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by Jessica Smith Culver & Douglas McKelvey With election day approaching, please enjoy this short liturgy reminding us to love our neighbors well. If you would like to share this with a church or group, see the PDF bundle on the Rabbit Room store . If we are pleased with the results of today’s election, let us yet in humility remember that every earthly authority must one day give way to your eternal rule— so let us in grace love all our neighbors well. Or, if we are disappointed, let us resist all fear, anger, accusation, and bitterness, but instead renew our trust in you— and let us in grace love all our neighbors well. Whatever the outcome of this election, let our citizenship and our hope be rooted first in your heavenly kingdom, that we might live in exile here as winsome ambassadors of our soon-returning King— always in grace loving all our neighbors well. This liturgy is taken from PDF Downloads: Liturgies of Petition & Provision  from Rabbit Room Press . You can find more liturgies like these at EveryMomentHoly.com .

Happy Thanksgiving, folks! We’re thankful for all of you and want to offer a few words and songs you might find useful during today’s festivities. Now turn off your phones and computers and feast (right after you read this post). First is this video of an excerpt from “A Liturgy for Feasting with Friends” from Every Moment Holy . Download a free printable version of the whole liturgy here. It wouldn’t quite be Thanksgiving (for me, at least) without a reading from Robert Farrar Capon’s Supper of the Lamb . You might find, as I do, that it’s a great blessing over a feast. From Chapter 16 of The Supper of the Lamb by Robert Farrar Capon “For all its greatness (trust me—I am the last man on earth to sell it short), the created order cries out for futher greatness still. The most splendid dinner, the most exquisite food, the most gratifying company, arouse more appetites than they satisfy. They do not slake man’s thirst for being; they whet it beyond all bounds. Dogs eat to give their bodies rest; man dines and sets his heart in motion. All tastes fade, of course, but not the taste for greatness they inspire; each love esacpes us, but not the longing it provokes for a better convivium , a higher session. We embrace the world in all its glorious solidity, yet it struggles in our very arms, declares itself a pilgrim world, and, through the lattices and windows of its nature, discloses cities more desirable still. You indict me, no doubt, as an incurable romantic. I plead guilty without contest. I see no other explanation of what we are about. Why do we marry, why take friends and lovers, why give ourselves to music, painting, chemistry, or cooking? Out of simple delight in the resident goodness of creation, of course; but out of more than that, too. Half of earth’s gorgeousness lies hidden in the glimpsed city it longs to become. For all its rooted loveliness, the world has no continuing city here; it is an outlandish place, a foreign home, a session in via to a better version of itself—and it is our glory to see it so and thirst until Jerusalem comes home at last. We were given appetittes, not to consume the world and forget it, but to taste its goodness and hunger to make it great.” And a benediction from Chapter 15: “I wish you well. May your table be graced with lovely women and good men. May you drink well enough to drown the envy of youth in the satisfactions of maturity. […] May we all sit long enough for reserve to give way to ribaldry and for gallantry to grow upon us. May there be singing at our table before the night is done, and old, broad jokes to fling at the stars and tell them we are men. We are great, my friend; we shall not be saved for trampling that greatness under foot … Come then; leap upon these mountains, skip upon these hills and heights of earth. The road to Heaven does not run from the world but through it. The longest Session of all is no discontinuation of these sessions here, but a lifting of them all by priestly love. It is a place for men , not ghosts—for the risen gorgeousness of the New Earth and for the glorious earthiness of the True Jerusalem. Eat well then. Between our love and His Priesthoood, He makes all things new. Our Last Home will be home indeed.” And finally, I’ll leave you with two songs. First up is Son of Laughter’s “The Meal We Could Not Make” from the new album No Story Is Over . And the second is maybe my favorite song my brother’s ever written, “Don’t You Want to Thank Someone” from Light for the Lost Boy. “The Meal We Could Not Make” by Son of Laughter from No Story Is Over https://rabbitroom.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/11/07-The-Meal-We-Could-Not-Make.mp3 “Don’t You Want to Thank Someone” by Andrew Peterson from Light for the Lost Boy https://rabbitroom.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/11/ThankSomeone.mp3 I hope you all have much to be thankful for this year. I know I do.

by Jeffrey Overstreet On my way to the office to write this review, I passed Grumpy D’s coffeehouse and saw that it had closed. This place too? So many neighborhood “third places” have disappeared during these past few years of pandemic, lockdown, and economic hardships. It got me thinking. How many once-essential communities have I lost or missed in the last few years? After two years of “Zoom church,” my Episcopalian congregation began congregating in-person again only recently (and several friends have not re-appeared). COVID canceled a Santa Fe gathering that for 16 years had been the highlight of my yearly calendar: Image journal’s arts retreat, The Glen Workshop. A society I started 30 years ago focused on the joy of reading aloud—we didn’t miss a year until the pandemic. And I’ve been longing to reunite with my kindred creatives at Hutchmoot. In each of these sacred places, I’ve known love, purpose, and a strong sense of belonging. Being together transforms our separate experiences into a whole, a harmony, as if we are one large musical instrument. Eager to fill the void, I “masked up” last April to join a packed house at the Seattle International Film Festival. What an adrenaline rush—this communal experience of big screen art after two years of isolation! The movie made us laugh early and often, and then moved many of us to tears. I stayed through the end credits, savoring the buzz. I suspect that experience was enhanced by the fact that the film— Marcel the Shell With Shoes On , my personal favorite film of 2022 (so far)—is about a young dreamer’s loss of community, his longing for reunion, and the challenges that he and his grandmother face in going on alone. Wait. Did I just admit that I cried through an animated movie about a talking seashell? Speaking of community: Marcel the Shell’s origin story begins, appropriately, in a crowded place. Actress Jenny Slate explained it on The Drew Barrymore Show like this: At a 2012 wedding, she “felt so small” in the crowded hotel room where she and her friends were staying that she started speaking in a goofy, quavering, high-pitched voice to express how she felt. Her partner at the time, animator Dean Fleischer-Camp, decided the voice needed a character; so he combined a tiny shell, a single googly eye, and some pink doll shoes. The voice and the figurine were a perfect match. The videos they made together were a whimsical, improvisational project that became a viral sensation and led to a couple of children’s books. And now, at last, we have a feature film that is luminous with love. Marcel’s movie is an achievement as inspired, as enthralling, and as wholesome as anything ever imagined by Jim Henson, A.A. Milne, or the storytellers at Pixar. Jeffrey Overstreet If you aren’t familiar with Marcel yet, you might guess that Marcel’s power is just a case of cuteness and sentimentality—something “just for kids.” But no—unlike the saccharine simplicity that makes so much children’s entertainment forgettable, Marcel the Shell With Shoes On respects its audience’s intelligence and emotional capacities, revealing how, through the eye of this curious mollusk, a world that might seem mundane and unremarkable to us is actually alive with beauty, mystery, and possibility. Marcel’s movie is an achievement as inspired, as enthralling, and as wholesome as anything ever imagined by Jim Henson, A.A. Milne, or the storytellers at Pixar. And it has as much wisdom to impart to adults as it does to younger viewers. Marcel is not merely “cute.” His life inching around the AirBnB where he lives with his benevolent grandmother Nana Connie (exquisitely voiced by Isabella Rossellini) is filled with challenges and hardships. Some of them mundane: he throws up in moving cars, and he is frank about how much he hates dog breath. Some are more sobering: Nana Connie shows early signs of dementia, and Marcel is scarred from the nasty domestic feuds between the man and woman who once owned the house he lives in. It’s because of the film’s honesty about hardships, trauma, mortality, and grief that this movie is likely to mean as much or more to adults as it means to young viewers. But what I find most affecting about Marcel the Shell With Shoes On is its timely narrative about change and grief. The film is framed as an improvisational documentary by Dean Fleischer-Camp (playing himself), following these tiny shells as they move about the nooks, the crannies, the houseplants, and the backyard of the AirBnB. We learn along the way that they were once a part of a flourishing community. (Imagine Toy Story, but instead of living toys, Marcel’s creators have breathed life into all the odds and ends —the snack pretzels, the pencil nubs, the cracked peanut shells — that you might find under the couch cushions or in that one miscellaneous drawer of your desk.) And then, one day, that community vanished in sudden and mysterious circumstances.  The fewer details I reveal about how that community disappeared, the better. (Hint: It does not involve a purple supervillain snapping his fingers.) From this point on, it’s best that you follow Marcel’s quest on your own as he seeks to fill the hole in his heart and find his missing loved ones. I suspect you’ll want to see Marcel the Shell With Shoes On more than once. I’ve already seen it three times on the big screen, not only to laugh out loud for 90 minutes with my neighbors, but to feel my spirits renewed by the beauty, the light, and the intricacies of Marcel’s secret world. After you see how director of photography Bianca Cline and stop-motion director Eric Adkins merge animation and real-time footage into luminous images—curtains lifting on a breeze, a sunlit spiderweb, birthday candles as lamps around Nana Connie’s dinner table—you’ll find it easy to believe their testimony that Terrence Malick’s The Tree of Life was a primary influence on their work. As Marcel stares out the window into a world vaster than his tiny imagination can comprehend, wondering if he will ever be reunited with his family and friends, I found myself in that rare and elevating experience of cinema as prayer . Even though the film avoids specific religious terminology, I sense something sacred in Marcel’s vision of a world restored. But Nana Connie, in her wisdom, impresses upon Marcel (and us) that the path to healing is not without its risks, and not without its costs. It leads us forward into something new, not backward to recover what once was. In a moment of fear born of trauma, Marcel trembles and asks, “But what if everything changes again?” His grandmother, in a voice of courage and inexplicable joy, answers: “It will!” As I was editing this essay, I learned that a friend of mine had passed away suddenly, unexpectedly, from aggressive cancer. Stunned, I looked up my most recent message from her. She had written to ask if I thought it was likely that the Glen Workshop might bring us back together again in person soon. Strangely, I thought of Marcel. And that was an encouraging thought. In the making of all things new, Marcel finds hope beyond the here-and-now reunions I hope we are all experiencing. His epiphany—which we experience with him at the film’s glorious conclusion—offers us a profound image of an ultimate reconciliation. Like Jim Henson before them who gave ping-pong-ball eyes to a sock puppet and changed the world for “the lovers, the dreamers, and me,” these artists have breathed life into a tiny shell. And the character who springs to life onscreen gives moviegoers of all ages a new frame within which to wrestle loss and grief with faith on a path upward into hope. In the words of a song that Marcel performs with deep sincerity, you’ll “want to linger a little longer” in his world, even as you learn to lean forward, courageously anticipating how love is making all things new.

If you are a poetry lover and have not signed up for the Rabbit Room poetry newsletter , now is the time. It has been a rich, busy year on the newsletter. We have published over 100 new poems. We have launched an interview series featuring conversations with well-known poets of faith . We have built up our archive of classic poetry that can act as an introduction to poetry for the poetry-curious. And we have invited several established poets to take over the newsletter for a few weeks as we take a deeper look into our poetry, most recently Angela Alaimo O'Donnell's Flannery O'Connor poems. If that sounds inspiring, encouraging, and refreshing, sign up here. We have chosen ten of our favorite poems from the year to share with you as a sample of the regular fare on the newsletter. Enjoy! Paying Attention by Andrew Peterson Pay attention to the little things. Pay attention to the big things too, Because both are easy enough to miss, And are one and the same more often than not. Pay attention to the eerie silence When the air conditioner cycles off And the only sound is the creak of the house. Pay attention to the clank and rumble Of the freight train as it wobbles by. Pay attention to birds—the ones that tweet, The ones that honk, and the ones That lie dead in the road. Notice them. Notice the level of the creek before the rain And after. Remember that the water Rushing around your ankles was a cloud Not so long ago, a cloud that began Somewhere in Alaska, perhaps, and before that, A dark, frigid, and silent subterranean sea. Then notice the minnows pecking at your toes. Pay attention to the turns your life has taken To bring you to the place you now stand. Most blessings sprout not from the plans We make, but from the soil of their sad ruin. Watch their slow, unstoppable unraveling, Their disassembly, the final shudder, and Their collapse, and the dustcloud that follows. Pay attention then to the way your heart Breathes a sigh of relief when the work That was never yours anyway is lifted From your tired hands. Pay attention, When you clean up the mess, to the treasure That the wreck unearthed, and give thanks For your folly and God’s favor. Andrew Peterson is a singer-songwriter, author, a lover of literature, an inveterate anglophile, and the founder of the Rabbit Room. Elijah asks, "What have I done to you?" by Anna A Friedrich Far off, I knew your once-white robe from local lore— rusted red, since Carmel. Now you come?  A storm of a man, barreling down towards me—plough in hand —in father’s field. Twelve yoke of oxen leaning, heave, mastery— impossible, but I am apprenticed in making each move known through hand and hide and will. Two fields away, I knew you would not turn, and true, you fixed your gaze— ( eyes like Yahweh ) on the rope that led from beast to beast to me. They say the flames that fell—the flames that felled Baal, by your own tongue— stained you, your clothes. Burnt? No, each thread caught up, undone, remade, in heaven’s answer. You wear the story everywhere you go. Here your stride slows just enough for that same cloak to fall on me, unbidden. Anna A. Friedrich is a poet and Arts Pastor in Boston, Massachusetts. Her first full-length poetry collection is forthcoming from Wipf and Stock. You can subscribe to her poem-a-Wednesday Substack at annaafriedrich.substack.com .   Boxing by Zack Eswine This bell, my alarm, sounds. This morning, my corner of the ring, begins. This day, my opponent, war cries in the center, of this taunting crowd motioning for me, with gloves raised. This life, roped in, a bucket for my spit. This clock, my referee, grates upon my ears and shouts, “its time.” It’s only round one. But already I’m thinking about it, feeling it. Maybe, just this once, I’ll take a dive, no bribes necessary, we just count to ten. This spectacle would end, and we could all go home. Zack Eswine (Rev. Ph.D.), serves as lead pastor of Riverside Church in Webster Groves, Missouri. Zack's books include Recovering Eden: The Gospel According to Ecclesiastes and The Imperfect Pastor and he writes poems and stories at The Good Dark. Zack and his wife Jessica co-founded Sage Christianity ( sagechristianity.com ) to create hospitable spaces for bringing honest questions into conversation with the wisdom of Jesus. Pangs by Kirk Jordan "For we know that the whole creation groaneth and travaileth in pain together until now." (Romans 8:22 KJV) It’s the sound of flailing. Ten-thousand beetles on their backs, stuck to the tar of Route 66, shells splitting like popcorn. It's the sound of a braking, thick thud and swerve, the doe in the ditch, but not done for. It’s the sound of popping umbrellas, vulture kings with fingered wings cupping a hot thermal stench. It’s the sound of breaking strands, the twang of a spastic web, moth in the mouth of a powdered orb-weaver. It's the curdling anguish of ten thousand wolves, the howl of a Syrian wife. It’s the dead plinky plink at the end of the scale, the clink of porcelain on glass, beak upon bone. It’s a low steady moan -- A groan in the wind in the trees, in our ears in the atoms, in our backs It’s a long pregnant pause, the push of creation jammed in the pelvis, waiting waiting waiting. Kirk Jordan is a photographer for the Arkansas Department of Parks, Heritage, and Tourism--.where he mines light, and revels in the glories of the Natural State. He is dad to three grown daughters, and resides with his nurse-educator wife, Dr. Kerry Jordan, and her elderly parents in Conway AR. Psalm of Pressing by Sarah Crowley Chestnut Then, the given line was a word I did not resist. Then, the tambour of the line was liquid amber. Then, I understood hesitation is only itself. Then, I sat in the September grass and said: “So be it.” Then, each line was a table, a bowl, a cup, a spoon. Then, both moon and meal were simply the way forward. Then, I stopped fretting over paths and pasts. Then, the voice that drives and rides my breath was unburied. Then, I simply replied. Then, the fraught edge of myself was hemmed. Then, I was gathered like a foraged meal. Then, I was fed. Then, I was clothed. Then, I slept and slept. Then, I heard the Lord in the given line. Then, I wept, you are blessed, you are blessed. Sarah Crowley Chestnut lives and works at L’Abri Fellowship in Southborough, Massachusetts with her husband and two children. She keeps a small vegetable garden, a sourdough starter, and a messy desk. Sarah’s poetry has appeared in CRUX, Red Rock Literary Journal, LETTERS, Christian Century, and elsewhere. After Bells, After Drums by Mischa Willett after Marvin Bell It’s faith that’s easy: praying, reading, fasting, loving, feasting are hard. It’s faith that falls like fog around us, everywhere softening the edges, filling our bodies with the cool, wet, web of existence and extra-sensory presence that is. It’s faith, not ethics, that stretches the ankle strap of a sandal, opens the hand to offer a benediction, coaxes the dough to rise. And it’s faith, just faith, that makes you stand straight in a city that hunches along its river, its concrete spine, because the column of air that supports you is a gift and an orientation, a heaven inside. It isn’t doubt when suffering seizes the hilltop of your heart or when the fireplace of ashes misses the heat that made it—when in the traffic you simply can’t hear a thing or the way is unclear—none of that is doubt. It’s faith, when you come to it, that asks of us everything, that empties and empties until we are full, that fills the gnaw in the gut, dispels the cloud of mind, that runs out the money-changers in the forecourt, that names. It’s faith, not duty, that takes the self off the altar of worship, leaving both open to occupation. Mischa Willett (Ph.D.) is the author of two books of poetry, including The Elegy Beta (2020) and Phases (2017) as well as of essays, translations, and reviews that appear in both popular and academic journals. A specialist in nineteenth-century aesthetics, he teaches English at Seattle Pacific University . Expectation by Sarah Spradlin The earth in birthing is broken twice: once to bury seeds she is torn open to make room for what is barely breathing then again to multiply, she is disrupted by emerging seeds disturbing the empty air to prepare the way for a flood of feasting. I measure the distance between the breakings and the reapings through many radiant and dark hours: even as I watch the sun callus the earth against resurrection, beneath the surface she is yielding— seeds soften and swell, then break out of darkness into life. The first breaking is inevitable; the second is a miracle made no less remarkable by patient expectation. Some seeds never reach the surface a sorrow borne by soil and sower alone yet, devoting ourselves to what may be lost is perhaps the bravest thing we do and I am still surprised at the violence of love alive, willing even to receive death so that something might take root and rise. Sarah is a farmer and storyteller raised in Georgia. Now, she lives in Central America where she's worked in cross-cultural ministry since 2020, which pretty much boils down to planting things, talking to people, and writing poetry on long bus rides. Her poetry has been published on Story Embers, Kingdom Pen, and Ekstasis, and you can read more of her work on her Instagram, @sarah.spradlin. Current Events by Jen Rose Yokel So maybe it’s true. Maybe the world burns. But in other news, I stopped for coffee on a foggy day, then went to the chiropractor to get my spine realigned. Later we replaced the broken-hinged toilet seat (“I bet you didn’t plan to spend your Tuesday between the wall and a toilet bowl,” I joke, holding pliers to bolt.) After that, we make quesadillas, watch a show, turn in by ten, reading by burning lamplight. Maybe the world burns too, and nothing is guaranteed. but still, it is so good to be here. Jen Rose Yokel is a poet, writer, and spiritual director. Her words have appeared at The Rabbit Room , She Reads Truth , and other publications, and she is the author of two poetry collections. She is also the co-founder of The Poetry Pub , an online community for poets. Originally from Central Florida, she now makes her home in Fall River, Massachusetts with her poet/professor husband Chris, their rescue dog, and an assortment of books and houseplants. Her latest book, Beneath the Flood , is available now from Bandersnatch Books. You can find her on Substack at Alongside Journal or on Instagram @jroseyokel . Life Without Internet by Liz Snell We didn’t know what to call these birds that swerved along the last light of the summer equinox. At first we thought them bats but bats dance erratic and these flew deft-winged, dove by sight, not sound. They were blunt-tailed, not forked like swallows, who also love the dusk. We searched our separate lexicons, fell silent in the lack. The old sun slipped behind the hackled hills, red scattered on the sea. Pipe smoke crocheted around the stars. We would wait ‘til one arrived who knew their name. Liz Snell lives on Vancouver Island, British Columbia. She studied writing at the University of Victoria and is now studying psychology. She works with adults with disabilities and in her spare time gardens, hikes, knits, and makes awful puns. Mannequin by Heather Cadenhead My sister and I played beneath the circular racks, listening to the swish, swish of clothes hangers gliding across metal rods. My mother pulled out a pencil skirt to examine the pattern. Then, I spotted her: a mannequin, draped in 1980s fashions. My mouth gaped at her soulless face. Be still, girls, my mother hissed. I stretched a palm to feel her silk dress. She wobbled, no longer a form but a sound: an ocean wave, collapsing onto itself, again and again – the roar of fiberglass shattering against tile. The fashionista lay, unrecognizable, in jagged, uncountable pieces. I peered into her vacant eyes, now mingled with broken shards. My mother gasped; an employee shuffled over with a broom. My cheeks burned scarlet. I’ve killed her. The writing of Heather Cadenhead has been featured in  Wild + Free, Relief: A Journal of Art and Faith, Literary Mama,  and other publications. She publishes  a monthly newsletter  about mothering her non-speaking son through the lens of the Christian gospel. If you’ve enjoyed this article or other content coming out of the Rabbit Room, you can help support the work by clicking here. 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by the Rabbit Room An event series aimed at the intersection of music, food, and hospitality, hosted by The Orchardist and sponsored by The Rabbit Room. The best music invites the listener to stay awhile, be nourished, and be known. Favorite songs are like gracious hosts inviting us into their familiar space, giving us room to breathe and remember who we are. Music has a peculiar way of restoring tenderness within us, setting us up to receive healing like nothing else can. The story of The Orchardist has been one of becoming more and more deeply acquainted with the hospitality of music, both as host and guest. Most recently, our mission of making music to feed and be fed has led us to its most practical conceivable embodiment: Supper & Songs . Beginning April 6th 2018, The Rabbit Room is partnering with The Orchardist to organize cozy events in Nashville every other month. Each event will be hosted by a unique location—some homes and some venues—include a delicious meal, and feature a guest artist whose music has given us hope. With Supper & Songs, we hope to provide a regular occasion for nourishment in our local community in as many dimensions as possible. We hope for friends to be made, stories to be shared, songs to be sung. If you are interested in supporting Supper & Songs, there are several ways you can lend a hand: First, consider liking and following its Facebook and Instagram pages. Second, check out this year’s subscription options for supporting Supper & Songs or buy a ticket to the first show . Third, consider purchasing one of The Orchardist’s pre-sale packages here . All proceeds go towards making Supper & Songs happen, and they’ll only be available in the month of March.

by Andrew Peterson Hey, folks! As of today you can pre-order the Deluxe Edition 2 CD set of Resurrection Letters, Vol. 1 (which includes Prologue ). And because the Rabbit Room is awesome, if you pre-order here you’ll get a special, exclusive 60 page eBook called Resurrection Letters: Annotated Edition.  Sixty pages of what, you ask? It includes all the lyrics, along with footnotes and scripture references, for all the songs from all three Resurrection Letters records. The idea is that you can listen to the albums while following along with the lyrics and reading all the scriptures that undergird the songs. The eBook was designed by our friend Ned Bustard, who did the artwork and design for  Every Moment Holy , and it looks lovely. Thanks, Ned! I’m also excited to finally share the music video we made for “Is He Worthy?” (directed by Max Hsu). Max (who took the cover photo for The Burning Edge of Dawn ) and his film crew worked for days to make this deceptively simple video a one-camera-shot deal. We had members of the Nashville Youth Choir (who also sang on the record), a group of string players, and an audience of good people who answered our casting call a few weeks back, all running around like crazy for hours while I just sort of sat there at the piano. I was lip-synching and playing as serenely as possible while I tried to ignore the director yelling for lights to be turned up or down, the shuffling of feet while the congregation rushed in from the wings, the setting up of chairs while string players got into position just before the camera swung around—and the cameraman lithely moving through it all, aiming the lens and focusing on just the right things at just the right time. It took several hours and about ten takes with the whole gang before we finally nailed it, and what you see is the final take. I have to say, there’s one moment where the camera moves in close to the piano, blacking everything out, just in case we needed to splice two of the takes together, but in the end we didn’t need to. What you see is one continuous take . Pretty awesome, methinks. Many thanks to Max and the crew, as well as all the extras, for hanging in there for hours until we got it right. As fun as it was to make the video, though, the real hope is that it draws attention to the song, which is meant to draw attention to Jesus. We have sheet music available for “Is He Worthy?” (as well as the rest of the songs) in the Rabbit Room store in case you want to use this song during Easter (and I hope you do!). I can’t wait for you guys to hear the record when it releases on Good Friday. You can now pre-order  Resurrection Letters: Volume I  here. All pre-orders include an instant download of “Is He Worthy?” as well as the annotated PDF booklet. And while you’re at it, check out the sheet music here.

by Jonny Jimison Click through for this week’s Getting Ethan comics. Follow Getting Ethan on  Patreon , Instagram , Facebook , and Twitter ! And check out The Dragon Lord Saga in the Rabbit Room Store.

by Sandra McCracken [Editor’s note: Throughout Lent, Sandra McCracken is sharing weekly writings, each of which is tied to a song from her new EP,  Songs from the Valley, available at her website . Below you will find the sixth of these writings, to be read alongside her song, “Parrot In Portugal,” which you can listen to here .] A couple of years ago, I visited Portugal on a trip with A Rocha International. We gathered together near the coast for eight days. This group of scientists, environmentalists and Christians from all around the world helped me to tune my senses to pay attention to the world around me, considering what it looks like to participate in the restoration of people and place. In my hotel room in Lisbon, the night before my flight home, I sat with my guitar across my knees and the windows open to the courtyard. I heard some expressive birds calling outside and couldn’t imagine what creatures might be making those songs. Later that afternoon, I was walking with a friend from the A Rocha team on the city streets and we saw them. There overhead was a flock of bright green parrots chatting to each other in the trees. These were the birds I had heard making these intelligent sounds outside my window! I asked my friend about them, and he told me that they had been domesticated pets years ago, that had been released or had escaped back into wild. After a few decades of adaptation, these birds not only had learned to survive in this new, urban environment, but they even learned to flourish. As I heard the story, I found myself cheering them on, celebrating their joyful sounds and pondering the question of identity. Personality alone is not a full picture of who we truly are. Sandra McCracken At different times, we may be placed in different roles; daughter, son, student, wife, husband, sister, friend, teacher or parent. Sometimes we change our address. We start new relationships. We change careers. In our ever-evolving relational changes, we get to know ourselves from different vantage points. When our environment changes, we might notice new behaviors and we learn new ways to get our needs met. Our personality takes shape as we figure out how to survive in a new place. In all these externals of our habits and affections we get to know our personality, but personality alone is not a full picture of who we truly are. Psalm 139 begins with these words: “You have searched me, Lord, and you know me. You know when I sit and when I rise; you perceive my thoughts from afar. You discern my going out and my lying down; you are familiar with all my ways.” While the coordinates of our geography may change our habits, we each have been given a particular song that God has written on our hearts. Sandra McCracken God has made each of us like the parrots in Portugal. We have each been born into a particular habitat; some in freedom, some in captivity. We have each been brought through life circumstances and have had to pass through many changes that are beyond our control. While the coordinates of our geography may change our habits, we each have been given a particular song that God has written on our hearts. As we reckon with our true identity, we have the opportunity to come closer to understanding what it means to be loved and known by God not just because of where we live or how we behave, but because of who we are. In the desert or out at sea, in the city or out in forest solitude, God’s provision may take a myriad of different forms. God provides for us in all situations. We are known, heard, called and celebrated for who we are in every changing circumstance of our lives. Sandra McCracken Missing my kids and eager to get home to Tennessee, I came back to my hotel room that night in Lisbon and wrote ‘Parrot In Portugal.’ In it, the emotion of Psalm 139 is coupled with the melody of the parrots outside, resonating the assurance that we are known, heard, called and celebrated for who we are in every changing circumstance of our lives. “Oh I hear you, I hear you in the trees, in the trees…You can fly or you can stay, I’m holding out for you, my love.” Just a few weeks ago while I was visiting Fuller Seminary near Los Angeles, I visited Huntington Gardens with some friends. As we were ducking into one of the museum buildings, I looked up and saw, to my surprise, another flock of wild, bright green parrots. I delighted to see them again; another family of the same species, halfway around the world. This second wild-parrot sighting was the same week that Songs From The Valley came out, a full-circle reminder that God delights in us the way I delight in those parrots. “Sing out your song, dressed like the meadow at dawn.” You. Are. Loved. Invitation to Prayer: Make a list of some of the most shaping roles you have been assigned in your present and in your past (daughter, son, friend, student, parent, etc). Ask God to show you a glimpse of your true self beneath those relational roles and responsibilities. Pray through Psalm 139, asking for God to meet you in the questions.  Ask him to help you to sing your own song. Ask him to pour out an assurance of his love upon you here as we lean in toward the week of Easter. Click here to listen to “Parrot In Portugal” from Sandra’s new album, Songs From The Valley .

by Drew Miller We’ve compiled a Spotify playlist of the songs that were performed at March 19th’s Local Show , accompanied by Jared Malament’s description of what made the evening special. Click through for our third playlist of the season. (Note: Audrey Assad unfortunately was sick that night an unable to join us, so you will not find any of her songs on this playlist. In addition, none of the songs Jordy Searcy played have been recorded yet, so this playlist does not include those either.) “This week at the Local Show we unfortunately missed out on Audrey Assad due to sickness, but we were still treated to wonderful newcomers including Claire Holley , McKenzie Lockhart , and Becky Kinder . They were rounded out by Jordy Searcy , now a veteran of the show. As always, the stories they shared were just as important as their songs and we heard of everything from parenting and young marriages to youth ministry and aging. For my part, I would especially recommend keeping an ear out for McKenzie Lockhart, particularly her song ‘Where is the Hope?’ which I hope she releases soon. For the time being, we’ll have to settle for listening to the Facebook live stream.” —Jared Malament Set List “Three Little Birds,” Claire Holley (Bob Marley cover) “Ball and Chain,” McKenzie Lockhart “Revolution,” Becky Kinder (unreleased) “25,” Jordy Searcy (unreleased) “Heat of July,” Claire Holley “Sleeping Mad,” McKenzie Lockhart (unreleased) “Run,” Becky Kinder “Guys Like Me,” Jordy Searcy (unreleased) “The Ball Game,” Andrew Osenga “Love Never Came,” Claire Holley “Where is the Hope,” McKenzie Lockhart (unreleased) “Alive,” Becky Kinder (unreleased) “Andy the Nihilist,” Jordy Searcy (unreleased) “In the Bounty of the Lord,” Claire Holley (unreleased) “Walk Together,” McKenzie Lockhart (unreleased) “Only You,” Becky Kinder (unreleased) “Favorite Days,” Jordy Searcy (unreleased) “Pasadena,” McKenzie Lockhart (unreleased) Click here to listen to the playlist from our second Local Show of the season on Spotify. . Note: We are currently looking into how we can make these playlists available on Apple Music as well. We appreciate your patience and are excited to make these songs as accessible as possible.

by Drew Miller Welcome to our new podcast led by Dr. Steve Guthrie: The Artist’s Creed. In a series of interviews with various artists in our community, Steve draws on the tenets of the Nicene Creed to develop a rich vision of the relationship between the voice of God and the voice of the artist—constructing an “artist’s creed” of sorts. This first episode features a conversation with leading George MacDonald scholar Dr. Kirstin Jeffrey Johnson about the first phrase found in the creed: “I believe.” Click here to listen to the first episode of The Artist’s Creed.

by Jonny Jimison [Editor’s note: To celebrate the reprinting of Helena Sorensen’s  Shiloh  trilogy with Rabbit Room Press, we are sharing this delightful article by Jonny Jimison, first published in 2016. Enjoy, and consider picking up some of Helena’s books at our online store. ] I hope you’ve encountered the writing of Helena Sorensen—but if not, I want to introduce you to a trilogy of novels that strike me to the core: Shiloh , Seeker , and Songbird . The Shiloh series is a thoughtful, lyrically written fantasy epic set in a land covered in a deep shadow, where the brightness and warmth of the sun is a wishful fable—and so is hope. Over the course of three books and several generations, we are introduced to the tortured Amos, the bold Isolde, and many other hunters and warriors, children and craftsman, including Evander. Evander is a natural leader, taking his band of hunters deep into the woods to find food for the village, but he is also detached, set apart from them in ways that he can’t quite put into words. Perhaps it’s born in him; his mother is one of the few in Shiloh who can dream. At the end of a day of hunting, Evander huddles around a campfire with the other hunters. They defend against the shadow and the wolves by the fanning the flames of their fire and by making music. And Evander sings: “Another day has died Another night descends, unyielding No strength ta watch the skies The breathless dark too heavy lies And I must close my weary eyes My fragile torch and lantern wielding” There was quiet around the camp. The flames crackled. The embers hissed. One thick log split open and tumbled to the ground in two red-gold slabs. It was Lorne who spoke first: “Was it yer ma, Evander? Did she teach ya that song?” Evander thought. “She sings some of ‘er own, but this one, I think, she learned from ‘er mother.” Lorne nodded. “I thought as much. I’ve heard it before.” “She still sees them, then? These night visions?” Alistair asked. “Dreams,” Evander said. “She sees lights?” Chase asked. The younger men shifted their weight, seeming as uncomfortable as Evander was with the increasing intimacy of the questions. “Just one light, mainly,” Evander said. “The sun, she calls it. A great light that hangs in the sky, a light that burns away the Shadow.” No one spoke at all, until Knox tossed a scrap of food into the fire and spat. “Visions like that would drive any man mad.” Muscles tensed all over the camp. The hunters waited, stealing glances at Evander and glaring at Knox. It took a moment for Evander to reply, but when he did, his eyes met Knox’s with a challenge. “It’s the darkness that drives a man mad.” — Seeker , by Helena Sorensen These Shiloh books are mighty dark stories, literally and figuratively. Vision is dim, death is always near, and the bleakness of the world seeps into characters like a poison. Even the happier moments are tinged with bittersweet longing. But for all their darkness, these are stories to reacquaint you with hope, because they tell the truth. The truth, part one: the world is a dark place, and hope often seems lost. The truth, part two: even when hope seems lost, it is the darkness that is doomed. All it takes to kill the darkness is a little light, and beyond the shadow there is light overflowing. We just forget it sometimes in the dark. Some stories celebrate the darkness. The Shiloh series names it: darkness is the absence of light. Pain and shame and fear are the withdrawal symptoms of our deep longing—our need—for “a great light that hangs in the sky, a light that burns away the Shadow.” Every shadow in the corner forgotten by the daylight where flecks of dust gather and hide in secret and every lengthening line that draws trees on the street on the opposite side of a horizon going up in flames holds in the weight of darkness proof of light and presence. — Shadows , from Ruins and Kingdoms by Jen Rose Yokel I see this kind of message everywhere in great works of art, especially in The Rabbit Room community of artists and storytellers. Helena’s Shiloh series, Jamin Still’s paintings, Andrew Peterson’s songs—they are all beautifully crafted pieces of work that stir my soul and awaken a homesickness for heaven. They are windows to eternity in a dark world. Then there’s me. Take a look at this excerpt from my upcoming graphic novel, The River Fox : Yup. My love language is slapstick. Despite my lifelong love of pratfalls and puns, this eager embrace of comic-strip humor is a new thing for me. Until recently, I saw my wacky comics as foolishness when compared to the delicate beauty of Ellen and the Winter Wolves or the brutal honesty of Andrew Peterson’s Light for the Lost Boy . The Rabbit Room community changed all that, fanning the flame of my stories by affirming my heart for cartoony humor. My pride always told me that the light tone of my comics made them frivolous, but this community has helped me see how that light tone is an asset, a blessing—a gift from the Creator! God calls me to spread fun and humor, but he also leads me in grieving and longing and seeking. He leads me through the Shiloh series and Jamin’s paintings and Light for the Lost Boy . He leads me through the books of Ecclesiastes and Galatians and yes, even Deuteronomy . He leads me through movies and paintings and conversations with strangers at work. He leads me every time truth is told. And what is art if it ain’t truth-telling? I want to affirm the beauty created by Helena Sorensen and Jamin Still and Andrew Peterson, because their truth-telling is a beautiful, essential part of the kingdom. But they also affirm my comics, reminding me that my gleeful character humor is also a beautiful, essential part of the kingdom. Just because it’s more wacky doesn’t mean it isn’t true. And just because something is commonplace, or unheralded, or scary, or even just plain weird, doesn’t mean it isn’t true. Sin and grace, absence and presence, tragedy and comedy, they divide the world between them and where they meet head on, the Gospel happens. Let the preacher preach the Gospel of their preposterous meeting as the high, unbidden, hilarious thing it is. — Telling the Truth by Frederick Buechner So let’s keep telling the truth. Tell the truth in your doodles and symphonies and casseroles, in your woodwork and housework and yard-work, in your writing and teaching and performances and studies and vacation plans. Your truth-telling is a beautiful, essential part of the kingdom. Keep telling the truth and know that this place is home. And when I say “this place,” I don’t mean just The Rabbit Room. I mean the Kingdom. The darkness blurs our vision now, but it’s hopelessly—hilariously—outgunned! Shiloh , Seeker , and Songbird  are available in the Rabbit Room store.

by April Pickles One Saturday, my friend Rebecca Reynolds bundled herself in three coats and hiked up Roan Mountain with a jar in her hand. Standing on the mountaintop, she opened the jar, read a poem into it, then sealed it shut and carried it back down the mountain. As part of a recent online auction to raise funds for The Rabbit Room’s North Wind Manor project, Rebecca offered a simple glass jar. “Eight Ounces of Canned Poem,” she titled it. “You pick the poem. The jar will be labeled with a tag identifying the poem, the date of the reading, and the specific environment you choose for the reading of the poem.” While I had been dreaming about a cellar and Mason jars, Rebecca had been writing about them. She had crafted a work full of hope and promise, a tale of burial and longing for resurrection. April Pickle Rachel Lulich commented, “People said bottled water was a fad.” Jonathan Rogers asked if she had any more photos. Bill Smithfield wanted to know if there was an option in which the winner could choose what Rebecca drank before the reading. But Rebecca persisted, “It’s going to be the next big thing. First edition, collector’s edition right here, people.” And, “This is a 16-ounce jar, but it only holds eight ounces of poem. And some settling occurs during transport.” When I placed my winning bid, I knew just the poem I wanted her to read, and I told my friend she could choose the setting. Several years ago, my stepfather battled an aggressive form of brain cancer. All the doctors agreed Mo was going to die, even with steroids, even with radiation and chemo, even with two surgeries. And he did. Twenty months after his diagnosis, on the Wednesday before Easter, in a cemetery blooming with Central Texas wildflowers, my family mourned as our beloved one was laid into the ground. We took turns shoveling a bit of dirt onto his casket, an oak casket made by Trappist monks. Mo was a quiet, Jesus-loving man—slow to speak, slow to become angry. My mother chose a large natural rock for his headstone. When she asked their children what the headstone’s inscription should say, my sister joked, “Quiet.” Mama opted for a line from one of Mo’s favorite songs: “Let there be peace on earth, and let it begin with me.” Back when Mo was in the throes of battle with the cancer monster, one night I dreamed I held a shovel. With the shovel I dug a cellar in my backyard. Then one by one inside the cellar, I set glass jars of fruits and vegetables onto a wooden shelf. The morning after the dream, I took my phone from the nightstand, opened the Facebook app and encountered Rebecca’s poem. While I had been dreaming about a cellar and Mason jars, Rebecca had been writing about them. She had crafted a work full of hope and promise, a tale of burial and longing for resurrection. Here’s the poem I read that morning, the same poem Rebecca Reynolds read into a jar atop Roan Mountain on Saturday: The sky was cool as a sunfish belly, by high heaven flesh-flecked, flushed and gilded. Fin-slit frolic, through iced glory swelling, made her leap, split those thin waters. Threaded by golden strands, dawn stitched God’s firmament to the red clay of Ticker farm where Blythe lined sea-blue Mason jars on a time-bent one-by-six under yellow cellar light. It was a room dug deep, though not very, a blank, earthen womb for harvest and babes kept through summer storm; sweet, hidden plenties, nestled against odds from middle wars waged. Longing like hope cast by hook and line, stretched from burial to whimsy.

by the Rabbit Room Recently, there have been a lot of conversations about how the Rabbit Room can best bring people together and support the work of creative communities across the world. We’re happy to tell you we’ve been listening, and today we are excited to lift the veil on the next frontier of the Rabbit Room experience. We believe social media is the key to shaping the world into a better place, and over the past few years, Facebook has worked alongside organizations like ours to develop a host of new tools and systems to provide communities ways to define themselves and serve their users in custom-built environments that cater to the specific needs of niche audiences. As you can imagine, the Rabbit Room communities are fertile soil for that ground-breaking development, and we’ve been delighted to partner with folks like Facebook whose goals so closely match our own. So it’s with with great pleasure that today we can finally announce an exciting new alternative to traditional community: Facemoot. It is our hope that Facemoot will provide a meaningful connecting place for those of us who are on the search for kindred spirits, but are tired of the noisy clamor of social media and awkward face-to-face interactions with strangers. Welcome to the Moot. Facemoot is simple, and even countercultural, in its design. Here are a few of its most exciting features: Tired of “Facebook statuses”? Try Facemoot soliloquies. Each soliloquy must include a minimum of 500 characters. No more small talk. Engage in real, meaningful conversations. Instead of “likes,” Facemoot offers four separate and distinct loves: storge, philia, eros, and agape. Are you tired of grammatically incorrect internet speak? Our Grammar Police™ filter will automatically correct abbreviated textspeak and fill in you’re every missed Oxford comma, incorrect apostrophe and dangling modifier. Don’t want other rabbits to know you’re online? Use the Ring of Power™ function to become invisible.* No friends online to chat with? Our AI-based chat rabbit named Chabbit™ is well-read and eager to discuss the intricacies of everything from Narnian cuisine to best practices in translating Russian literature. All-new emojis include Tolkien’s fireplace, smoking pipe, and Rabbit Trails comics characters. We are delighted to invite you into this new community. In the coming months, we’ll be working hard to roll out plug-ins for other popular online platforms. Our goal is to accommodate all your social media needs, including Instamoot, Mooter, SnapRabbit, and more. *(Caution: may fill users with dread and a paranoid sense of being watched.)

by the Rabbit Room Get ready! Registration for Hutchmoot 2019 will begin today. There will be two registration times: 1:00 and 9:00 pm CDT . There are 300 seats, which will be available on a first-come/first-served basis—the first 150 at 1:00 and the second 150 at 9:00—and the cost is $320 per person . On October 10-13, the Rabbit Room will convene Hutchmoot 2019 at Christ Community Church in Franklin, Tennessee. You’re invited to come and enjoy a weekend of live music, delicious food and conversation, and a series of discussions centered on art, faith, and the telling of great stories across a range of mediums. Speakers, sessions, and special events will be announced as they are confirmed. Click here to register at 1:00 pm or 9:00 pm CST. Carolyn Arends, our Keynote Speaker at Hutchmoot 2019 We are so excited to welcome Carolyn Arends as this year’s keynote speaker. She has released twelve albums and is the author of three critically-acclaimed books. Fifteen of Arends’ songs have become Top 10 radio singles on the Canadian pop and US Christian charts. Arends has earned two Dove Awards, three Juno Nominations, and was recognized as the West Coast Music Awards’ Songwriter of the Year. Her prose has been recognized by The Word Guild, The Evangelical Press Association and The Canadian Church Press Awards. Click here to register at 1:00 pm or 9:00 pm CST.

by Becca Groves As soon as the snow begins to melt and the temperature breaks above 32 degrees during the day, it’s time to begin the maple syrup harvest. Which means in Minnesota, it’s tree tapping time. I would liken tree tapping time to the first time your alarm goes off in the morning. There’s that day or two with a groggy yawn and a bit of denial ( is this all starting up again? ) because the sudden flow of sap racing up the trees is our sounding bell that winter hibernation is now over and farm life is about to ramp up to full speed. Tree Tapping begins it all. Soon baby lambs, goats, and chicks will be born followed by the arrival of the feeder pigs. The snow will melt, uncovering our waiting garden, and seeds will sprout under grow lights in the kitchen. Fallen branches will need to be removed and fences repaired. The spring-and-summer-into-harvest train begins to slowly move out of the station, and sometimes a girl can feel a little overwhelmed by all that is to come. She might want to hit the snooze and hibernate a little longer. But it’s time to wake up. And Tree Tapping serves as our soft start. We wade through the snow and visit our favorite trees. We know the big producers, the ones that will drip the most sap for us. And we talk about giving other trees a year off. We only harvest enough syrup for our family each year and to give as gifts. Small-scale fits us best and it means this process is filled with no added stress of livelihood or wages. Most of this syrup will end up on our kids’ oatmeal and in our morning coffee. Each year the routine is pretty much the same. We drill a small hole into the tree and gently tap in the spile. We scramble to get the bucket positioned to catch the fast drips and then feel the same annual wide-awake joy. It’s all coming back to life. These trees will be green again! We may have felt that hope fade during the long winter, but watching the flow of sap dripping into the bucket is proof; warm roots are soaking up melted snow and life is returning to each branch. There’s a mystery in it all, reminding me of our very creative and thoughtful God. Somehow the melting snow will defy gravity, moving up the trunk from roots to tree top. And in God’s goodness and great abundance, there’s enough sap both for the tree and for happy hobbyists like us, grateful to restock our sugar for the year. So while I may feel overwhelmed by the work ahead, I also carry an awareness that God is the one working the miracles and graciously inviting us to tap into his ways. All of it, all of the work that is to come, brings with it a satisfying harvest that I suddenly remember in that first spoonful of hard-earned maple syrup. Becca Groves When we first began, we created our own evaporator with cinder blocks, buffet pans, and a make-shift chimney. We spent hours and hours watching that boiling sap, and it never serves to walk away. Our first year my husband was out evaporating when it began to sleet. He came in the house to warm up for a bit, but in that time the sap had reduced to syrup and the syrup reduced to char. Soon there was an inferno at the end of our driveway, representing hours of lost time. Ever since, you can’t get the man to leave his boiling sap for anything. Since those first years we’ve converted an old garden shed into our sugar shack, giving us wind protection, shelter from the sleet, and an incredible steam facial all month long. Eventually the sap is reduced enough to bring the thickened syrup into the kitchen for the very careful last step of finishing. If left too long the syrup can scorch, ruining the whole batch. Our whole house takes on the pleasing aroma of a candy shop and it’s on this first evening of finishing that I fully embrace spring and all the work that is to come. Because it will be this evening that my husband will come to me with a spoonful of pure maple syrup and together, we’ll taste our first well-earned, delicious harvest of the year. In that one spoonful I remember the goodness of all that is ahead. The seedlings under the grow lights have to be watered each day, but soon enough I will be picking the tomatoes from these same plants for BLTs. The goats and sheep have to be watched carefully as kidding and lambing can quickly become stressful. But soon I will be milking that goat and making soap and cheese again. The pigs are demanding and require so much food, but…bacon. All of it, all of the work that is to come, brings with it a satisfying harvest that I suddenly remember in that first spoonful of hard-earned maple syrup. So it is springtime. There is much work ahead but God is calling us to wake up, O sleeper, and Christ will shine, illuminating God’s miracles and abundance. For he is the one running the sap, growing the seeds, and bringing new life.

by Drew Miller Welcome to the second episode our new podcast led by Dr. Steve Guthrie: The Artist’s Creed. In a series of interviews with various artists in our community, Steve draws on the tenets of the Nicene Creed to develop a rich vision of the relationship between the voice of God and the voice of the artist—constructing an “artist’s creed” of sorts. Episode 2 features a conversation between Steve and his colleague, Dr. Donovan McAbee, about what it means to believe in God in dialogue with the poetry of Charles Simic. Click here to listen to the second episode of The Artist’s Creed.

by the Rabbit Room A new episode of The Membership podcast is now available. In this episode, our hosts Jason Hardy and Tim Wasem interview Laura Dunn, the Producer, Director, and Editor of the 2016 documentary film Look & See: A Portrait of Wendell Berry . The goal of The Membership is to curate great conversations that contribute to the health of the land and the health of our communities. Throughout this new podcast, hosts Jason Hardy, John Pattison, and Tim Wasem discuss Berry’s life and writings. They also interview other folks—farmers and makers, writers and artists, and community practitioners of all kinds—who are responding to Wendell Berry’s writings in their own places. Check out the new episode here. And you can learn more about The Membership at its official website here. Click here for more information about The Rabbit Room Podcast Network and to check out other great podcasts.

by the Rabbit Room Easter isn’t just one day—it’s an entire season. To kick it off, Andrew Peterson will be playing some resurrection songs on Easter Monday the 22nd at Grace Community Church. Space is limited, but there are still some seats left. This Resurrection Letters concert will include special guests Taylor Leonhardt and Skye Peterson . Doors open at 6:30 pm and show starts at 7:00 pm. Click here for tickets and more information.

by the Rabbit Room Arthur Alligood’s 40th birthday was yesterday—happy birthday, Arthur!—and in celebration, he’s releasing a record entitled One Night Only. This album was recorded, as the title suggests, over the course of one single night in March 2019 in Arthur’s own living room. The liner notes add, “This was a live take recording. No overdubs; all complete takes. I played acoustic guitar and sang while Nick Huddleston strummed his slew of electrics. My wife Tiffany sang harmonies on ‘Shame’ and also took the cover photo.” Click here to view this record in the Rabbit Room Store.

by Drew Miller Today we share the final episode of The Artist’s Creed, Season One. This discussion circles around the phrase “The Resurrection and the Life of the World to Come” and features singer/songwriter and worship leader Sandra McCracken. In this episode, Steve and Sandra discuss the relationship between music and silence, cultivating a posture of receptivity before God, and how creativity and play prepare us to enter into the New Creation. In a series of interviews with various artists in our community, Steve draws on the tenets of the Nicene Creed to develop a rich vision of the relationship between the voice of God and the voice of the artist—constructing an “artist’s creed” of sorts. Click here to listen to the sixth and final episode of The Artist’s Creed, Season One.

by Janna Barber I finished my book on a Monday afternoon, an hour before the kids got home from school. I’ve written over fifty thousand words during the last five years, and it feels like I’ve finally told the whole story I set out to tell. There’s still a little polishing to do, and maybe even a few more paragraphs to add here and there, but I’m more certain than ever that I know what the final product is, and that’s a great feeling. Of course it terrifies me to make this public knowledge because now people might start asking to read it, and that’s just as scary as writing the darn thing. I guess my new job should be finding an agent, or a publisher, or just printing it myself, but I’m bound to face rejection on all those avenues, so I’m not in a hurry to start chasing publication just yet. I really wish I could say, “Well, I wrote it, now on to something else.” But dang, I know that’s not the right move either, and I can’t explain why. I’m so filled with muddled thoughts right now. I really thought I’d be more excited to share this news with everyone, but instead I’ve been forcing myself to do it, and every time someone congratulates me I feel like a fraud. I wish I were well and whole already. I wish I didn’t freak out over things like possible rejection and unknown futures. I wish it didn’t feel like I was fourteen again, like the last twenty-eight years of life haven’t changed me at all. Will I ever not have doubting and sorrow? Or worry. How can you find peace and joy every day without losing them all the time, like an obstinate set of car keys? No, finishing a book hasn’t made me whole. And neither will getting it published or reaching a thousand followers on my blog. But being honest about how I’m feeling right now is better than ignoring my feelings, which is my usual tendency. So here I am, sharing some honesty with the internet again. I hope airing these negative feelings today will help me move on to more positive ones, but even if it doesn’t, I know that I still have a lot to be thankful for. I’m thankful for all the lessons I’ve learned in writing this book, and for all the wonderful people who’ve encouraged me along the way. I’m thankful to be able to see the same set of circumstances in a different way now, and I’m thankful for all the new people I’ve met through this venture, and the stories I know that got me to this point. The sun is out today, and the trees and flowers are blooming. My dog doesn’t bark as much as she used to, and I’ve got great friends and a terrific family who loves me just as much as I love them. Even if we’re not all that great at showing that love to each other, grace says we’re beautiful anyhow. I stole that idea from a Sara Groves song called, “Add to the Beauty,” and those four words have been hanging on the wall of our living room for seven years now. They were there when I started writing this book, and they’ve been inspirational in many other facets of life ever since I first heard them. The story God is telling through our lives and in our world is a beautiful one, friends, even if we don’t always see it that way. And as his image bearers we find joy in looking for, and perhaps adding to, the beauty in his one-of-a-kind tale. Even if we never “arrive” as artists, I think Jesus is pleased with the work we do in his name. So now I’m gonna go put some clothes in the dryer and decide whether or not to wash my hair today. Thanks for reading my big announcement post and for taking an interest in my work in the first place. I hope you have a nice afternoon and that you’re able to see something pretty out there today. Even if it’s small. Sojourn well, dear friends. We’re all loved infinitely, regardless of whether we deserve it, or believe it, or not. Click here to visit Janna’s blog.

by the Rabbit Room We have a new podcast episode for you—this time, it’s a Hutchmoot talk given by Kevin Twit and Keith Getty on the vital importance of hymns in the life of the Church. Kevin Twit and Keith Getty have spent their careers studying and writing the songs of the Church, and in this episode they bring their decades of experience to Hutchmoot to discuss the history and necessity of the art of hymnody. Click here to listen.

by Matt Conner I didn’t want my own son. Perhaps that’s a bit too honest, this essay a bit too public. But the sentiment was true, and truth, I’ve been told, can set us free. I was an only child who’d recently turned 37. For a Midwestern boy, that’s considerably older than my schoolmates who were churning out babies while I was finding my footing as a young adult. I was also a new resident of Nashville, a city with considerably more to do than the small post-industrial town where I’d served as a pastor for a decade. I was wired for the mix of things to do and disposable income. My wife felt the same for the most part. After seven years of marriage, neither set of parents had ever even asked about grandchildren. Neither of us had ever changed a diaper. Neither came from a large family, nor were we impressed to start our own. The idea of children entering our picture was frightening, to be honest, and the idea of the actual child-birthing process brought about anxiety in my wife. I couldn’t blame her. I’d feel the same if biology made such things possible. Then came the news. Just a couple weeks before, we’d had a brief conversation as my wife changed over our insurance plans—auto, home, health—from Indiana to Tennessee. “Do we want maternity coverage?” she asked. We both said no. That was it. No big discussion. No checking in again to make certain. Just a brief exchange over insurance. Several days later, my wife walks into the living room. “I’m pregnant.” It was a sobering moment. No fanfare. No emotions. I just remember a quiet moment where we both reflected on the coming reality. It was happening. We were hardly alone in this endeavor. We would adjust. Some deep breaths later, we simply moved on with our day. The next January, Elliot was born. His mother took to him immediately, a switch flipped internally, and it was a beautiful thing to see. It took me quite a while. If anything, it was confrontational. Even today, my own father and I haven’t talked for years (and that’s par for our course). I had no model and certainly no idea of how to proceed as a dad. It wasn’t just a scary proposition. I was terrified of the future—mine and his. It's learning to trust in ways I've forgotten and love in ways I've withheld. Matt Conner What I had yet to discover is that a child was exactly what I needed in the moment, that I needed to see the world through a lens different than my own. It took considerable time and effort (and counseling) but gradually I’ve grown to love fatherhood. It’s his joy, his wonder, his capacity for love that has healed so much within me. So much about my five-year-old confronts me in meaningful ways—his ability to be present, his trust in people and processes, his longing for adventure, his innocent heart, his held out arms extended to the world around him. Two years ago, one of my favorite bands, Elbow , released a song that somehow cut to the core of my own experience. Few instances are as powerful as the moment when someone gives you language for things you’ve felt or experienced, and Guy Garvey, the principal lyricist and vocalist of the band, provided that for me on a song called “Magnificent (She Says)”. He was confronted with being a new father himself at the time he wrote the song. I’ll let him share the set-up. “Magnificent (She Says)”, Elbow “We were deliberately, it being our honeymoon, staying away from the news, staying away from what was going on,” Garvey said in a video interview in 2017 . “The only time we caught the news accidentally, it was so jarring that we found it really upsetting and it stayed with us for the rest of the day. So I thought this has to be addressed somehow.” [Quick note: If you’re new to Elbow, just know they’ve been an influential Brit-rock band for 20 years, and Garvey, as a lyricist, has always swam in the deep end of the pool. If you like Coldplay’s “Fix You,” Chris Martin said he was trying to write an Elbow tune.] In the song, Garvey sets up the scene of a family on holiday at the beach, a little girl standing in awe at the edge of the ocean while her parents watch. As a parent-to-be, he was filled with fright at the idea of bringing a child into the world. How can you possibly bring a child into a world as divided, as chaotic, as this? Not only are the parents broken, but the world even more so. I could totally relate. Then Garvey sets the song in motion. I’ll let the lyrics take it from here (and I’d advise listening along at this point): This is where, this is where the bottle lands Where all the biggest questions meet With little feet stood in the sand This is where the echoes swell to nothing on the tide And where a tiny pair of hands Finds a sea-worn piece of glass And sets it as a sapphire in her mind And there she stands Throwing both her arms around the world The world that doesn’t even know How much it needs this little girl It’s all gonna be magnificent, she says It’s all gonna be magnificent I couldn’t stop crying when I first heard the chorus. I was undone. It was the child teaching the parent. The trust, the joy, the capacity for love, the longing for adventure, the innocence. These were the very things a broken world needed, all offered to it by a child. Sound familiar? Garvey charts his own learning curve in the second verse. This is where it all began To light your mother’s cigarette Meant I got to touch her hand And my heart, there defrosting in a gaze Wasn’t built to beat that way Suddenly I understand There on the sand Throwing both her arms around the world The world that doesn’t even know How much it needs this little girl It’s all gonna be magnificent, she says It’s all gonna be magnificent “I loved the idea of this innocence, a little girl with all of her goodwill intact, with the naiveté we’re all born with, which leads you to hold somebody, and leads you to trust strangers, the stuff the world could really use a big dose of, existing in all of us when we’re born,” said Garvey about the song . “The idea of this girl and the vastness of the ocean was the best way I could try to put this together. ‘It’s all gonna be magnificent,’ she says.” My own child is teaching me the same, that to participate in the renewing of my own self and the world is to mimic his posture, his worldview. It’s learning to trust in ways I’ve forgotten and love in ways I’ve withheld. Ultimately it’s also about believing in these words despite how naive they sound. And he who was seated on the throne said, “Behold, I am making all things new.” Also he said, “Write this down, for these words are trustworthy and true.” —Revelation 21:5

by Drew Miller Songs from April 30th’s Local Show are now available for streaming on Spotify and Apple Music ! Click through for our sixth playlist of the season along with a recap of the night written by Jared Malament, the Local Show’s Beloved Servant. Last week’s edition of the Local Show was a great mix of artists old and new, featuring Brandon Heath , David Leonard (of All Sons & Daughters), Jess Ray , and The Arcadian Wild . Joining them were special guests Ben & Noelle Kilgore . They told stories of raising little girls, friends attempting suicide, and the Enneagram (because this is Nashville after all). And for the first time ever, each and every song performed that night is available on this week’s playlist! —Jared Malament Set List Brandon Heath: “Your Love” David Leonard: “Signs of Life” Jess Ray: “Too Good” The Arcadian Wild: “Silence, A Stranger” Brandon Heath: “Faith Hope Love Repeat” David Leonard: “Great Are You Lord” (All Sons & Daughters) Jess Ray: “Gallows” The Arcadian Wild: “Oh, Sleeper” Ben & Noelle Kilgore: “Oh My Soul” Ben & Noelle Kilgore: “Grace Grace” Brandon Heath: “Only One in the World” David Leonard: “Know Your Heart” Jess Ray: “Humble Heart” The Arcadian Wild: “Graduate” Brandon Heath: “I’m Not Who I Was” David Leonard: “The Little That I Know” Jess Ray: “No Man” The Arcadian Wild: “A Benediction” Click here to listen to the playlist on Spotify. And click here to listen on Apple Music.

by Adam Whipple First things first: spoiler alert. This is going to get messy, because I got messy. I got the last good seat at the 9:30 showing of Avengers: Endgame —the only seat left from which I wouldn’t have to crane my neck at an obtuse angle. I shuffled in to the row, which was mostly empty at that point, except for the dating couple next to my seat. I apologized before plopping down beside the lady, which made the moment more awkward than it would have been anyway. A little while later, a large man and his young son scooted past us and sat next to me. These were to be my companions for the journey. We had come for entertainment, yes, but also for closure. After twenty-one films of waiting for post-credits questions, we demanded answers. It’s no spoiler to say that Marvel spent the weeks before the release of Endgame building up to a gigantic resurrection. Those of us who combed casting lists the moment they were announced wondered if all those people who had turned to dust would only show up in flashbacks. Then came trailers and clips that gave us what turned out to be a mere inkling of the plot line. “He used the stones again,” Black Widow says. “So let’s get ‘em,” says Captain Marvel. “Use them to bring everyone back.” Part of me was prepared to be disappointed. Looking back, one thing that might have turned me off to comics as a child was the perpetual reversibility of death on a mortal scale. It didn’t take a Savior. All it took was some magical reality-bending device or some lump of unobtainium. Or the characters would make a deal with the great gatekeepers of death. Wave the wand; say the magic words. Presto-chango, you get your hero back. I didn’t believe any of it. Don’t get me wrong; I was steeped in the story of Jesus’ resurrection, but the stakes in comics didn’t feel high enough. Readers were more likely to buy comics about heroes they knew, so writers kept having to bring back dead protagonists. Death lacked a sting not because of Jesus, but because of job security. I don’t know why, but outside of the Gospel, the Resurrection feels like something storytellers must hold loosely. Hint at it, whisper of it, and the ontological truth of it will ring out with a power that defies explanation. Grip it any tighter than that, and the attempt to control it with pen and ink will make a sad clown of the author. Last week, I desperately wanted Endgame to deliver on its hype, but a mass comeback from the grave felt cheap, an easy out. Something had to be beyond the de-snapping of the MCU. The Russo brothers did not let me down. Part of being human is learning to hate Death. Part of following Jesus is learning to laugh at Death, even through your hatred. Adam Whipple Suffice it to say, the stakes are real. The film begins with a gut-punch, then spends its first act and more taking us through three of the five stages of grief. “Thanos did exactly what he said he was gonna do,” said Black Widow. Then the Russos did exactly what they said they’d do. They un-snapped the snap. Of course I geeked out with everyone else. Who wouldn’t flip out to see friends come back? The moment rings a little of Matthew 27, when Jesus’ resurrection extended to include “the bodies of many saints who had died [and] were raised to life,” who then wandered into Jerusalem to visit family and old pals. It’s as if Jesus’ dominion over death was something like an explosion, with its own collateral healings. However, though Tony Stark starts the twenty-two-film saga with an insufferable messiah complex, he’s far from being the Messiah. Barring the presence of Jesus in a film, I need death to have a permanence. I need to be able to mourn in truth with the characters for a story to work. Even Jesus wept over Lazarus, after all. If you’re keeping score at this point, you’ve probably figured out why I started with a spoiler alert. A few of our heroes didn’t make it back. We, the audience, had been with them for chapters and chapters of this saga, only for their lives to be tossed aside with little more than remembrance as consolation for the living. And suddenly, the comic book movie rang true. There he was: Death, that final enemy whom we all know far too well. I’m grateful this grand cinematic story had teeth. Part of being human is learning to hate Death. Part of following Jesus is learning to laugh at Death, even through your hatred. I teared up a fair amount in the darkness of my seat. A stereo chorus of sniffling told of others doing the same in the corners of the theater. There was no post-credits scene in this film—believe me, I stayed till the lights came on. Oddly, the music faded to the ringing sound of a hammer. Perhaps it was something tossed in to stir our collective geekery, a thin scrap of foreshadowing. For me though, it was the preamble to my own epilogue of the Avengers narrative. Of course there was a hammer. Whatever it meant to the Russos, I cannot but remember that, in the story of Death dying, there is always a hammer. I hiked through acres of locked cars to where my van waited in the silenced midnight of a strip mall parking lot. There was one tune in my head, so I put it on and cried at 80 mph down the interstate. It’s the tune that’s always in my head when I see characters die in movies or books. It’s from Ben Shive’s album The Cymbal Crashing Clouds . You have to look death in the eye, in the eye. You need to see what’s hidden there. You have to look him in the eye, in the eye. You need to see that he’s afraid to die. He’s afraid to die. But you, my love— You’re gonna wake up soon In your lonely room To the sound of a singing bird, Throw the curtain back To find your bag’s already packed And the cab is at the curb. Then like a bad dream Unreal in the morning light, So will the world seem When you see it in the mirror for the last time, ‘Cause there is a last time, There’s a last time for everything.