“Every place that the sole of your foot shall tread upon, that have I given unto you.” (Josh 1:3) This blessed inspiring word greeted Israel as they faced the Promised Land. They had the promise of it before; now they must go forward into it and place their feet upon it. The promise is in the perfect tense and denotes an act just now completed – “That have I given unto you.” Our Joshua gives us the same incentive for conquest: every promise in the New Testament that we put our feet upon is ours! The upland of spiritual power is yours though Anak may live there! It is yours if you will but go against him and drive him out of his strongholds, in the might of The Name. If we dare to place our food on anything God has promised He makes it real to us. So take Him as the supply for all your need: believe He is yours and never doubt it from this moment. It may be your need is for spiritual cleansing. His promise covers this: “Now ye are clean through the word which I have spoken unto you.” If you can believe this you shall be sanctified and kept.. Take the promise that suits your need, and step out on it; not touching it timidly on tiptoe, but placing your foot flat down upon it. Do not be afraid it will not hold your weight. Put your whole need on the Word of the eternal God for your soul, for your body, for your work, for the dear ones for whom you are praying, for any crisis in your life: then stand upon it forever! All the blessed promises of the Old Book are yours, and why are you so slack to go up and possess your land? The size of your inheritance depends upon how much land you have trodden underfoot, really stood on or walked over. Between you and your possessions that huge mountain looms up. March up to it and make it yours! Go in this thy might and God will get glory; and you, victory. Footprints mean possession, but it must be your own footprints. Written by A.B. Simpson Albert Benjamin Simpson (December 15, 1843 – October 29, 1919) (A.B. Simpson) was a Canadian preacher, theologian, author, and founder of The Christian and Missionary Alliance (A.W. Tozer’s denomination), an evangelical Protestant denomination with an emphasis on global evangelism.

What makes for great art? I won’t say I have no idea, but I am certainly on the shallow end of the pool, treading slowly and carefully deepward. One thing that does appear essential to me is the idea of limits. Without limits, and maybe more importantly, contrast, we don’t have much to show that will harmonize with reality on any level. Never mind delight. When I had the rare chance to learn from the brilliant Orson Scott Card, one thing he emphasized in world creation was this idea of limits. Our group had a long, involved, discussion that he directed on the limits of magic in stories. He emphasized that characters who can do anything and are not opposed by evil, even strong evil, are not memorable, or worthwhile. He pointed out that Superman, at one point, had blown out a sun with his breath (like a candle). Boring. Good job Superman, but what now? Can this be the least bit interesting from here on? He said that shortly after that kryptonite was introduced, saving the character. This is why, perhaps, Batman is so much easier (seems to me) to tell a good story about than Superman. Give me a limited, even a self-limited, character any day. Limits are essential; cost is essential. Pain, suffering, and struggle are central to all worthwhile storytelling. And so it is with the life of man. We are, after all, art.

It was a long, long time ago. We were all alone on Christmas Eve. Having read the second chapter of Luke and as the tree lights blinked slowly in the dark, my wife Debi, son Eric, and I considered what to do.  Traditionally, one of our family gatherings—the McLey side of the family—took place on Christmas Eve. But as sometimes happens in families, in an attempt to accommodate multiple scheduling considerations, the McLey’s joined together on another day. So there we were, alone, quietly pondering what to do on the night before Christmas. Open Door Mission. We had long written checks to the Mission a few times each year. They were on our list of favorite charities. One Thanksgiving, we drove up to the back door and dropped off a couple of turkeys and some old clothes. We felt so noble. But in fact, it was the closest we had ever come to the inside of the building, or the people inside the building. As my wife hung up the phone in the kitchen, it sounded like we had an invite. She said the person that answered the phone cheerily invited us to “Come on down.” Indeed there was a Christmas Eve service, it started in an hour, and we were invited. We had just enough time to change clothes and drive to the east side of town for worship. As we headed out the door, I ask my wife what kind gathering they had planned. It’s been long enough ago, that I can’t remember her exact reply, but the bottom line was—she didn’t have a clue. I remember being warmly welcomed. Our hosts were gracious as could be. The usher wanted to make sure that we were comfortable and had a good view, so he took us to the middle section, about three rows back, as if we were special guests of some kind. First, there were gifts for all, mittens, gloves, and warm winter coats. Toys for the children. Bags stuffed with toothpaste, shampoo, and hand soap. Each person had a wrapped present to open. As names were called, each person made the walk from the pew, down the aisle, and up to the front. As each present was given, many of the residents had tears in their eyes. A few seemed embarrassed. Their sense of gratitude was palpable, as if each one had been given a rare diamond. As I surreptitiously glanced around me, watching the charity procession, something didn’t seem quite as I anticipated. I had expected a mixed group, patrons, donors, staff, and some residents. What became slowly, but increasingly apparent was that we were the only non-residents in the entire congregation. That horrible feeling of being overdressed and out of place rushed over me, a nauseously sheepish sense of foreboding. We had crashed a private party and I nervously started looking for the nearest exit sign. Before we could escape, the first group hymn commenced. As the early bars of “Hark the Herald Angels Sing,” filled the room, I smelled beer wafting through the congregation. Half way through the song, when the feeble old man to our left—with a weeks worth of beard stubble and a crooked smile—leaned down to put his arm around my eight year-old son, I realized the source of the beer smell. Pastor Bob Timberlake delivered a message of hope and joy. It was short, sweet, simple, and moving. As the night continued to unfold, I remember forgetting about myself. A warm glow, a relaxed sense of well being, saturated my soul. As millions worshiped around the world with us on Christmas Eve, I had the sense that on this night, we were exactly where we needed to be. Then the band played. You have never seen such a rag-tag group of musicians in your life. The brass was tarnished and bent. Their clothes were threadbare and their instruments were out of tune and out of time. Still, they played. And I cried. In “Hold Me Jesus,” Rich Mullins wrote: And the Salvation Army band Is playing this hymn And Your grace rings out so deep It makes my resistance seem so thin Whenever I hear that song, in my mind’s eye I see those homeless men playing their hearts out, with kindness, gratitude, and love in their hearts. The lump in my throat twitches, and nearly explodes. And I’m thankful and joyful. Not because I’m not like them, but because I want to be like them. It’s the opposite of superiority; it’s something like humility. As the service concluded, we were greeted sweetly by our new friends. Pastor Bob smiled, approached us, and hugged our necks. He asked us to come back for a tour after New Years Day and we talked about more personal ways in which we might be able to help the Mission. As we left, he apologized that the group didn’t have a gift for us. Pastor Bob has since gone on to be with the Lord, but I hope on this night—The Night Before Christmas at The Open Door Mission—that he sensed through our misty eyes and feeble, Thank you, that his group had delivered a most precious gift, a heartfelt memory which our family opens every year at about this time.

Jesus said “But understand this: If the owner of the house had known at what time of night the thief was coming, he would have kept watch and would not have let his house be broken into. So you also must be ready, because the Son of Man will come at an hour when you do not expect him.” Matthew 24:43-44 Two nights ago. At one o’clock in the morning, I was downstairs in our den. I had twisted the television set around so I could get behind it. Squinting, I was writing down the serial number written on the metal plate on the back side. For whatever reason (fear mainly) this seemed like a good thing to do in the middle of the night. As a husband and father of two little girls, I am very aware of the threat of home invasion. We have an alarm system which we arm at night or whenever we leave the house. We have a dog. We have a fenced in backyard that I keep chained and locked. We lock our cars and our house. We are also capable of defending our home if we are present. And now I have recorded the serial numbers of all our major electronic devises. We are careful. As careful as we are, however, I know that a person who really wants to break into my house can do it. With all the burglaries of the last few weeks, I’m even beginning to get this sick feeling that such a crime is inevitable. If not soon, then someday. Preparation is important, but ultimately I am not in control. There is nothing I can do to stop it. In the Bible reading above, Christ compares himself to a thief who breaks in to someone’s house. Jesus says that if the home owner had known when the thief was coming, he could have stopped him. If my friend down the street had know what time the burglars were coming, I guarantee there would have been a shotgun waiting for them! My friend didn’t know when they were coming, and we don’t know when to expect Christ. Advent is a time of preparation, but it is also a time to expect the inevitable. Yes, we can pray and fast and give and prepare our hearts for Christ. We should do these things. Yet Advent is also a time to be aware that we are not in control. No matter what we do, or don’t do, Christ is going to show up. He’s going to come into our lives whether we ask him to or not. We might as well get used to it. I have a sign on the door to my office. It reads, in Latin (because I’m just that pompous) “Vocatus atque non vocatus Deus aderit.” Translated: “Called or not called, God is present.” The Christ who came as a baby, the Christ who will come as judge, and the Christ who comes into our daily lives will come, whether we call him or not. He doesn’t need our summons. I don’t know if that comforts you or scares you today. Maybe a bit of both. Either way, this Christ is the one who loves us. As C.S. Lewis said of Aslan, he’s wild but he’s also good. I welcome his coming.

Much of the Christian life is confronting the difference between our programmed world-think and the Word of God. We’re to make a faith-choice on the side of the Word. Author Dan Stone once said, “People say what they really think after the ‘but’.” Like this: “She’s really a nice person, but…” “Yes, the Bible says we’re saved by grace through faith, but…” We often take a truth and plunk a big but down on it in an attempt to suffocate the truth’s implications. How many of us believe the Word without putting a “but” afterward? “But” is like “positional” in that both words are often used as an end-run around the truth to lessen the showdown between world-think and Word. The word “positional” often pushes the truth into some far off some-day rather than allowing us to access and appropriate the truth here and now when we really need it. Word: “And having been set free from sin, you became slaves of righteousness.” Rom 6:18 World-Think: Yes, we’re set free from sin and slaves of righteousness positionally, but we’re still sinners so we sin. Word: “Therefore, my brethren, you also have become dead to the law….” Rom 7:4a. World-Think: Yes, of course – but we’re dead to the ceremonial law, not the moral law. Word: “I have been crucified with Christ, and it is no longer I who live, but Christ lives in me.” Gal 2:20 World-Think: We have been crucified with Christ – positionally. We have to die to self because the old man comes down from the Cross. Word: “My little children, I am writing these things to you so that you may not sin.” 1John 2:1 World-Think: Yes we’re not supposed to sin but we can’t really help it because we’re sinners. Word: “If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and cleanse us of all unrighteousness.” World-Think: Yes, that’s wonderful, but my particular sin is too awful (or besetting, or addictive). World-think robs us of using our inheritance in Christ now, when we really need it. This is our one chance in all of eternity to appropriate real, usable power and virtue in order to spit in the face of world-think. Here and now is where we choose to rely on Christ within us as the source of everything we need for life and godliness – or not. Our choices here will resound throughout eternity, rewards eternally given or eternally lost. World-think says Don’t take the Word literally; it can’t mean exactly what it says. Put a “but” after it and qualify it, weaken it, water it down. World-think is insidious, detrimental, and ultimately devastating to our Christian walk. It has its origin in Satan’s own mind.

Russ Ramsey: On Andy Gullahorn’s previous release, “Reinventing the Wheel,” he sang, “I love the music that I grew up on, when the business was all about the song.” Jason, you have had the opportunity to write songs with Andy, and in fact one track the two of you wrote for your Acoustic Storytime record is also on Andy’s new record. Many people I know who have written with Gully have spoken very highly of his ability to craft a song. As a songwriter, what does Andy contribute to your songwriting process that you might not have working alone? Jason Gray: Well, let me begin by telling you that we have a stuffed Superman in our house that bears a remarkable resemblance to Andy, and I’ve told him that when I’m dealing with a particularly difficult lyric, I’ll prop up Super Andy to boost my morale.  It’s comforting to imagine he’s there with me…  (is that creepy?) But let me back up and name my 5 favorite living songwriters: Fans of folk music will recognize the name of David Wilcox, whose very name is like a secret handshake among singer/songwriter enthusiasts. He’s a giant of the genre, the epitome of the literate, brilliant, quirky songwriter.  And he’s a fan of Andy’s.  That’s a huge endorsement – though Andy hardly needs it since his songs speak so much for themselves. My experience has been that Andy is an artist’s artist, but he is also very conscientious of the audience he writes for, and you can sense that by how relatable his songs are.  Some writers pander to their audience (which is not love but manipulation), other writers are so passionate about their art that they can become self-indulgent (which isn’t manipulation, but rather self-love).  But Andy’s songs, while smart, are never out of reach for the average listener.  And though he’s incredibly intelligent, he writes from and to the heart – (and sometimes the gut when he lands another amazing payoff line, the kind that takes the wind out of you a bit when it hits you – like a sucker punch of love!) Our song “Why You Brought Me Here” is one of my three favorite songs I’ve been privileged to be a part of.  To have it included on this record… Well… To be honest, I’m kind of geeking out over the whole thing.  I love his recording of it. You asked what Andy contributes to my process, maybe the best way to explain it is that, while you know you’re in the room with a master, he makes you feel like he’s a fan of you and what you bring to his table.  He’s generous to write with. I should say, too, that he’s refreshing to write with in a town where it’s either all about the commerce or all about the art.  It’s hard to find a person who loves the art, but recognizes that if we’re to make a living doing this, you have to aim for a song connecting with an audience, and if we can shape a song to have a catchy hook that might help it’s chances at radio or with a broader audience, it’s a challenge he’s willing to take up. I think the work he’s done with his wife Jill Phillips demonstrates this.  Why she isn’t the biggest female Christian artist out there, I have no idea.  Both of them write songs of depth and intelligence that are so dang catchy… “Writing On The Wall” anyone? Why isn’t that a platinum record?! But back to Andy’s new record: All the usual things that I’ve come to love and expect from an Andy Gullahorn record are here, but it all feels weightier to me.  Andy and I are nearly the same age, and I know I’ve been grappling with getting older, realizing that many things I hoped I’d accomplish might be slipping beyond my reach, and a burgeoning awareness of how flawed I am and wrong about so many things – all of this accompanied by a mellowing and easy confidence in God’s grace and also who he’s made me to be.  I feel all these things at play with this with this record.  Parenthood, doubts, self-doubts, and even the clinging on to youth in the title track.  And then there’s the beauty of a line like “I could be nobody as long as I’m someone to you…” You perfectly summed up the Andy Gullahorn experience with your review of his last record in the words “nervous laughter”.  What do you think the source of our nervous laughter is with this record? Russ: Yeah, I was thinking about the whole “Nervous Laughter” concept with this new record. I’m going to risk the perils of comparison and talk about this record in the context of his other two—and please know I LOVE his other records, so the comparison I’m about to make is not about one record being better than another. In fact, I’ll even go so far as to say I believe Gully is one of those rare artists whose “catalog” of work holds together and, if the listener is willing, can take us to deeply profound places of humility, repentance and worship. His first record, “Room to Breathe,” is at the same time wise, sober and funny. It is a record we can take in from a distance if we want, as if Andy is standing out there in our front yard singing to us. The whole neighborhood comes out and listens. We learn. We laugh. It’s really great. Really. But then comes “Reinventing the Wheel.” It goes even deeper in its wisdom, sobriety and humor.  All of the sudden Andy is standing in our living room. Now it’s just us and our closest family members and maybe a friend or two.  He’s a bit more serious. He’s singing about miscarriage. He’s singing about how we become the people we are. He’s demanding that we not give up on our marriages. He’s telling us stories and challenging us to love well, live well and he’s still making us laugh. Only we’re wise to the fact that Andy’s humor demands something of us—vulnerability. But we trust each other, so we’re game. We’ll try to go where he wants to take us. With “The Law of Gravity,” it is as if Andy singles me out and leads me into the kitchen to have a frank, man-to-man conversation. He’s asking me if I’m only playing at marriage? Would I quit if things go bad enough? Am I digging in, resisting the change in perspective parenting requires? Are my kids a burden or a joy? Am I investing in them, regardless of their response? Is there anything God could take from me that would make me want to walk away from Him? Without a shred of malice, his questions are earnest, pointed and personal. I think this is one of the great benefits of having Andy’s entire catalog—we see him develop as a songwriter. But even more, if we’re careful listeners, we’ll see ourselves developing as men and women too. Jason: Russ, you’re insights here are so good, this is exactly what this record feels like.  Man, you should be Andy’s PR person!  (I’m just wondering if he takes us to the kitchen for this record, where will he take us next – the bathroom? Yikes. What will he think when he finds Super Andy already there?) The Law of Gravity” some more today one of the things that came into focus is the way Andy uses his amazing sense of humor. While most people use humor as a diversion – a way to hide and keep people at a safe distance – Andy does the exact opposite. His sense of humor draws you in and puts you at ease, like  it’s his way of whistling in the dark for us as he invites us on his guided tour of the darkened rooms of the heart that require our attention but that we might otherwise feel threatened by. He writes funny lyrics, but it’s rarely the laugh that he’s going for.  He’s going for our heart.  A good example of this on the new record is “New Pair Of Eyes”: He peed All over my Sunday clothes Just like a fire hose That left me soaking And you’d think That anger would rage inside But the opposite was true that night Much to my surprise Cause it’s amazing what you’ll do… When it’s a new pair of eyes you’re looking through… Then he cuts to the heart of parenting and how it’s the beautiful way that God begins to set us free from our selfishness with: Someday You might have kids of your own And everything you think you know Will be worth nothing at all But if you doubt you can love someone more than your life I think you’re gonna find When you hold that baby It’s amazing what you’ll do… When it’s a new pair of eyes you’re looking through…” Another great example of this is “I Haven’t Either”: Have you ever been so selfish that you let your baby cry While you finished up a video game I haven’t either That’s pretty bad He begins, and so does the nervous laughter, but then: Have you ever made a promise to yourself a thousand times Just to break it over and over again I haven’t either Only people with problems do that kind of thing… And of course this is his way of helping us to take a good look in the mirror, helping us to face up to not only our selfishness, but the crippling shame that accompanies it.  (readers will have to get the record to hear where the song goes from there ; -) Andy’s sense of humor is like a dose of anesthetic before he begins heart surgery on us.  I mentioned his relationship to David Wilcox earlier, and I’m remembering a conversation with Andy about how David really takes his vocation as a kind of healer very, very seriously.  Andy recounted how he was at a retreat where David sang an impromptu song  to someone who was going through a difficulty –  like he opened his heart and mind up to be a conduit of God’s grace and healing and a song came in that moment that was like a blessing over the person he sang it to. I wonder as I listen to this record of Andy’s if David’s reverence for their shared vocation informed these new songs.  I don’t mean to get all mystical here, but it feels like there’s a renewed sense of purpose in these new songs, and as I listen they come to me like little prayers for our healing and wholeness. Russ: I remember in seminary how one of my professors tried to convey to us that we were probably misreading the Old Testament if we were imposing pop-psychology on people like Abraham, Moses or David, reading their words and then asking “What did they mean by that? What were they feeling when they said it.” His point was that the Hebrew culture in those days was pretty direct. They were much more pragmatic than mystical. If Jacob thought Rachel was pretty, it was probably because she was, forgive me, smokin’ hot, not because she reminded him of his first broken heart from when he was just a teenager and the local bully danced with his girlfriend all night at homecoming. I say this because while you and I both notice and appreciate a mystical quality to Andy’s ability to craft and then deliver a song, correct me if this hasn’t been your experience, but Andy comes across as one of the least mystical guys I know. Don’t misunderstand. He is brilliant, sensitive, thoughtful—every bit the artist. But he is also very much a meat and potatoes sort of guy—which is evident throughout the minimalist production and instrumentation in every one of his recordings. And this is one of the places where I believe Andy is contributing something very important. I believe artists often run to a haven of emotionalism and mystical vagueness because we find in it a place where no one can really question our motives or recognize that our inaction is based in fear. We can talk about the messiness of our lives, but not in a way where we ever have to answer for it because we present ourselves as people who are too deep to know, too wise to access and too allegorical to question directly. Andy, on the other hand, stands with his feet on the ground. He doesn’t mince words. For example, he sings a song about how selfishness in marriage takes time to overcome. But we don’t have to wonder if his aim is merely that we would nod in agreement at his astute observation, because he ends that song with the ever so clear “Don’t throw in the towel.” In his songwriting, Andy isn’t just showing off his catalog of wisdom and insight. He is sharing his insights and then taking a stand, planting his feet with a clear statement we can either reject or accept. But at least it is clear. I think for any artist who really takes the time to digest what Andy creates, he will raise their game. He will help them be more honest, more direct, more transparent. He will help them be more than they are. Jason: This is something I was trying to get to earlier in our conversation, that he isn’t like most artist’s I know.  He doesn’t have the typical artist temperament.  He is very meat and potatoes, you’re right, and also brilliant (not that the two are mutually exclusive).  And even though he jokes about it on this record, he really does write songs for the “workin’ man” in that they are attainable for anyone – Andy knows some Kingdom secrets, but instead of making them the domain of the privileged elite, he’s making copies of the keys to unlock them and handing them out at the tail-gate party before the big game. I think too that his smarts are very inconspicuous, and with each album increasingly invisible, meaning that his intelligence doesn’t call attention to itself.  It’s the best kind of humility. And you’re right, there’s no ambiguity to what he’s saying.  Now I do love mystery and the mystical in art from time to time, and I can be a fan of arcane lyrics – I think of Sufjan Stevens, Mark Heard, or even Peter Gabriel – but even though Andy’s lyrics are straightforward, the truth is that he’s still mining the great mysteries.  And in fact, my own experience has been that the hardest song to write is the song of depth and complexity that has a simple lyric. He makes it sound easy. The funny thing about you and me talking about him like this is I imagine it might make him laugh – because every time I try to describe him, the descriptors I keep reaching for make him sound larger than life, but like you’re saying: he’s just Andy. Russ: Ha! I’m so glad you mentioned wondering about Andy’s reaction to this little conversation about him behind his back. You think he’d laugh. At a couple points I’m figuring he’s rolling his eyes. And yet that’s the intangible quality I think we’re both admiring here– his apparent effortlessness in saying something simply, clearly and powerfully. I’ve only had it a few days, so I’m still digesting it, but my early favorites are “Someone To You” and the two that were on Jill’s last record, “Any Other Way” and “Resurrection”. And though it feels a bit immodest, “Why You Brought Me Here”.  Andy’s version is so great!  He made a few lyric tweeks since I recorded it that I love and I think it’s just a great production.  I recorded it for a live record very shortly after we wrote it and barely knew it at that point.  Andy’s performance of it here sounds so mature and “lived-in”. And that guitar playing. Dang. There’s more production on this record than the previous ones – drums even – but it’s so inconspicuous you hardly realize it.  It’s all serving the lyric.  And the strings on this record sound really good, too – both the parts and the way they were recorded/mixed.  I think this is Andy’s best sounding record as well as some of his best songs. Russ: I love “Sins of the Father” because this is right where I’m living. I love how Andy doesn’t apologize for the fact that his best efforts as a dad probably still hit his kids the same as most other’s parents best efforts do. Some take root, some fall flat. Oh how we wish our kids could hear us. There isn’t a shred of “Let me teach you how to parent “God’s Way” with Andy, just a humble appeal for the grace of God to work through what he has to give, with a committment to stay engaged in his kids lives. Also, I LOVE, LOVE, LOVE the opening line to the record. “If you came expecting to get nothing back, you’ll get nothing back. What did you expect?” It lands like a punch that asks the hearer if we’re willing to have our cynicism challenged. That line itself tells you the rest of the song will be top shelf. Jason: Yeah, that is a GREAT opening line. I remember Andrew Peterson sending me my first Andy Gullahorn record a number of years ago, and he told me that Andy was a part of a group of guys that would meet regularly and swap new songs they were working on.  He said it was a little irritating because Andy always won. Russ: Yeah, AP always says it wasn’t a contest, but Gullahorn still always won. I wonder if Gully ever cared about that? I seriously doubt he’ll tell us.

A “collect” (pronounced with the emphasis on the first syllable) is a short form of Christian prayer. It is written to be used in public worship, and has several traditional elements. In the Anglican Church, we are given a collect for each Sunday of the Church year. So, Easter Sunday has a special collect, as does the Sunday closest to September 22nd, as do they all. These are called the “Collect of the Day.” Having grown up in this tradition, and having now been ordained (in a few days) for eleven years, I’m familiar with all the Collects of the Day. Since I was a child, my favorite of all of them has been the Collect for the First Sunday in Advent. It was written by the great Archbishop of Canterbury Thomas Cranmer, and first appeared in the 1549 edition of the Book of Common Prayer. Here it is, as he wrote it: Almighty God, give us grace that we may cast away the works of darkness, and put upon us the armour of light, now in the time of this mortal life, in which thy Son Jesus Christ came to visit us in great humility; that in the last day, when he shall come again in his glorious Majesty, to judge both the quick and the dead, we may rise to the life immortal; through him who liveth and reigneth with thee and the Holy Ghost, now and ever. Amen. Advent, the season that begins this year on Sunday, November 29, is the first portion of the Christian Year. It is the time in which the Church prepares for both the First Coming of Christ (the Incarnation) and also for the Second Coming (the End of the Age). You see both of these in this collect. ‘This mortal life in which Christ came to visit us in great humility” is his incarnation. “The last day, when he shall come again” is his second coming. The poetry of the prayer is based in part on the New Testament reading that was appointed for this day back in 1549. Romans 13:12 says “The night is far spent, the day is at hand; let us therefore cast off the works of darkness and let us put on the armour of light.” The prayer weaves together the reading, as well as the meaning of the season. More importantly, it asks God for a two fold grace. First, that by grace we will put away the works of darkness. With God’s help we will repent, leave behind our wicked ways. Second, that by grace we will put on the armor of light, the whole armor of God in Ephesians 6:10 etc. Both the First and Second Coming are about light coming into the world, as in John 1:4 etc. So the prayer uses the imagery of light and darkness, as well as other poetic use of the English language like “this mortal life” vs “the life immortal.” It is a beautiful prayer, a poetic prayer. It is a prayer that is founded in the Bible, as prayer is at its best. It is also a prayer that opens us up to God’s special grace during this holy season. In the midst of all the shopping and driving and football and everything else that these last few days have been about, it is a door to the Reality of the season. I commend it to your use, but today and in the season to come.

A.S. Peterson has crafted a work of compelling historical fiction which begs the question, “Can this really be a debut novel?” With dogged fidelity, Peterson captures the spirit, manners, and social conditions present during the American Revolutionary War. We meet colorful, credible characters who navigate the high seas of life and love, dependence and independence, war and peace, truth and consequence, and despite forays into dark places, The Fiddler’s Gun is beautiful, lyrical, and redemptive. The novel tracks the adventurous life of Phineas (Fin) Michael Button from birth to early adulthood, which happens to occur during the American Revolution. As an infant, Fin Button had the misfortune of being the thirteenth girl born to a father that wanted and expected his first boy. So he assigned her to a Georgia orphanage where she is raised by a cast of interesting characters. Phineas Michael Button’s name isn’t the only thing about her that is androgynous. In fact, androgynous may be a word that is too charitable. There is little about Fin Button that is overtly feminine, at least in the classic sense. She is irascible, rebellious, and opinionated, with an appearance and bearing closer to a man, notwithstanding her smallish size. Despite her petulant nature, we detect something good and honorable within her and Fin’s waspish behavior at the orphanage proves to be good training for that which comes later in her life. One doesn’t usually associate humor with historical fiction, but The Fiddler’s Gun contains hilarious situational comedy. It’s rare to laugh out loud when reading, even when something is genuinely funny, but I often found myself laughing aloud at the absurd, outlandish drollery of Fin Button. (Like the time she fills Sister Hilde’s shoes with cow dung.) We laugh in the same way a grandparent might; the responsibility of discipline rests with another, so we can cackle without consequence. One character that is particularly well developed is Sister Hilde, the head of the orphanage. Peterson spends a fair bit of time describing this self-righteous woman’s nose, which seems to have a personality all its own. It’s a nose that is perfectly at home on her face. Fin relishes the opportunity to pop the balloon of Sister Hilde’s often questionable plans and policies and conversely, Sister Hilde seems to have developed a personal vendetta against Ms. Button and takes every opportunity to prove it. Sister Hilde is Fin’s polar opposite. In Fin we see a person whose behavior is sometimes bad, but who’s heart seems like something closer to good. In Sister Hilde, we discern someone whose behavior is apparently good, but whose heart we often question. Sister Hilde will fool many with her pious, self-righteous demeanor, but careful observers will sense something more poisonous under her skin. It may be unfair to call her bad; maybe misguided is a better word. Brother Bartimaeus, the kindly cook, is a plain-spoken man who harbors secrets from a shady past. Brother Bart long ago found redemption, which finds expression in the way he lives his life and the lovely music he plays on his fiddle. If The Fiddler’s Gun, were a film, Brother Bart would be off-screen much of the time. Still, his influence on Fin extends much deeper than his “screen time.” To Fin, he becomes a father figure, spiritual mentor, and guidance counselor all rolled up into one. Even when he’s not referenced, we sense he is looking over Fin’s shoulder. The tension is multiplied when the American War of Independence begins to smolder. 9/11 notwithstanding, it’s been a long time since Americans have experienced the physical presence of the enemy in our own backyard. Peterson’s novel is a reminder of how terrifying such a situation might be. Like all historical fiction, The Fiddler’s Gun, is based on elements of true life and real people. For example, it may be said that Fin Button resembles the historical person, Nancy Hart (also known as The Georgia War Woman). Much of Ms. Hart’s real life is hard to separate from legend and folklore, which makes it perfect as a model for a primary character in historical fiction. The author can take what is known and speculated, and use his imagination to run with it. And run Peterson does. He carries us vicariously on a mad dash of high adventure, an obstacle course of pirate ships, mutiny, bloody battles, and Red Coats hidden in the shadows. A.S. Peterson is the older brother of recording artist/author/storyteller Andrew Peterson. It’s unfair to A.S. “Pete” Peterson, but for context and informational purposes, it must be noted. Younger brother, Andrew Peterson, has earned a reputation for top shelf, quality work which might seem to set an unfair precedent for his older brother. But this reference is not offered only for the reader’s information, but also to make it known that the elder Peterson shares his brother’s attention to detail, gift with words, and appreciation for beauty. I don’t think it’s a stretch to say that if you enjoy Andrew Peterson’s work, there’s high probability that you will appreciate the work of A.S. Peterson too. Fans of The Fiddler’s Gun will be delighted to know that there is a sequel on the way. The Fiddler’s Gun is the first of two books, concluding with the forthcoming Fiddler’s Green. Initially, The Fiddler’s Gun is exclusively available right here in the Rabbit Room but there’s an audiobook and a Kindle ebook on the way as well. It’s clear that A.S. Peterson has the writer’s gift. His prose is carefully crafted, with painstaking attention to detail. On the other hand, as I read The Fiddler’s Gun I wasn’t pondering the intricacies of his well-crafted fiction–I had my hands full thinking about the characters, the story, and considering what might come next. And after all is said and read, isn’t that one of the best compliments one can give an author?

“Kids deserve good music too.” That’s the philosophy behind the fantastic new record from Katy Bowser, Chris Donohue, and friends, Coal Train Railroad. Continuing in the grand tradition of great jazz music for kids like A Charlie Brown Christmas and the Peanuts specials, Katy has made a record with some of the best jazz players in Nashville with lyrics that kids – and adults – will love to sing along with. With titles like Belly Button, I Need a Nap, and Snuggling, you know you’re in for a good time. Here’s what Katy wrote on her blog about the project: “After many years of dreaming, writing, tweaking, recording and planning, we are releasing Coal Train Railroad on Thanksgiving Day. It’s great jazz for kids! Coal Train is a collaboration between Katy Bowser and Chris Donohue. It’s music about kid stuff- juice, snuggling, naps, getting along, sharing- with music that we can all enjoy together.” I can’t wait to play this record for my friends’ kids and hear them running around the house, singing along with My Mouth and Me, trying to make all the same noises that are on the record, or snuggling close while listening to some of the slower songs. One of Katy’s friends said it best: “Buy one for each child in your life. If there are no children in your life, get a new life.” I could have spent the whole blog post talking about how great Katy’s melodies are on this project. I haven’t been able to get I Need a Nap or What’s Mine is Yours out of my head since I first heard them. And the music, wow. Jeff Coffin, the saxophone player for the Grammy award-winning Béla Fleck and the Flecktones, currently on tour with the Dave Matthew Band, has some great solos here, and Rod McGaha’s trumpet tones are the perfect accompaniment. A friend of mine, Scott Hallgren, who has worked with Donna Summer, Elton John, Margaret Becker, and Fernando Ortega, just to name a few, is also a great jazz pianist, and his voicings support Katy’s voice beautifully. If you pre-order Coal Train Railroad before Thanksgiving, you get an immediate download of two songs, plus a bonus track on Thanksgiving. Time’s running out, so place your order soon.

My Mom was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer just a few short months ago. Despite my aunt’s continual efforts to study up and get her to the best doctors, and even after a completely successful operation at Johns Hopkins, a short time later the cancer went to her liver. Mom came to our house after that, to juice vegetables, to eat a raw food diet. In the end it didn’t cure her, but she never went through the uglier symptoms usually associated with liver failure – vomiting, and extreme pain. Her end was peaceful and with relatively little pain, which my aunt attributed to raw food and juicing. Beyond bodily illness, psychologically and spiritually it was a great gift to have her there sitting at my table every day, reading the Word together, talking, laughing. It was healing for me, and I know for Mom as well, on a level beyond the physical. God brought us a closeness in those last weeks that I will always treasure. In late October three of my cousins flew to North Carolina, where my aunt and uncle and Mom live. We loaded Mom into a padded and blanketed nest in the back of the van on a Thursday; she had been getting weaker in the past few days and couldn’t make the whole trip sitting up. The visit in North Carolina was deep and rich and hilarious; to have a bunch of us together again after such a long time apart was healing, strengthening. It was over all too soon, and on Sunday and Monday my cousins said their goodbyes to us all, and especially to Mom. Her passing the next day was one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen. I had been playing guitar hymns for her that morning, and her breaths were getting more and more shallow, eyes half open and not looking at anything in particular. I called my aunt when her breathing changed, and told Mom that Jesus was going to come for her soon, that she needed to go with Him, that indescribable glory beyond anything she’d ever experienced was waiting for her. My aunt and uncle arrived, and for the last twenty minutes of Mom’s life my aunt laid behind her on the bed, hugging her; my uncle stood directly behind his wife; my wife Sandra sat next to me and held Mom’s hand as I held Mom’s cheek and forehead with my hands and looked straight into her eyes. We prayed, sang hymns, and told her to go with Jesus when the time came. She had been breathing through her mouth for awhile, and her breaths weren’t going down into her lungs much anymore. We were in the middle of singing “Jesus Loves Me” when Mom opened both of her blue eyes wide, and she looked above my head and past me. She held her gaze there, in wide-eyed wonder, for about twenty seconds, then closed them both shut and smiled a big smile. At that moment Sandra told my uncle, “Feel the goose bumps on her arms.” Her body lived for less than a minute more, but I know she left her body with the blue-eyed wonder, that smile, and those goose bumps. I saw no fear, only amazement and joy in her eyes. She reveled in His glory, felt the thrill in her body, smiled like a lamb, and took His hand. Blessed be the name of the Lord. Joyce Marilyn Block: Sept 1, 1940 – Oct 21, 2009

Android: A human-like machine. Factoid: People are becoming symbiotic in their relationship with their computers. Fact: Everyone is officially on Twitter. Plus if you’re really famous you’re probably on there at least twice, once with “fake” in front of your name. Of course most people are fake enough on Twitter anyway. Not me, but other people who hack my account. I made fun of Twitter publically in a Rabbit Room post a few weeks prior to joining up myself. Can you say “hypocrisy” with less than 140 characters? Ron Block promptly called me a “Twaitor.” That is one of the most brilliant rejoinders I have ever been on the receiving end of. He should have tweeted it on Twitter so someone could actually read it. I guess he can still share it in one of his thirty-or-so Facebook Status Updates a day –which is veeerrryyy different than a Twitter tweet. But in my (actual) view Twitter isn’t nearly as important as many of its apologists/cheerleaders say. Also, it’s not as egocentric and banal as its detractors say (or it doesn’t have to be). OK, now that I’ve done the most irritating thing in the world and set up two poles and put myself between them and called that “balance,” and “quite moderate,” I will now show you one reason why I love Twitter. If you hung out with really smart, wise, godly, creative, or just generally uncommon people, you would hear them say things in reaction to some bit of news (or whatever) and you would laugh, or ponder, or be very puzzled. But wouldn’t it be swell to hear some morsel of what your favorite artist is thinking right now, or your favorite author, or chef, or pastor, or whatever? Well, that is (can be) what Twitter is. I cite Al Mohler from 11.16.09. Mohler tweeted thus: albertmohler: Kanye West: “I am a proud non-reader of books. I … get information from doing stuff like actually talking to people and living real life.” Then he tweeted this follow-up… albertmohler: Please note that proud non-reader Kanye West is the author of a new book, “Thank You & You’re Welcome.” I am a proud non-reader of his book. Bam. Aside: It’s so very shocking to learn that Kanye West doesn’t read. Let me make it clear that I agree with the vast number of sentient beings who recognize that sitting around on Twitter or Facebook for hours is almost certainly a HUGE waste of time. But the doing of many things to excess is often an avenue to wasting life. I gotta hurry this up, there’s a football game on… Most of what is on Twitter and Facebook is not worth seeing. Lots. Of. Narcissism. And you can spend half your day just getting through the exclamation points on any tweets/status updates by teenagers you know!!!!!!!!! And like don’t even get me started on this jk/lol business. AND ALL CAPS!!! Blech. The truth is there are few who seem skilled at using the tool well, and I certainly don’t count myself among them (that would be a lot of work). But there’s some out there. Who are your favorite people to follow on Twitter? Why? Comment away. Oh yeah, follow me on Twitter and be my friend on Facebook. If you wish. Or don’t, snob. And here’s an easy way to follow some Rabbit Roomers on Twitter from @thomasmckenzie (he did it in one actual minute -seriously). Rabbit Roomers on Twitter. sdsmith_: Just wrote a post, now eating a cookie. Here’s a picture of me. It’s the one I use on Twitter! lol, jk, lol!!!!! Cookie now finished.

I just got back from a quick visit to Andy Gullahorn‘s childhood home in Texas, and it was exactly as you would imagine it to be: a picturesque ranch house, ATVs, big trucks, wide fields pocked with cow patties, and Andy’s dad in the backyard teaching Andy’s daughter how to shoot a gun. I’m not joking. If you’ve seen Gullahorn live, you’ve probably heard him talk about the fact that he’s from Texas. Most people from Texas can hardly stop talking about the fact that they’re from Texas. They brag about how everything in Texas is better than everywhere else, and how Texas was the only state that used to be a country, and how they’re allowed to fly their flag at the same height as the American flag, and how guns are cool and so is Texas. I remember, for example, George W. Bush responding to the accusation that he has a swagger by saying that in Texas they just call it walking. I tend to roll my eyes at Texophilia (a word I might have just coined), but I have to admit that there is some evidence that Texas is pretty great. Take my recent trip to Laity Lodge for example: three days with the Gullahorns, Buddy Greene and Jeff Taylor, Eugene Peterson, a delightful group of attendees, fine meals, mist on the Frio River, a Steinway piano and a library of my favorite books. Then there’s Taco Cabana, beef brisket, Larry McMurtry’s Lonesome Dove (my favorite western book and movie), Lyle Lovett and a passel of other singer/songwriters like Townes Van Zant and Guy Clark. So yes, Texas has some cool stuff–but I think a lot of that has to do with its sheer size. It’s a matter of mathematics that they’re bound to have a few more notable residents than, say, Rhode Island. But when I watch Andy play his songs, I wonder if there’s more to it than math. There must be something in the water, I think. Otherwise, how could he do that? How did he just move an audience from howling laughter to deep stillness in the space of a few lines? And as a songwriter I wonder how he keeps finding angles, new ways of looking at things, new turns on old clichés. I wonder how a guy who grew up shooting deer, riding four-wheelers, raising cattle, and baling hay could have learned to write songs about not just funny things but wise things: faithful marriage, obedience, Christ, sin, children–Kingdom things. I wonder how a guy who never reads can be so deft with words. And so deft with sideburns. I wonder how someone from the cockiest state in the union–yes, union, Texans–can so humbly tell a story. I have a hunch Gullahorn will read this, so to preserve our friendship I’ll stop gushing. But I wanted to tell you his new record is about to release (December 1) and that you can order it here in the Rabbit Room Store. If you pre-order you’ll get an immediate download of the album. Like his previous albums Room to Breathe and Reinventing the Wheel, this one features little more than Andy’s voice and acoustic guitar. Of course, his wife Jill Phillips sings on it, and cellist David Henry added some pretty sounds. But what’s front and center here are songs. Excellent songs, from start to finish. And that’s exactly how Texas wants it.

There is a peculiar light to Monday mornings–uneasy, as if hurry thrums in the very color of the day. The workday rush was mobbing my conscience, but I gated it out because I was reading a book I truly could not put down. It was noon before I finished, and by that time all my bustle had been scattered by the slow, sweet rise of joy that ached in my story. I don’t think I’ve ever been so immediately affected by a book as I was by Wendell Berry’s short novel, Remembering. I have taken Wendell Berry for my mentor. His books challenge me, especially his fiction, because they make me face what is real, hungry, and true in my own heart. This is not escapist literature–there is no whisking away involved in reading Hannah Coulter, or A Place on Earth. You don’t put down his novels like you do some modern books and wish your life weren’t so mundane. In Berry’s characters, you meet yourself. The loves, the quiet losses, the unspoken griefs, the desires for transcendence and hope that plague every one of us every day get articulated in the thoughts and lives of his characters. Because of this, Mr. Berry also manages to put his finger on the pulse of what we have lost in modern culture. He writes about the loss of community, the breakup of families, the deadening ways of consumerism, the way wonder is poisoned by a materialistic view of life, and he does it with quiet, logical eloquence, demanding that we value the old ways again. He speaks what we all feel, but have no idea how to say. I must admit though, that I have often wanted to write him a letter of protest. How, I would say, do you return to community if you never had one? I yearn for a history, for a people that know me. But how do you learn rootedness without roots? Berry himself grew up in Kentucky, the son of farmers. He left to study, and could have stayed away, breaking the “membership” (one of his terms) of the life to which he was born. But he came back. He re-entered the fellowship of place and family that were his history and gift. Lucky him. What if you don’t have that to come back to? Could he possibly understand the sense of displacement felt by so many in my generation? I have the priceless grounding of a strong, loving family, but I’ve moved at least 15 times in my 25 years. I yearn to be settled, and ultimately, known. Can a nomad soul like mine ever find community? There is no “place on earth” waiting, hoping for my return. That’s why I loved Remembering. For the first time, I knew that Berry had felt my own sense of being lost in a huge grey world where nothing is personal, and no one will hold you. Remembering is a journey in and through the thoughts of middle-aged farmer Andy Catlett. I knew Andy from previous books as every story Mr. Berry writes is set in the fictional town of Port William. Andy had been a boy when I knew him in Hannah Coulter, but now he was a man who had made the hard decision to return to the farming and family he had left when he was young. The story opens in a dark San Francisco hotel room, where Andy is questioning not only his decision, but everything he loves. Injured, alienated from his wife, far from home, rejected by his peers, feeling that he is a relic from an old time never to be reclaimed, he walks out into the pre-dawn of the San Francisco streets. The first chapters are surreal; as a reader I felt disoriented. Only at the end of the book did I realize that I was meant not just to read, but experience, the terror of being unmoored from the people who love you and the place that knows you. Everything becomes strange. Andy wanders the streets, wondering if he can return to the life he thought he had chosen in Kentucky. Homeless men and suspicious woman grip his eyes; he sees the river-like flow of nameless faces stream through the city, and wonders how anyone can ever be known, can ever get home again. The worst comes gradually to him. He has failed. Does he even want to be found? But then there is this moment as dawn creeps up the edge of the ocean. He sits on a bench, watching. And he begins to remember. Snippets from tales told in his childhood, about the courtship of his great grandparents, or the first farm of his father. The stories of the lives of the men and women whose choices and loves had made possible the shape of his life. They rise up around him and: “He is held, though he does not hold. He is caught up again in the old pattern of entrances: of minds into minds, minds into place, places into minds. The pattern limits and complicates him, singling him out in his own flesh. Out of the multitude of possible lives that have surrounded and beckoned to him like a crowd around a star, he returns now to himself… He has met again his one life and one death, and he takes them back. It is as though, leaving, he has met himself already returning…meeting…a few dead and living whose love has claimed him forever. He will be partial and he will die; he will live out the truth of that. Though he does not hold, he is held. He is grieving, and he is full of joy.” I won’t tell you anymore, but for me, every word from there out was the slow swell of a music only known in loving, and choosing to love again in the face of loss and grief. It is a music half broken, but singing itself whole. In hearing it, I knew that Mr. Berry had known the ache of being lost. I knew he had fought, as I am fighting, to believe that constancy in friendship and fidelity in love is possible. I knew he had heard, as I have, the derision of a fast-paced, impersonal world, and still chose to believe that the sort of life that grows up slow and rich from the ground of faith, hope, and love was so precious it could demand the whole of his life. I even think he’s wondered if he had it in him to stay that course. When I got up from my chair on that Monday, I felt held. Mr. Berry, I realized, is generous with his history, offering his own memories to cradle the hopes of nomads like me. He affirmed that my hope for a place on earth is already creating one. It is a struggle and a journey, but my very desire to love creates the possibility of community. Mr. Berry and Andy Catlett were blessed to have places to come back to, but someone had to begin it. In my case, I’m the beginner. My actions of hope as I search for my place are creating the memories that will one day hold my children. I will find my place on earth. But the story I am making in the process will be part of the “remembering” that grips those coming after me. This journey is a fight, but every step of it is also an act of creation. With Andy, I was suddenly full of joy. [We’ve only got a copy or two left in the Rabbit Room Store. Better get ’em quick.]

One of the duties that proved most difficult for me (after creating sixty-two works of art, of course) was writing about why I did it all. I found myself sitting in the gallery the morning of the opening of the exhibit, staring at the walls which bore several months’ worth of my life. My brain, empty. “Influence of place,” my comrade and curator, John, said to me. Influence of place. The following paragraphs flowed out of my fingers/brain/heart within a half-hour’s time. My mother grew up the daughter of a wheat farmer in the middle of the eastern plains of Wyoming. The vast, lonesome, blustery landscape with its blues, greys, golds and greens captured my heart from a young age. These scenes saturate my senses and I could forever portray the colors of ripe grain and stormy skies, rusting farm equipment and the deep nighttime spilling out millions of stars. More than any other artist or medium, this earthly place has been my most meaningful influence. The family photographs I have employed in some of my work are from our personal family archive, yes, but I believe they speak in quiet tones about larger themes. They serve as icons of a simpler time and convey a sense of strength, solidarity, faith, and abiding love of the kindred. My work is at once light-hearted and nostalgic, sparse and rich. At least eight years’ worth of weathered boards, rusty hardware, old tin cans, vintage buttons and time-stained hymnals await me in my studio. In each piece that I produce I seek out the opportunities for nuance and connection between the painting and any of the found objects that lie scattered about. Some pieces that I find stay with me for four or five years before they find their final homes. The portions of lyrics you see in these works have come from a well-worn hymnal that belonged to my grandmother Hazel. That book is simply titled, Awakening Songs. I have always had a profound love for the relationship between written word and imagery; exploring this connection was a significant step in the process of creating this body of work. My fascination with those who have gone before, my love for the lustre of age, and my belief in these time-honored missives of hope and peace have served soundly as my inspiration. The well is deep.

On the southwest corner of my front yard stands a double-forked black walnut tree. Its height of some forty-feet is ample enough to cast a belly shadow across the front porch of the house in the peak of summer. For that I am exceedingly grateful. By early October however, if not sooner, it becomes a skeleton of its formerly buoyant self. Its alternate compound leaves will have, by-and-large, fallen to the ground along with the slender brown tendrils to which the leaves clung, brittle and piling up like a Milton Bradley game of Pick-Up-Sticks on the droopy fescue lawn. The tree, I suppose due to summer drought, becomes awkwardly and prematurely barren of most vegetation with the exception of its enormous quantity of fruit dangling overhead like a million blunt swords of Damocles. Living beneath the tree this time of year is an equally precarious, if not epic, affair. Mowing the lawn, I run the risk of getting pelted in the head by cascading walnuts or enduring their violent, revolutionary decapitation within the blade housing below. Often, they fall in single, lonely thuds to the ground. Other times, they fall in rapid-fire clusters. Occasionally, and thankfully less often, they fall on the roof of the house with a clumsy rap. But if the wind picks up, or scrambling squirrels jostle the branches just right, a series of green golf ball-sized fruits plummets to the ground and pavement below as if in an embarrassingly poor juggling act. And that’s when things get dangerous for perusers like me. With each ominous pass beneath its boughs, I am certain that I will be knocked unconscious by one of the blunt spheres, waking up to find that several Rip Van Winkle hours have passed with only a tender knot on my skull as proof of any botanical villainy. Aside from any Newtonian peril, walnut trees entertain the natural world with a biochemical process known as allelopathy, a method of Darwinian survival. The tree secretes chemicals into the earth that prohibit other plants and trees, even its own kind, from growing near it. Essentially, it monopolizes the ground it inhabits, and, in that respect, I am no different. Much like my caution beneath raining walnuts, I find I am afraid of most everything involving the unknown, the future, and anything outside my domain of control, which is to say everything. It is no simple fear, instead, a near-paralyzing comedy of capitulation, that although lonely, cold and brittle, is vital enough to cast its own belly shadow across the sphere of my world. I discover inside me anger — at the world for being the liar that it is and always has been, and at myself for believing those terrible, fear-mongering lies. In my own allelopathy, I have for years welcomed the deepest demons by pretending the space I inhabited was and always would be mine, a gift I believe I rightfully deserved. I kill off any honorable Christ-inhabited humility by decaying the Root from which it springs. I fend off those who try to care, those who seek to lean in, those who invade my territory, by poisoning their atmospheres with my own mechanisms of defense. I am joy’s thief. Christ, where there is hope left to pluck from the living boughs, pray, reveal yourself before this fool has claimed an entire realm for his own crown. There is too much poison, too much anger, too much sadness, too much listless memory to pulse through the veins of any single soul. Beneath the burdened branches of this far-fetched, far-reaching, irrepressible hope, be merciful, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, and remind the Triple Life inside me that the sweet birds will one day return to nest, roost, sing and play in the boughs created long ago with only so much as a single, spoken word. May the Triple Life return with that same whispered word.

Hopefully in the next year or so Russ Ramsey and I will publish an Advent book loosely based on the Behold the Lamb album. You may remember Russ wrote a series of Advent pieces for his church (and for the Rabbit Room) last year. Well, he’s expanding those writings a little, we’re adding Evie Coates’s artwork, and part of my job was to write the foreword. In light of the release of the special edition of Behold the Lamb of God (which is hot off the press), and the upcoming 10 year anniversary of the tour, I thought I’d share the foreword. Many of you have seen this concert and heard me talk about this more than once, so this post may bore you to tears. But for those of you who haven’t, the following tells the story of how this tour was born. —————————– I was sitting at a table with Ben Shive, someone who probably knows the musical ins and outs of Behold the Lamb of God better than I do, and Sara Groves, a songwriter for whom I have the utmost regard. Sara asked me, “So what was it like writing these songs? How did they come about?” I nodded eagerly and took a sip of coffee, settling in for a long, insightful discourse on the creation of this work–and was stumped. I sat back from the table a little embarrassed, wishing I had some colorful anecdote or spiritual insight. But after those few awkward moments passed the conversation turned to something more interesting (like the color of the carpet or the turkey sandwiches), and I was left wondering why I couldn’t think of an answer. It would be easy to say these songs wrote themselves. But that’s not true. They didn’t come easily, and they didn’t come overnight. My first clear memory of all this was singing “Gather ‘Round, Ye Children, Come” for Fernando Ortega backstage at one of his concerts in the Fall of 2000. He listened graciously and made a few suggestions that vastly improved the song. I remember almost nothing about writing “Passover Us”, or “Deliver Us”, or “It Came to Pass” or “While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks” except that I knew I couldn’t perform the songs alone and that I had serious concerns about whether or not my hare brained scheme would work. What was the idea? At its core, it was to present the story of Christmas in a new way. I wanted to reach deep into the Old Testament and sing about the Passover, and King David, and Isaiah’s prophecies. I wanted to capture with song the same thrill that captured me in Bible college when the epic scope of the Gospel story first bowled me over. But I didn’t just want to dwell on what came before Jesus’ birth. I wanted to sing about what came after. His crucifixion and resurrection were the reasons he was born in the first place. You can’t have Christmas without Easter. So there was a lot of ground to cover with a handful of songs, and I had my doubts. I didn’t doubt the caliber of musicians on the tour. I didn’t doubt the story that was being told. I did, however, wonder whether the idea was a good one. The band Silers Bald, with whom I had played several shows, agreed to join me, my wife Jamie, and my friend Gabe Scott on the tour even though none of us really knew what we were getting into. I remember when they arrived in Nashville they wore looks of amused confusion, and after a few days of rehearsal were only a little less confused. “The concert has two parts,” I told them. “First, we’ll break the ice by playing in the round. You do a few songs, I’ll do a few songs, we’ll tell stories and let the audience get to know us. Then after the intermission we won’t talk anymore. We’ll just play the songs.” Now, if you’re familiar at all with concerts by Christian artists, you know that if there’s one thing we love, it’s introducing songs. Sometimes the introduction is several times longer than the song itself. Sometimes this is good, most of the time it’s bad. For the Behold the Lamb half of the concert, though, I was resolved that the songs should do the work of telling the story. I wanted the audience to lose themselves in the story (which, by the way, is a good picture of what our response to the Gospel ought to be). Let me tell you, that was a scary thought. To play ten songs in a row with narry a word between meant there was no way to gauge the audience, no way to change songs mid-set to accommodate a lukewarm crowd, no way to break the ice with a good joke. We had to trust that the story was good enough. And, of course, it is. That first tour in 2000 was an act of faith on the part of the promoters who brought us in. It was an act of faith for Silers Bald, who drove to Nashville to rehearse a bunch of songs that hadn’t even been finished. And every night we took the stage it was an act of faith that the audience would listen close, connect the dots, and open their hearts to a new telling of the old Story. It was a rough tour in many ways, but to our great relief, the idea worked. The audiences got it. The next year I wrote “Labor of Love”, “So Long, Moses”, and (with help from Laura Story) “Behold the Lamb”, which more or less completed the song cycle. Again, I have only a vague memory of writing these songs. I thought “Labor of Love” was too simple, and I thought “So Long, Moses” was too complex–but the band liked them and they served their purpose in the narrative. Again, we took the stage and prayed each night that the audience would connect. And, even with all the feedback and the wrong notes and the odd structure of the concert, they did. By the end of the second tour in 2001 I was convinced that the songs were ready to be recorded, but there was a problem. I was under contract with a record label. I didn’t think they’d let me record the album without seeing the show first-hand, or if when they saw it nobody showed up. So I invited some special guests, artists who would draw more of a crowd than I ever could alone. I called the great Phil Keaggy, Fernando Ortega, Ron Block, and Jill Phillips and Andy Gullahorn, a couple whose music I had long admired–and to my amazement they all said yes. I also asked a graduating Belmont student named Ben Shive to arrange a string quartet. Looking back, I’m grateful beyond words for the friendships that grew out of that night. The crowd was amazing, the inclusion of these artists made the show more beautiful, and we were all glad to be a part of it. But the label wasn’t sold. For two more years we performed the concert to increasing audiences, fine-tuned the arrangements, invited more special guests and hoped the label would let me record it, but they didn’t–to my eternal gratitude. In 2004, after I was released from my contract (read: dropped from the label), I was able to record Behold the Lamb of God: The True Tall Tale of the Coming of Christ. Part of the reason I’m grateful to the label is that those five years of touring this concert were basically pre-production for the album; the arrangements were fine-tuned, lyrics were tweaked, screws were tightened. The album is better for it. But the main reason I’m glad for those five years is that I began to discover the blessing of an artistic community. You see, by then I no longer felt ownership of this project. I considered myself blessed to be a part of this Kingdom work, this culmination of the gifting of so many people–drummers, violinists, writers, singers, producers, sound technicians, and guitar players. But it wasn’t just the sonic side of things. I also met graphic designer Roy Roper, who skillfully assembled the packaging, and Evie Coates, the artist responsible for the beautiful images in the CD booklet and now finally showcased in all their beauty in this book. Both these people had seen the concert more than once, were moved by it, and thus poured themselves into their work. Evie listened to the songs again and again as she collected old wood, odds and ends, throwaway scraps, rusty artifacts, and in another rich metaphor for the work of Christ, made the broken beautiful. So many artists dropped by the studio to sing or to play, many of them free of charge, and the same is true of the concerts. We’ve been honored to be joined over the years by the likes of Alison Krauss, Stuart Duncan, David Wilcox, Pierce Pettis, Randall Goodgame, Bebo Norman, Buddy Miller, Derek Webb, Sandra McCracken, Mindy Smith, and two-thirds of Nickel Creek, and not one of them cared a hoot for how much they’d get paid. They did it because of the story we were telling, and because it was a community telling it. Derek Webb sang “Deliver Us” better than I ever could. Ben Shive, who has become one of my best friends, brought his formidable musical gifting to the string arrangements, piano and production. Andrew Osenga’s passionate voice and guitar playing still gives me goosebumps. Jill Phillips’s performance of “Labor of Love” still makes me cry. How could I in good conscience call this an Andrew Peterson album? It’s not. It’s the fruit of many peoples’ work, and I got to be the lucky guy to pluck it from the vine. These humble souls have gathered with me for a decade now each December to sing this story again and again; wives and children have kept the home fires burning; churches across the country have opened their doors and prayed that people would come with ears to hear–all for the glory of Christ. Is there any higher call for an artist? For anyone? Once again, God proves to me that he knows what he’s doing. And I think that’s why I can’t answer Sara’s question. I don’t know how I wrote these songs. God zapped me with the blessing of amnesia, probably to keep the swagger out of my step; he knows I’m prone to take credit where credit is not due, and so he’s keeping me from more temptation than I can withstand. When I’m asked about writing these songs I can only shrug and say, “I don’t really know. Would you pass me a turkey sandwich?” What I do know is this: not long after I finished recording my second album I was given a burden. I was compelled to tell Jesus’ story with the gifts he gave me–the biggest of those not being my songwriting at all but the community of the Kingdom itself. And telling that story hundreds of times has changed me. I love the Gospel more for it. If you’ve been to one of these concerts you know I can hardly make it through a night without a lump forming in my throat (something that makes my voice go terribly flat). It usually happens when I look out in the audience and see someone with tears on their cheeks, and I realize that, by God, that dream I had ten years ago has come true: the story connects. The Spirit moves. The apostle says in John 20:31, “But these are written so that you may believe that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of God, and that by believing you may have life in his name.” However the songs were written, I remember well the reason for the writing, and that was so that men, women, and children would believe that the stories are true, and that by believing they would find life in Jesus’ name.

This post is inspired by a recent blog entry from Seth Godin. I love Seth’s blog although it’s outside my realm as he’s a marketing/business guru and I’m a lazy pastor who hates bringing anything corporate-looking into my own ‘establishment’. Still, I’m fascinated by his observations. The recent post (which you should read above) focused on the biz idea that some people are better than others to focus upon. Some people spend more than others, so he gives tips on finding ways to locate such people and then focus on them. It’s a way of honing your marketing efforts to those with deeper pockets and it makes perfect sense. As I read Godin’s thoughts, I felt both fascinated and sorrowful. The reality is that I’ve seen the church falling for this mentality time and again – and even myself as an oft-misguided disciple. As church leaders, I’ve heard numerous other pastors tell me personally, write it in books or even speak such things at conferences that it’s a great strategy to reach the movers and shakers. Go for the leaders. Influence the influencers. I’m not sure why the church has veered this same way. Well, actually I can see why we naturally respond that way as humans. I guess what I find so disturbing is how the church actually condones or justifies these actions. When did the gospel ever place value on reaching certain people over others? When did proper business strategies become the best way to spread the gospel message? Last time I checked, it was a few high school aged kids who flunked out of proper Jewish school and had to resort to their various family trades that became the chosen twelve. And even then, the early additions to the movement were literal enemies of the culture around them–the unclean (prostitutes), the oppressive (tax collectors). Somehow that’s been translated to golfing with the mayor and chasing after CEO types in order to get the proper resources into our church’s storehouse. Perhaps this is preaching to the choir, but I found myself inspired to vent after reading Godin’s post–much as I agree for the business world. The reality is that the beauty of the gospel provides a place where there are no “better people.” It’s there that humanity is truly valued not for anything we’ve done but just because we’re all created in the image of a loving God.

Near the end of Krzysztof Kieślowski’s Three Colors: Blue, the central character of this masterpiece of French cinema, Julie, played by Juliette Binoche, encounters another woman who is responsible for a grievous betrayal. In a moment that takes your breath away, instead of retribution or hatred, we see in Julie a picture of grace and forgiveness in the flesh. And not just run-of-the-mill grace, if there is such a thing, but extravagant grace, grace far beyond what one could even hope for. What struck me about the scene the first time I watched it is that the perpetrator of the betrayal is not surprised by the grace shown to her. With a shy smile on her lips, she says, in effect, “That’s the kind of person your husband said you want to be.” “The kind of person you want to be.” Not, “The kind of person you are,” but, “The kind you want to be.” What does it take to get from the first to the second? I hesitate to call this Don’s best book, the phrase that most reviewers are parroting, if only because it is difficult for me to rank his books that way. I have enjoyed all of them, particularly Blue Like Jazz and To Own a Dragon: Reflections on Growing Up Without a Father, and find they accomplish what any good memoir should: by remembering and examining chapters of their own life, the memoirist provides a space for us to do the same. As Frederick Buechner reminds us, in a phrase oft-quoted here at the Rabbit Room, “The story of any one of us is in some measure the story of us all.” A Million Miles in a Thousand Years begins with a phone call and subsequent visit from two guys, Steve and Ben, who want to help Don turn his first book, Blue Like Jazz, into a movie. Only there’s a small problem. “Your life is boring,” Steve tells Don. If people were made to watch a movie where the book was directly transferred to the screen, “I think they’d stab each other in the necks with drinking straws.” Steve went on to explain how they could use some of the elements of what makes a good story to craft the screenplay. A Million Miles is the tale of Don deciding to take those principles and intentionally craft a better story for his real life. For example, after watching Lance Armstrong ride in the Tour de France, Don decided he wanted to ride a bike. He writes: “So I started riding a bike. Actually, I didn’t really start riding a bike. I just kind of lifted my legs a little and made a circular motion with my feet while sitting in a chair watching the Tour de France. I made believe I was winning. Like I said, I live in daydreams.” It wasn’t until they reached the point in writing the screenplay where they needed an “inciting incident,” something that would force the character to choose between something easy and something he really wanted to do, that Don realized just wanting to ride a bike wasn’t enough. So he went out, bought a bike, and got a group of friends together to ride in the Portland Bridge Pedal, providing the needed inciting incident. He goes on to write about hiking the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu–the inciting incident there being what has inspired many a man: the pursuit of a girl–and tracking down the father he hadn’t seen for twenty years. And that first bike ride with friends led to him participating in a bigger story, the Blood: Water cross-country bike ride, raising awareness of the need for clean water in Africa. Step by step, he was writing a better story. Here’s one endorsement for the book: It has already prompted several discussions with friends and family. And isn’t that what any good book should do? A criticism a friend raised in one of those discussions, if it can be called a criticism, is this: “Sure, I agree with Don that you aren’t creating a good story for yourself by sitting around watching TV all day, but I can’t run off and hike the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu or go on a cross-country bike ride. What can I do to live a better story?” It’s the small steps that matter, the little changes we make in pursuit of crafting a better story. Could it be that we become the kind of person we want to be by being the person we want to be? I want to cook more and have friends over more often to share in the miracle of each other and great food, so I sign up for a CSA. I want to create space in my life where I intentionally engage with art and beauty, so I sign up for a membership at the local art museum, I check the calendar on the Symphony’s website. I want to be a servant, someone who can be relied upon, so I help serve meals down at the rescue mission. I find out where I can help at my church. Do all of these meet the desires of the moment? No, most definitely not. They’re not the easiest thing to do, either. But that’s why we must be intentional about creating these moments. Otherwise, for myself at least, I’m afraid I would sit in front of the TV and eat nothing but pre-cooked, tasteless meals, shut off from anything that will challenge me, that will require something of me. I’d live a story not worth retelling. So we return here to our opening question: Who do you want to be? Getting back to the book, here is one of my favorite passages, something Don has spent a lot of time talking about over the last couple of years, a message unfortunately contradicted by many of the books that will be sold on the shelves next to this one: Growing up in church, we were taught that Jesus was the answer to all our problems. We were taught that there was a circle-shaped hole in our heart and that we had tried to fill it with the square peg of sex, drugs, and rock and roll; but only the circle peg of Jesus could fill our hole. I became a Christian based, in part, on this promise, but the hole never really went away. To be sure, I like Jesus, and I still follow him, but the idea that Jesus will make everything better is a lie. It’s basically biblical theology translated into the language of infomercials. The truth is, the apostles never really promise Jesus is going to make everything better here on earth. Can you imagine an infomercial with Paul, testifying to the amazing product of Jesus, saying that he once had power and authority, and since he tried Jesus he’s been moved from prison to prison, beaten, and routinely bitten by snakes? I don’t think many people would be buying that product. Peter couldn’t do any better. He was crucified upside down, by some reports. Stephen was stoned outside the city gates. John, supposedly, was boiled in oil. It’s hard to imagine how a religion steeped in so much pain and sacrifice turned into a promise for earthly euphoria. I think Jesus can make things better, but I don’t think he is going to make things perfect. Not here, and not now. What I love about the true gospel of Jesus, though, is that it offers hope. Paul has hope our souls will be made complete. It will happen in heaven, where there will be a wedding and a feast. I wonder if that’s why so many happy stories end in weddings and feasts. Paul says Jesus is the hope that will not disappoint. I find that comforting. That helps me get through the day, to be honest. It even makes me content somehow. Maybe that’s what Paul meant when he said he’d learned the secret of contentment. #AMillionMilesinaThousandYears #DonaldMiller

I’m no dummy. I know I run a certain risk in plugging a two volume commentary on the Gospel of Matthew here in the Rabbit Room. It isn’t that we don’t like to think around here. Of course we do. And it isn’t that our regulars aren’t interested in what the Bible has to say. I believe a great many of us are. In fact, I have reason to believe we have many readers here who are actively involved in some sort of Biblical teaching– pastors, Sunday School teachers, and other students of Scripture. The problem, as I see it, comes down to book covers: some book covers are awesome, others are boring. I think we can all agree on that. However, every, and I mean EVERY Biblical commentary book cover is boring. And both covers of Dan Doriani’s wonderful two volume commentary on the Gospel according to Matthew are no exceptions. See. (This is Volume 1. Volume 2 looks a lot like Volume 1 Dr. Doriani was one of my first seminary professors, and one who invested in my learning more than I can say, and I’m sure more than he knows. Commentaries, as you might know, are verse by verse, chapter by chapter or thought by though expositions of the various books of the Bible. They are among the sort of book most probably don’t sit down to read from cover to cover, but rather selectively when you’re studying a correlating Biblical text. That’s my method, anyway. The thing I like most about these volumes, and the reason I recommend them, stems mostly from my own personal experience with the teacher who wrote them. Or maybe another way of explaining myself is to say this: you should have Doriani’s Reformed Expository Commentary on Matthew by P&R because the author is a sound, wise, winsome and careful handler not only of Scripture, but of students too. As a way of recommending his books and also paying some honor to my teacher and friend here in the Rabbit Room, allow me to relay a few lessons Dan has taught me in the years I’ve known him: -Interpreting Scripture correctly takes work , but it isn’t indecipherable. God did not give us His word to confuse us or conceal Himself, but to reveal Himself. Nevertheless, it is still God we’re talking about, so we should expect to have to work at it with consistency and humility if we are to grow in it. And we should expect this to take a lifetime. -As you grow in your understanding of Scripture, you might change your mind concerning how you have traditionally interpreted certain passages. If Scripture is inexhaustible, and over time you continue to learn more, you should expect the Lord to use your learning to inform and sometimes even correct your understanding of passages you thought you knew cold. -There is a rich “earthiness” to Jesus’ ministry recorded in the Gospels. Doriani does an excellent job of taking students out of the metaphysical fog of over-spiritualizing Jesus’ life and times by taking you to a “boots on the ground” historical vantage point. When I hear Dan teach the Gospels (he was my “Gospels” professor in Seminary) he guides me away from regarding these texts as fables or “Middle Earth,” but rather as real events in real time and space– which is what they are. -Anecdotes. Dan uses anecdotes to teach as well as in these commentaries, but they are rarely if ever cute little one-liners meant to make you squirm over the use of a clever pun. His stories are engaging, almost always new to your ears, and often don’t go where you were expecting– making them potent. -Once in class, when a student asked which Commentary Series young ministers should have on our shelves, Dr. Doriani suggested we not buy commentaries by the set. We should buy individual volumes from a variety of different series because some from some series are better than others. Ask around and buy individual commentaries on the recommendations of people you trust who have used them. (I’m putting that little nugget of wisdom to work here.) By the way, I have worked with Doriani’s Matthew commentaries, and they are really great, easy to use, super informative and rich in detail. If you are a handler of the Word, you’ll come back to Doriani’s Matthew Commentaries again and again over a lifetime of ministry. -And speaking of anecdotes, I’ll leave you with one of the most memorable early lessons Dr. Doriani taught me. It was early in my first full semester of Seminary and the workload was piling up. It seemed like each professor thought we had all the time in the world to read 100 pages a night. Doriani’s afternoon New Testament Class was letting out and he gave us some big pile of stuff to do over the weekend. Now, being that we were all Christians there, we thought the Christianly thing to do would be to explain to our esteemed professor something he could not have possibly known– we had other classes with other homework. Maybe he could lessen our assignment a bit. Christians are to be merciful, right? So a group of us explained our situation. He listened to every word. And then with five words, he sent us home not only rethinking our weekend, but what in the world we were doing in Seminary in the first place. In a reminding voice, he said, “Gentlemen, this is graduate school.” Oh. Right.

Rabbit Room readers–as well as Pete’s mother–will know that Andrew isn’t the only creative Peterson around these parts. Our beloved Pete Peterson–Andrew’s brother–is about to publish his first book entitled The Fiddler’s Gun. It’s the first in a two-part series, a Revolutionary War tale that’s “not a children’s story,” as Peterson explains. Here in our latest Rabbit Room interview, we go inside the independent publishing process, the story line of The Fiddler’s Gun, and the hidden classic known as Burger Wars. Rabbit Room: What’s the timeline on the book’s release? Pete Peterson: The official release date is December 1st, 2009. I’ll be shipping out orders to my patrons as soon as I receive the books from the printer, which should be a bit sooner. RR: Let’s start with the basics of The Fiddler’s Gun. Can you tell us the genesis of the idea? Pete: About 10 years ago I made a bunch of treasure chests, filled them with presents, and buried them on my parents’ farm. Then I hand drew maps for everyone and sent them on a treasure hunt to dig up their presents on Christmas morning. It was a blast I started writing the book on New Year’s Day and by the end of that year I knew Fin’s story. She was an orphan from outside of Savannah, Georgia that grew up to fight in the American Revolution and even became the captain of a privateer ship (some would say a pirate if folklore is to be believed). It’s funny because I’ve never had any particular interest in the Revolutionary War but I found myself writing a novel about it, not because it was the story and setting that I chose but because it’s the story that chose me. I know that sounds like some kind of writer’s cliché but it really is the most accurate way to describe the experience. RR: Has that happened to you ever before–this idea of the story grabbing you? Pete: I guess, now that I think about it, it’s not the first time. I’ve always had a sort of cinema running in my head, and in the past I’ve written down notes and ideas but but then never really followed through on them or devoted the time to them that they might have deserved. So yes, stories do come to me but they usually just hang around for a few days and run off. This was the first time I decided to chase it down and catch it. Which is probably a good thing because half the ideas I have are preposterous. I once had what I thought was this brilliant idea for a story about a guy that was being hunted by McDonald’s assassins because he’d invented the perfect burger and refused to sell out to them. I’m really glad I didn’t spend eight years working on that one. It was called Burger Wars...of course. Ugh. RR: I think there’s a market for that, although I hear it’s not a glamorous one. Do you have plans to take this story–The Fiddler’s Gun–even further? Or is this a stand alone? Pete: This is the first of two books in the Fin’s Revolution story line. I originally envisioned it as a single book but I got to a point in the writing when I realized that for length, thematic, and dramatic reasons, that it made sense to split it. This first book is about getting lost, the second, which is about half-written, is about finding your way home. RR: How do you handle hopes and expectations when it comes to the self-publishing aspect? Pete: I don’t really like the term self-publishing. It comes with a lot of baggage and it gives the impression that the book was created in a sort of vacuum, which definitely isn’t the case. I think it’s more accurate to call what I’m doing “independent publishing”. To make a music analogy, I think of independent publishing in the same way that I think of independent music, or film for that matter. It might be made without the help of a big record contract but there is still every possibility that the quality of the work is just as high, if not higher. Self-publishing on the other hand carries a connotation similar to that of a record made by a guy in his bedroom on an old four-track with little outside input, advice, or polish and we all know how badly those usually turn out. When I decided to go the independent route, I built the idea around selling a thousand copies. I thought that if I could do that, and break even financially, I’d be able to call it a success. I expect that making that happen is going to be a lot of work and, because I don’t have the option of distribution to chain bookstores, I expect that it’ll take quite some time to meet that goal. I’m excited about it, though, and I’m in it for the long haul. My hopes, on the other hand, are obviously that it will generate some word of mouth, and eventually begin to sell itself. I’m not naive enough to sit back and wait for that unlikely scenario to happen, though. RR: When you say you’re in it for the long haul, have you thought about what you will have to do to sustain your own spirit and drive? Pete: That’s a great question. I think there’s a perception by a lot of people that a novel is something that you write in a couple of months and then hand over to an editor and a few months later a book magically appears. That might be the way it works in my dreams, but the reality is that it’s a process that is in itself years-long before anyone ever even gets to hold the book in their hands. At the beginning of that process I struggled a lot with calling myself a writer, thinking that it was a title I couldn’t claim until I’d reached some hidden benchmark, like selling a million copies. But over the years, through the edits, and rewrites, and searching for a publisher, and all the work and emotional capital I’ve spent on it, I’ve learned that writing, storytelling, is just as much a part of who I am as my own name and I’ve every right to call myself a writer after all.  Why? Because it’s what I do, it’s what I long to do, and it’s what I’ve done all my life without realizing it. So when I say I’m in it for the long haul, what I mean is that I’m comfortable wearing the writer’s mantle and the burden that comes with it is one I’m ready to carry. I’ve reached the point in my understanding of myself that I’m ready to fail, and being ready and willing to fail is, I think, the first step on the road to being successful. A lot of people never write, or sing, or create art because they are afraid of failure, they’re afraid others won’t like what they’ve created and so they live their whole lives wishing they could create something as beautiful or meaningful as those people they admire for doing so, when the truth is that those people that they so admire probably started off in mediocrity at best and failure at worst. I hope The Fiddler’s Gun is a wild success, but I’ve come to my own terms with it. People with either like it or they won’t, and either way, I’m still a writer, and I’ll go on creating stories, and hopefully some of them will rise above mediocrity and maybe in time, one or two of them will even be found beautiful by someone. RR: Speaking of people who won’t like it, you’ve said that this is not something for children, correct? Pete: That’s correct. I think there is some misconception out there that because Andrew’s books are aimed at children that mine are too and that’s not the case. I don’t mean to give the impression that the story is full of things that aren’t fit for kids, but it definitely does follow characters into some dark places physically, emotionally, and spiritually. The Revolutionary War is a big part of the book so death and violence are things the characters face and have to find ways to deal with. I’d say it’s a book that a parent should probably read first if they have children younger than 13 or 14. If your child isn’t ready to read The Red Badge of Courage or The Lord of the Rings, then they might not be ready for The Fiddler’s Gun. —————————————– For those interested in being a patron for Pete’s book, check out the following post. And don’t forget to check out the website for The Fiddler’s Gun here.

When I was barely 22 years old, I moved to Ambridge, Pennsylvania. Ambridge is a small former steel town on the banks of the Ohio River just north of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. It is the home of Trinity School for MInistry, where I was beginning seminary. I had just graduated from the University of Texas, and had moved directly from Austin to Ambridge. I had never owned a car in Austin. I lived close to campus and rode my bicycle everywhere. However, when I got to Pennsylvania I discovered that I was going to need to buy a car. I lived on one side of Pittsburgh but had found a job as a youth minister on the other side of the city. There was simply no way I was going to be able to do that job and not drive. So I started to look for a car. I went across the street to the lot, and I was met by one of the Ombres brothers. Mr. Ombres was this big guy with a full-sized Pittsburgh look to him. He had a thick mustache that hid his mouth beneath a fountain of dark, wiry hair. His off-white shirt was unbuttoned a bit too far, and he wore a gold chain around his nick. He looked pretty much what I expected him to look like. I shook his hand and explained my situation to him. I told him, ”I’m a student at the seminary. I’m also a youth minister at a church over in McKeesport, and I need a car. I need the cheapest car I can find, really. I just need something to get me from point A to point B. I don’t care what it looks like. I just need a good, reliable car to get me across town.” He said, “Oh, I have the car for you.” He took me down the rows until we came to a Dodge Colt. This Colt was a stubby, brown thing. The upholstery inside was worn thin, and the body had several small rust holes near the wheels. I have no idea what year it was, but it was this small, incredibly ugly little beast. He said, “I can give you this car for $1,800.” I said, “Wow, that’s great. But I don’t have $1,800.” He said, “That’s okay. We can finance it here on the lot. Don’t worry about that.” I said, “Well, you know it’s kind of rusty.” “Oh yeah, it’s Pittsburgh. All the cars are rusty.” “Okay.” I said, “Where is this car from, how old is it?” He said, “Oh, it was driven by an old lady who kept it in her garage. She just drove it back and forth to the grocery store and to church, and she passed away recently and we took it upon ourselves to sell it. This is a really great value on this car.” You may have heard kind of line of bunk at a used car lot before, or maybe you think it’s so silly no one would ever use it. I’m here to testify that, at least at this lot in 1993, the tale was still in use. At this point, I need to tell you something. I had never shopped for a car before. I had never even bought anything expensive before. Not a house, not a TV, not anything. I had no idea what I was doing; and Mr. Ombres could smell it on me. He could smell my incompetence, my inexperience. So he said to me, “Tell you what, I’m going to give you a piece of paper. You just go across the street to your seminary and get someone over there to sign it. The paper says you’re good for the money, and we’ll finance this car for you.” I said, “Oh, that’s great Mr. Ombres. Thank you so much.” So I left Mr. Ombres and I went across the street to the school. I found the office of the Director of Development, the Reverend Admiral Bruce Newell, U.S. Navy, Retired. Admiral Newell had been in charge of the nuclear submarine fleet of the U.S. Navy before he became a priest. He was, like Mr. Ombres, a big and impressive looking older man. LIke Mr. Ombres, he seemed to know what he was talking about. Frankly, he was about as intimidating as anyone I’ve ever known. I came to his office and I said, “Bruce, I need to buy a car from Mr. Ombres. He told me I had to get someone over here to sign this piece of paper, so I’m hoping you can do that for me.” Bruce took the paper from me, looked it over for a moment, and said “this is asking me to cosign a loan for you at 14 percent interest.” I had no idea what any of those words meant, so I nodded my head. He put the paper on his desk, removed his glasses, looked me in the eye, and began to ask me some questions. Admiral Newell: “What year is this car?” Me: “I don’t know.” Admiral Newell:”What’s the mileage on this car?” Me: “I don’t know.” Admiral Newell: “Have you had this car checked out by a mechanic?” Me: (shrugging) “No.” Admiral Newell: “How does it drive?” Me: “I don’t know.” Admiral Newell:”What do you mean you don’t know? When you test drove it, what was it like?” Me: “I didn’t test drive it.” Admiral Newell: “You didn’t test drive it?” Me: “No, Mr. Ombres didn’t say anything about test driving it.” Admiral Newell: “Did you even turn the engine on?” Me: (looking down) “No.” Admiral Newell: “Okay, I’ll tell you what. I’m going to take this piece of paper and I’ll get back to you. Come back tomorrow.” I said, “Okay, I’ll come back tomorrow.” So the next day I came back into Bruce Newell’s office. He sat me down and said, “I’m not going to cosign this loan. Not because I don’t trust you, but because that car is a piece of garbage. It won’t last, and it may not work at all. They’re trying to rip you off. I want you to call your mom and dad, and tell them you need a car. If they won’t help you buy one, I will. I will go to the lot with you and we will find a car. I will give you a down payment, and I will cosign the loan. But first talk to your parents.” I said, “Thank you, sir.” I never went back to the Ombres’ lot, and I never test drove the Dodge Colt. It wasn’t that I was upset with Mr. Ombres, it was more that I was ashamed at being such a sucker. I followed Bruce’s advice, and my mom and dad helped me out. My mom found a used Nissan Maxima for $4000 in Ohio, and she bought it for me. I drove that car for 100 thousand miles before selling it for $2600 years later. This story illustrates something important about power. It is the story of two men who had power over me, and the decisions they made about how to use that power. Power is simply the ability to affect someone’s life. Sometimes power comes from someone’s position. Parents have power over their children, you boss has power at work, a policeman has power when he pulls you over. Power can also be based in having something that someone else needs, like knowledge. Mr. Ombres had power over me because I didn’t know what I was doing. He recognized that and decided that he was going to use his power to manipulate me for his own profit. He decided that the best use of his power was to gratify himself. Admiral Newell, on the other hand, also had power over me. My inexperience and incompetence gave him the ability to influence my life. Unlike Mr. Ombres, Admiral Newell decided to use his power to help me, to put himself out for me, to try to enter in to my life in a positive way. Power is a factor in practically any relationship, from long term ones (like parents and bosses) to short term ones (like salesmen and their customers). Power is neither good nor bad, it simply is. However, power can be used in good or bad ways. You can use your power to gratify the self, to make yourself feel better, to take something that you want, to make something go your way. Power can also be used to care for someone else, to respect the dignity of another person, to build another person up, to love them. You can either use people with your power or you can love people with your power. It’s impossible to do both at the same time. All of us have some degree of power. We have power in relationships. We have power in our jobs. We have power at home. All of us have power and all of us have people over us in power. Power is part of the human condition and it is never going away. The way we use our power, for love or for self-gratification, is within our control. Consider two examples from the Bible in which men have power and use it. The first is the story of David and Bathsheba. It is a familiar story, and is found in the Bible in 2 Samuel chapter 11. King David is often seen as a hero of the Bible. How many preachers have used him as an example of great faith or great courage? Children read of his exploits in Sunday school, and his victory over Goliath is one of the most famous tales in scripture. In this story, however, King David is seen as a man who uses his power over and over again to please himself. Verse 1: “In the spring, at the time when kings go off to war, David sent Joab and with the king’s men and the whole Israelite army.” In the time when kings go out to war, David stays home in his palace and sends out his general. While other kings are putting themselves in danger, leading their followers into conflict, David is hanging out at home. The ability to lead an army is power. Sending someone else out to do your dirty work is an abuse of power. Verses 2-4: “One evening David got up from his bed and walked around on the roof of the palace. From the roof he saw a woman bathing. The woman was very beautiful.” David discovers that she is married, but still he “sent messengers to get her. She came to him, and he slept with her . . . then she went back home.” While David’s general is out doing his job for him, David has time and leisure to spy on women from his roof. He sees this woman, finds out that she is married, but summons her to come to him. The ability to see an attractive married woman and then have her brought to you so you can sleep with her is a display of power. It is also a terrible misuse of the trust and authority that belongs to the king. David’s misuse of power only continues. When he finds out Bathsheba is pregnant, he decides he doesn’t want her husband to know what he had done. He brings the husband back from the front lines and then tries twice to get the husband, Uriah, to sleep with his wife (verses 6-13). When that doesn’t work, David orders his general to have Uriah killed by the enemy (verse 15) . Once again, summoning soldiers and then ordering them killed reveals both David’s power and his misuse of that power to satisfy his own selfish motives. When messengers report that Uriah is dead, David uses his death as a rallying point for his general. He uses the news to encourage his army to press harder, turning his own crime into motivation to strive harder against the enemy (verse 25). This displays a deep cynicism on David’s part. David is no hero in this story. In fact, every action that he takes in this chapter is heinous. He simply goes from one sinful act to another, all in the name of personal pleasure. In this story of David, I hope we see ourselves. We are not kings, we don’t have David’s level of power. However, if we’re honest with ourselves we recognize that we have sent other people out to do our dirty work for us. We have treated people as objects for our lust. Some of us have broken marriage vows. We have avoided responsibility for our actions. We have used our authority at home or at work to cover up our bad behavior. We have let others take the fall for our mistakes. We have used the authority given to us to please our selves. When we compare David to Jesus, when we compare ourselves to Jesus, we see that we fall far short. Consider the kind of power that Jesus had. In John’s Gospel, chapter 6, he has the power to take a small amount of food and turn it into enough to feed an entire army. In that same chapter, he has the power to control the weather and walk across a body of water. Imagine if Jesus had chosen to use these abilities to make war on Rome. Imagine an army in the ancient world that could be fed with practically no supplies, that could travel with perfect weather, that could walk across rivers and lakes. Imagine an army in which the dead could be brought back to life, diseases driven away, wounds instantly healed. Such an army could have conquered the world. It is no wonder, therefore, that the people who witnessed Jesus’ actions wanted to make him King (John 6:15-16). But Jesus was not interested in using his power to please himself or his followers. Rather, he came to serve, to give his life as a ransom for many (Matthew 20:28). He used his amazing power to “preach good news to the poor, to proclaim freedom for prisoners, recovery of sight for the blind, to set the oppressed free, and to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor” (Luke 4:18-19). Jesus never used his power to care for himself but only to love those around him. We have two completely different examples of the use of power. On one hand we have King David’s use of power, Mr. Ombres’ use of power. This is the kind of power that says, “I’m going to use what I have to get what I want.” On the other hand, we have Jesus’ use of power, Admiral Newell’s use of power. This is the kind of power that says “I’m going to use my authority to better those around me, to build other people up, to bring those who are lower to a higher place, to love and serve others.” We have before us two different options, two different ways to live. At this moment in the essay, I have the power to do something. I could say, “Therefore let us take Jesus and Admiral Newell as our examples, and use our power to do good. Let us be good, like them, and not bad like King David and Mr. Ombres.” I could say that, and we could all nod our heads and give thanks for this excellent example of goodness that they offer. That’s what I could do. If our religion was about being good, that’s what I would do, but it’s not. While it is better to be like Jesus than King David, while it is better to be like Admiral Newell than Mr. Ombres, the essence of the Gospel is not to found in acting in good or bad ways. Let me share with you what the essence of the Gospel is. In Matthew, chapter 1, beginning in verse 1 we find the genealogy of Jesus. In that chapter, the Holy Spirit of God speaking to the Universal Church through Saint Matthew tells how it is that Jesus came into human existence. He follows the story of Christ’s lineage, beginning with Abraham. “Abraham was the father of Isaac. Isaac was the father of Jacob, etcetera, etcetera,” through the generations. We see how God is at work in human history to bring forth His Messiah, how he is putting everything in place by bringing families together, by keeping the line going. Then, in verse 6, this happens. “And Jesse became the father of King David. David was the father of Solomon, whose mother had been Uriah’s wife.” Wait a second. David misuses his power. He’s corrupt. He’s sinful. He takes a woman. He gets her pregnant. He kills the woman’s husband to cover up the crime. This woman, Uriah’s wife, Bathsheba, is also sinful. She goes along with what David is doing. She does not warn her husband. We have no indication that she objected to anything the king did. Once Uriah was dead and her official mourning period was over, she married the man who had killed her husband and went on to have children with him. We have these two people who have done these atrocious things, and out of them, out of that union, comes Jesus Christ. Out of one of the most sinful, dark, relationships you can imagine comes the bloodline that saves us all. Why? Because God redeems the fallen. That is the Gospel. The Gospel is not “be good, not bad.” The Gospel is the news that God has come to us and become our Redeemer. In the midst of sinfulness, God is still at work. In the midst of darkness, the Holy Spirit is still doing things. David had acquired Bathsheba and murdered Uriah through a despicable misuse of power. But God used the coming together of David and Bathsheba to bring forth the Savior of the world. Centuries after David died, Jesus Christ would be called by the honorary title “Son of David.” (Matthew 9:7, etc.) Even though David and Bathsheba deeply sinned, God redeemed their union to offer salvation to us all. I ask you, therefore, this question. If God can do that, what can He do with your brokenness? Think of your sin, your darkness, the mistakes you’ve made. Consider your regrets, your failings, the things you wish you had done differently. Is it possible that God can not only forgive you, but he can even use your failings to bring forth good? If in the midst of all of David’s ugliness, he can bring forth the Christ, what can He do in the midst of all your ugliness, or mine? The message of the Gospel is that God in Christ can bring forth great good even from our most miserable failures. His redemption is abundant. It is infinite. It is powerful. It is incomprehensible. It is beyond our understanding. It is beyond our choices. It is beyond our power. The redemptive power of Christ is so great that not only can your sins be forgiven, but beauty can come from ashes. Glory can come from suffering. Good can come from what you and I meant for evil. That is the Gospel and that is the redeeming power of Jesus that He showed forth by dying for us on the Cross and by being raised again, by ascending to heaven, and by promising to return. Each of us has our own burdens. We bear scars in our bodies and in our minds. We bear the burdens of the past. What the God in his Gospel says to us today is, “I can take those burdens from you, and I can do miracles with them.” Jesus is still in the redemption business. Yes, it is better to use your power to treat people than to treat them poorly. But when we don’t do right, Christ is still here to redeem, as he did with David. You are invited to come to Christ in prayer. Thinking of your burdens, you can say to him “will you please do something with this because I can’t.” Let him do his work in you. That’s what he longs to do. His love for you is so great that He will bring forth redemption from whatever circumstances you have found yourself in.

A big, global thanks to all of you who took a minute to reply to our recent “Hey! Where You At?” post. After a record 290 replies as of 7:00AM on November 1, I thought I’d take moment to compile some results. First, as best as I can tell, for around 125 of you, this was your first time to post a comment here. Welcome! Please feel free to chime in on anything any time you want. It’s a big room and you never need to dress up for us. Second, I’d be remiss if I didn’t give a special shout to all you long, tall Texans out there making Lyle Lovett proud. Though many of the regular Rabbit Room contributors live in the Nashville area, at the time of this writing, Texas had the same number of replies as Tennessee. To the rest of you non-Texans, let that serve as a reminder. You don’t mess with Texas. Hook ‘Em, Horns. And God Bless the TNG. Third, I’m working on a theory as to why the following connected states– Utah, Wyoming, Montana, North Dakota and South Dakota– were collectively silent. It is just a theory though. And I’m gonna keep it to myself. Still, the radio silence is curious. Which brings me to Canada. Oh, Canada. I know the Rabbit Room has some loose connections to Andrew Osenga and I know he has written and delighted in performing a song about you, but I can assure you the views expressed by certain independent, and I might add, generous songwriters are not necessarily those of the Rabbit Room. (It is a good song, though. Eh?) Alberta (1), British Columbia (1), Ontario (3) and Manitoba (2), you’re represented by those who have replied. But to New Brunswick, Newfoundland, Nova Scotia, Quebec, Saskatchewan, Yukon and the fine folks of Prince Edward Island and the Northwest Territory, here’s what we’re going to do to let the healing begin. I’m going to assign one Rabbit Room Ambassador specifically to each of your provinces, and we’re going to open the lines of communication. From here on out, any comments you might wish to make, you can direct them to the following people and they will be happy to answer your questions, address your concerns and say good things publicly about your homeland. – Prince Edward Island, address your comments to Evie Coates. She’d love to hear from you. And I think she’d like to visit sometime. – New Brunswick, you get Randall Goodgame. He’s worked with Osenga quite a bit, so he could be very insightful about that song. I’m not sure Osenga mentions you. You may be wondering why. – Newfoundland, Curt McLey has a special place in his heart for you.  He remembers the original Foundland from back before you were established. – Northwest Territories, Jason Gray is, I believe, our northern-most contributor, so you will find much in common with him. He is very familiar with, for example, snow. – Nova Scotia, you get Matt Connor. I believe he’ll even come out and meet with you face to face if you cover his costs. – Yukon, your name sounds like an adventure, and Eric Peters is all about adventures. Drop him a line. Like Matt, he’ll come to you. – Quebec, you get Ron Block because if you say his name really fast, it sort of sounds like Quebec. – And finally, Saskatchewan, I’m assigning Jonathan Rogers to you because he is a professional writer, and probably, of all of us, has the best shot at consistently spelling your name correctly without looking it up. You’ll like him. He has a nice family, and that says something. Now, before we get to the USA, how about a summary from the rest of the globe? We’ve covered Canada. Here are the other international replies we got: Germany (4) Singapore (4) United Kingdom (3) South Africa (2) Sweeden (2) Mexico (2) Brazil (1) Belgium (1) South Korea (1) Jamaica (1) Switzerland (1) Morocco (1) France (1) Turkey (1) Romania (1) Ireland (1) and Indonesia. (1) Now, on to the United States of America. First, the silent states. If you are from one of the following states, you can still become the first to represent. Alaska, Hawaii, Deleware, Maryland, Montana, Nevada, North Dakota, Rhode Island, South Dakota, Utah and Wyoming. Again, I ask, where you at? For those we did hear from, here are your results: Tennessee (29) Texas (29) Nebraska (17) Florida and North Carolina (12 each) Missouri and Indiana (11 each) Ohio (10) Virginia, Georgia and Minnesota (9 each) Colorado and Pennsylvania (8 each) Michigan (7) Alabama and California (6 each) South Carolina and New York (5 each) Illinois, Kansas, Kentucky and New Jersey (4 each) New Hampshire, Oklahoma and Wisconsin (3 each) Arkansas, Iowa, Maine, Massachusetts, Oregon, Vermont and West Virginia (2 each– although after initially compiling this draft, SD Smith, who has access to unposted entries, saw this ranking and staged a late rally among his West Virginia constituents through his personal blog, raising that number from 2 to a whopping six. You leap-frogged Oklahoma, Wisconsin and New Hampshire and grabbed for yourselves Alabama kind of numbers. Well played, West Virginia. Well played.) Arizona, Connecticut, Idaho, Louisanna, Mississippi, New Mexico and Washington (1 each) Still, as we tell our kids at the dinner table, “Its not a contest.”

A couple nights ago, as I was in the throes of carving our family’s final jack-o-lantern – feverishly cutting out the stripes of Charlie Brown’s shirt (we usually fashion our pumpkins into Peanuts characters) – Taya gave a gentle, reflective laugh. “I love what you’re doing right now”“What?” “I love how you’re really digging into that pumpkin” “Remember when we were first married?” she asks, and then brings our boys into the conversation. “When we were first married, you guys, your dad wouldn’t allow us to have pumpkins, dress up, or even have candy to give out.” “Really dad, how come?” Taya continued, “As I recall, you didn’t even let us have a Christmas tree that first year.” She said with a soft and gracious smile, remarkably without a note of accusation or contempt. “Why?” one of the boys asked again. I was having to put my elbows into it now, hollowing out the flesh of the pumpkin so the candle would better show through the carving. “Ahhhh, you guys…” I said with a tone of regretful concession… “I grew up in a pretty legalistic environment where they believed Halloween was the devil’s holiday, and if you participated in it at all, you were guilty of devil worship. And then because of some obscure verse – in Jeremiah or Isaiah I think – about bringing a tree into your living room… well, because of this I wouldn’t let your mom get a Christmas tree either. Sorry.” I said with an apologetic smile, addressing Taya. Returning to the work at hand I said, “I’m glad you hung in there with me.” I guess you could say my convictions on these kinds of things have taken a different shape over the years. There are those from my legalistic past who might say I’ve softened, but in fact it actually feels like my theology on these things has sharpened, maybe even enough to divide soul and spirit, “judging the thoughts and attitudes of the heart.” For this is where, in my opinion, what’s really at stake comes to light. This post would take much too long to definitively defend and document all that could be said about Halloween, and I’m writing this less as a comprehensive manifesto than as a humble perspective that I hope might make for enjoyable reading and maybe even aid in a grace-full observance of a holiday that comes with some baggage and leaves some of us with mixed feelings (you know who you are). And it’s not hard to see why, what with all the images of death and darkness that go along with the day. But in my case, most of my personal hang ups concerning Halloween came from the same place that all my legalistic leanings come from: fear. Fear has always distorted the way I see the world and caused me to be reactive, to circle the wagons and take a strident, defensive stance. Fear shrinks my world and can even make me doubt grace and it’s hold on me. Fear that if I listen to secular music, my mind will be darkened and I’ll become a sex crazed reprobate. Fear that if I have a sip of beer I’ll become an alcoholic. Fear that if I enjoy something it must be inherently bad. Fear that if I go trick or treating with my kids or put up a Christmas tree I’ll inadvertently cast us headlong into paganism. And so on and so forth. But fear is what love intends to cast out, because to act out of fear is very different than to act out of love. If fear is reactive, maybe we can understand love as being pro-active. One of the more humbling and awe-inspiring theological traditions is the idea that we are called to be co-creators with Christ. Of course we can’t create like God did, ex nihilo, out of nothing, but God has called us to re-create with what he’s already made – and there isn’t anything that exists that wasn’t made by him. Bent and broken as a thing may be, there is the possibility for its redemption. And we get to play a part in the unfolding drama of this ongoing redemption. At least that’s how I read it. In this way, I believe that as co-creators with Christ we’re also given the task to be co-sanctifiers, or “little Christs” as C.S. Lewis might say – participating in Kingdom Come, reclaiming what otherwise might be lost, bringing it into submission to Christ. Maybe you remember the worship wars in the 80’s and 90’s when there was much debate over things like whether or not you could have drums in a sanctuary and everyone was arguing about which style of music was God’s favorite? Well, at some point we had to realize that music is more often than not what we make of it. Heavy metal or easy listening, both or neither can bring honor to God – it depends on what intention of the heart is driving it. It was the human heart, after all, that lusted for the forbidden fruit. It was with our hearts, more than our hands, that we reached to take the fruit, ushering in the Fall. And it is still within the human heart where fates are determined and identities revealed. Food sacrificed to idols is not necessarily evil when placed in the hands of the true worshipper of God. Purified and repurposed in the heart and conscience of the believer, it is restored to its original state of being simply food. If it’s the heart that defiles or purifies food (1 Cor. 8:7), I guess I came to believe that it’s also the heart that defiles or purifies a certain day of the year. And if it was God’s will for me to play a redemptive role in all this, I wanted to start trying out for the most beautiful part available to me. Much of my religious formation took place in a milieu of shame, fear, and guilt, leaving me at once affirmed in my self-righteousness, alone in my sin, and burnt out on the holiness-works-guilt treadmill as I tried to prove my devotion to both God and myself. Into that milieu, God visited me with a grace awakening several years ago through authors like Brennan Manning and Frederick Buechner as well as a renewed filter through which to read my bible – texts that once barked their austere demands at me slowly began to whisper and hum with secrets of a Love so outlandish and scandalous that I could hardly take it in. Books like Galatians and of course the gospels came alive for me with colors and notes I’d never noticed before. And slowly, ever so slowly, the bondage of fear began to break and the world was given back to me. The difference between legitimate and imagined ideas of sin and devotion began to come into focus, too. In the matter of Halloween, I began to see that my own reservations about the day had more to do with my own baggage than that of the holiday itself. What I suppose I should mention here is that I take evil and the occult very seriously. A part of my history that I don’t like to dwell on is the fact that for many years I lived with a stepfather who was deeply involved in the occult. I could tell you stories, but I’ll spare us both. Suffice it to say that a lot of what gets passed off as “occultic” or satanic has very little to do with the real thing. Much is made of Halloween’s ties to the occult, though further research reveals that a lot of its association with the holiday might be more a matter of hype, opportunism, and aesthetic than anything else. Do distasteful and evil things take place on Halloween night? Regrettably, I’m sure of it. Is it really the devil’s holiday? I don’t think so. It could be, if that’s what you want to make of it, but to say October 31st is inherently evil is maybe to give more power to a day than is warranted. Some of Halloween’s roots come from the Celtic “Festival Of The Dead” – a day to mark the end of the harvest season as well as the months of extended light before heading into the darker months. It was also a time to remember and even honor the dead. It was believed by the superstitious to coincide with a time when the barrier between the physical and the spirit world was thinner, leading to all kinds of bizarre notions of dressing up in fearsome masks in order to scare away any evil spirits that might have broken through. So it’s not my intent to diminish the reality of Satan and his work – I’m sure the devil is pleased when we don’t believe he exists. But I imagine he is equally pleased when we are distracted by distorted and misguided notions of who he is and what he’s doing. I’m not convinced that Satan is as determined to recruit worshippers as much as he’s content to influence us to worship ourselves – the very thing we are the most eager to do. The temptation in the Garden, if we remember, was that we would “be as gods”, that we would be central and in the driver’s seat. Are there those who devote their lives to actual devil worship? Yes, I’m sure. But let me suggest that when we are persuaded to serve ourselves – when we are self-centered – we serve Satan’s agenda and participate, intentionally or not, in the work of the devil. All the hurt, war, poverty, dissension, and deceit that are born of our selfishness has brought more hell on earth than the relatively small number of sincere Satanists, whose religious identity seems more or less driven by a desire to be counter-culture and empowered, which in the end is more about self-service than genuine religious devotion anyway. Marilyn Manson is less a devilish threat than he is a pitiable attention seeker. In other words, it’s probable that my misguided attempts at taking a stand against Halloween, rooted in my own fear and self-righteousness, may have done more to distract myself and those around me from the more legitimate and potent works of the devil. One thing I do know for sure is that they didn’t do a thing to make the gospel look beautiful. They probably just made me and my faith look foolish. And this brings me back to the matter of carving jack-o-lanterns. When Taya and I were first married, I forbid such pagan practices in our home assuming there to be something inherently sinister about carving a face in the flesh of a pumpkin. When kids would come to our door, I’d awkwardly explain that we didn’t have candy because we didn’t participate in Halloween (until I couldn’t stomach it anymore and just stopped answering the door). And though it pains me greatly to admit this, I will confess in the interest of truth telling that one year I even handed out some gospel tracts to trick or treaters. I’m sure the kids really appreciated that! I’m sure they couldn’t wait to find out more about this stingy Jesus who doesn’t let his followers hand out candy to kids. Score one against Ol’ Scratch, right? A lot has changed since then, and these days my guiding conviction is that my job as a co-sanctifier with Christ is to take what is broken and do my part in reclaiming it, perhaps even making it beautiful, by God’s grace. My earlier attempts of disavowing Halloween were neither redemptive nor beautiful. At best they might have been neutral, but I suspect they did more damage than good. And all the while my poor Taya suffered from my misguided religious zeal! That is, until we had kids. And then she put her foot down. My resolve was beginning to crack by that time anyway, and my first venture back into the world of trick or treating was timid (though I had loved it as a kid). Our twins were two and we dressed them up as Charlie Brown and Linus (it was awesome!) and went to the Barnes & Noble Halloween party where they toddled around asking workers for candy. It was fun, and I even made it through the experience unscathed by guilt! Since then, Halloween has become one of our favorite holidays in the Gray household. We try to avoid “the appearance of evil” by eschewing costumes that strike us as “dark” or otherwise distasteful, choosing instead to hit the streets as a whoopee cushion, bottle of ketchup, or a ninja warrior, walking the two blocks of our street freezing in the late October chill. When the twins were little and their hands would get cold, they’d each slip them into my gloved hand to warm them up as we’d walk door to door. It’s one of my most cherished memories of all time. Then I’d stand back as they would timidly take the steps of a neighbor’s house, knock, and with little voices say “trick or treat” and then “thank you”. Taya would stay back at our house to greet trick or treaters, handing out copious amounts of candy (everyone knows us as the “gospel singing family” and she wants to build a reputation of generosity for us. Perhaps she’s also making up for the “lost years”…) Over time it has grown into a Halloween party where we invite friends over and Taya makes cookies in the shapes of fingers and eyeballs, and we laugh and enjoy each other immensely. You see, these days I’m more interested in reclaiming things and repurposing them than I am protesting. All this to say: I’m excited about our Halloween plans this year. I’m excited to have friends and family to our house to laugh with and enjoy. I’m excited to spend time in my community with my neighbors. I’m excited to hold my little boy’s hand in the warmth of my glove when his gets cold. I’ve even come to value the opportunity the spookier goings-on of Halloween affords us to face our deep rooted fears of mortality and to even poke a little fun at death. It could be that hidden beneath the ragged clothes and garish make-up of our zombie costumes is the universal hope that death doesn’t really have the last say over us… And I’d be lying if I didn’t also say that I’m excited about finger and eyeball cookies. Of course Paul reminds us that all things are permissible, though not everything is beneficial, and it’s true there is hardly a thing under the sun that we aren’t able to justify if we put our minds to it. Whether Halloween is permissible or even beneficial for you is ultimately a matter to be worked out in your own heart. But as for me and my house, we will serve the Lord, with friends and family and costumes and candy this October 31st.

This is one of those scribbles that starts off in the toilet then proceeds into heaven. “I hope,” he says, scratching his beard. There is a bathroom a certain man frequents. When this man first enters the dark and private chamber the lights do hesitate, and then do come on–even while the baffled first-timer gropes along the wall for the usual trigger. Having found none, he thinks to himself, “Ah, automatic lights. What would Jules Verne think?” And he proceeds to enjoy the meaning of lighted, lavatorial convenience. Later this same man is fooled only a few more times in the ritual, and he no longer gropes along the wall for the on-switch–-there is no such switch, only a sensor–and he relieves his mind of that duty and skips this formerly ingrained step. Later still he anticipates with confidence what will occur moments after he enters the darkness and, in jubilation, he snaps his fingers in concert with the burst of light. He feels a little bit like God. That man is me. I remembered, of course, that I wasn’t God. It actually served as a little goad to good-thinking. God, like the tale spinner he is, speaks and the world he imagines breathes, blinks, and gets flat tires. He is all-powerful and his words are alive. “Light,” he says and there it is. My pretended pretense does, however, make me think of all the genuine pretense I engage in. How I pretend sovereignty in many rather insane ways. For instance, I grumble about my health. I react with disgust when my selfishness is rebuffed. I complain when modern conveniences are a little bit slower than they should have been. I believe insane political ramblings about what I’m entitled to. I sit in a culture rich beyond the imagination of almost every person who has ever lived (and is living) and I complain about circumstances, the “economy,” and my rights. When I am like this I am a humanist. That is, I see man as the center of the universe and, if he is included, God is included in the same way he is a popular name to drop at the end of the imbecilic, political speech. Here is a familiar, non-threatening, accommodating grandpa whom no one takes seriously anymore. But I don’t think that’s true, so why do I act like it’s true? We can wrap up a product of the restroom in a gold-plated treasure-chest but it doesn’t do much to change the product in question. It is what it is. Belief is more than intellectual consent. If I believe the Gospel (which is a particular batch of good news), I do not just affirm it in my mind. Enemies can do that. Believers believe with more. We live by faith. Abraham took Hagar. We all stumble in many ways. I am thankful that God lovingly reveals the idols we often unwittingly allow to dominate our hearts while he is wrecking everything to love us. So die, damned humanism of my heart. What does faith in Yahweh look like? I believe that faith in Yahweh is full of thankfulness, and not jealous of claimed “rights.” I believe that faith in Yahweh is astonished at mercy, not eager for personal justice. I believe that faith in Yahweh is abounding in grace, not miserly and hoarding. I believe that faith in Yahweh is patient in affliction, not outraged at the loss of what was a gift to begin with (like health, wealth, position). I believe that faith in Yahweh is humble, not preoccupied with status. I believe that faith in Yahweh sees suffering and does not cry out to God “This is unfair,” but instead cries out, “Oh God, you have been merciful to me, can I be merciful here?” I believe that faith in Yahweh is astonished that anyone receives mercy, increasingly so as the reality of our offense becomes clearer as we grow closer to Jesus. I believe faith in Yahweh issues in love (in that order), not that somehow “loving everybody” gets you standing with Yahweh. This is something very simple we pray in our home because we need a lot of mercy, want to be thankful people, and we want grace real bad. And we want to look to Christ, and have life. “Oh God of Abraham, please give us humble hearts. Oh God of Isaac, please give us thankful hearts. Oh God of Jacob, please give us faith. Let us see Jesus.” Understanding that these are gifts, and not entitlements, ought to go a long way in answering the prayer for humility.

The Last of a Generation, Part 1: Landing The Last of a Generation, Part 2: Ground Transportation The cornerstone by the entrance to the church in Metuchen, New Jersey, where we’re holding Nana’s memorial service reads, “1717.” Think about that. “What am I,” I wonder as I cross the threshold, “the millionth person to enter this building?” I think about those who had come before me. I imagine the stoic, patronizing, agnostic husband coming to church because his wife got religion. He hopes this too shall pass. And there’s the 22 year old young man who is only there because the last time he visited this church he saw her, the girl of his dreams, but just like that, after the service she slipped away. So he returns Sunday after Sunday hoping to see her again. Then there’s the young mother who just lost her husband in the Civil War, locking arms with her husband’s grieving, also-widowed mother. What will they do now? There’s the swaddled baby, the toddler missing her nap, the fresh-faced boy with two pockets filled with living bits of mischief he took from the earth when no one was watching. He’s got plans. There’s the grandmother who, to her recollection, hasn’t missed more than a few Sundays in five decades of worship there. She prays for every new face she sees—earnest prayers. There’s the nervous bride in the sitting room and her groom back in the vestry, on the verge of promising their lives to each other and making it all legal. There’s the potlucks in the yard, the voting booths lining the narthex, and the civic groups planning their holiday fund raisers in the Children’s Sunday School room, sitting in chairs a size too small for their bad backs and large butts. There’s the alcoholics taking their steps to recovery, praying for the ability to know the difference between what they can control and what they cannot. There’s the teenage girl wondering if she should keep the baby, and the boyfriend to her right without a clue, the father to her left about to find out and the mother next to him who already knows because, well, she just knows. She dabs her tears and no one notices. I imagine if this church was built nearly three hundred years ago, then it has seen most any situation that has ever led anyone anywhere to darken the door of a church. Me? Death brought me. Nana’s memorial service was familiar in its unfamiliarity—a collection of strangers bound to one another by blood but separated by time and space, mostly only seeing each other when someone marries or someone dies. Usually when someone dies. We reintroduce ourselves. We all look at bit older since the last time. We try to remember where we last left our conversations. Then we remember we left them at the last funeral. We say we really need to meet on happier occasions, but if we’re honest, we know we’ll probably never make those arrangements. I open the memorial service by inviting the dozen or so gathered to think about any remembrances they might wish to share about Nana. We sing. I deliver a short eulogy, and we open the floor for a few stories and poems. From there, we adjourn to the fellowship hall. As we walk, a distant cousin points out a headstone bearing my mother’s maiden name. Filling the yard to the east of the sanctuary lies a cemetery like every old church used to have. Ghost-white limestone markers dating back before the Civil War stand tall, thin and rounded. One I see actually bears the inscription “R.I.P.” Over the years, as this church’s property yielded to progress, the original sanctuary expanded to add a wing of class rooms, offices and the small chapel where we gathered to remember Nana. When it came time to build a fellowship hall, the land to the west was already developed to capacity. So they built a stand-alone structure in the small field on the east side of the cemetery. The strange effect is that for a person to go from fellowship to worship, they have to pass right through the center of this garden of graves, silent except for the inscriptions of names, dates and titles. No two stones are alike. Not one has a duplicate anywhere under the sun. Yet for every pilgrim moving from the fellowship of men to the worship of the Most High, those headstones, like a choir half buried and half rising up from their Metuchen soil, sing the same refrain: “For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven: a time to be born, and a time to die.” (Ecclesiastes 3:1-2) The next day, mom, her sister’s family and I head off to Staten Island to see the house mom lived in as a baby—72 Fingerboard Road. It is the only time I can recall imagining my mother as a baby. From there we drive to the large brownstone building where Nana went to High School. This is the first time I’ve imagined Nana as a teenager. We see maybe five other sites like this and mom comments that we’re the only ones who would ever take this tour. Though rich in history, it is specific only to our family. It was glorious. Toward the end of our tooling around Staten Island, though, I develop a sense of urgency. I have a plane to catch, and I don’t want to miss my departure. Though the GPS tells us the Newark Airport is less than ten miles away, I have spent the past three days learning, if nothing else, that things take time. Also, as Annie Dillard said, eventually “enough is enough. One turns at last even from glory itself with a sigh of relief. From the depths of mystery, and even the heights of splendor, we bounce back and hurry for the latitudes of home.” Listen. I am a man moving through my little colony of fellowship to the Holy eternal presence of my God and King. On my way, I pass through the court of a great cloud of witnesses—some living, some dead. They speak into my life. I hear great wisdom I want to embrace. I see behaviors of deep regret I want to mortify. I see the consequences of lives squandered in fear and folly, warning me to steer clear. I try to listen, but I have enough folly of my own to complicate that sometimes. Even reflections like this can become an exercise in foolishness if I keep kicking away at the plain simple truth that everybody dies as though I am trying to craft a poem out of what we all know is really much more like prose. Sure, we all have extraordinary moments, but just as most of those who entered that church in Metuchen over the past three centuries did so for ordinary reasons, most of life we live in ordinary time. These past few months have taken me from Washington to Tennessee to Texas to Colorado to Minnesota to New York to South Carolina. At last, I am home. I have a three year old named Jane. She’s got her little hands on my cheeks, looking into my eyes. She wants my attention. It is time for her nap. And being Sunday, it is time for mine too. She tells me she is going to get her purple blanket and crawl into my bed to wait for me. She wants to snuggle. With that she departs. One day I will depart this fellowship of the saints I love so much to an eternity of exultant praise in the presence of the Maker and Lover of my soul. My headstone will join the chorus in the land of the living: “A time to be born and a time to die.” And if my little Jane lives long enough, she too may become the last of her generation, outliving her old brother and two older sisters. She might prompt some young father I’ll never meet to reflect on his grandmother’s passing. And like me, he may use far more words than he really needs. Since there is a time for every matter under heaven, that time may come. But the matter under heaven before me now is this: a little girl with a purple blanket is waiting. And she is waiting for me. So if you’ll excuse me.