speaking truth to power,” or “telling it like it is,” these weren’t the phrases used to describe Thomas day-to-day. Too often, these phrases conjure images of firebrand personalities, people who seek to provoke for provocation’s sake. This was not Thomas. He was not a firebrand spreading vitriol. But he did speak truth, and boldly. He did make many of us uncomfortable with the truths he affirmed, but he also had a gift for framing those truths well enough that we could absorb them. As we seek to learn from Thomas’s skill in truth-telling, we first have to acknowledge that not everyone will have his natural gifts. We also need to realize we don’t have to completely mimic Thomas’s theology to communicate God’s truth. There are simply some aspects of Thomas’ boldness that were unique to Thomas. That said, I don’t think Thomas assumed people would respect his authority without some serious work on his part. There are two things about Thomas’s approach to hard truths that I think we can imitate: first, that if Thomas was going to make a claim, he would always explain the context, and second that Thomas would always filter claims through the lens of our Gospel Identity. Let’s first examine the power of good explanation. Several years ago, the ACNA updated the Book of Common Prayer to include some new research in translation and to update some language for modern audiences. Thomas sent an email explaining the major changes, which included some new wording within the Nicene Creed. He explained why the ACNA felt the changes were necessary and why he felt it necessary to adopt the new book for our church. He also articulated some of the changes he personally disagreed with, but that compromise, he said, is necessary for a functioning church polity. As I set about reading that email, I noticed my finger kept scrolling, and scrolling, and scrolling. It was, let’s say, comprehensive. Maybe it’s just me, but I can’t imagine many of its recipients caring too much about the translation minutiae or issues of church polity. Anyone like me would just go with the flow because most of us had neither the bandwidth to engage nor the power to alter ACNA decisions. Whether out of convenience or loyalty or both, we simply trusted Thomas and the leadership to make those decisions. But Thomas must have felt that this level of explanation was necessary. Either he was exceptionally nerdy (which he was) or there was something else that he needed to accomplish. Surely, any pastor would be anxious about possible schism; churches have been shredded over seeming minutiae before. But hindsight shows a noticeable pattern in Thomas’s leadership style indicating that he never assumed that his authority rested solely in his role. “Because I said so” was never a sufficient reason. He was going to work to earn our trust and keep it, and to honor his listeners with comprehensive explanations of decisions and stances, always with an open door for questions. I began seeing this pattern emerge more and more over the last few years, a time during which I’d never envy any pastor. We can all agree the last few years have seen a palpable increase in discord, politicization of everything, graceless platitudes, and, of course, a global pandemic. In addition to the suffering happening within our church body, Thomas had to get up to address murders, systemic racism, abortion legislation, immigration, a tornado that tore parts of Nashville to shreds, a bomb that went off on Christmas day, the January 6th insurrection, and the many twists and turns of life during a pandemic, among many, many other horrendously complex subjects that make everyone uncomfortable, regardless of ideology. Through it all, Thomas always brought these issues back to the Gospel, and assisted us in seeing each issue through that lens. He always blessed us with an explanation of his theological conclusions, even when the explanation included unknowable mysteries. Thomas never seemed to shy away from saying “I don’t know,” but rather embraced the times he could admit it, because even in that, if not especially in that, he could all the more point to a God that is bigger than our brokenness and bigger than our brains. One of the best examples of this contextual explanation came throughout the pandemic in Thomas’s weekly Thursday updates. I remember reflecting with friends how we were all a little sad when Thomas sent his last Thursday update. It had been too easy, especially in the early months of lockdown, to feel disconnected from the Body of Christ. Thomas’s emails created a moment for each of us to remember that we were still united in fellowship, even if we weren’t together in person. This is not to say that the emails were cheery. He did not shy away from expressing his disappointments, especially about that first Easter of Covid, as he and the staff were forced to celebrate the Resurrection through Facebook Live. But the emails were a reminder that he, the staff, and the vestry were all still working towards solutions that would safely reunite us all again. Along with the emotional touchpoint the emails provided, Thomas also used it to explain the decisions he and the vestry were making to try to keep everyone safe. I always came away impressed by the thoughtfulness behind the decisions and the transparency about their difficulty. Had he not explained that context, it would have magnified the sense of loneliness and turmoil. I might even say that, in some ways, Thomas did his job too well. With all the chaos flung at us over the last couple years, Thomas’s gift afforded us the luxury to become complacent in our reflections and questions. We took Thomas for granted, in short, knowing he would explain the hard stuff. Then the accident happened, and we all felt that the best person to give context to Thomas’s death was of course Thomas himself, which makes the loss all the more wretched. The second way in which Thomas shed light on complex subjects was through focusing on our identity as believers. This theological stance allowed Thomas to address hard subjects and current events without “taking sides” in the culture wars. When understood as Thomas understood it, this stance allowed many of us to shed much of the tribalism that so defines contemporary America and to see complex subjects through the lens of the Gospel. And this stance continues to be critical, not just for Church of the Redeemer, but for any Christian trying to navigate a hostile world. By loosening our tethers to the many identities and loyalties we have in the world, we can better filter out what is true, what is noble, and what is beautiful from the cacophony of stimuli. The best way I can think of to communicate this theological stance is to borrow from Sacred Fire by Fr. Ronald Rolheiser. In this passage, Fr. Ronald illuminates the significance of Jesus removing his outer garment before washing the disciples’ feet. This act emphasizes the movement toward humility and the embrace of deep identity to be able to complete the service he is about to perform. “In order to let go of the pride that blocks any human from stooping down to wash the feet of someone different from himself, Jesus had to strip off a lot of outer things (pride, moral judgments, superiority, ideology, and personal dignity) so as to wear only his inner garment. What was his inner garment? As John mystically describes it, his inner garment was precisely his knowledge that he had come from God, was going back to God, and that therefore all things were possible for him, including washing the feet of someone whom he already knew had betrayed him. That is also our own inner garment, the reality that lies deepest beneath our race, gender, religion, language, politics, ideology, and personal history (with all its wounds and false pride). What is most real is that deep down, beneath these other, outer, things, we are imprinted with the dark memory, the brand of love and truth, the inchoate knowledge that, like Jesus, we too have come from God, are returning to God, and therefore are capable of doing anything, including loving and washing the feet of someone very different from ourselves. Our inner garment is the image and likeness of God inside us, and when we are in touch with this, we can find the strength to wash one another’s feet across any divide: liberal-conservative, prolife-prochoice, Catholic-Protestant, Jew-Muslim, Muslim-Christian, black-white, man-woman, and begin to feel sympathy for one another beyond our wounds and difference.” I believe that Thomas wanted to help each of us to excavate our inner garments, however buried and fossilized, because it was only when we identify our inner garments are we able to accept hard, uncomfortable truths and grow closer to Christ, stronger in Christ, and more compassionate like Christ. Thomas’s sermons helped us remove metaphorical outer garments so we wouldn’t confront hard things with only our shell, but with our core. Likewise, we can speak—and receive—bold truths only if we communicate with one another from core self to core self. Adding some choice stories is always a good idea, too. Lesson No. 5: Remember the ministry of high-fives. When we told our four-year-old about Thomas and Charlie’s accident, her immediate response was, “But I liked giving him high-fives!” While she, like the rest of us, struggle to understand this loss, I want to draw attention to a lesson in this reaction that often gets overlooked: children’s ministry does not stop at the Sunday School door. The whole church must agree that children are disciples too, and their presence must be welcomed, and their personhood treasured. Thomas and the community of Redeemer have done such a wonderful job of making children feel seen and heard. My favorite example of this is from the first Story Night we ever attended. Story Night is a grand Redeemer tradition that takes place on a cozy December evening when people gather in the Abbey house and share true stories about themselves. The topics range from love stories to travel stories to faith stories, or in the case of a then five-year-old Carolina Howard, a sleepwalking story. She jumped up to the mic that night, and Thomas, along with the rest of us, was delighted as she told us about how one night while sleepwalking, she stepped on a slug and screamed until she woke up. The fact that Carolina was so young in a room of adults seemed to pose no problem to her. I love this because it should never be a problem for any child. She knew she belonged. In the same vein, a few years ago Thomas started the tradition of Pancake Supper karaoke, and kid after kid took the mic and belted to the crowd with abandon. They too knew they belonged. Thomas made a point of welcoming children into the life of the church, high-fiving the little kids and building inside jokes with some of the older ones. Our daughter was growing increasingly excited about the high-fives just before the accident, and she would seek Thomas out to make sure they happened. In fact, the day before he died, she did just that—racing to find him immediately after the service, that moment of belonging being so worthwhile to her that it took priority over everything else, even the playground swings. Thomas, along with so many people at Redeemer, have encouraged that atmosphere of belonging, and it may serve his memory more than any other to make sure that atmosphere continues to shape the legacy of our church forever. Conclusion Had things been different, Thomas would have returned to us from his sabbatical on All Saints Sunday. This tradition was precious to him and he made a point of scheduling his sabbatical accordingly. Instead, we find ourselves mourning what might have been, and looking for meaning in the memories. There are many more lessons left to contemplate in the legacy of Fr. Thomas McKenzie. Like I said, this is a start. In the midst of paralyzing grief, and on this All Saints Day, I sense the Holy Spirit calling all of us who were blessed by Thomas’s life to make use of our blessings, to ponder the grief alongside the wisdom he leaves behind, and to commit the work of our hands to the God who promises resurrection and the hope that we will see Thomas, Charlie, and all our beloved lost again.

Five or six years ago, I joined Jonny Jimison’s Patreon page. If I remember correctly, he’d committed to redrawing his Dragon Lord Saga in color (having published books one and two in black and white), and the patreon was a way of inviting his readers into the process. I was already a fan of Jonny’s comic strips and had backed the Kickstarter campaigns for his books, but it wasn’t until I became a Patreon supporter that I really understood how dedicated Jonny is to his work, and it’s that dedication of Jonny’s that’s really impressed me over the years. A lot of folks who start Patreon pages come out the gate with a flurry of material for their backers, then eventually the excitement wanes and updates become few and far between. But not so with Jonny. Patiently and diligently his work continues to this day, a steady stream of new pages and comics every week. And that diligence has paid off in the honing of the quality and detail of his craftsmanship. In the years since, it’s been a joy to go from watching Jonny work to working directly with him on a number of projects. He designed this year’s Hutchmoot poster. He designed our HutchDecks trading cards. He’s developed the Rabbit Trails comic strip. And he’s become an integral part of the wider artistic community surrounding the Rabbit Room. It’s that patient, careful work ethic (along with our love of his humor and stories) that convinced us to bring the Dragon Lord Saga under the banner of Rabbit Room Press, and I’m so glad we did. After years of painstaking labor redrawing and coloring Martin & Marco we were thrilled with the final product and so were readers. Folks have been clamoring for the next book for two years, and now we’re proud to announce that the full-color work on The River Fox is complete. It’ll be in readers’ hands this Christmas (unpredictable shipping woes notwithstanding). I often describe the Dragon Lord Saga as Calvin & Hobbes meets The Princess Bride. It’s a story about two brothers and the zany adventure they get swept into. The books are filled with humor and memorable characters and an overriding sense of fun. Book one, Martin & Marco is available in the Rabbit Room Store. Book two, The River Fox, is now available for pre-orders with a release set for November 19th (fingers crossed—everything in the production chain is unpredictable right now). We can’t wait for readers to feast their eyes on the fruit of Jonny’s work. It’s been a long wait, but The River Fox is, at last, coming your way in full color. Click here to order. (And perhaps the best part of all of this is that, thanks to Jonny’s diligence, work on book three, Dragons & Desperados, is now well underway.)

by the Rabbit Room This week on The Habit Podcast, Jonathan Rogers speaks with two guests: poet Luci Shaw and illustrator Ned Bustard. Luci Shaw is one of the great living Christian poets. She has been a pioneer and role model for generations of writers. Her poem “The O in Hope” is now a picture book , illustrated by Ned Bustard. Click here to listen to Season 3, Episode 44 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 info@rabbitroom.com ! 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.

by the Rabbit Room In this special episode of The Second Muse, former guest Ella Mine returns with collaborators Jac Thompson and S. Grant Parker for a live performance at North Wind Manor and a discussion about how art arises from pain to become a safe place during times of suffering. This episode originally aired during Hutchmoot: Homebound 2021. Click here to listen to Season 2, Episode 13 of The Second Muse. Sponsorship on the Podcast Network Are you interested in teaming up with us to support the work you love? Send an email to info@rabbitroom.com ! 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.

by the Rabbit Room When it comes to bestselling books and authors, it is sometimes easy to feel that you have missed the wave. A literary phenomenon occurs and critical acclaim soars to unknown heights, but for a variety of reasons you are left behind. For more than twenty years this has been the case for me with regard to Harry Potter . When Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s (Sorcerer’s) Stone was first published in 1997 I was working as a bookseller in Belfast, Northern Ireland. These novels by a hitherto unknown author arrived on our shelves with no small amount of kerfuffle, chiefly owing to the fact that there was simultaneously a children’s and an adult binding, each containing exactly the same text block. This had been unknown up to this point, at least to our circle of bookselling colleagues. Critical and popular acclaim quickly followed for J. K. Rowling, and the movies and the mania were not far behind. Even with all of this rolling hype, I struggled to get on board the Hogwarts Express. The first novel felt a little too young for me and by the time I got around to reading Harry Potter and Chamber of Secrets the film adaptations were beginning their steady stream. I made the mistake of mixing media too early, spoiling the plot lines of novels in the series that I hadn’t read. Time passed, Potter faded, and I concluded that these books were not for me. Fast forward twenty-four years, and my wife and I are living with two daughters who are voracious readers. Their appetite for being allowed to read the Potter novels reached crisis point, and this year our youngest set herself on a journey to complete the whole series, following hot on the heels of our eldest. I initially re-approached the novels from the perspective of Dad-Duty, checking in advance if the narratives were age-appropriate for our younger daughter. That decision has led me to read the entire series this year, beginning in summer and concluding in autumn. My youngest daughter overtook me when I was lumbering through Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix , and my pretext of pseudo-censor was lost irretrievably—I was now reading them for their sheer joy and magic. Arriving late to the Potter party undoubtedly has its disadvantages, but there has been much to commend it. The following three things have pressed on my heart and conscience as I have journeyed through these remarkable texts—lessons that are related to the world of wizards, witches, and wands, but that are applicable across all kinds of texts. Some texts must wait until the right time The world of reading is not immune from the widespread FOMO (Fear Of Missing Out) that characterises our culture. To not plug into the zeitgeist, to not be reading the latest or most recently rediscovered texts can make one feel that they have tipped off the literary highway, away from the bright lights and fast pace. The truth is that some texts are not right for us when they are for others. The factors around the Potter novels were unique to me and the moment in which the books emerged, making them impenetrable and unappealing, rendering me powerless to progress through them with any appetite or real interest over twenty years ago. To acknowledge this allows us to be kinder to ourselves. Not relating to what others find relatable is perfectly acceptable. Social media has persuaded us that the adulation of good things should always be a community experience. If Paul Simon could say in the 1980s that ‘every generation throws a hero up the pop charts,’ our boast (or lament) is that we produce and dispose of heroes at a much quicker pace than that. To remain unplugged should not be a source of guilt, but an acknowledgment that we are not all the same and that we are not universally ready for things at the same time. It should also encourage us to be kinder to the creative work of others. Critical assessments are often burdened with all kinds of subjectivity, some of which is a guilty displacing of our own disappointment that a work has not pressed our buttons. The results can be ugly if we are not careful around our own responses, blaming an author or work for not reaching us as we expected them to (‘we played the flute for you and you did not dance’). If we must demure from what others are currently enjoying, we can do so without dismissing the wider interest, or the worth of the work in question. J. K. Rowling made no alterations to her novels in the twenty-four years that I managed to avoid them, but my place in life has changed to an incredible degree in that time. I was ready for Harry Potter this year, and not ready in other years. That is no reflection on the works in question. Evangelical hot-takes are seldom just or accurate As an adult reader one of my strongest feelings while working through the Harry Potter series was revulsion at the evangelical subculture’s interaction with the books upon their first publication. Coming from a very conservative background, the voices among my own tribe who were denouncing the books for their promotion of witchcraft were loud and clear. To the outside world such declamations had all of the transparency of Parseltongue, but for many of us within the evangelical world, picking up Potter felt like indulging a dangerous temptation. Reading now, with all of the personal and social changes that have passed under the bridge, it seems incredible to me that such claims were ever made by any reputable source. Many of the judgements made on the books related to their earliest volumes, but the strength of reaction among Christians had the force of a moral panic. Since Potter-gate, the proclivities and eccentricities of evangelical subculture have been played out on the world stage, reaching political and social discourse with unabashed ferocity. The Potter books gave us fair warning of how expectations of fair-mindedness from evangelicals are often just vain hopes. J. K. Rowling’s prose is among the most redemptive I have ever read (more below), meaning that not only was the hype around children being drawn into the occult overblown but it was contrary to the entire meaning of the books themselves. If adverse personal responses to texts can be damaging, public declamations of literature and other media without proper engagement with content or intent are a horrible breach of the 9th commandment. When we propagandise and protest with no foundation of truth, we are bearing false witness, slandering and libelling the work and intentions of others. The Potter novels provide some of the most touching treatments of grieving and death that I have ever encountered, but these are realised in a world bent on redemption, an environment where love, friendship, and fidelity are transformative realities. Andrew Roycroft Creative work is prone to this defamation precisely because of its creativity. J. K. Rowling’s work forged its own shape in the literary world in more ways than occupying two spaces in bookshops. Her story arc was long thought through, and the component parts of each novel fed into it with breathtaking skill. The themes which she managed to touch on, the depths she managed to plumb, the heights she managed to scale, meant that certain conventions and conceptions had to be overturned in the effort. This is what genuine creativity does: it unseats certainty to build it a better throne, it throws our co-ordinates in order to recalibrate us to true North again, and that is painful work, prone to misunderstanding. A blunt edged, literalistic view of life and literature (as was true of my upbringing and background) fears the flux and controlled freefall of what imagination does when it refocuses belief and understanding. It is hard to feel that anything has changed in the evangelical subculture on this score, but it should at least authorise thoughtful people to dissent with confidence from the denunciations and shibboleths that hysteria often insists on screaming in our faces. Redemption is a big story My overwhelming response to the Harry Potter series is one of immense gratitude. Without indulging in ruining the plot for prospective readers, the redemptive curve of the stories is astonishingly well conceived and executed. J. K. Rowling’s skill is the creation of an entire world which awaits redemption and makes the reader long for the same. Evil is neither glorified, exaggerated, nor minimised—it is with us in the world and can cause even trusted people to buckle at points of weakness. The unmitigated horror of certain scenes in the novels will remain with me for a long time. Wickedness sees the world through the prism of self and ambition, and there is something of that spirit in all of us. The logical conclusions of evil are entertained in the Potter series in unnerving and unsettling ways, reminiscent of how the Scriptures often draw us up short in our understanding of just how destructive sin is. This is a bitter grace, and darker providence from Rowling’s pen, which we should be grateful for. Redemption is the real story, though. The Potter novels provide some of the most touching treatments of grieving and death that I have ever encountered, but these are realised in a world bent on redemption, an environment where love, friendship, and fidelity are transformative realities. Sections of the Potter novels reduced me to tears of joy, and Rowling’s ownership of her Christian themes grounds the action of these wonderful books in self-giving love and a King’s cross. I am grateful to have read these books after twenty-four more years of acknowledging that the world is broken, that I am broken, and that redemption of heart and cosmos are our most pressing need. Conclusion I arrived late at the Potter party, but there was a place for me at the table—and I am grateful for that. Reading from The Philosopher’s Stone to The Deathly Hallows has ploughed up the ground of my adult reader’s heart. These novels have given me perspective on my own reaction to the creativity of others, renewed scepticism about Christian subculture’s critical senses, and room for redemptive talk with my daughters rooted in a story they love which points to the Story of God’s love.