I’ve never paid much attention to poetry. For example: At an uppity exhibit here in Nashville I stood in front of a 12″ x 12″ off-white canvas–painted white, nothing more–and read the docent’s statement on the plaque beside it with a mixture of amazement, frustration, and indigestion. It was hailed as genius, as a bold statement because of the “delicate egg-white tone”. The only thing about it that was ingenious was that the artist had made a ton of money on something that only cost him five minutes and a 2 oz. tube of acrylic paint. That guy drives his Maserati with a wide grin, I bet. Sometimes in the art world, the emperor has no clothes (There’s a great documentary about this very subject, called My Kid Could Paint That, about a little girl whose paintings fetched big prices and were later claimed to be hoaxes. Read a review by Jeffrey Overstreet here. I watched it twice in two days.) I realize as I write this that I’m wading in murky waters. I suppose there’s a chance that white painting might deeply move someone, or enhance their understanding of the world, or create a conversation about the nature of art–oops. It just did, didn’t it? Okay, so there’s a place in the world for the inscrutable and the absurd. That place just isn’t in my brain or in my house. No, I want art to mean something. I want to approach the beauty or the horror or the sadness of a piece of art (be it poetry or story or film–whatever) like Indiana Jones crawling through the Well of Souls, looking for the treasure at the end of the labyrinth because he believes the passageway actually leads somewhere. He’s willing to brave the snakes because he has faith that he’ll find something worth seeking. There’s a light at the end of the tunnel. All I saw in that little white canvas was darkness. There are other ways to appreciate art, too. The artist can create simply as a means of expressing the darkness and light in his own heart–but even then, I think he hopes to create resonance. His art’s consummation is when another soul finds communion in it. And art doesn’t have to be a riddle to be solved. If you don’t want spelunk, you can also experience it like a Sunday drive. Roll down the windows and breathe in the air of the work, looking for nothing but serendipity. I do that, too, and it’s a fine way to spend a Sunday afternoon. Beauty is reason enough for something to exist (just ask the daffodils). But I don’t see that happening with the aforementioned “painting”. Let me get to the point. I started out talking about poetry and my lack of interest in it. But that all changed when I heard my friend Al Andrews recite a poem by Billy Collins. The poem, called “The Revenant”, made me laugh. I experienced delight. In the space of less than a minute and about 300 words, a light flicked on in an internal closet and slipped through the crack under the door. This particular combination of words produced a physical reaction in a room full of people. It wasn’t anything soul shattering or theologically explosive. It was just a poem, but it lit the room like a roman candle. Listen: The Revenant by Billy Collins I am the dog you put to sleep, as you like to call the needle of oblivion, come back to tell you this simple thing: I never liked you–not one bit. When I licked your face, I thought of biting off your nose. When I watched you toweling yourself dry, I wanted to leap and unman you with a snap. I resented the way you moved, your lack of animal grace, the way you would sit in a chair and eat, a napkin on your lap, knife in your hand. I would have run away, but I was too weak, a trick you taught me while I was learning to sit and heel, and–greatest of insults–shake hands without a hand. I admit the sight of the leash would excite me but only because it meant I was about to smell things you had never touched. You do not want to believe this, but I have no reason to lie. I hated the car, the rubber toys, disliked your friends and, worse, your relatives. The jingling of my tags drove me mad. You always scratched me in the wrong place. All I ever wanted from you was food and fresh water in my metal bowls. While you slept, I watched you breathe as the moon rose in the sky. It took all my strength not to raise my head and howl. Now I am free of the collar, the yellow raincoat, monogrammed sweater, the absurdity of your lawn, and that is all you need to know about this place except what you already supposed and are glad it did not happen sooner– that everyone here can read and write, the dogs in poetry, the cats and the others in prose. Of course, you may read this poem and feel none of the fireworks or laughter. That’s fine. But try reading it again, aloud. (That’s a rule of poetry.) If you still don’t like it, it might be that you don’t have the advantage of Al Andrews’s baritone doing the reading. My point is, I’m a new fan of poetry–or at least, I’m a new believer in the power of it. Until I encountered the poems of Wendell Berry and Billy Collins, I assumed modern poetry was generally as self-indulgent as that white canvas, only available to the intellectual or artistic elite (or the fakers). But I’ve since read Berry’s A Timbered Choir and Collins’s Nine Horses, and have found my soul enriched by their careful and kind use of words. And I didn’t need a doctorate.

When we finally faithe in our real identity, that we are complete in Christ, whole, holy, new creations beloved by God, the weight of circumstances comes against us. We fight “a great fight of afflictions.” There will be people among our family, our friends, co-workers, who will dislike the changes God is making in us. True freedom means we are completely given over to Christ; His designs, His plans for our lives, His life in us. True freedom is to be a slave to Christ; we’ve heard this many times before. But what does it mean, this true freedom? To be enslaved wholly to Christ is to become detached in a healthy way from every other person, place, or thing. We no longer need them, in the sense of having to possess them. Take the case of a spouse. We fall in love, we marry, and we bond together. As a famous movie goes, “You complete me.” But that isn’t the case. A husband or wife does not complete us or fill us; Christ does. Col 2:9-10 says, “For in Him all the fullness of Deity dwells in bodily form, and in Him you have been made complete, and He is the head over all rule and authority.” The word “fullness” in Greek is pleroma, and it uses the image of a ship outfitted with sailors, rowers, soldiers, merchandise, cargo; think of a ship made ready with everything it needs for a long voyage. The word “complete” in Colossians is pleroo in Greek, and it comes from the same root. Christ is filled full of the Deity; everything that God is lives in Christ. We are filled full of Christ, outfitted with everything we need for life and godliness. Therefore we don’t need to be loved, accepted, approved by others. We don’t need approval from our boss, or co-workers, our friends. Our business is to give out of the riches we have been given; let reactions be what they may. If you think about this you can see why a wife, when her husband’s mere need-love or need to be needed is put to death by the Spirit, might feel unloved. In reality the husband is just beginning to learn to love her truly, without needing to be loved himself. If she is still under the sway of the false, independent self, trying to make life work on her own terms, you can see that she would bring all her resources to bear on the removal of her idol – her husband’s need-love for her. “What we call love on earth is mostly the craving to be loved” (C.S. Lewis). This of course applies the other way – of a wife who stands up in who she is in Christ and begins to realize she is no longer needy; why be needy? She has everything she needs for life and godliness already contained within her (2Peter 1:3). It also applies to other family, friends, co-workers. We don’t need to be needed. We don’t need to be cherished, loved; in fact we fundamentally don’t need anything from anyone, because we have been given everything. A billionaire heiress doesn’t need money; she has it. The false need-love inside those around us will respond to our new-found wholeness. Some will respond by trying to pull on us. Others will respond by being hurt and by their anger will turn from us. Do not suppose that I have come to bring peace to the earth. I did not come to bring peace, but a sword. For I have come to turn ‘a man against his father, a daughter against her mother, a daughter-in-law against her mother-in-law— a man’s enemies will be the members of his own household.’ Anyone who loves his father or mother more than me is not worthy of me; anyone who loves his son or daughter more than me is not worthy of me; and anyone who does not take his cross and follow me is not worthy of me. Whoever finds his life will lose it, and whoever loses his life for my sake will find it” (Matt 10:31-39). Does this mean we respond in return with anger or manipulation? Absolutely not, though we sometimes will, especially in the beginning; the Blood is always sufficient when we fail to trust Christ within us. We are being brought to true freedom for a purpose: to love as Jesus Christ loves, to be reflectors, mirrors, lenses through which His love shines out unhindered by the false self. He who believes in Me, as the Scripture has said, out of his heart will flow rivers of living water (John 7:38).

It was bound to happen sooner or later. Even my favorite magazine finally found itself the victim (hopefully not fatality) of the economic times we’re living in. Paste Magazine, beloved highlighter of wonderful music, film and books, recently announced their own financial issues and began a campaign simply titled “Save Paste” that asks fans to help them out by donating to the cause to keep it alive. Yet I also somehow hold a longing for the tangible, for the medium that you can truly taste and see and touch and smell and feel. I sometimes hate my virtual world and refuse to use Twitter because it seems the last great stand a person can make against the constant broadcasting of our lives. Ridiculous, I know, but a man’s gotta draw a line somewhere, right? I love a great book and the feel of it in my hands at night. I totally get the vinyl argument. And I hate seeing this part of the industry slowly crumbling like the planet Vulcan (sorry for the spoiler). So I wonder what balance will eventually be displayed, if any at all. Will all that is tangible and real decay in a landfill while virtual forms rule the earth? I’d like to believe that there will at least be a community of people who reject that in various ways to create a consistent market for things you can truly hold. It’s this community as well at the Rabbit Room where some of these things will saved, I believe – smaller niche communities where people appreciate the same common things. But I wonder what you all think. It’s an interesting shift in front of our eyes and I wonder what the artists and art appreciators among us see (and hope for) in the future. #future #media #PasteMagazine #technology

“I don’t think it will really work. Do you really think it will work?” If Mark heard me, nothing in his demeanor showed it. He knew it would work. I was still fuzzy on the details, and I was pretty sure Mark was too. But his confidence had nothing to do with niggling details. Mark was an idea man. His confidence came from his grasp of the big picture. And we all agreed on the big picture: when a radioactive spider bites you, you get super spider powers. From the cartoon on Channel 17, I never really understood how Spiderman got his powers, but Mark had the more authoritative comic books. He explained the whole thing: Peter Bannister was in a science lab, and a radioactive spider got loose and bit him, and then he got spider powers. We ate this stuff up. Mark was the youngest of several brothers, so even in third grade an air of worldliness attached to him. He knew things the rest of us didn’t. It wasn’t just that he knew things; it was his casual, can-do attitude toward life’s great mysteries. This was a young man, after all, who had baptized his own dog. So when Mark came to school with a plan to give us all super spider powers, he had our attention. He had a spider in a jar. All we had to do was to get the spider radioactive and let it bite us. I thought getting the spider radioactive would be the hard part, but it wasn’t really. Mark had checked out a book of optical illusions from the school library. On the back cover was a swirling spiral that seemed to spin when you rocked it back and forth. He held it a few inches from the spider’s jar and set the spiral spinning. This seemed mighty low-tech and dubious to me, and I said so. But the words were hardly out of my mouth when the spider collapsed in a curled-up little heap. Mark raised his eyebrows and gave a knowing nod, as if to say, “This is to be expected.” “Is he dead?” asked one of the boys. “Not dead,” Mark answered. “Radioactive. Now, who’s going to go first?” We all looked at each other. In principle, super spider powers were a good thing. But actually to let a radioactive spider bite you…none of us were very sure about that. Even Peter Bannister hadn’t let a spider bite him. It was an accident. “Look here,” Mark said. There was impatience in his voice. “When this spider wakes up, he’ll only be radioactive for a minute or two.” I’m not sure how he knew this. “We need to decide who’s going to get bit. William, why don’t you go first?” William appeared to be weighing the pros and the cons. “So what kind of super spider powers will I get?” “You know, like on the TV show,” said Mark. “You can walk up walls. Jump over buildings. Shoot webs out your wrists.” William looked carefully at his wrist. “Where’s it going to come out? The web.” Mark had to think on that one. “We’ll have to cut a little hole. Right there.” He swiped a thumbnail across the soft white underside of William’s wrist. That’s where he blew it. William wasn’t going to let Mark cut him, and neither were any of the rest of us. Mark cajoled another boy or two, and we all argued back and forth for a while, but negotiations broke off with the recess bell, and we mostly dropped the whole thing. I don’t know what became of the spider. But I like to imagine him awakening from his swoon and stalking across the Miller Elementary playground, his eyes aglow with radioactivity. He’s looking for an unsuspecting grade-school hero—one who won’t be made to choose greatness or choose against it, but rather will have greatness thrust upon him in the form of a spider bite and the dawn of super spider powers.

When we begin to faithe in our true identity in Christ, that we are kings, priests, holy, beloved, having no more neediness but having everything we need for life and godliness in Christ who dwells in us, we step into “a great fight of afflictions.” Our false self, that collection of fears and ungodly ways of coping with life, begins to fall off like old grave clothes. Quite often the people around us – family, friends, co-workers – will subconsciously try to keep us in the old, false self. We might think that they would be thrilled to see us change and not be emotionally dependent on them. But bear in mind that these people have learned to cope with us, as we have learned to cope with them, by the machinery and devices of the false self – passive-aggressiveness, aggressiveness, manipulation, control, fear, etc. They will fight to keep the old order; if we have been enslaved to needing their approval, or of lording it over them, we can be sure it will not be easy to extricate ourselves from the tangle. Most people dislike change. But change we must, if we are to be everything Jesus Christ means us to be. This change of course does not come about by trying to change, but by abiding – resting, trusting, relying on Christ within us as the source and ground of our being. If we are “complete in Christ” and have “everything we need for life and godliness” in Him, what do we need from other people? What can they offer to those who have everything necessary and complete? When they sense we are no longer operating on the ground of neediness the heat often gets turned up; they’re looking for their own coping mechanisms to work. This is the cocoon from which we must emerge. Just as we received Christ by faith, so this struggle is by faith; it is the faith-labor by which we enter His rest. It is meant to be exactly what it is; people are meant by God to wrap us in this cocoon of their own thinking, their own ways, their own desires, their own coping mechanisms; it is God-ordained that we struggle to emerge from this cocoon. This makes us strong in faith and enables us to fly. So if you have begun to step out in faith by relying on your real identity in Christ, do not be confused or angry or disheartened; be encouraged. Things often have to get worse before they get better; the way to renovate a house or room is often to first put it in seeming chaos, to pull things off the wall, to knock walls down, to take doors off, to strip the carpet. The house may not like this stripping, but it’s the only way to remodel and restructure the house. We will feel this stripping in our life as God shows us who we really are in Him – that the new creation “I” does not need to puff or raise itself up on human approval or love. That new creation you, in Christ, can fly. Don’t hold Him to the ground by caving in to the subtle manipulations, control, and fears of others; trust Him in you, continuing in patient faith. And by faith don’t retaliate; if they are not walking in the power of the Holy Spirit themselves, they are doing as they must. “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.” That Spirit of forgiveness and love is Who lives in us. Christ in a man is a majority.

I have big dreams for the Rabbit Room. I dream of a place with a roaring fire and a stone hearth. Books line the walls. The air is full of the sound of happy chatter and the smell of warm drinks. There’s a little stage where songwriters and storytellers can work their magic. Also, there are desserts. Hot apple crisp, per the Proprietor’s request. So far, the Rabbit Room only exists online (and in Oxford, England). But behold, the gates have swung wide on the virtual back room where the virtual printing press steams and clatters and spews grand works of (virtual) genius into the world. What, Proprietor, is this first book? Is it an illustrated edition of Chesterton’s Orthodoxy? Is it a graphic novel of George MacDonal’s Lilith? Is it our own Pete Peterson’s swashbuckling adventure (and romance!) novel The Fiddler’s Gun? All in good time, dear readers! All in good time.Proprietor No, the first ever Rabbit Room Press publication is none other than an Epic Space Adventure compressed into a Ten Page Children’s Book. I present to you Revenge of the Birds. (The cover, featuring genuine 1983-era faux wood wallpaper and blue punch-tape lettering.) It features a courageous main character named Geolly (pronounced gee-olly). It is fraught with foiled plans and daring infiltrations and a race of alien birds. It is a limited edition pressing of Eric Peters’s harrowing tale, written in 1983, when the author was in the 5th grade, and beloved by fans ever since. In all seriousness, the book is an exact page-for-page facsimile of the book Eric wrote and bound for his dad. For an autographed (and personalized, if you wish) copy of this luminous work, visit the Rabbit Room Store. It’s the perfect addition to your Eric Peters library, and it would make a grand Father’s Day present. Hurry, because the first printing is only a hundred books, and they’re going fast. Your kids will love it. And you will laugh. When you read the touching dedication from a 10-year-old to his dad, you might cry too. But you’ll probably just laugh.

This weekend I saw two movies that I’ve been looking forward to all year.  The first was Star Trek and I’m sure everyone has read the reviews and more importantly heard from all their friends that it’s a great movie.  No need for me to expound on that.  Despite a few warts, it’s great.  Go see it.  The other movie is the one that needs pounding–X-men Origins: Wolverine. We were studying Benjamin Franklin in school at the time and I figured that if Wolverine could quote him and sound cool then maybe I should sit up and listen a little closer to see if history class had any other snarky one-liners to offer (it did). So in Wolverine I found a superhero that didn’t pull the final punch and give the old line of: “I should destroy you for your evilness but if I destroy you then I will become as evil as you are.  Therefore I will let you live to continue your evilness when you break out of prison in issue #395.” Wolverine had chutzpah.  He destroyed.  I liked that. But twenty years later, my favorite hero, who was so fantastic in the first two X-Men films, has at last gone the way of Obi-Wan and Yoda.  The Star Wars gang were the first to go, of course, killed by their own father, George Lucas, who it turns out also managed to put Indiana Jones to death (doesn’t that make Lucas the most diabolical bad guy in all of cinema?) The third X-Men film effectively insulted another piece of my adolescent mythology:  The Dark Phoenix Saga.  The story was about a being of uncontrollable power and beauty that consumed worlds and wiped out entire civilizations before Jean Grey could make her ultimate sacrifice to save our world from destruction. What did director Brett Ratner do with that epic character?  I imagine there was a meeting that went something like this: Art and Visual Effects Teams: “Mr. Ratner, this is a story of epic scope and we’ve come up with some stunning visual ideas that will reflect and reinforce the dramatic moral and personal struggles of Jean Grey and the X-Men team and we also need to coordinate with the scriptwriters to make sure they understand the cosmological, theological, and philosophical facets of this legendary storyline.” Brett Ratner: “Hey guys, I know the Phoenix is like made of fire and energy and all giant and stuff and carries the ultimate power of both creation and destruction and all that.  So that’s cool I guess but I think we should just make Jean Grey wear a leather coat and look all dirty and slutty like some kind of floating goth-mother.” Art and Visual Effects Teams: “Say what?” Brett Ratner: “So let’s make that happen, it might be as good as Rush Hour 2!” I didn’t like that movie. But at least Wolverine kept his cool factor and I suspect that’s why someone decided to make another movie—to finish off my childhood memories of him. The following list is dedicated to the writers of X-Men Origins: Wolverine. Here are a few screenwriting tips that will hopefully allow you to stop killing off my childhood heroes. 1.    It worked in Conan the Barbarian and Highlander and Moulin Rouge but that’s where it’s got to stop.  There’s just no excuse for a death scene where the girl lays in the hero’s arms and whispers, “I’m so cold.”  (Please don’t take this to mean that it would be acceptable for her to whisper “I’m so hot,” even if it’s true.) 2.    Don’t make the credit sequence cooler, more fun to watch, and more dramatic than the rest of your movie. 3.    Don’t make naked men jump off waterfalls. 4.    Don’t use the old, “I only gave her a potion that made her look dead” device.  That only worked for Shakespeare. 5.    Don’t introduce characters only to kill them five minutes later and expect us to care.   And no, doing this three or four different times in the same movie still doesn’t make it work. 6.    Do try to have the plot make sense. 7.    Don’t introduce forty-seven characters and imply that they might be important when they are, in fact, not. 8.    Don’t show important scenes and dialogue in the trailer that aren’t even in the movie. 9.    Please refrain from writing dialogue until you actually know how to do it. 10.  Never, never, ever make someone say, “I should kill you, but if I kill you then I will become as evil as you are,” because writing that line and making an actor say it actually makes you more evil than either of them. Should you then choose to delve deeper into my childhood memories in order to mine such rich desposits as Thor, Voltron, The Dragonlance, The Chronicles of Thomas Covenant, The Avengers, The Justice League of America, The Green Arrow, The Showbiz Pizza Bears, Ultraman, the A-Team, or Manimal, I am available for consultation and will be happy to guide you to away from the sins of your past. Should you choose otherwise? SNIKT!

Start from zero. Try to forget your presuppositions. What do you say to someone who doesn’t seem to have any of the same questions you do about life and religion when they ask you what and why you believe? In a conversation I had about relgion with a friend, he started out by describing himself as a “flaming atheist,” later backing down from that descriptor and saying that more than anything he didn’t really think about the subject. Rob Bell, pastor of Mars Hill in Grand Rapids, author of Velvet Elvis and Sex God, and coauthor of Jesus Wants to Save Christians, was asked a similar question in a recent interview with Christianity Today. The question was, “How would you present this gospel on Twitter?” and Rob’s answer is a more fleshed out version of the answer I’ve started to give. Remember, Rob is not defining the Gospel here, nor giving a full explanation. He is presenting an introduction, calling the hearer into the journey. “I would say that history is headed somewhere. The thousands of little ways in which you are tempted to believe that hope might actually be a legitimate response to the insanity of the world actually can be trusted. And the Christian story is that a tomb is empty, and a movement has actually begun that has been present in a sense all along in creation. And all those times when your cynicism was at odds with an impulse within you that said that this little thing might be about something bigger—those tiny little slivers may in fact be connected to something really, really big.” Of course, G.K. Chesterton said many of the same things when talking about the need for fairy tales, like in this quote: “Exactly what the fairy tale does is this: it accustoms him for a series of clear pictures to the idea that these limitless terrors had a limit, that these shapeless enemies have enemies, that these strong enemies of man have enemies in the knights of God, that there is something in the universe more mystical than darkness, and stronger than strong fear.” And much of our discussion here in the Rabbit Room revolves around this conviction that art matters and points to something better, that it has the power to stir up questions and desires in us that are otherwise drowned out by the noise and busyness of our everyday lives. What about you? What answer do you give when asked why you believe? #GKChesterton #Belief #Presuppositions #Story #RobBell #Gospel

There’s been some disagreement from time to time here at the RR about this or that. One such debatable item is to what extent we should expose ourselves to the toxicity of the world in art. Some say more, some say less. Pretty much everyone believes we should be thoughtful about it and remembers that we are called to be holy. Without holiness no one will see the Lord. One area where I find it pretty soul-destroying to be in the toxic waste is in the area of music about love. We’ve pretty much boiled ourselves in a slow stew of erroneous notions of love for quite a while. So much so that if we aren’t intentionally counter-cultural we develop many horrific assumptions. Some of these are pornographic, some sentimental, but the field is full of lies and it’s hard to walk anywhere without being inundated with selfish messages which, if ingested, are a poison pill for us and those we ought to love. I actually heard a song on the radio once (what I was doing listening to the radio I don’t know) and it was a song dedicated to extolling a mistress, even containing the phrase, “the entrée’s not as good without a little something on the side.” Wow. That’s not helpful. OK, that’s a downer. But I am writing to commend. In the wasteland of love-songs which feel like the coordinated efforts of hell, there is a break in the fog. There are some grown-up love songs. And by grown-up I mean mature, in the sense of that great, biblical objective. There are songs which encourage a sacrificial and committed love. There are songs that admit weakness, but foster passion for the wife of your youth, for the woman of your vows. There are songs that speak the truth with beauty, and I love them. I’m certainly not someone who insists on message music, or message art in general. But messages are everywhere, and I’ll just say that it is much better for me in every way to hear AP’s “Don’t Give Up On Me,” than the “A Little Something on the Side” song “Don’t Give Up On Me” is perfectly expressive of real, grown-up, married love. Not sentimentalized for a sort of emotional pornography, or celebrating intimacy of body and detachment of committed life. It doesn’t take an advanced degree in a social science to see that everyone does better when mom and dad are committed to each other, faithful, passionate for each other, not lied to about the cost of messing with God’s design. I think songs like “Don’t Give Up On Me” help us maintain the necessary antithesis with grace, something that’s sometimes pretty hard to do. I have to mention one other song and that is Sara Groves’ song “Loving a Person.” Sara has many songs that fit in the category of “grown-up, truthful love songs,” but this one may be the best. (Plus it’s right after my favorite Sara song, “Why it Matters.”) Check out the simple profundity of the chorus: “Hold on to me I’ll hold on to you Let’s find out the beauty of seeing things through” That’s grown-up love. That’s the kind of song I want my kids to think of when they think of love.  And myself. That’s the song I want stuck in my head while I’m at work, or when I’m walking past a Victoria’s Secret store. So my question for you, kids, is what grown-up, truthful love songs do you love?  I call “Don’t Give Up On Me” and “Loving a Person.” And I’m fighting the urge to name some other favorites. What are your favorites? Why?

From the Proprietor: I just stumbled on this post from Jason Gray’s website. In it he talks a little about Gospel Music Association week (GMA), a yearly convention in Nashville that has plenty to gripe about and plenty to be glad for too. ——————————- Tuesday of GMA was a great day.  It was filled with more good conversations and interviews, but with some great little detours, the best of which was mid-day when Andrew Peterson asked if I was done with my interviews, and if so if I’d be interested in sneaking out for a quick visit to the Frist, Nashville’s prestigious art museum.  We both had to be back by 5 for a Centricity showcase we were both slated to play for, but with an hour and half to kill, we went on a quick little field trip The Frist is only a few blocks away from the Renaissance hotel where GMA week is held.  A brisk walk and 10 minutes later we stepped out of Nashville and into another world.  One of the exhibits was from the Cleveland museum of art featuring relics from the Byzantine era and Christian art from the Antique Period, ca. 200 – 400.  We were looking at works of art and utility from nearly 2000 years ago – sculptures, vessels made for carrying water, coins and artifacts of the church, mosaics, and books made before the printing press, with elegant lettering and illustrations individually painted by hand with gold and tempura paints. It was breathtaking, to put it mildly.  The books especially moved me – the great care and detail that went into every page, to make it beautiful and singular.  The advent of the printing press with all its virtues has had at least one detrimental effect: it has made books common. But every piece in the exhibit that we looked at spoke of a time when artisanship and artistry were more than commodities and valued over pragmatic usefulness.  Care was taken to make things beautiful and lasting.  It was a stark contrast to the world I had just left, which can often feel transitory, ethereal and fleeting, where your worth is determined by how hot your song is on the charts or if you’re wearing the right kind of scarf (GMA 2009 was the year of the fedora and the scarf – I’m not knocking it, just making an observation).  Separated by only a few blocks, the contrast between the two worlds was startling.  I thought of how I wished it could be mandatory for everyone at GMA week to come and take a little walk through this historical exhibit, looking at art that has stood the test of time and let it call to something timeless in us. At some point, it seems that one of the engines that started driving Christian music was justifying its existence as music for youth groups, an alternative to secular music with all it’s sex, drugs, and celebration of every kind of hedonism.  And while I get why it’s good and useful for us to provide young people with positive alternatives, it does seem like there’s room to aim a little higher than only making music that imitates secular music but inserts wholesome lyrics. Jesus deserves our best, and I wish our market could be more supportive of great art made to the glory of God and is more about worship than it is about what is useful or what is marketable.  But greatness – like truth, is hard to market and often, Christian music – in order to survive – has been reduced to imitating the latest trends in its bid to be a safe alternative. Because of this, sometimes Christian music can have a flavor of the day quality to it.  Pop music is notorious for how disposable it is, but Christian pop music is even worse and hasn’t produced much in the way of great and enduring artists like Sting, Bruce Springsteen, U2, Billy Joel, Etc.  Christian Music’s brightest lights burn out quickly and there are very few cases of longevity in an environment that caters to youthful consumerism.  I think you can feel this especially at GMA week where everyone’s radar’s are trying to pick up on who’s going to be the new hot thing this year. To step out of this environment into the Byzantine world and experience Christian works of art that 2000 years after their creation still take your breath away and speak of the Glory and Mystery of God was quite inspiring – and convicting.  It also provided a blessed perspective. Andrew and I lingered a little too long and had to huff it back to the Centricity suite to get there in time for the showcase we were playing for.  As media and radio people gathered, I was first in the line up.  Again, it was literally unplugged and I belted out an acoustic version of “More Like Falling In Love” followed by the confessional and humorous (I hope!)“That’s How I Ended Up Here” (a portion of which ended up on the Acoustic Storytime record, but will appear in it’s entirety on the new record.).  Though the latter goes for a few laughs, it’s really a song about self-imposed isolation as we find fault in everyone we meet as a way of keeping everyone at a safe distance: “Building a wall so no one can bother me Living my life in isolation Opening up to only those close to me Nobody’s close to me, what have I done You see I really want to be known But I’m not quite as strong as the fear That you won’t understand The fool that I am And that’s how I ended up here…” I talked briefly about my own isolation and the ways I’ve effectively shut people out of my life, and it became more of an honest moment than I intended.  Next in the line up was High Valley, followed by Matt Papa, Lanae Hale, and then Andrew Peterson.  Andrew shared the story of hearing his father share the gospel for years as the pastor of his church before, as a 12 year old, he unexpectedly walked down the aisle and said the prayer.  He then talked about the intervening years of rebellion and what brought him back.  A quick summary here won’t do it justice, but trust me when I say that it was beautiful and that there wasn’t a dry eye in the house as he sang “The Good Confession.” Poor Jason Germain of Downhere was up next and, undone by Peterson’s song, introduced their first song through tears.  Jason shared his own moving story of all the years and steps in the journey that had brought them to this place, before singing “Here I Am”, just he and Marc Martel on acoustic guitars.  His tears were a moving benediction as they closed the evening. For all the negative things I have said about the state of popular Christian music, I can’t say enough how proud I am of my Centrictiy family and the artists I get to work with.  It was a short and sweet set of music with great heart and depth, and I felt affirmed – even after being reprimanded by the beautiful art I’d taken in earlier at the Frist.

A while back I gave the keynote address at the 2009 induction ceremony of the Houston County (GA) Educators’ Hall of Fame. Here’s part of that speech… I once had an ice cream cone with the school bully—a fifth-grader named Jay. I don’t remember how this came to pass exactly—maybe he and I just happened to be at the ice cream shop at the same time. But I remember that he and I and another boy ate our ice cream cones outside, in the grimy hindparts of a shopping center, among the dumpsters and discarded pallets. And I remember Jay swiping the last crumbs of the cone off his hands, then balling up his hard little fist and punching me right below my left eye. I remember the hot shame that burned on my face as I pelted home as fast as my bike would take me. When my parents asked about the hurt place below my eye, I made something up rather than tell them what really happened. Maybe I wanted to protect them from the knowledge of what a mean world they had brought me into. But I had a very special teacher that fourth-grade year—Mrs. Romero, a beautiful Cuban woman, so kind and generous-hearted that every kid in the class believed himself to be her favorite. In my case, of course, it was true. She was exactly the sort of person you could give your troubles to. I didn’t give my troubles to my teacher, however, and she didn’t give me comfort. She gave me something much more important—something I didn’t even want. Field Day at Miller Elementary fell a week or two after my ice cream outing with Jay. When the fifth-grade sprinters lined up to run the hundred-yard dash, my stomach churned at the sight of Jay taking his place. My loathing was magnified by the knowledge that Jay would probably win. The whistle blew, the boys bolted from the starting line, and my heart sank as Jay pulled into the lead like some sort of flying rooster. Above the shouts and squeals of children came a delicious Cuban trill: “Rrrrun, Jay, rrrrun!” Jay heard Mrs. Romero’s encouragement. The intent look on his face spread into a grin, and he ran faster, beating his nearest competitor by many yards. I glared at Mrs. Romero in hurt astonishment. Did she even know what kind of delinquent she was encouraging? If she had any idea what Jay had done to me, her favorite student, she wouldn’t have been so friendly. It was undignified—it was scandalous—for a grown woman to be yelling like that for a little criminal. But, of course, she knew and understood much more about Jay than I did. She understood that he was still a boy, that his course didn’t have to be set just yet. And she understood how badly a fatherless boy needs for somebody—anybody—to delight in him. The root of the word ‘educate,’ as I’m sure you know, means literally to lead forth or to draw out. Mrs. Romero drew something out of Jay that day. I had never seen what could happen to his face when he believed that somebody felt he was worth something. I had seen smirks and sneers and the occasional wicked grin on Jay’s face. But I had never seen happiness. Mrs. Romero drew something out of me too, though she didn’t know it. Quite by accident—just by doing her job incredibly well—she brought an ugly self-righteousness out into the open where I could get a good look at it. She was an agent of grace that day—for me no less than Jay. She showed me that there is a wideness in God’s mercy that is wider than the sea. I don’t think of Jay very often, but when I do, I try to remember not the beady-eyed sinner behind the ice cream shop, but the Field Day runner taking a boyish joy in the delight of a woman who loved him in spite of all.

In the interest of shameless, low brow self-promotion, I wish to make it known that I had a book come out (“releasing”?, “hitting the shelves”?) this Friday May 8. It is titled, Revenge of the Birds. Revenge of the Birds. Friday May 8. Soon available in the Rabbit Room. Until then, order your copy today in the Eric Peters Store. Thanks, and beware the birds.

I grew up in rural Indiana, in a small town where the only kids around who had long hair usually had reputations as trouble-makers as well.  And there weren’t many of them.  Back in Jr. High I decided I wanted to play electric guitar, and found inspiration from the glam metal bands popular at the time.  I was a big Stryper fan.  Go ahead and take a second to remember those days, if you can.  Ahhhhhhhh. Anyhow, one of the most vivid memories I have of that time in my life was when I decided I wanted to grow my hair out and get an ear ring.  We’re talking 7th grade here, 1987. My mom was always a very level person, and wise but never flashy with her dispensations of it. I remember going into my parents’ bedroom and standing near the vanity as mom got ready for work.  I said, “Mom, I think I’d like to grow my hair out long.”  She asked, “How long?”  I said, “Like the guys in Stryper, maybe.”  (Essentially, I was asking for a six year haircut break. This is a part of how I’m wired.  I don’t mind starting things I know will take years to accomplish.) She thought about it for a while and said, “Well, okay.  But you have to promise me two things.” I was excited, “All right.” “First, you can’t start acting like a punk or a trouble-maker.” She said. “Okay.”  That wouldn’t take a lot of work for a kid like me anyway. “And second, you can’t get upset with people when they look at you and think you must be a punk or a trouble-maker.” If I wanted to look a certain way, I’d have to be willing to extend mercy to people in my hometown who formed impressions of me based on my appearance and I’d have to work to change their minds—and mom was telling me I couldn’t get upset with them in the process because, in many ways, it was a path I was choosing and I needed to understand this. I can’t tell you how much of an impact that had on my sense of what I should demand from people who don’t know me.  It has also had a deep impact on how I approach misunderstandings.  It can be easy to presume misunderstandings originate because the people who aren’t getting what you’re all about are just too dense. I recently came across a blog post from Abraham Piper who said, “When misunderstood, my goal shouldn’t be to prove the misunderstander wrong, but to discover, own, and perhaps clear the confusion I created.” My mom spoke to my young heart that day and used my desire to have long hair as an opportunity to teach me about loving people well.  I have not always taken her wisdom to heart, but neither have I forgotten it. Thanks Mom.

Last weekend I was in Champaign, IL, a place that felt like it should be dead-center in the middle of a cast-iron pancake griddle. On one side of the interstate were rows of new construction homes, while on the other, ploughed fields reaching out to the horizon with deep, dark tendrils. I find it hard to believe that this state, as rural and authentic as it is, has (or apparently will have) both of its past two governors serving time in the clink. Such strange un-midwestern values. An hour later, I arrived at my friend Phil’s place where he was finishing polishing his black Yamaha (before it got rained on), and two of his boys were shooting basketball in the driveway. We proceeded to play a quick game of Fog (not to be confused with Pig) where I completely dominated the match. I believe my sky hook ultimately won it. What can I say, short people were born to be point guards. It was a bachelor pad weekend, since Phil’s wife (and amazing chef) Bethany was out of town. Saturday night we ate brats, drank Newcastle and watched 80’s freaky-strange film, “Big Trouble in Little China”, a movie I somehow never saw while growing up. Turns out, it was probably for the best. Someone please tell me the point of the greasy monster that appears in a grand total of three brief, senseless scenes? Also, were all 80’s movies over-acted? Or was it just John Carpenter at work? Sunday morning I played a song at the morning services in hopes of luring folks out to the free concert that night. Though I didn’t completely scare everyone off, there were around 30-40 folks out on a damp, chilly evening.  And they were a quiet crowd. That threw me off, and I just got plain weird as the night wore on. I had a great time, but I’m sure my oddities left a few folks scratching their midwestern heads. Folks were gracious in their giving, and since these were the first shows I did as part of my new “I’ll play for any amount, including free” proposal, I’d say it was well worth my time away from home. Faith sometimes feels like murder, but these days it is good to wither to self. Duly noted.

In my tattered copy of a book simply titled Good Poems (selected by Garrison Keillor), this page is one of many that are dog-eared (gasp!). I think I remember a librarian in fifth grade telling me that this was the unpardonable sin, so each time I feel that crunch of paper fibers beneath my thumb, it thrills me. Renegade behavior, I know. There’s not much I need to say about this poem, except that I thought it appropriate that it be shared with my Rabbit Room friends. “The Grain of Sound” by Robert Morgan A banjo maker in the mountains, when looking out for wood to carve an instrument, will walk among the trees and knock on trunks. He’ll hit the bark and listen for a note. A hickory makes the brightest sound; the poplar has a mellow ease. But only straightest grain will keep the purity of tone, the sought- for depth that makes the licks sparkle. A banjo has a shining shiver. Its twangs will glitter like the light on splashing water, even though its face is just a drum of hide of cow, or cat, or even skunk. The hide will magnify the note, the sad of honest pain, the chill blood-song, lament, confession, haunt, as tree will sing again from root and vein and sap and twig in wind and cat will moan as hand plucks nerve, picks bone and skin and gut and pricks the heart as blood will answer blood and love begins to knock along the grain.

“Do it again.”  Three words that make kids laugh and make parents go insane. Those repeated words, “all things new,” are what caught Sophie’s attention.  Everyone with kids knows that they’re in for some annoyance when you’ve done something funny, and they want you to “do it again.” And again.  And again.  And again.  And again.  That’s not anywhere near enough “and again”s But there might be some wisdom in the child’s repetition that we’re missing.  G.K. Chesterton wrote, Because children have abounding vitality, because they are in spirit fierce and free, therefore they want things repeated and unchanged. They always say, “Do it again”; and the grown-up person does it again until he is nearly dead. For grown-up people are not strong enough to exult in monotony. But perhaps God is strong enough to exult in monotony. It is possible that God says every morning, “Do it again” to the sun; and every evening, “Do it again” to the moon. It may not be automatic necessity that makes all daisies alike; it may be that God makes every daisy separately, but has never got tired of making them. (Orthodoxy, Chapter 4) Or, as Rich Mullins wrote, Well we are children no more, we have sinned and grown old And our Father still waits and He watches down the road To see the crying boys come running back to His arms And be growing young Growing young Perhaps our inability to abide repetition, our constant looking for something “new,” has a lot more to do with our weakness and failure than it does our becoming “mature.” Lately, I’ve been trying to gather the strength to “do it again” as many times as Sophia requests it, and I’ve been trying to summon the wisdom to find joy in the repetition. The new song Sophie was singing is paradoxically older than the universe.  When Scripture refers to a “new song,” it’s not referring “a song recently written,” but a renewed song, or a song of renewal.  “All Things New” and every song that conveys enternal truth is the repetition of the ancient paths which will one day be fully renewed.  It is, most definitely, a song worth repeating.

I picked up my banjo this morning to practice. Lately I’ve been working on speed, and correcting deficiencies in my technique that have crept in as a result of tension. The first thing that happened was my plastic thumb pick snapped in half when I put it on. With an irritated sound which could easily be mistaken for a cuss word, I found another thumb pick. Now, get this. I have a good capacity to stick with things; bands (17 years with Alison Krauss and Union Station), marriage (20 year anniversary last year), a primarily raw food way of eating (seven years). That’s a good thing. But that capacity can also be misused; it can deteriorate into the realm of “It’s comfortable and familiar, so I’m sticking with it.” That’s why I was irritated at my thumb pick. I hate changing picks; new picks take awhile to get used to. I use the same tortoiseshell guitar pick for month after month until it wears down; then I reshape it and use it more. But I put on the new thumb pick. It wasn’t so bad. I played for a bit, and then thought, “What if I changed out my finger picks, too?” I play Scruggs-style banjo with the thumb and two fingers, using two metal finger picks and the plastic thumb pick, and for the past six months I’ve been using a modern pair. I dug into my cache of old National finger picks (probably from the 1940s-1960s) and found an unused pick for my middle finger. It fit perfectly. I hit the string. Clang. The tone was remarkably better than the newer, more modern picks I’d been using, with a nice zing in the high-end,. So I put another old National on the other finger. Clang – again, better tone. Well, that was even more annoying in a sense. Here I’d spent months with these modern finger picks with less tone simply because they were comfortable, and I was used to them. But they weren’t optimal. How many things do I continue to think, or do, or say, or allow in my life because they’re  more comfortable than change? How much of the world’s thinking has infected my own because it’s more comfortable than following Christ? How many things could I change with just the smallest adjustment? Faith steps out of the comfort zone looking for “Optimal.” These picks will take a little getting used to. But faith says I can get used to them quickly, and the extra tone is worth it.

I recently attended the Festival of Faith & Music at Calvin College in Grand Rapids, Michigan. Famed painter Makato Fujimara was there to present at the initial keynote session and he did a fine job setting the stage for the weekend’s proceedings. Within his message, mostly tuned in to the passage on ‘extravagance’ found in Mark 14 where Mary unloads the jar of perfume on Jesus, Makato gave this quote: “Every act of creativity is directly or indirectly an intuitive response to the Creator.” When I heard that, I wrote it down. There was an instinctive response that said what he was saying was true, that this was some quote that would be used for inspirational quote books or something other quick buck-making gift book. I’ve turned this phrase over in my head a few times since that fateful Friday night, wondering what that means for me. I guess the key question is: does this acknowledgement change the way that I go about creating? Does believing that as I’m creating make a difference in how I choose to apply myself in that moment of creating? Is it just a phrase I’m intended to nod and affirm as a “hrmmm….” moment? Or, does that create or affirm a level of artistic responsibility? In other words, to personalize it, as as a writer, should I be focused on writing more of God has put within me to write versus writing for a magazine’s deadline and making the paycheck? Of course, there’s a never-ending tension there, but I have to admit that I can’t even remember the last time I wrote what *I* wanted to write. Is that a slap in the face of a statement like this? I guess these are things I’m wrestling with. I wonder what to make of this statement, but, even more importantly, the consequences of this. I’d love to hear some thoughtful responses on this.

There is such a thing as an ERB test. Don’t ask me what those letters stand for, but they are the standardized aptitude test currently used in the school where I work. I, personally, just love to call them the “erb” tests. As in “herb.” As in parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme. As in Peaches and ____. I most definitely digress. At the lunch table I asked the kids, ages ranging from grade 3 to 5, how the morning’s tests went. One third grader who is famous for the bows which always sit perfectly atop her cute little head, said “This is going to be the longest week of my liiiiife.” A fourth grade ragamuffin who likes to call himself “Heinz Cowguts” (which I think is quietly brilliant) said “Oh that stuff’s so eeeeeasy for me! I finished so fast!” I assured Monsieur Cowguts that there were many fellow students for whom this test wasn’t “so eeeeeeasy” and that he might want to use a bit more tact at the lunch table, and that the correct grammar usage would actually be “I finished so quickly.” And then there are the mature, erb-savvy fifth graders for whom this test is old hat and something they merely endure. There are also certain students who require a bit more time and TLC during this testing and, at times, the supply of teachers for proctoring purposes runs low. I gladly accepted the call for reinforcements last week and this morning I went and picked up a couple of third grade girls. One exception: I refuse to be called a “proctor.” Sounds too clinical and a little creepy. They had their razor-sharp No. 2 pencils, their “good luck” notes from their moms, their bright eyes and bushy tails, and their thinking caps were pulled on, straight and tight. In addition, they had bags of candy and were allowed to choose a piece for each break between tests. Uh, where were these bags of candy when I was in third grade? In my recollection, all we got was a sip of water and the satisfaction of knowing we hadn’t yet fainted from the pressure and fallen to the cold linoleum below. After reading the instructions silently over and over again — I think I was as nervous as they were — I finally said those fated words “You may now open your booklets. Begin.” Three sections of the test were to be given today and one of the students, naturally, worked more quickly than the other. I don’t have to tell you how this affected the slower of the two, and you can well imagine the feeling of panic that crept up in her poor, frustrated little mind and body. Test-taker #1 was almost finished with section #2 while test-taker #2 was still in the throes of section #2. Confused? Yes, so was I. Moving on, test-taker #1 moved on to section #3, after her piece of candy, of course (an Andes mint, I think it was). Soon enough, test-taker #2 looked up at me, her sweet, big brown eyes brimming with salty tears and said “Miss Coates my stomach hurts.” And the poor girl broke down. She sobbed but tried with all her might to pull it together. I excused her to the restroom and told her to take some deep breaths and drink plenty of water. What do we need as humans? Air. We need air. And we need water. Everything else is fluff. Except, of course, for the blue raspberry Jolly Rancher I allowed her to enjoy, even though it wasn’t an official “break.” I’m not a big proponent of “official,” if you hadn’t already guessed. After completing section #2, and after test-taker #1 was long gone, test-taker #2 had breakdown #2. I stood up and got her out of her chair and put my arms around her and held her while she cried. Heart-breaking. The pressure this child felt was too much for her to bear. I didn’t handle it all too well either, my poor, poor proctoring self. I asked her if she was overwhelmed and really frustrated and tired of reading all of those millions of words. “Yes ((sniff))” she replied through her tears. I wasn’t going to subject her to any more of the bubble-filling nonsense and I made an executive decision to call it a day. After we both pulled it together and shared a last piece of candy (Lemonheads), I walked her back to her classroom. While walking down that long hallway which must have felt like both freedom and imprisonment to her, I said “You know, as differently as we all learn, we take tests differently too. If you had a different kind of test, say someone put a piece of blank paper and crayons in front of you and said ‘Here is your test: draw a pretty girl with a rainbow above her. You may now begin…’ you’d pass that test with honors!” She offered a weary smile.

A society which rejects a moral imagination (the artistic aspiration toward right order in the soul and right order in the commonwealth) will not necessarily abandon imagination altogether (though the way modernism has treated the fairy tale, that has sadly happened to some extent in our culture).  Instead, we will turn toward what Russell Kirk called “the idyllic imagination” – “the imagination which rejects old dogmas and old manners and rejoices in the notion of emancipation from duty and convention.”  It’s the false freedom that rejects the very need for “right order” in the soul and commonwealth.  It’s the liberty we sinners think we have when we try to live free of God’s loving law. But we quickly get bored and disillusioned with the idyllic imagination, Kirk says.  This makes sense: we weren’t made for that kind of freedom, which is no freedom at all; so its promises are false.  “You will be happy apart from right order in your soul.  You will be miserable having to obey God.  You are your own, and you will be happier as the captain of  your own destiny.”  All lies; all false promises. But having been convinced and then disillusioned, we’re more likely to turn to an even darker form of imagination – what T.S. Eliot called “the diabolic imagination” – “that kind of imagination which delights in the perverse and subhuman.” Eliot writes: The number of people in possession of any criteria for discriminating between good and evil is very small, the number of the half-alive hungry for any form of spiritual experience, or for what offers itself as spiritual experience, high or low, good or bad, is considerable. My own generation has not served them very well. Never has the printing press been so busy, and never have such varieties of buncombe and false doctrine come from it. Woe unto the foolish prophets, that follow their own spirit, and have seen nothing! Not the most encouraging words you’ve ever read. “Right order in the soul” is an important phrase, especially when paralleled with the definition of the diabolic imagination: it delights in the “subhuman.”  There are a lot of ways to define evil, but one of the most potent and oft-used in imaginative fiction is that of dehumanization.  Evil is turning away from created intent.  Aslan told the talking beasts of Narnia that if they behaved like the beasts that do not talk, they would become like them: The Dumb Beasts whom I have not chosen are yours also. Treat them gently and cherish them but do not go back to their ways lest you cease to be Talking Beasts. For out of them you were taken and into them you can return. Do not so. (The Magician’s Nephew 140) George MacDonald’s goblins and humans-turned-creatures in The Princess and Curdie fit the same picture of dehumanization.  Gothic literature portrays evil in the same way: distorted humanity.  Think Jeckyll and Hyde, or Frankenstein’s monster. Eugene Peterson writes: When we say “soul” we are calling attention to the God-origins, God-intentions, God-operations that make us what we are. It is the most personal and most comprehensive term for what we are – man, woman, and child…. “Soul” is a word reverberating with relationships: God-relationships, human-relationships, earth relationships…. “Soul” gets beneath the fragmented surface appearances and experiences and affirms an at-homeness, an affinity with whoever and whatever is at hand. (Christ Plays in Ten Thousand Places 37) Hence, right order in the soul and in the commonweatlth (society/relationships) is vital, and they are related to one another.  (The next two entries in this series on moral imagination will explore how.)  And a society which abandons a moral imagination for the idyllic and diabolic will distort both the soul and the commonwealth. Part 1 Part 2 Forthcoming – Part 4: Ancient Desires; Part 5: The Golden Rule #diabolicimagination #MoralImagination #RussellKirk #idyllicimagination #TSEliot

I see myself in Moses, and in Gideon, arguing with God. “Who am I, that I should go to Pharaoh?,” asks Moses. “How shall I save Israel? My family is the poorest, and I am the least,” said Gideon. And to both God says, “I will certainly be with thee.” After that argument-ending statement by God they both still argue. “They won’t listen to me. I’m not a good speaker.” “Oh, Lord, give me a sign.” God replies to Moses: “Who made man’s mouth? I will be with your mouth and teach you what to say.” To Gideon He gives signs. And still they struggle with the apparent, the seen, the contradiction of a weak humanity that is told to go and do great things. Even more familiar, yet strange, is to see Deity make concessions to their weakness and arguing. Their faith-struggle came from being beaten down, from having their natural faith in themselves put to death. Murder brought the proud Moses, raised in all the wisdom of the Egyptians, to the backside of the desert. This man who thought he could deliver Israel singlehandedly by his own devices had to be hidden, tending sheep for year after year. In Gideon’s days, the Midianites oppressed Israel seven years, and finally Gideon was reduced to hiding in order to thresh out enough wheat to barely get by. They both started slow in their walk of faith. “But…but…but.” My life is mirrored in that. For years I followed, trusted, relied on, obeyed God in some ways. I said, “But this, but that,” in many others. I started slow. There is comfort in knowing the stories of Moses and Gideon. But now their names resonate as God’s heroes of faith, rich with implication, full of years and meaning. Gideon, according to the end of Judges 8, may have fallen short of his revelation as a hero. But he is still given a mention in the hall of faith in Hebrews 11. How did Moses and Gideon jump from Alpha to Omega? It was a process, yes. But the main attitude I see in them as they grow in faith is a blossoming disregard of circumstance for the solidity of Promise. God said it. I believe it, and I’m stepping out on the Word spoken. I say, “Whatever the circumstance, and my human perception of it, it can all go to hell if it contradicts the Word; God has spoken.” Why did God use Moses and Gideon? Why did He persevere with men who argued with Him? They knew they were weak, helpless, unable. And only such men, hammered in the furnace of affliction, can give God the full credit. “Not by might, nor by power, but by My Spirit,” saith the Lord. Only in the knowledge of our weakness are we safe with God’s empowering. So I see myself in Moses, and Gideon. I’ve wrestled, and sometimes still do. But I have a settled knowledge of my total weakness, my inability to be and do anything apart from God’s imparted, indwelling Divine Life in Christ. And yet, “He is able, He is able, He is willing, doubt no more.” I’m to move from weakness to Strength. My ability or my upbringing or my circumstances never have to be the deciding factors. That makes me look forward to a future lit up with a sunrise of potential and possibility, of peril and rescue, of fathering and husbanding, of people and music, of intercession, of faithfully borne sorrows free of self-pity. It is the sword of the Lord – and of Gideon – slicing through demonic lies, fears, oppression, and bondage to free captives after the clay jar is broken, revealing the Light that conquers and sets foes to flight. Obedience has become just another word for trust.

Heaven knows why it has taken me so long to write a little something about this album, the newest EP from friend and soul sister, Julie Lee. Julie and I met several years ago at a friend’s house and found immediate ease in conversation and a unique connection; sparks of light and magic hung lightly in the air around our collision. It was one of those instances where you know for sure that the God of the Universe meant for you to meet this one particular human being out of the millions that He created. I know that sounds a little dramatic, but I like drama (the good kind only, please) and am grateful when I find it happening in my little life. Julie is a consummate artist. She makes cornbread, she makes aprons, she makes songs that make me feel all brand-new, she makes art out of other rusty, splintered and otherwise used/aged things. If I ever knew a kindred spirit in “Truth for Twine.” Unique, evocative, rich. I ran into Julie at the Americana Folk Festival back in October. I slid unsuspectingly into a tent in the Artist Village (what a nice place that would be to take up residence) and there she stood, in all of her handmade-aproned-glory — just the cutest sight you ever saw. She’s got dimples which I covet deeply, sweet, clear blue eyes, and a lilting, musical, Dear reader, had I known what this music would do for my heart and soul, I’d have wrestled her to the dirt floor, hog-tied her (gently) and pressed a fresh fifty into her palm….but really, how can I put a price on such enchanting creations as Julie has wrought? The record’s opener, “Petit Bebe,” twinkles and dances with windchimes, echoing guitar, and Julie’s ethereal, soft cooing. I imagine a sunlit morning, a mother with long ropes of chestnut hair twisted about on her head and dressed in light linen. She cradles her small child and prances barefoot through the dew beneath boughs of bright, new green growth in a grove of birch trees. I sound like a complete loon. Track two, “Morning,” is a gorgeous, more deliberate continuation of the peaceful lull of the previous track. The lyrics are from an Emily Dickinson poem, and among my favorite lines from the album are these:“Oh some scholar, Oh some sailor, Oh some Wise Man from the skies! Please to tell a little Pilgrim where the place called ‘Morning’ lies!” The tune meanders delicately in and out of intensity. It glitters. She advances further into Dickinson territory with track three “Hope’s The Thing With Feathers.” “And sweetest in the gale is heard; and sore must be the storm, that could abash the little bird that kept so many warm.” What a comfort is found in these words, and what a beautifully rendered portrait of Hope, set perfectly to an ardent melody by Miss Lee. The gem, the real darling of this record in my estimation, is track five, “The Other Half.” It diverts from the warm-hued opening songs and takes me to a dark wood shadowed by verdigris, ultramarine and indigo. It breaks my heart and makes me ache in a place where I’ve never been wounded. It’s a song about the anguish of divorce. In her words, melody and instrumentation, she brings me a sense of sorrow that I hope I never have to feel in earnest. A plaintive tune, a single horn, low and soft like an old friend’s reassuring tone, and her lyrics: “The memory makes me cry, makes me think of you, of your kiss so slow, of your eyes so blue; What you said to me, whispered in my ear, made my knees go weak, filled my eyes with tears…” It is difficult to write about music like this without finally just saying with much conviction and a dash of frustration, “Just listen to it. You’ll feel it all.”

On second thought maybe I won’t start Twittering. Not yet. Not unless someone can convince me that it’s more than just… “… the telegraph of Narcissus. Not only are you the star of the show, but everything that happens to you, no matter how trifling, is a headline, a media event, a stop-the-presses bulletin.” From Nicholas Carr, via Justin Talyor. Ouch. The “telegraph of Narcissus.” That’s good copy. Also, I still haven’t taken the time to really understand what Twitter is, or how it works. Is it basically like the old Status Update on Facebook? Mostly like the ones which say “…is taking a nap,” “…is making dinner.” Wow, awesome news. Dinner. But we could analyze that stuff all day and I think we can all rest assured that the government is spending trillions on studying this stuff as we speak. What am I turning into, a curmudgeonly critic of modern superfluity? I like hearing those kinds of updates from some people -especially when it’s entertaining. Otherwise, there’s the “hide” feature on Facebook at least. Use it and save precious minutes. Someone who has really good Status Updates is our very own Eric Peters. He had a recent one that went like this: “Eric Peters pities the poor, rotting Easter eggs forgotten and undiscovered in lawns across the USA.” S.D. Smith likes this. I saw where Ashton Kutcher beat Larry King and CNN at getting a million Twitter followers. That is a lot of twits. I mean tweets. It is also making it extremely easy on the dude who writes that feature in Sports Illustrated called “Signs of the Apocalypse.” I feel like I wasted time taking ten seconds to hear the news about it reported. How much worse would it be to actually hear anything that Ashton is doing unless he is Punking Andrew Peterson. AP: What do you mean I’m a drug mule for Compassion International? AK: Ha, Ha! You got Punked. AP: Oh. Hold on a second, let me send a tweet about this. AK: No way, I’m already doing it. I have a million followers. AP: I think you’re actually Punking all of them, then. Because that is a joke. Maybe I’ll start an even quicker and more immediate social connection medium: Twitcher. Every three seconds or so all of your bodily movements, “Twitches,” are recorded and broadcast to all the people who think you’re a big deal. I see money in my :::back spasm::: future.

From The Saving Life of Christ: The only ultimate source of divine activity in all spiritual life is God Himself – “Christ in you the hope of glory” (Col 1:27). The Church is so slow to learn. It admires and seeks to emulate the example of the mighty but so seldom takes the trouble “to turn aside and see” the reason why. You read the lives of men like Hudson Taylor, George Mueller, Dwight L. Moody, A.B. Simpson – men whose lives have made spiritual history. You would like to be like them and do the things they did, and yet maybe you have never taken the trouble to find out why it was they were what they were, nor how it was they did what they did! Instead, you mobilize your own resources and seek to emulate the example they set, and are constantly buffeted by a sense of frustration because of your hopeless failure in the endeavor. As some have sought to introduce you to the principles that made these men what they were, and enabled them to do what they did, you have been impatient, and said, “Don’t interfere! I’m too busy trying to be like them, and I don’t have time to listen to you!” Now is that not stupid? Why was Hudson Taylor what he was, and how could he do what he did? Why was A.B. Simpson what he was, and how could he do what he did? Were they God’s favorites? Of course they were not! They were simply men who had qualified in the school of failure and despair. They were men who came to the end of themselves and discovered that what they were apart from God was nothing! Moses began by being a failure! That was the school from which he qualified! Abraham began by being a failure! That was the school from which he qualified! Jacob was a hopeless failure! David was a hopeless failure! Elijah was a hopeless failure! Isaiah was a hopeless failure and “a man of unclean lips,” but it is in the school of destitution – the bitter school of self-discovery – that finally you graduate into usefulness, when at last you finally discover the total bankruptcy of what you are apart from what God is! These men made this discovery, and were blessed.

In our desire to be effective expressions of Christ we often fall prey to a subtle trick of the enemy. A temptation arises; we feel the pull of flesh-desires. It doesn’t matter what it is; a thought to use our hatred against a person instead of against evil; sexual desire being stirred to wrong use; the pull to verbally dishonor our parents. This temptation is not yet in itself sin. But here’s where the Devil’s trickery  comes in. He gets us to respond to the temptation by pulling back from it in our own human thinking, strength, and will. Let’s pretend that I’m the devil, like Peter O’Toole in the original Bedazzled. I am standing in front of you, and I pull you toward myself. Your natural response is going to be to pull back in order to keep your balance. The strength of my pulling will be matched by the strength of your reactionary pull; this, in your  mind, will keep your balance. But here’s the devil’s trick: He pulls, subtly at first, then as we resist he begins to pour on the strength. At the height of our pulling he suddenly lets go. He is pulling us hard toward license. We pull back hard in our own effort; he releases us to our own pulling energy, and we fall stumbling backward into Law. Now, this fall back into Law is very effective for Satan’s purposes. We can stay there and we will begin to feel pride at our “defeat” of the devil. We’ll think, “Wow, I did it. I resisted temptation.” That wonderfully leavening feeling will begin to lift us up (we sometimes mistake this for edification). There we’ll sit in pride, not knowing it. But pride goes before a fall. The leaven of pride pushes us further and further into self-satisfaction and independence from God. This pushing is really the pull-back of a gigantic slingshot into sin. “The power of sin is the Law,” says 1Cor 15:56. The Greek word there for power is “dunamis” from which we get “dynamite.” This “me for God” independent effort thinking is what gives sin its explosive power over us. To live according to Law is simply to think we are a human self trying to be “like Christ” with God’s help. But if God merely “helps” us, that means we do some of it for ourselves, hence the attractive power of Law. The further and deeper we go into Law, the more likely it is to explode us into sin. A popular preacher in the 1980s was preaching Law-sermons  against immorality, prompting people to strive in their own effort to avoid sin. The gigantic slingshot pulled further and further until it released and  snapped him into the backseat of a car with a prostitute. So what should be our proper reaction to this devilish tug of war? We first prepare by suiting up. We fight by simply standing. “Put on the whole armor of God, that ye may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil” (Eph 6:11). The word for stand is histemi which means “to make firm, to fix (in place), to establish,” among other things. We falsely believe we must resist by our force because our minds have been programmed with the world; we believe we must keep ourselves, that we must do something to be Christ-like. But if Christ is our Rock, then we’ve got a weight in us that is too heavy for Satan to move. He is our Keeper. Our Fortress. Our Stronghold. All we’re to do is stand in Him by faith. That’s why we put on the full armor of God. It is a burden that is light to us, a yoke that is easy. But to the devil it bears the weight of the Eternal God.  He can pull and push all he wants, and if we rely on Christ, we’re not moving a bit. We can feel the temptations come and go, desires in us rise up and fall, the winds of feeling and circumstance spinning around us like a typhoon, and yet we stand. “I am in Christ, and out of Him I will not go.” We’re not to respond with effort and fall into Law, but to stand by faith.