Here in these weeks leading up to Christmas, we have been posting a series of meditations focused on the story of Jesus’ birth from the Gospels.  For more on what Advent means and why many Christains observe it, here’s a short introduction.  Now we come to the last entry of our virtual advent wreath– the meditation that accompanies the white candle– the Christ Candle, for those playing along at home.   The text for this final Christmas Day reflection comes from Matthew 1:18-25.  Merry Christmas, everyone. 18Now the birth of Jesus Christ took place in this way. When his mother Mary had been betrothed to Joseph, before they came together she was found to be with child from the Holy Spirit. 19And her husband Joseph, being a just man and unwilling to put her to shame, resolved to divorce her quietly. 20But as he considered these things, behold, an angel of the Lord appeared to him in a dream, saying, “Joseph, son of David, do not fear to take Mary as your wife, for that which is conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit. 21She will bear a son, and you shall call his name Jesus, for he will save his people from their sins.” 22All this took place to fulfill what the Lord had spoken by the prophet: 23″Behold, the virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and they shall call his name Immanuel” (which means, God with us). 24When Joseph woke from sleep, he did as the angel of the Lord commanded him: he took his wife, 25but knew her not until she had given birth to a son. And he called his name Jesus.     —Matthew 1:18-25 (ESV) Joseph was a decent man.  When all this began and his bride to be turned up expecting a baby, he wasn’t sure what to do.  He didn’t want to shame her, though he could have.  Should he just cut his losses and let her go?  His world was spinning. This burden weighed heavy on him, flooding both his every waking thought and his every dream. One night, as he tossed and turned over the situation one more time, an angel of the Lord appeared to tell him this baby was not forming in Mary’s belly because of anything she had done, but because of something God had done. “She will bear a son, conceived of the Holy Spirit, and you, Joseph, will name him Jesus, because He will save His people from their sins.” It was just as the prophet had said.  That prophet—the one who said the virgin would conceive and have a son who would be called Immanuel—that was the prophet Isaiah. Do you remember Isaiah? He had a tough job.  God had called him to relay the news of the Lord’s coming judgment of his people, Israel.  God had dispatched Assyria to come and carry them out of their homes and into foreign lands.  Babylon would follow suit. But laced throughout Isaiah’s words from God was a magnificent description of His plan to save and redeem this people who failed Him over and over again. What would this look like?  Did the people’s idea of that salvation bear any resemblance to the salvation God meant to give? Through Isaiah, the Lord clarified something for those trying to imagine it: “As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts higher than your thoughts.”  (Isa 53:8) As the heavens are higher than the earth?  That much higher?  Really? Oh, the paradox of salvation!  The people desperate for a savior have an idea of what they think they need?  So what child is this that God has sent?  Is he what they imagined? While God’s people look to the east for their King to arrive in majesty, God quietly sends His angel to a poor teenage girl in the no-account town of Nazareth. God’s people expect His Messiah to be known by all upon His arrival, but God brings Him under the cover of darkness—under the shelter of a cave doubling this night as a stable and a maternity ward. God’s people anticipate strength, but are delivered a fragile, tiny baby. They seek inspiration they can follow, but they are given one who would be countless times rejected. They long for their suffering and oppression to end with His coming.  Yet He came to suffer—to live a life of affliction. They look for impenetrable strength in His person, and yet He would take upon Himself the wounds of us all and die under the weight of them. To all of this God tells us His ways are higher than our ways.  And for this, we should be eternally grateful.  After all, what did we really know?  We did not know what we needed. When we thought we needed a figurehead, God gave us a sacrificial Lamb. When we thought we needed inspiration, God gave us a man of sorrows.  When we thought we needed strength to overcome persecution, God gave us One who would become subject to it, even unto death.  When we thought we were healthy, He took up our infirmities.  When we thought we were righteous, our iniquity was laid upon Him.  When we thought our own righteousness would save us, by His wounds we were healed.  When we thought we were safely “in the fold,” never transgressing God, He was counted among the transgressors for us.  He bore the sins of many and makes intersession for the transgressors. His thoughts are not like our thoughts. This is more than a comparison of intellect, as though he is just smarter. His thoughts transcend time and space.  He sees through the perfectly formed lens of history.  His eye pierces through all the veils, known and unknown, we hang around our hearts.  He sees through the smoke and shadows we throw out to camouflage our true selves. What has God prepared?  Isaiah would describe Mary and Joseph’s baby, our Savior Jesus Christ, this way: “He had no beauty or majesty to attract us to him, nothing in his appearance that we should desire him.  He was despised and rejected by men, a man of sorrows, and familiar with suffering. Like one from whom men hide their faces he was despised, and we esteemed him not.  Surely he took up our infirmities and carried our sorrows, yet we considered him stricken by God, smitten by him, and afflicted.  But he was pierced for our transgressions, he was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was upon him, and by his wounds we are healed.  We all, like sheep, have gone astray, each of us has turned to his own way; and the LORD has laid on him the iniquity of us all… Therefore I will give him a portion among the great, and he will divide the spoils with the strong, because he poured out his life unto death, and was numbered with the transgressors. For he bore the sin of many, and made intercession for the transgressors.”  (Isaiah 53:2-6, 12) This is not the account of some heavenly being who came to hover over us.  Nor is it a picture of one who figured out how to work around us.  This is the image of a Savior who is burrowed deep in the messes and details of our lives.  This is a description of Immanuel, God with us. Before He was even born, he was already burrowed deep into the messes and details Joseph’s life.  Joseph awoke from his dream, and for the first time in a while felt like a man who knew what he was supposed to do.  He was supposed to love Mary, to take care of her and keep her as safe and secure as he could. He married that girl and took her to his hometown to register them as a family.  While they were there, she gave birth to a son.  And in that private moment, to us a child was born and to us a son was given.  Joseph stepped forward and said, “His name will be Jesus,” because as the angel said, “He will save his people from their sins.” And though Joseph could not have known what this would entail, we know.  We see Christmas through the lens of Easter and find in this baby, whose birth we celebrate on Christmas, one who has saved His people from their sins.  On Christmas, here is what we remember.  Here is what we anticipate.  Here is what we celebrate. “The true light, which enlightens everyone, was coming into the world. He was in the world, and the world was made through him, yet the world did not know him. He came to his own, and his own people did not receive him. But to all who did receive him, who believed in his name, he gave the right to become children of God, who were born, not of blood nor of the will of the flesh nor of the will of man, but of God. And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us, and we have seen his glory, glory as of the only Son from the Father, full of grace and truth.”  (John 1:9-14) The light of the world has come.  May your celebration of Christmas be marked by your worship of Jesus.

I was back in Michigan for the second time in three-and-a-half weeks. Knowing that it was a long drive to our ultimate destination of Lake City, my family left Nashville early on a  Thursday where we reached Grand Rapids that evening and stayed the night with friends, Paul and Lyn, Michiganders who have been kind enough to host the traveling Peters clan in their warm and inviting home on more than one occasion. I must mention here that two gentlemen helped me in the laborious and ridiculously long 3-month process of painting the exterior of my house: my neighbor Matt who, of his own accord, took up brush and pail when we had to rush to Louisiana in early September for a death in the family, and tall Michigander, Paul, who spent five days high atop a ladder slopping Grandiose Green on the wood siding of our 1925 cottage. As their names might imply, they are saints and true friends of action. I could not have finished the job without them. After eating a pair of cheddar dogs at Yesterdog and racing through a most excellent but pricey used book store in the historic Eastown section of Grand Rapids, we drove the remaining two hours north to Lake City on Friday evening, where I was to play at a Young Life camp. It snowed the entire weekend, and on the drive up I could barely make out painted pavement edges from off-road uncertainty. I gripped the wheel with a firmer grasp but we arrived safe and sound. [I know what you’re thinking:  you non-southerners are chuckling internally (or externally) at my even bothering to mention the perils of driving in snow and ice.] Ellis, currently in possession of a dull black and blue shiner from falling down the concrete porch steps at home the other day, does remarkably well considering that he must sit strapped in his car seat for long jaunts owing to his wandering parents who can’t seem to sit still themselves. I’m paranoid that folks who see the black eye might automatically assume the worst of us. It’s one of those worries that comes with being a parent, I suppose, but I’ve actually taken that fear and followed it to a very disturbing, albeit fantasized, conclusion, one in which county social services shows up at the door and removes Ellis from his “unfit” parents. Fear ruins and makes us slaves. The weather continued to deteriorate throughout the weekend. Saturday, the snow fell sideways, abundantly, and often. It was cold enough for me to conclude that it was far too cold to be outdoors, and that I possess none of the appropriate clothing for life in such a setting. Sunday, conditions were much more bearable for the drive out of camp where we encamped another night at Paul and Lyn’s. We left their house the following morning and pulled up to the curb at our abode later that evening, a mere 10 hours in the car with only non-stop country or Christmas radio to listen to. Home to stay is a good feeling to these weary bones, these red eyes which have seen many road skies lately, and my carpal-tunneled wrists which always seem to bother me more when I’m driving, than when not. I opened our front door and immediately plugged in the Christmas tree lights, eager to visually begin this season of rest with my wife and son (along with our soon-expected second child). As Michigander Lyn often states, you learn to see grace in the small things:  a break in the winter gray clouds, a small ray of sunlight, a pause in the cold, a safe and firm step on uncertain terrain. The small graces always add up to the big Grace of rebirth. When that time comes, there is rejoicing. Until then, we hope. Happy holidays, everyone.

“All the toil of man is for his mouth, yet his appetite is not satisfied. For what advantage has the wise man over the fool? And what does the poor man have who knows how to conduct himself before the living? Better is the sight of the eyes than the wandering of the appetite: this also is vanity and a striving after wind.” Ecclesiastes 6:7-9 (esv) I don’t like to shop. I just go ahead and drop before I shop so I don’t have to go. Every day is black Friday for me –lots of sales I don’t care about and don’t want to be within a hundred miles of. Conjure up a mental image of me shaking my cane at the world. “Ya’ Dang kids,” he shouts. But I am not really glum; I just don’t like shopping at stores. (Note: The Rabbit Room store is on-line and stocked with great gifting items. Buy, Buy, Love. In that order.) It’s the old adage again: “Does a fish know it’s wet?” We don’t even realize to what extent our hearts have been affected by this prevailing culture of spending and spending more.  We are basically being programmed for envy. The political arguments are often made between those who benefit from success and selfishness and those benefiting from the institutionalization of envy. It’s an ugly scene. And we can barely see it for all the billboards blocking our view. This is another good reason to take the advice of C.S. Lewis about reading old books and not just ones from our own century. Because it helps us see our blind spots. And our blind spots are behind cash registers and whatever Star ‘o the Month is wearing. So we have wisdom from Ecclesiastes. Better is the sight of the eyes than the roaming of the appetite. Look in front of you, not to the left, or right (where all your neighbor’s stuff is). This goes down deep, to the level of idolatry. If we are unhappy with our Father’s provision, and we long to have what he has provided for another man, it is a short step to wanting another Father.  Another god. This is a treacherous road, but it is the highway of our culture, the route of our trade. Gifts are grand; I love the tradition of giving and receiving we have in this season. But thankfulness for God’s provision (including future grace) is the most fundamental mark of the Christian. Likewise coveting essentially identifies the unbeliever –he rejects the provision of God. The gospel is about the provision of God for our deepest need. The Christian life is a continual leaning on that provision and loving the Father who is its loving and gracious source. Why do we covet when we have all we could ever need? Why are we thirsty when living water is in us? Flesh wars with spirit and Advent is a central front in the conflict. Here the principle combatants are clearly identified on the field and the battle is joined. Why does the periphery call to us with such potency? The corners of our eyes are a paradise of lies. The feast is before us. We have a Father. He is good.

Jonathan’s incident with Randy McLeod underscores the neediness inherent in our God-created flesh, whether we are believers or unbelievers. Sometimes famous people turn to substance abuse as an anodyne. It’s a horrific realization to finally climb to the top of the pile and still feel the same self-hatred as before. Others, after years of fame, may end up trying to start charities and such. What they (and we) are looking for is meaning, purpose, security, love; we’re looking to make a name for ourselves, to feel worth something, to know our lives have counted. But that can’t come by starting charities; that’s often just another way to feel on top of the pile, or to assuage guilt for having success when so many others are starving. The problem lies in trying to suck meaning and security from the fallen world system rather than getting it from Jesus Christ. Hopefully as believers each of us is on the move to appropriate the limitless love and power of Christ. God intentionally built that neediness inside each of us so that He could be the Supply. That’s the purpose of the Cross – to bring that resurrection life right into the heart of our neediness, to be our Source, so that we are complete and can overflow to others. He’s given us everything we need for life and godliness – that means we are no longer needy. If we’re hungry and seated at a table piled with a feast there is no need to look elsewhere. Let’s look at it another way. Doesn’t it make you feel good when someone whose work you deeply admire praises your own? Now, in a worldly sense that’s a good thing, as far as it goes. But if we take that pleasure of being praised into a higher plane, what we’re all really looking for is a resounding, eternal, “Well done!” at the end of our lives. When our daily thought-life gets connected with that sort of Fame, the eternal kind, we’re at least beginning to be on the right track. To paraphrase Proverbs, “Favor is deceitful, and beauty is vain, but a person who fears the Lord, they will be praised.” The worldly favor enjoyed by the famous, just like money hoarded by the rich, is a double-edged sword. It can fool us as to what actually matters, to our eternal destruction. But we can’t think we’re safe just because we’re not famous or rich; George MacDonald said it best: “If it be things that slay us, what matter if it be things we have, or things we have not?” Any of us can be easily fooled into focusing on temporal things if we don’t abide in Christ. As the Christ-indwelt, it’s always better to take up our sword and slay the false self – the not-real self – whenever it rears its ugly head. We’re to allow God to work in us to “take off a lot of silly, ugly, fancy-dress in which we have all got ourselves up and are strutting about like the little idiots we are…getting rid of the false self, with all its ‘Look at me’ and “Aren’t I a good boy?’ and all its posing and posturing” (C.S. Lewis, Mere Christianity). In the end only one thing will truly matter – the extent to which we trusted Christ to live through us to others, however that ends up being expressed in our work, our lives, our families, our art. To build a life out of that is to build with gold, silver, and precious stones; it means we’re living out of our true Name and reaching for the only fame that matters.

I’m in my bunk on the tour bus, which is in some ways like a coffin, in other ways like a berth on a ship.  Some nights it feels more like a bunk bed at a sleep over with a bunch of friends, only your friends have whiskers and wives at home.  To my left is a curtain that opens onto a little hallway of other drawn curtains where the other members of the tour are probably sleeping now.  To my right is a book by Mark Helprin (one of the finest writers I’ve ever read) called Winter’s Tale.  I’ve been reading it for six months or so and just can’t seem to finish it–not because it’s not good, but because it is.  I don’t want it to end.  Beside that is a book of poetry called Nine Horses by Billy Collins (which I highly recommend, especially if you’re like me and you don’t usually like poetry). Let’s see, what else?  A pair of dirty socks, my backpack, my cell phone, and a framed picture of a fourth grade class.  The picture was a gift from a school teacher at our show in Charlotte.  She gave each of her students a copy of one of my albums to coincide with a series of lessons and took a picture of the kids for me. So now you know what it’s like in my secret chamber.  Oh, I should probably also mention that it’s 3:31 am. This morning, with David Mead’s song “Nashville” rolling down the road of my brain, I crawled out of my bunk and lifted the blinds to see the fine sight of my hometown, draped in fog.  The Ryman Auditorium is a red brick beauty, a 118-year-old building kneeling among the skyscrapers in a kind of stately humility.  It is a place that is thick with history both American and musical, and the spirits in its halls sing of the precious intersection of Place and Time. In minutes the bus door flew open and my three kids barreled in to deliver hugs, kisses on the cheek, and a hundred questions at once.  Jamie and I took the kids back home so we could sign some papers, start the laundry, and rush out the door to meet my parents for lunch once their plane landed.  We ate at Five Guys Burgers and Fries, whose burgers are my current favorite.  We talked about home and my dad’s ministry and the fact that I had just gotten word that the Ryman was close to selling out.  I wiped the grease from my fingers, bade my family farewell for the afternoon, and headed back to the Ryman for soundcheck. This is my favorite part of the day, I think.  I saw friend after friend arrive at that grand ole concert hall with their instruments slung over their shoulders: Pierce Pettis and his guitar, Ron Block and his banjo, Michael Card and his bouzouki, Stuart Duncan and his fiddle.  In walked Marcus, the violinist who helped me find the melody for “Deliver Us” nine years ago, Andrew, my boys’ old violin teacher, Randall Goodgame with his gentle grin, Kurt and his daughter.  Then the rest of the band trickled in: Gabe, Garett, Ben, the Brothers Henry, Gullahorn, Cason,  Biggs, Osenga, Jill, Bebo, Todd–all of them bearers of the Spirit and willing to use their gifts in this way for the sake of the Kingdom.  I love bouncing from place to place, checking in on the little clusters of conversation to be sure everyone has what they need and knows where they need to be.  I hear snippets of laughter and sincerity everywhere I turn.  There’s an outpouring of goodwill and patience and service that astounds me.  Every year, it astounds me.  And I can only think that the reason for this goodness is the Gospel about which we have gathered to sing. That Gospel draws us like the call of a jubilant voice deep in the woods.  We hear, and we follow, and though we scarcely know how we know, we believe the source of the voice is good and the only thing worth knowing.  All at once, we emerge from all sides in a clearing.  We are cut by thorns and weary to the bone.  In the center of the clearing swirls a warm, symphonic light within which glows–depending on the tilt of the head–a patient eye, or an open hand, or the slender form of a man with his hands on his hips, laughing.  And you know that it’s Him.  Then the skill in your fingers, the ache in your heart, the talent in your soul–all of it–strains to do His work.  It strains like a warhorse pawing the ground in the moments before the charge. Then comes the downbeat, and the crowd falls silent as the story is told. After the show, after the pictures are taken and the thank-yous are spoken, Jamie and I escape to the nearest Waffle House.  It’s a tradition.  We sit in a booth and decompress over a plate of bad/good food.  We pray before we eat and speak quietly so the people in the next booth won’t eavesdrop.  Now that I think of it, this is my favorite part of the day.  And it’s because of the company, not the food–honest.  Near midnight, my bride dropped me off at the bus for the last three shows of the tour, and she went home to the Warren where our children and my parents are sleeping. I am grateful for precious days like this one, when light, love, and music make it that much easier to believe that there is a God in whose heart lies a secret chamber for each of us, where there is rest and comfort and safety.  In our Father’s house there are many rooms.  Do not let your hearts be troubled.

Here in these weeks leading up to Christmas, we are posting a series of meditations focused on the story of Jesus’ birth from the Gospels.  For more on what Advent means and why many Christains observe it, here’s a short introduction.  If you’d like to make a wreath of your own for your family or study group, here’s how.  The text for this week’s reflection comes from Matthew 2:1-12. 1Now after Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea in the days of Herod the king, behold, wise men from the east came to Jerusalem, 2saying, “Where is he who has been born king of the Jews? For we saw his star when it rose and have come to worship him.” 3When Herod the king heard this, he was troubled, and all Jerusalem with him; 4and assembling all the chief priests and scribes of the people, he inquired of them where the Christ was to be born. 5They told him, “In Bethlehem of Judea, for so it is written by the prophet: 6″‘And you, O Bethlehem, in the land of Judah, are by no means least among the rulers of Judah; for from you shall come a ruler who will shepherd my people Israel.'” 7Then Herod summoned the wise men secretly and ascertained from them what time the star had appeared. 8And he sent them to Bethlehem, saying, “Go and search diligently for the child, and when you have found him, bring me word, that I too may come and worship him.” 9After listening to the king, they went on their way. And behold, the star that they had seen when it rose went before them until it came to rest over the place where the child was. 10When they saw the star, they rejoiced exceedingly with great joy. 11And going into the house they saw the child with Mary his mother, and they fell down and worshiped him. Then, opening their treasures, they offered him gifts, gold and frankincense and myrrh. 12And being warned in a dream not to return to Herod, they departed to their own country by another way.      —Matthew 2:1-12 (ESV) Herod the Great was a paranoid sociopath—a personality perfect for the job he held as the ruler of Judea under the authority of Rome.  He built his empire to create the illusion that he was a man who could be in many places at the same time.  Aside from his fortresses at Herodium, Sebaste, Machaerus and Masada, he also built palaces in Caesarea, Jericho and Jerusalem.  At any moment, he could have been in any one of them.  So at every moment, he might was well have been in all of them. His affinity for architecture was well known, as was his obsessive mistrust of those he couldn’t keep an eye on, and even more so of those he could. Already the bones of one wife, several sons and multiple distant relatives were gathered in the family tomb as the result of his conviction that each and every one of them was at one time or another involved in a conspiracy to kill him. There could only be one ruler in Judea.  Herod was passionate about this. Learned men from the east, experts in the study of sacred texts, had heard that somewhere in Judea a king had been born—the king of the Jews.  They remembered that their Jewish holy book said, “A star shall come out of Jacob, and a scepter shall rise out of Israel.” (Num 24:17)  So when they saw a star they did not know rise in the direction of Jerusalem, an uncommon star that seemed to have been lit for them, they followed it. It led them to Jerusalem.  They wanted to honor this king and to pay tribute to his majesty, so they began to ask around.  Where was he? When Herod was told of these men and their quest, the dissonance of hearing the words “king” and “Jews” with no mention of him was more than he could bear.  He summoned the chief priests and the scribes to tell him everything they knew about this king, no doubt smoldering all the while with the notion that they had been holding out on him. Herod came seeking a theology lesson, and the priests gave it.  The prophet Micah said that the Messiah would be born in Bethlehem, the city there just a few miles south where Jacob’s love Rachel was buried and where King David was born.  They gave Herod these details without hesitation, quoting Scripture to the verse.  They knew all about it.  But still, not one lifted a foot to go and see for themselves if the Magi were right. The Chief Priests were the keepers of the temple and the religious life and culture of the Jews.  The Scribes, or teachers of the law, were the guardians of the Word of God.  They wrote copies of the sacred scriptures, poured over them, knew the minute details of every scroll of every book. And yet, among those who should have been the most expectant, all the religious leaders displayed at the mention of their coming king was apathy. They did not seek him then.  They would not seek him later either.  When he was grown and was ministering around them, they did not believe in him. But Herod did. Herod was one to err on the side of caution and it was enough for him that the Magi had come so far so laden with such gifts.  But this one, he figured, he should play close to the vest.  If there was such a king, maybe the Magi could lead him there.  Maybe if he feigned a desire to pay a tribute of his own, the Magi would see in him a comrade. “When you find him,” Herod told the visitors, “Come back and tell me where he is.  I have a gift of my own.” After hearing him out, they left for the settlement to the south.  It wasn’t long before their familiar star rose before them, leading them like a shepherd to a house on the outskirts of town. Finding the king, it was no wonder why he was nothing more than a murmur in Jerusalem.  When they entered the house, they found a child in the arms of a young woman—practically still a girl were it not for the other-worldly look of an old soul in her eyes. There was something about that moment that only the woman, her husband, the Magi and the child knew—something that bent the knees of those scholars to the posture of worship.  There was no crown, no miracle they could see, no sign of greatness.  Just a woman and a child. One of the Magi moved forward on behalf of the rest and produced a purse of gold.  Laying it at the child’s feet, another came with a flask of myrrh, and another with a box of frankincense.  Unaware that they were probably funding a hasty trip to Egypt, they gave these gifts for no other reason than to honor the one born King of the Jews. This was not their king.  Israel’s God was not their people’s God.  And yet, here they were because the thought of a God of mercy with healing in His wings awakened in them a longing to be close. No matter how unfamiliar the King in this story may be, God beckons the multitudes across the span of space and time to behold His salvation and to worship. The journey of these Magi was a success.  As they slept the slumber of satisfaction, an angel unfamiliar to them but known well to the woman warned them to take another route home.  History would remember a Herod dripping with the blood of wives and sons.  But not this son, not yet. Having been made aware of Herod’s bloodlust for this baby and his insidious, yet consistent plan to slaughter all Judean male children under the age of two, Joseph gathered his wife and the boy and set out for Egypt.

Here in the Rabbit Room, we try hard not to speak disparagingly about authors and artists.  Rather, we laud the work that we admire and remain silent about that which we do not.  However, sometimes exceptions must be made.  In this case, the exception is that Andrew Osenga is hilarious.  While I was talking with him recently about the newest cultural phenomenon which is Twilight, Andrew got passionate and I got tickled.  I haven’t read the book yet, nor have I seen the movie, but what I’ve read about it leaves me a little concerned–not because it’s about vampires, or because it’s about teen romance, but because of its subtle (and sometimes not-so-subtle) themes.  Also, because I have a hunch that it bears little or no artistic or literary merit.  Someone emailed us recently and asked about a Rabbit Room perspective on this movie, and Travis Prinzi has a more in-depth one coming.  In the meantime, enjoy Osenga’s editorial. The Proprietor So Andrew Peterson has been telling me for well over a year that I was welcome to post here at the Rabbit Room.  He came to me a few days ago and said “Hey, remember that terrible book you sort of read?  Want to review it on the site?”  It seems like the perfect opportunity for my inaugural post.  Russ Ramsey and Jason Gray write about theology and Paul Simon, I will write about teenage vampires. To begin: I sort of read the book “Twilight”.  By that I mean, I read all but the last ten pages.  I knew there was a sequel, which meant that at least most of the characters did not die in an atomic bomb during those last ten pages and therefore there was no ending that would have satisfied me. “Twilight” is the worst book I’ve ever read.  And I read half of the first “Left Behind” book.  I picked it up because I was told it was in the vein of Harry Potter.  I love the idea of secret societies, whole new worlds right within our own to discover and enjoy.  That stuff thrills me.  “Twilight” is not like that. None of the characters have any personality whatsoever, so even their illogical actions and stupid decisions aren’t interesting. One of the big scenes in the book is when the superhuman vampires play baseball.  I went to Wrigley Field for the first time this year, and saw the Cubs beat the Pirates.  It was cold and boring and I left after three innings.  If someone had said, “would you rather watch this game with vampires playing?” I would of course have excitedly answered yes.  Somehow, this book has shown me my instinct would be incorrect.  Vampire baseball is also boring, and I imagine the beer is just as bland and expensive. Basically here is the plot of this book, which you all have probably heard by now.  A boring girl moves to the Pacific Northwest and meets a vampire who is mean to her, but only because he wants to eat her because he’s in love with her and he’s gorgeous.  So he falls in love with her, because he’s beautiful and that is what the author wishes would have happened to her in high school.  There is an Encyclopedia Brown twist at the end (i.e. a third-grader should see it coming) and that is the big finish.  Again, and unfortunately, every character is probably still alive at the end of this book. The heart of the tale, though, lies in this simple conversation that is had, and this is no exaggeration, probably 200 or 300 times throughout the book: Her: “I love you, you’re so beautiful and perfect.” Him: “Yes, I am.” Her: “But I’m so clumsy!” Him: “Yes, you are, and I love you.” Her: “I love you, you’re so beautiful and perfect.  And cold.” Him: stares off in the distance, looking like a model. If you cut that conversation out of the book it would probably be twenty pages long.  And probably no better.  There’s also the sad commentary on how teenage girls LOVE this book, and how this girl decides to completely give up her friends, family, personality and everything else to be in a relationship with a rich, good-looking guy who treats her terribly.  I hope my daughters read this when they get older and learn that valuable lesson. And yes, I will probably watch the movie “Twilight” at some point.  It looks as if the movie is somehow worse than the book, and that type of terrible is probably pretty hilarious.  Like Gymkata with fangs.

I was in the checkout line at the Belmont Bi-Rite. In front of me, a famous person was paying for some ice cream. When I say he was famous, I don’t mean I recognized him from TV or the magazines. I didn’t. I knew he was famous because of the way he exchanged pleasantries with the cashier: not so much talking to her as engaging in stage patter. He pitched his voice about twice as loud as it needed to be, and he cut his eyes now toward me, now toward the thirteen-year-old bagboy to see how the act was playing to this little audience. His manner suggested that he thought we all knew who he was. The bagboy gaped at the famous person as he handed him the bag. The famous person beamed a benevolent smile on the boy. “You recognize me from TV,” he ventured. The boy’s eyes widened further, now with fright. He wasn’t up to the task of supporting such a hope. He froze where he was, the bag of ice cream still extended. “Randy McLeod,” the man said. “That name mean anything to you?” (I’ve changed his name, to protect his dignity). The boy leaned back as Randy McLeod leaned in closer. Randy sang a few bars of a country hit from a few years earlier, but no light of recognition brightened the boy’s face or softened his anxiety. The man’s hope yearned across the terrible silence. But it was no use. He tousled the bagboy’s hair. “That’s all right, boy. You’re probably not a country fan.” That name meant something to me; Randy McLeod had been half of a duo that enjoyed moderate success some years earlier. After the duo broke up, he had one solo hit on the radio and a music video that played about once an hour throughout the one summer I watched the Country Music Television station. That was years earlier; I don’t think he had been on the radio since. What’s more, I don’t think he’s been on the radio in the intervening decade either. I imagine him still wandering the countryside like some folktale character, peering into every face and asking, “Randy McLeod—that name mean anything to you?” I don’t suppose this is news to anybody who has ever watched Behind the Music, but in fame there can be a yawning neediness that is terrible to behold. What I at first believed to be arrogance or entitlement was in fact need. It was only false hope, a frail protest against the sorrow of a world that doesn’t keep its promises. I watched Randy walk out of the grocery store. But I wish I had put my arm around his shoulder and said, “Yes, Randy. Of course I remember you. You had that music video a few years back, with the girl in the cotton dress and the train depot.” I wish I had said, “I hear you’re a very talented songwriter. Thank God art doesn’t fly away as fast as fame.” I wish I had said, “You’re going to be all right, Randy, even if no stranger ever recognizes you again.”

I told somebody that I was going to see Behold the Lamb of God, The True Tall Tale of the Coming of Christ with Andrew Peterson and friends. “Again?” he said. “Isn’t that the same guy you saw last year?” “Why yes, it is, as a matter of fact,” I said, avoiding the temptation to start a sermon, because how do you really explain such a thing; where would you start? Like any superb legacy, the production in the December 2, 2008 version retained the sacred tenets of tradition. Equally important, there was surprise and nuance, not only from the in-the-round segment in which each artist humbly submit their own songs, but also the way in which varied aspects of the story moved us. Same words, same melody, same instruments, new revelation. Being moved in fresh ways—in  heart ways and head ways—is part of the heritage of this work. Andrew Peterson has written with such insightful depth, that despite the beautiful simplicity of the story, we routinely make new discoveries. The Elkhorn show sold out quickly. I was fortunate to get my four tickets before the tickets were gone. I can’t claim any particular expertise in guessing audience size, but I suspect there were close to 1,000 people on hand. Tangentially, one of the particularly attractive aspects of BTLOG shows has been the evolution of community, a mish mash of message board participants, Rabbitheads, local/regional supporters, promoters, friends and relatives of band members, all of whom are bound together by a passionate devotion to the music; more relevant, by the brother and sisterhood made possible in Christ. My little satellite associations extending in and out of Omaha are just a small example of that. There are thousands of similar stories wherever the show plays. For the first round, Andrew opened with “Hosanna,” adroitly linking the Easter story with that of Christmas. It provided the first sense of congregational worship, as the audience—with little prompting, as if its line had been fastidiously rehearsed—joined the offering of contrite praise singing, “Hosanna” with all the vigor and passion of the prodigal son. Then, it was Andrew Osenga with a track from Letter to the Editor, Volume 2 called “Canada,” followed by “The Secret,” an oldie but goodie from Andy Osenga from Room to Breathe, Jill Phillips with “A Lot Like Me” from her new record The Good Things, Bebo Norman with a song I fail to recall, and Ben Shive with “4th of July”—written about an event in Norfolk, Nebraska—in what may have been one of the first public performances from his critically acclaimed debut recording. In response to a question Ben posed from the stage about “Anybody here from Norfolk,” a surprising contingent, mostly in one area, raised their hands and shouted a good Norfolk cheer. The next round featured “New Beginnings,” one of my favorite Andy Osenga songs, “Holy Flakes” from the Andy who’s last name starts with a “G,” the almost title track from The Good Things from Jill Phillips called “All the Good Things,” “Mary’s Prayer,” one of the first songs Bebo Norman wrote and his mother’s favorite, and in a stroke of profound synchronicity, Andrew Peterson led us into the Christmas program with what may be one of the best modern worship songs ever written, “The Good Confession (I Believe).” As someone else wrote (and I’m not quoting exactly because I can’t remember where I read it), “There is something about hearing ‘I believe he is the Christ, Son of the Living God,’ repeatedly that inspires awe.” With congregational voices rising and echoing celestially, it made me feel like I was ready to launch, like that rocket in cut eight from Resurrection Letters, Volume 2. Upcoming BTLOG attendees, you are most definitely in for a treat. Indeed, you will be part of the treat. With each round of that phrase (I believe He is the Christ, Son of the Living God), the intensity of emotion ratchets higher and wider. And it’s not emotion for emotion’s sake; it’s emotional truth boring ever deeper into our being, and it’s one of the most profoundly moving sounds I’ve ever heard. The season is here. Don’t miss the opportunity to sing “Silver Bells.” Drink some eggnog; eat some Christmas cookies. Kiss somebody under the mistletoe. Drive around and look at the lights. And by all means, attend and support your local Christmas pageant. But if you crave something more, something real, something that will simultaneously rock your world with truth, and cultivate peace and joy in your spirit, consider making Behold the Lamb of God, The True Tall Tale of the Coming of Christ, a new family tradition. It has everything to do with the real, true meaning of Christmas, and nothing to do with the paltry imitation.

Here in these weeks leading up to Christmas, we are posting a series of meditations focused on the story of Jesus’ birth from the Gospels.  For more on what Advent means and why many Christains observe it, here’s a short introduction.  If you’d like to make a wreath of your own for your family or study group, here’s how.  The text for this week’s reflection comes from Luke 2:8-15. “8There were shepherds out in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night. 9And an angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were filled with fear. 10And the angel said to them, “Fear not, for behold, I bring you good news of a great joy that will be for all the people. 11For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is Christ the Lord. 12And this will be a sign for you: you will find a baby wrapped in swaddling cloths and lying in a manger.” 13And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God and saying, 14″Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace among those with whom he is pleased!” 15When the angels went away from them into heaven, the shepherds said to one another, “Let us go over to Bethlehem and see this thing that has happened, which the Lord has made known to us.”        — Luke 2:8-15 (ESV) The shepherd’s life was ironic. Their job was to tend the animals that would be sacrificed to atone for the sins of the people.  Yet because of their handling of the animals, they were ceremonially unclean and thus prevented from keeping the ceremonial law themselves.  On top of that, because they were ceremonially unclean, they were often regarded as untrustworthy and irreligious. However, it was also expected that one who did his job well, a good shepherd, would be willing to lay down his life for his sheep. When you put all of that together, what you get is this: a good shepherd was one who cared deeply for the lambs under his watch that were appointed to die on the altar for the sins of the people who saw the shepherds themselves as unclean, irreligious and untrustworthy. The shepherd’s lives were, in effect, sacrifices. It was to shepherds that the angel of the Lord appeared one night outside Bethlehem.  And what did the angel say? In essence, he said “Go behold the end of your life as an outsider.” The angel paints this glorious picture of the presence of the promised Messiah.  But even more than that, he uses names to describe Jesus to these shepherds—names that would speak to His purpose.  He calls Jesus the Savior, Christ the Lord.  Savior means He will atone for the sins of the people, Christ identifies Him as their deliverer, or Messiah. And the name Lord here identifies Him as divine. And there’s one more expression that the angel uses that would have meant the world to these shepherds.  The angel says Christ the Lord is born “unto you.” (Lk 2:11)  The divine Savior and Messiah is born unto them!  Though they lived most of their lives on the outside looking in, they were not outsiders to this gift, but the recipients of it. This was big news.  Huge! The shepherds sensed it, but the angels knew it, and the details of their encounter with these shepherds offers a glimpse into the cosmic weight of this announcement.  At first, there is only one angel who appears to these men in Bethlehem’s fields.  But as soon as he announces Jesus’ birth, “suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God.” (Lk 2:13) It was as if there were millions of angels hiding just behind some celestial corner, and once they heard, “Unto you is born this day a Savior, who is Christ the Lord!” they were unable to contain their joy any longer and all rushed in, praising God, singing, “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace among those with whom He is pleased.” It is at this point that, if we are wise, we will defer to the angels and assume theirs is the response that fits the announcement of the coming of the Savior of the world, Jesus Christ. But it only gets richer from here. The glory of all glories has appeared to the lowest of the lows, and the angels give the shepherds a sign that would have left them speechless. Their Messiah and Savior can be found, the angel tells them, where the young lambs are kept.  He’ll be the one not covered in wool, but in a swaddling cloth. Where the lambs are kept? When they find Jesus in the manger as the angel said, the very location of his birth is drenched in significance.  The Savior has been born into their unclean world in the same manner as a lamb.  The symbolism was not lost on these men.  When the shepherds see Jesus there, they see not only that he has come; they get a hint as to why. He came to be the perfect lamb, the ultimate, lasting sacrifice.  This baby’s coming was to accomplish and establish peace between the God of all creation and His image bearer’s who habitually reject Him. From the manger in Bethlehem to the cross on Calvary, Jesus moved among the people, came into their homes, touched their blind eyes and permitted their unfaithful hands to touch him.  He defended the defenseless and opposed the self-righteous. He taught them profound lessons from ordinary events. He ate at their tables, laughed with their children and wept over their grief. But never, never, never did He abandon His purpose for coming, which was to die for a world of outsiders as the Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world. The Apostle Paul later wrote, “You know the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ that though He was rich, for your sake He became poor, so that you by His poverty might become rich.” (2 Cor 8:9)  Jesus was born poor.  And He lived poor.  And He died poor for the sake of His people. May that image of the manger, where young sacrificial lambs are kept, be a reminder that Jesus has come into this world in the same way he left it, out in the open, among the outcast, poor and despised, but singularly driven by one purpose—to ransom captive Israel that mourns in lonely exile here until the Son of God appears. Rejoice!  Rejoice!  Immanuel has come to you, O Israel.

The Rabbit Room welcomes its newest contributor.  Travis Prinzi’s first book Harry Potter & Imagination: the Way Between Two Worlds is soon to be published, and he’s the proprietor of his own popular blog The Hog’s Head. He’s a Christian who is a bit of a geek about fairy stories and J.K. Rowling, which is to say that he fits right in.  Welcome, Travis. Here are a few excerpts which are well worth your careful consideration: “You write as if a fairytale were a thing of importance: must it have meaning?” It cannot help having some meaning; if it have proportion and harmony it has vitality, and vitality is truth. The beauty may be plainer in it than the truth, but without the truth the beauty could not be, and the fairytale would give no delight. Everyone, however, who feels the story, will read its meaning after his own nature and development: one man will read one meaning in it, another will read another. “If so, how am I to assure myself that I am not reading my own meaning into it, but yours out of it?” Why should you be so assured? It may be better that you should read your meaning into it. That may be a higher operation of your intellect than the mere reading of mine out of it: your meaning may be superior to mine. […] A fairytale, like a butterfly or a bee, helps itself on all sides, sips every wholesome flower, and spoils not one. The true fairytale is, to my mind, very like the sonata. We all know that a sonata means something; and where there is the faculty of talking with suitable vagueness, and choosing metaphor sufficiently loose, mind may approach mind, in the interpretation of a sonata, with the result of a more or less contenting consciousness of sympathy. But if two or three men sat down to write each what the sonata meant to him, what approximation to definite idea would be the result? Little enough–and that little more than needful. We should find it had roused related, if not identical, feelings, but probably not one common thought. Has the sonata therefore failed? Had it undertaken to convey, or ought it to be expected to impart anything defined, anything notionally recognisable? For the best internet resource on George MacDonald, see The Golden Key website. See also Zossima Press’s George MacDonald materials. You can get his complete collected works on CD-ROM for $10.

Matt: I’m a big fan of powerful acting performances (who isn’t?). So with that in mind, I’d like to suggest a question for you, Curt: Favorite male acting performance of the last decade? Curt: The last decade? Well, I think the best way to do this is stream of consciousness style. If a performance is so compelling that it is one of the first to come to mind, it must be pretty good. I saw both of these films within a few weeks of each other, in late 2007/early 2008. The films/performances are linked in my mind not only because I viewed them in close proximity, but also because the films feature superb performances from two top shelf actors, both of whom receive fewer kudos—relative to their skill—than one might expect. Both performances are striking in that they feature men who personify evil, yet incongruently maintain some sort of perverse integrity which, ironically, allows their characters to—in their own minds—justify their ever increasing depravity. Matt: I concur (Dicaprio style). Both men embodied their characters so well that it was simply moving. The facial expressions, the gestures, the hesitations – all so perfect. Lewis in particular continues to excel whether in little known movies like My Left Foot or grandiose, more celebrated movies like Gangs of New York. He has the ability to fully command the screen and keep the audience riveted. Let me throw a curveball and move away from the Oscar-celebrated ranks for a second. What about Will Smith in I Am Legend? I say this because here you have a movie that is completely CGI and only one human (for most of the movie) with a dog. Now, the script is hardly cause for celebration and sure you can dislike it all you want, but I left that movie thinking, ‘Is there anything this man can’t pull off?’ Curt: I usually feel like a spoilsport when discussing Will Smith and I Am Legend. By a wide margin, more movie fans like it than dislike it (or so has been my observation). And I’ll try to separate my indifference to the movie from discussion of the quality of Will Smith’s acting job. I like Will Smith as an actor, though I wasn’t feelin’ it in I Am Legend. I thought Smith’s performances in Ali and Pursuit of Happyness were better. I didn’t sense the depth of genuine emotion from Smith as I did in the others. I wanted to feel Will’s pain when he had conversations with the mannequins and his dog Sam, but it wasn’t in my gut. Knowing that you “should” feel something and actually feeling it are two different things, of course. In all fairness, it takes a special actor to monopolize screen time in a compelling way, maybe like Tom Hanks did in Castaway. As a leading man, when your primary supporting actor is a volleyball, a dog, or a blank chroma key screen, the level of difficulty goes way up. And relative to Leo D. (we are buddies, so he lets me call him that), I have been reluctantly impressed with his ability to play a character with some machismo. In real life, he seems like a guy that might throw like a girl and maintain regular manicure appointments. In Blood Diamond, he comes off as a guy that wouldn’t back away from an invitation to fight. Matt, what are your thoughts on Will Smith in I Am Legend and what other male acting performance would you rank highest in the last ten years? Matt: Absolutely couldn’t agree more about Tom Hanks. That performance in Castaway was one of my favorites in years. I’d have a hard time beating Ed Harris in Pollock, Sean Penn in I Am Sam or Mystic River, Joaquin Phoenix in Walk the Line, Will Smith in Ali, David Strathairn in Good Night, And Good Luck, and absolutely anything with Russell Crowe (who I believe is the best actor alive). *Note, I would say Daniel Day-Lewis is the best actor alive but he only comes out every five years, so that makes me upset enough to give it to someone else. I like Leo quite a bit as well, but not in that movie as much as it was celebrated. And I just mentioned I Am Legend because of the lack of supporting cast, just like Castaway. Not because I thought it was the end-all of thespianism (is that a word?). But to boil it down to one performance? Daniel Day-Lewis as Bill “The Butcher” Cutting in Gangs of New York. You? Curt: Nice choice, Matt. That role was good preparation for There Will be Blood. And if thespianism isn’t a bonafide word, it should be. I like it. You noted several other actors whose work I especially like, namely Sean Penn (Sweet and Lowdown and Mystic River) and Ed Harris. It’s a shame to leave out guys like Philip Seymour Hoffman, Denzel Washington (He won an Oscar for Training Day, which I see as one of his least effective films), Ed Norton (I could easily pick American History X, and leave it at that), not to mention the often subtle and understated Kevin Spacey (American Beauty), and Johnny Depp. I’d also love to pick Heath Ledger for his performance as The Joker in Dark Knight, which was stunning and creepy. Despite all of these great performances, I’m going to go with Billy Bob Thornton in Sling Blade. Surprised? Granted, it’s sometimes perceived as a cult film and does have some violence and bad language, but in terms of an individual performance, Billy Bob Thornton’s work in this movie is strikingly good, almost mind boggeling. Thornton so thoroughly transforms his demeanor to the point that Thornton the person is largely unrecognizable as himself. Not only does he convincingly become Karl Childers, but he draws huge empathy from the audience for this simple, but good man. Knowing the extent to which this was truly Thornton’s film (he wrote, directed, and starred in it), helps me settle on this performance as the one that belongs at the top. Thornton won an Academy Award for Best Writing and was nominated as Best Actor. He should have won. So Matt, let’s open up the cyber floor to Rabbit Room brothers and sisters (Rabbitheads). Do you agree with the performances Matt and I noted, or is there one that blew your socks off, that we simply overlooked? We used the last ten years as a parameter to put some focus on this fun project, but a year or two either way is okay. I’m adding that modification since I just realized Sling Blade is from a little more than ten years ago and I’d rather read your ideas than do a rewrite.

I’ve been hearing about this children’s Bible called The Jesus Storybook Bible by Sally Lloyd-Jones for a year or so now, first from Ben Shive, then from a smattering of others whose opinions I respect on such matters.  One night last week Jamie and I were putting our sweet Skye to bed (she’s 6 now), and we were talking to her about Christmas.  I’d been gearing up to leave for tour and with the first Sunday of Advent fast approaching we wanted to find out what she thought.  Jamie asked her who was born on Christmas morning, and Skye answered, “Um…Noah?” I’m afraid the same thing may have happened with our Bible storytelling.  Understand, I read the Bible to my kids.  We even act out the different stories when we’re finished.  But I’ve always noticed that Skye is busy giggling at her older brothers, or she’s the first of the brood to fall asleep when we’re reading.  It made me wonder if maybe I hadn’t spent enough one-on-one time, curled up in her bed in those tender minutes before she drifts away, impressing the words of the Lord on the clay of her soul.  Or maybe (and it humbles me to say this) I’m not telling the story in a way that captures her imagination.  Girls are into pink unicorns.  I am not. I decided that night that something had to be done.  I would take measures to ensure my daughter’s biblical understanding.  I would pick up The Jesus Storybook Bible as soon as I could lay my hands on it.  Just a few nights ago we played a Christmas concert in Michigan City, IN, and Ben told me that he saw the very book in the church’s bookstore.  I traded a copy of On the Edge of the Dark Sea of Darkness with the pastor for it, and I can’t help thinking that I got the infinitely better deal.  I curled up in my bunk on the bus that night and read: “No, the Bible isn’t a list of rules, or a book of heroes.  The Bible is most of all a Story.  It’s an adventure story about a young Hero who comes from a far country to win back his lost treasure.  It’s a love story about a brave Prince who leaves his palace, his throne–everything–to rescue the one he loves.  It’s like the most wonderful of fairy tales that has come true in real life! You see, the best thing about this Story is–it’s true. There are lots of stories in the Bible, but all the stories are telling one Big Story.  The Story of how God loves his children and comes to rescue them. It takes the whole Bible to tell this Story.  And at the center of the Story, there is a baby.  Every Story in the Bible whispers his name.  He is like the missing piece in a puzzle–the piece that makes all the other pieces fit together, and suddenly you can see a beautiful picture.” I got home just tonight for a day of rest, and after we had read from Luke and lit the Advent candle, I sat by my daughter on the couch where she could see the pictures, and I read those words.  Right when I got to the part about the Prince leaving his palace and his throne–leaving everything–I had that all-too-familiar lump rising in my throat, the lump that rises whenever the goodness of the Gospel warms my bones.  I saw my daughter’s eyes.  I saw that she heard me.  And I pray that her little girl heart was soft enough to let the light of that Story shine in.

Here in these weeks leading up to Christmas, we are posting a series of meditations focused on the story of Jesus’ birth from the Gospels.  For more on what Advent means and why many Christains observe it, here’s a short introduction.  If you’d like to make a wreath of your own for your family or study group, here’s how.  The text for this week’s reflection comes from Luke 1:26-38. In the sixth month, God sent the angel Gabriel to Nazareth, a town in Galilee, to a virgin pledged to be married to a man named Joseph, a descendant of David. The virgin’s name was Mary.  The angel went to her and said, “Greetings, you who are highly favored! The Lord is with you.” Mary was greatly troubled at his words and wondered what kind of greeting this might be.  But the angel said to her, “Do not be afraid, Mary, you have found favor with God.  You will be with child and give birth to a son, and you are to give him the name Jesus.  He will be great and will be called the Son of the Most High. The Lord God will give him the throne of his father David, and he will reign over the house of Jacob forever; his kingdom will never end.” “How will this be,” Mary asked the angel, “since I am a virgin?” The angel answered, “The Holy Spirit will come upon you, and the power of the Most High will overshadow you. So the holy one to be born will be called the Son of God.  Even Elizabeth your relative is going to have a child in her old age, and she who was said to be barren is in her sixth month.  For nothing is impossible with God.” “I am the Lord’s servant,” Mary answered. “May it be to me as you have said.” Then the angel left her.     — Luke 1:26-38 (ESV) Elizabeth had a cousin, a young woman named Mary who was engaged to a young man named Joseph.  They lived in an out of the way town called Nazareth.  No one really remembers where she came from?  Joseph, however, was descended from the great King David, though for his part he was a blue collar carpenter. They were simple and honest people, dreaming and working hard toward a life they could live out together as a family, as husband and wife.  They expected to be ordinary in every way and perfectly happy for it. But all of this was interrupted in a moment. Mary received a visit from an angelic being who would tell her something that would dramatically alter the course of her life and Joseph’s—and the whole of history. The message of the angel was not without consequence either. It would lead these two young people to live as fugitives for a time, running from the Roman ruler Herod himself.  Also, Mary and Joseph would suffer suspicious looks from friends and relatives, questioning her virtue and his manhood. And eventually, as the old watchman Simeon predicted, the anguish that would accompany the consequences of this angel’s news would be like a sword that would pierce through their very souls. All this and so much more was coming.  But for now as the angel stood before the young woman, she trembled with fear wondering what was about to happen.  What could an angel of the Lord possibly have to say to her? It was an ordinary thing for first century Jews to be familiar with the word of God, having grown up under its teachings.  Laced throughout its lessons came the prophetic promise of God’s coming Messiah.  Young and old tried to imagine what this would entail.  Would salvation come in a radiant swell of angelic fury? Would deliverance take the form of a mighty army rolling over Rome with some unprecedented warrior-king leading the charge?  Across the generations people speculated about this.  But when the angel comes to Mary, the hypothetical is brought into the real.  The ordinary is all at once extraordinary. And she is as scared as anything. The angel tries to calm her, explaining that God has found favor with her so she should not fear this visit or the message he brings.  It must have been strange to stand there before this seraph—glorious, strong and other-worldly—and hear him tell her not to fear. And perhaps it was even stranger to hear that God had formed an overall impression of her.  She was known by God?  And He liked what He saw? Mary, the angel tells her, will conceive a son. God has already chosen his name—Jesus, which means “salvation.”  This boy will grow to reign over the people of God as their savior and king.  The God who promised David so many years ago that his royal line would see no end will keep this covenant by bringing an heir to Israel’s throne through this young woman. “How can this be? I am a virgin?” she asks without a hint of sarcasm.  For her to bear this son, she must conceive.  And how can a virgin conceive? The angel explains that she has entered the world of the one who made hers.  All the law of nature, it turns out, are amendable by the One who wrote them.  Like a magician covering the flower in his hand with his cape, only to pull it away as the onlookers discover, to their amazement, that the flower has become a bird which flies away, the Holy Spirit will overshadow this virgin and when he pulls the shadow back, she will be a mother.  How this will happen is incidental to the fact that God will be the one doing it. Still, virgins don’t conceive.  Everyone knows this. Knowing his words require a significant paradigm shift, the angel gives Mary a sign to help her believe in the possibility, even if she has no category for the process. If Mary would only go to visit her elderly cousin Elizabeth, who has been barren her entire life, she will find a woman only months away from having a miracle baby of her own. Elizabeth is six months pregnant.  This, the angel tells her, is a sign that she might understand that nothing is beyond God. Now it was Mary’s turn to speak.  There before the Guardian of Heaven, wrapped up in the vertigo of this inter-terrestrial conversation, Mary answered, “Alright, may it be done to me as you have said.” What else could she say?  She couldn’t prepare for this, nor could she help it along.  This is something that must be done to her—something only God can do. And this is precisely what God did. Mary, it is said, was someone who appreciated nuance and implication.  She treasured things in her heart. Three things come across in this angelic visit that shine like gemstones for the heart seeking treasure.  One, God, by the grace of His love, finds favor in ordinary people.  Two, He interacts with those people in time and space so that they might receive His salvation.  And three, God meets those people in the context of their ordinary lives while He Himself remains extraordinary. The angel’s message was as much about the character of the God who knew Mary as it was about what He meant to do for His people through her.  And she treasured all these things in her heart.

“There is no need to force a person’s will. All the other person need do is attract and captivate our ‘want,’ and then we will love to act in harmony with him….People often ask, How can we conceive of God changing a person’s will if he is free? The answer is that God changes our ‘want,’ and the will follows spontaneously. Once God has captured our wills by drawing us back to Himself through Christ, then it is He in us who ‘wills and does of His good pleasure’ and it is we who naturally, gladly, freely work it out.” Comments?

Each is brief, never more than a page.  The book is easily read in a single sitting but instead of closing the cover when I finished, I found myself turning back the pages to read them again.  He captures the structure, language, and tone of the Psalms perfectly but it’s his honesty that drives them home.  They are written in brokenness and longing but infused with certainty that God is sovereign.   He lifts up to God everything from his own faithlessness to the fate of nations and is often so effective, so evocative, that his words could lie alongside those of the biblical Psalmist and not seem out of place. I’m including a few excerpts here to give you a taste of how rich a text this is.  I hope Mr. Cohen won’t mind.  If you can find a copy of the Book of Mercy, by all means, grab it and soak it up. From Book of Mercy by Leonard Cohen #33 “You who question souls, and to whom souls must answer, do not cut off the soul of my son on my account. Let the strength of his childhood lead him to you, and the joy of his body stand him upright in your eyes.  May he discern my prayer for him, and to whom it is uttered, and in what shame.  I received the living waters and I held them in a stagnant pool.  I was taught but I did not teach.  I was loved but I did not love.  I weakened the name that spoke me, and I chased light with my own understanding.  Whisper in his ear.  Direct him to a place of learning.  Illuminate his child’s belief in mightiness […] bless him with a soul that remembers you, that he may uncover it with careful husbandry.  They who wish to devour him have grown powerful on my idleness.  They have a number for him, and a chain.  Let him see them withered in the light of your name.  Let him see their dead kingdom from the mountain of your word.  Stand him up upon his soul, bless him with the truth of manhood.” And from #48 “[…]I established a court, and I fell asleep under a crown, and I dreamed I could rule the wicked.  Awaken me to the homeland of my heart where you are worshiped forever.  Awaken me to the mercy of the breath which you breathe into me.  Remove your creature’s self-created world, and dwell in the days that are left to me.  Dissolve the lonely dream which is the judgment on my ignorance, and sweep aside the work of my hands, the barricades of uncleanliness, which I commanded against the torrents of mercy.  Let your wisdom fill my solitude, and from the ruin raise your understanding.  Blessed is the name of the glory of your kingdom forever and ever.  What I have not said, give me the courage to say.  What I have not done, give me the the will to do.  It is you, and you alone who refines the heart, you alone who instructs mortals, who answers the trembling before you with wisdom.  Blessed is the name of the one who keeps faith with those who sleep in the dust, who has saved me again and again.  To you is the day, and the conscious night, to you alone the only consecration.  Bind me, intimate, bind me to your wakefulness.”

“Being in love,” that intoxicating feeling, is sublime, heady. It elevates us, changes our perceptions of the world, of our present, of our future. Our heart sings. Our dreams for ourselves ring with angelic voices. But it can’t last; it isn’t meant to. It’s like learning an instrument. We hear an acoustic guitar and want to play it. There’s excitement at the beginning, the potential, the thrill. The learning process begins – and soon we find “this isn’t easy.” Playing an instrument requires commitment, focus, determination – and a whole lot of time. The halo melts away. It is at this point that our will must engage – the will to believe, to faithe, to trust that we do love it even if we don’t feel it. If we try to hang on to that halo we won’t advance. If we cling to that in-love-ness, the mere feelings, we will be using our will to cling to the mere romance of it rather than being propelled into deeper knowledge and proficiency. We’ll continue to romanticize – and we’ll be disappointed time and again as our largely illusory dream slams up against reality. I’m not knocking those in-love feelings. But feelings come and go, and yet love doesn’t have to. I’ve often heard people say the Greek word “agape” means “God’s love.” But it doesn’t, since John 3:19 says “This is the condemnation, that light is come into the world, and men loved (agape) darkness rather than light.” That means they were wholeheartedly committed to darkness. Their love was a choice of their will. That’s what God’s love is like. It is the wholehearted, committed giving of Himself even at His own expense. The story is told of the great violinist Itzhak Perlman having a fan approach him and say, “I would give my life to play like you.” His reply? “Lady, I did.” Marriage can be a lot of work at times. It is a giving over of oneself to a partnership, a union. That’s going to be costly at times, because to say “yes” to one thing is to say “no” to many other things. For me to be committed to playing music and writing means all of my work/hobby time is taken up with those things. I don’t have time to be a great photographer or fly model airplanes as well. We vow to love, honor, cherish, till death do us part. That’s costly to the flesh that wants to do what it feels. Our flesh wants to avoid pain and find pleasure. That’s natural; that’s just the way the flesh is. Jesus, in the days of His flesh, attempted to avoid the pain of the Crucifixion there in the Garden. But if we, like Jesus, recognize that we are not meant to be flesh-driven, that pleasure and pain are both included in the package, it will take much of the sting out of sorrows; This is going to be very hard at times, but in Christ I am filled full with everything I need to follow through. In the end what we find, in marriage, guitar playing, and following Christ, is a deeper halo – not our dream for ourselves but “God’s idea of us when He devised us” (George MacDonald). We finally find the identity, and the daily expression of it, that we were made for. That’s real satisfaction and fulfillment.

A friend of mine knowing that I’ve been suffering from writer’s block for the past several months sent this to me, a poem by one of my favorite authors about the writing of poetry.  I’ll add one thought but otherwise let the work speak for itself.  I remember several years ago listening to acclaimed poet Li-Young Lee read some of his poetry and thinking at the time that his words created silence in me.  In regards to the last lines of Mr. Berry’s poem here, I’ve often thought that the best books, poems, and songs – though filled with sounds and words – create a quiet place in us and give us an opportunity to actually listen to silence.  Now, from Mr. Berry: “How To Be a Poet” by Wendell Berry (to remind myself) i Make a place to sit down. Sit down. Be quiet. You must depend upon affection, reading, knowledge, skill—more of each than you have—inspiration, work, growing older, patience, for patience joins time to eternity. Any readers who like your poems, doubt their judgment. ii Breathe with unconditional breath the unconditioned air. Shun electric wire. Communicate slowly. Live a three-dimensioned life; stay away from screens. Stay away from anything that obscures the place it is in. There are no unsacred places; there are only sacred places and desecrated places. iii Accept what comes from silence. Make the best you can of it. Of the little words that come out of the silence, like prayers prayed back to the one who prays, make a poem that does not disturb the silence from which it came.

Over the course of the next several weeks leading up to Christmas, we are going to offer a series of weekly posts to tell again the story of the birth of Christ, and we’re going to offer them as a sort of a “Virtual Advent Wreath.” If you are unfamiliar with Advent Wreaths, here’s a short description of what they mean and how to make one of your own. As a kid, I marked time by its proximity to Christmas.  I had good reason for measuring time this way.  With the cold and often snowy Indiana winters of my youth, together with the warm home my parents created for us, the Christmas I knew was everything a little kid could want it to be. It was never overrated. Never. Two things were at work in the mind of this little boy as the big day drew near—memory and anticipation.  It was so exhilarating to watch the space beneath the tree begin to fill up with gifts bearing my name—treasures of incalculable worth.  I would shake them, listen to them, smell them and contemplate their heft.  It almost didn’t matter what they were.  They were for me.  Their presence alone was intoxicating. With impressions like these securely fixed and coupled with the overall sense that each holiday season tended to be better than the one before, by the time Christmas Eve rolled around my memories and anticipation played off of one another with a greater potency than a stout cup of coffee coursing through the veins of this ten year old boy attempting to comply with his orders to go to sleep. This, in itself, is a memory that warms my heart even now. What is Christmas if not a holiday built upon memory and anticipation?  It is a day we celebrate by remembering something that really happened—the first coming of Jesus Christ, born meek and lowly as a humble king wrapped in swaddling clothes all those years ago. It is also a day to anticipate something we’re still waiting for—Jesus’ return in power as a mighty King with the words “Lord of Lords” illuminating His blazing robe. (Rev 19:16) We live between these two advents—Jesus’ first and second coming.  The word “advent” comes from a Latin root meaning “coming to.”  The first advent has already happened.  Jesus came to earth in the form of a baby born in a manger in Bethlehem.  The second advent we’re still waiting for.  This is where Christians today live—between the already and the not yet. Through the centuries, Christians have remembered His first coming to earth to be our Immanuel (meaning “God with Us”) and anticipated His return by taking time in the weeks leading up to Christmas day to observe a season of remembering and anticipation, which we call “Advent.” The aim of the series of the posts for this virtual Advent Wreath is to guide you through an observance of this season of remembering and anticipating the coming of our Lord and King, Jesus Christ. Here, we’ll remember the story of how before Jesus’ birth, God’s people longed for His forgiveness in order that they might be restored to a right relationship with Him.  God’s promised remedy was that He would send them a Savior. We’ll remember their anticipation from the vantage point of seeing how and, more importantly, Who God provided to fulfill that covenant.  And we’ll remember the story of Jesus’ birth and the events surrounding it—that true tall tale of the coming of Christ. We’ll also look ahead to Jesus’ return—an event inseparably joined to His birth in Bethlehem.   The reason He came in the first place, taking on flesh and blood, was to offer up that body on the cross in order to die in the place of the sinners He came to save.  When He rose from the grave on Easter morning, He defeated the power of sin and death. However, although His work on the cross was perfect and complete in accomplishing our salvation, the world in which we live is one that is still very broken and filled with sickness, disaster and many other kinds of suffering and sadness. Christmas is a perfect time not only to remember the longing of those who awaited Christ’s first coming, but to yearn ourselves for His return when all shall be made well.  We live between two advents, between what we remember and what we anticipate.  We are in the middle of an unfolding story filled with harrowing journeys, murderous rulers, shepherds conversing with angels, wise nomads coming from the east and apostles sailing to the west. Somehow, by the preserving grace of God, the story of this baby boy born in that stable outside the streets of David’s town has found its way across oceans and centuries to you, right here, right now.

The boy’s legs were useless. He could write and speak his name perfectly well (Brett), he could use his young hands to grip the braided climbing rope supporting his frame, but his body from the waist down was as inoperable as felled masts of white pine. Like the moon in a clear, harvest sky, he dangled there thirty feet above the ground, a suspended child, a saint as it turns out, exhausted by the events leading up to this moment where he glowed at the upper reaches of the man-made rock-climbing tower out of nothing short of utter fatigue and extreme revelry where the two emotions mixed and mingled as if they were reunited friends. The raucous cheering of the audience below made it perfectly clear that this was no ordinary moment, either for them or for Brett. Normally this spot on the sidewalk adjacent to the climbing wall is a somewhat stale, recurrent place as participants, mostly high-school aged, with perfectly functioning bodies take to the fixed rocks on the wall each and every day during the summer months, some reaching the top with ease, others giving up apathetically midway, some never bothering to feign an attempt. But today, if only for a few passing hours, this sun-drenched location atop the bluffs of Pelican Lake in northwest Minnesota is, like its biblical lakeside village counterpart, a Capernaum of sorts, a place where not only the physically impaired are raised, but the physically well can, if our eyes are open to the scene, find a healing as well. A multi-generational crowd composed of adults, college and high-school aged gathers. We come and go as we please. I feel the sunlight searing my sandaled toes. I feel my toes. I feel. The boy, currently draped in a climbing harness and seated in his wheelchair, awaits final clearance to begin his ascent. Two men, his counselor-leaders for the week, also donning harnesses, are prepared to climb the wall with Brett assisting him along the way. They are his feet. I witness the utmost patience of these gentlemen as they coax, urge and literally lift the physically crippled young man to a height and an experience that he might never have reached without such assistance, without such community, without such delighted belief. Like a banner on top of the world, this scene is a flagrant display of courage that rivals any contemporary professional athlete’s stamina and pursuit of adulatory perfection. The oldest of three siblings, I am for all intents and purposes a scaredy-cat. For as far back as I can remember, I maintained an overly cautious and hyper-responsible childhood. I rarely took risks then, and I find I rarely take them now as an adult. But as I am prone to do, tears percolate from my sunglass-veiled eyes at the very sight of such a risky, overtly spiritual and Christ-like display, which I am convinced I am privy to. The boy possesses a rowdy belief that he has it in him to scale the wall. His counselor-leaders, in turn, possess a believing hope that, just like the young man lowered by his pals through the thatched roof to the feet of Jesus, their faith will heal the boy whom they now hoist. Though science might disagree, this physical exhibition has far less to do with actual physics than it does with the intangibilities of lion-like courage, the swearing off of fear, and the Ghost of God moving with such ease and freedom through the discarded remnants of society as to render them mesmerizingly holy, while leaving the beautiful remainder as limp as withered limbs. Has Your Kingdom finally come? The climbing wall is made up of a pattern of strategically placed rocks and of various planks of wood, all held together by the bones of structural integrity. The human body is much the same, held together by bones, capillaries, vessels and ligaments. The body of Christ is made up of many parts, talents and gifts, some receiving glory, some rarely receiving acknowledgment if any notice at all, but all are worthy in their unworthiness to serve the other. And that is the way it is in Capernaum and along the shores of Pelican Lake where the broken in body are Heaven-strong in heart and spirit, possessing a belief so childishly simple that it seems too good to possess any truth at all. Here, the weakest things of earth shame the glamorous and the strong, and the physically well, if we are lucky enough, are overcome with the shocking realization that we too need just as much help in all our climbing, flailing and falling. At the height of exalted exhaustion, may we peer through the torn roofs of our lives and view the gathered community in support – those who cared for us from the very beginning, those clinging to the taut ropes of both theirs and our faith – and may we bless the Lord of our once-broken souls who coaxed, urged and lifted us to the good and final End.

There is a scene in the film A River Runs Through It where the narrator, Norman Maclean, describes his education, saying, “I attended the school of the Reverend Maclean. He taught nothing but reading and writing. And, being a Scot, believed that the art of writing lay in thrift.” The scene flashed to a young Norman handing a paper to his father. His father scans it and hands it back, saying, “Again, half as long.” Norman goes back, writes his paper again, only half as long, and his father reads it again and repeats his instruction, “Again, half as long.” This is strange instruction to students today who mistake the purpose of writing in school as being more of a quantitative endeavor than a qualitative one. Many students, I imagine, think the hardest writing assignments are the longest ones, operating on the notion that writing twenty pages is harder than writing five. This theory inspires the thinking that the more they write, the smarter they appear. But as Eisenhower said, “An intellectual is a man who takes more words than necessary to tell more than he knows.” What if the Reverend Maclean is right. What if the art of writing lies in thrift—the fewer words the better? We want students to embody truth, beauty, goodness, wisdom and eloquence. St. Augustine said we educate to “seek to lead the citizens of earth toward citizenship in heaven while instilling in them the desire to introduce the values of the heavenly kingdom into the kingdom they presently inhabit.” So we want students not just to know things. We want students to remain students and become teachers. And we want them to be able to teach what they know gracefully and persuasively. This takes eloquence. Eloquence is the ability to understand ideas and concepts and then to express them with persuasion and grace. I believe we see this objective outlined in 1 Peter 3:15 “In your hearts honor Christ the Lord as holy, always being prepared to make a defense to anyone who asks you for a reason for the hope that is in you; yet do it with gentleness and respect…” This verse describes eloquence in its purest sense. First notice that Peter is saying that this kind of speech is honoring to the Lord. Christians honor Him by being prepared to testify of the hope within us. But then notice the two prongs of Peter’s point—that we are to be prepared to give a reasoned defense for the Gospel (PERSUASION), and that we are to do this with gentleness and respect (GRACE). This, I think, is as much an art form as anything. So if you are one who teaches, I submit to you this thesis: Every teacher is an art teacher. And you should regard you self as such. As a teacher, do more than impart raw data. You teach young minds to receive that data, process it, comprehend it and grasp how the data they’ve just received comes to bear on the rest of what they know. You want them to know truth, recognize beauty, practice goodness and live wisely. Why? Of course so that they might glorify God and enjoy Him forever. But how is this done? Not merely through stowing away all they know. But through “seeking to lead citizens of earth toward citizenship in heaven.” The New Testament calls this the Great Commission—to go and make disciples of all the nations, bearing witness to Christ Jesus with our whole lives. This is an art—balancing grace with persuasion and conviction with love while using words to paint a picture of truth, beauty, goodness and wisdom for all the world to see. And as it is with all art, some students are naturals at this while others struggle from the start. But every artist, to be good at their craft, must log hours of practice. And they must be taught. They must try and fail. They must savor the two things they get right, even though there are a dozen others they got wrong. They must develop logic and reason. This stuff only comes through practice. And to do this, they must use words. So cultivate eloquence in your students by requiring them to trade in the currency of words. Make them write. Make them speak. Give them the gift of the experience of talking in front of an audience, even if they’re terrified. Try to help them understand why this experience is a gift. As a teacher, you can measure how well your students know the truth you’ve taught them when they can tell you what you’ve taught them. You know they have seen beauty by their expression of it. They will reveal their committment to goodness by the grace employed in their speech, both toward those who agree and those who don’t. But don’t mistake flowery words for eloquence. Persuasion and eloquence are not the same. Mere persuasion can often be fruit of wearing down of the other side under the weight of the sheer quantity of words. Trade in the currency of words. Make words count, not by how often they’re used, but by how well. Look for grace and persuasion, for truth, beauty, goodness and wisdom in those words. Help them hone their craft of expression by requiring them to speak, write, and respond with regularity. And evaluate their work. Be willing to hand it back and say “Again, half as long” in order that they might be prepared to make a defense to anyone who asks them for a reason for the hope that is in them—and that they might do it with gentleness and respect. Grade them on reason. Grade them on rhetoric. But grade them on kindness and humility too. Reward them not just for the completion of the assignment, but for employing truth, beauty, goodness, and wisdom gently and with respect, lest they lose their hearers as Proverbs 18:19 predicts: “A brother offended is more unyielding than a strong city, and quarreling is like the bars of a castle.” May God be pleased to use your investment in these children so that they might spend their lives seeking to “lead the citizens of earth toward citizenship in heaven while instilling in them the desire to introduce the values of the heavenly kingdom into the kingdom they presently inhabit.”

It’s a beautiful thing to be reminded of why we do what we do and why we love what we love. I recently spent the weekend in Spokane, Washington (a lovely part of the country) speaking to some high school students and young adults. The subject of the four talks I gave from Friday through Sunday was the concept of Shalom and the greater mission of God. And my time there was as fulfilling for me as it was for anyone else there. I speak at my own church – The Mercy House – each and every week, for the most part. I’ve been doing it for over four years and we’ve built a community that I love to be a part of. It’s a creative, young, missional community and I feel lucky to lead such an amazing group of people. But it’s also true that what I have to say and how I say it is rather old hat. “Yes, Matt, we’ve heard that story before,” or “Yes, Matt, that analogy was a fine one to make the first three times we heard it.” The particular lens and life experiences God has given me to speak truth through are what make me so it’s hard to be anything else. Of course, the Spirit brings something fresh each week–I hope!–and yet there’s always going to be some sense of familiarity to it. I guess I picture Bruce Springsteen’s wife going, “Yeah, yeah, I know all those songs. They were good the first 2,000 times I heard them.” Okay, so I’m not Springsteen… But this weekend, the crowd was brand new. The scenario was a blank slate. And the response was fantastic. The comments and feedback I would receive sounded strangely familiar – like the ones that were made when we first planted our church north of Indianapolis and people began to hear a message in a way that was refreshing and timely for them. And it felt refreshing all over again. There’s something about being able to step outside your typical situation or job and find a fresh audience with which to share it with that inspires you of what you are doing in the first place. I find myself hitting my head against the wall after particular Sundays in which maybe it wasn’t as sharp or inspirational or moving or convicting as others. It’s frustrating to feel like you’re just spinning your wheels in front of the same crowd, wondering if you’re getting through or if you’re wasting your efforts. To be honest, maybe I’m not even sure what to take from this. I returned back to my home context this morning and it felt like the same old stuff. Maybe I need to quit and become an circuit rider – some preacher on his horse who goes from town to town (which in my case is an old Corolla). Maybe it’s a good thing to remember the original feeling. Then again, maybe it’s revealing a need to please an audience and feel appreciated. It’s probably all three, which only reveals I haven’t the slightest idea what to ultimately take from the experience.

Resurrection Letters, Volume II is artful and beautiful. We’ve come to expect that from Andrew Peterson’s work, haven’t we? Like magnet to steel, we detect a divine pull. With the rising sun, the voice of beauty beckons. Something important is about to be illuminated. Melody after melody, phrase upon phrase, the Tennessee songwriter with a Barnabas heart imparts familiar truths unconventionally. Despite tackling some of the same topics as other Christian songwriters, it usually feels like we are getting a remarkably different take; one that burrows inside the emotional truth far deeper than might be expected from songs that are less nuanced and thoughtful. The first verse establishes a theme. Like a prophecy or parable, verse one is often a type of that which is to come. In succeeding verses, the type is developed more expansively, majestically and/or divinely. Routinely, from the AP pen, we discover—if we have ears to hear—that each line has a corresponding line from prior verses, similar, but different. Each line depicts something specific to the verse where it is found, but also cleverly corresponds to the other verses. For example, notice how angels show up in all three verses of “Rise and Shine” from Carried Along. We find references to sleeping and waking (rising and shining) in all three verses. Later, the bridge literately links to the chorus, which magically and succinctly solidify the song into a cohesive whole. Though each verse tells related but different stories, the chorus applies accurately and appropriately to all three verses. So as we (for this is a joint exercise) prepare for the task of identifying the top moments of Resurrection Letters, Volume II, please note that it is a somewhat trivial exercise. As AP continues to hone his considerable songwriting gift, it’s become indelibly obvious that Peterson songs are compelling because at their heart, they are superb stories. There’s nothing wrong with parsing lyrical passages and musical moments from Resurrection Letters, Volume II, but let’s be clear: these songs are best appreciated as a complete, cohesive package. The regal beauty of this collection of songs is found in the seamless, thematic congruency. But that doesn’t mean we can’t have a little fun! So, without further ado, here they are, the Top Ten Moments from Resurrection Letters, Volume II. 1. “Raise up, oh you sleeper,” the opening line from “All Things New.” It’s an Andy Gullahorn vocal contribution. Like another biblical mandate, “If any man have ears to hear, let him hear,” it none to subtly signals that, “If we snooze, we lose” (now you know why AP doesn’t take songwriting tips from me!). Co-written with Ben Shive and Andy Gullahorn, this song is eloquent encouragement, a reminder that God doesn’t see the utter black of guilt and shame. He sees Jesus’ sacrificial atoning blood. With a suspenseful string prelude (honorable mention for the best moment in this song), with megaphone in hand, Gullahorn reminds us why there is reason to awake: “The dawn is upon you.” 2. The resounding chorus of “Hosanna,” another Peterson/Shive/Gullahorn cooperative, easily makes the top ten. The celestial hook is made more magnificent by the harsh, vivid indictments which precede it. The more a heart surrenders to the will of God, the more it recognizes its need for a Savior. The stately choir sings this melody with intense passion. With soaring harmonies, one can almost catch a vision of the King of Kings cresting the mountain, on a white horse he will ride (sorry, I didn’t mean to channel my inner Michael Martin Murphy there). 3. The beautiful irony of “Invisible God.” While the lyrics explicitly acknowledge the outlandish idea of a personal relationship with a transcendent God, it also affirms intelligent design—not from an arcane textbook—but from astounding evidence advanced in the process of living. This lyrical cousin to “Windows in the World” is a gentle reminder—the infamous velvet-gloved fist—that we divorce ourselves from God with a willful choice to ignore the evidence. “If any man has ears to hear, let him hear,” is not only a nice piece of biblical sarcasm, it’s is profound reminder that if we listen, we will hear. If we look, we will see. 4. “… and you set me free with that ball and chain ..,” the line from “Hosea.” This is another example of the way in which Andy’s perceptive, contrarian perspective sheds light on profound theological truth. 5. The evocative richness of “Love is a Good Thing.” “It can hurt like a blast from a hand grenade when all that used to matter is blown away,” is one metaphorical example of many used in this song which vividly describe the irony of being held captive by Christ. Like the ball and chain that gripped Gomer, Love is a good thing. 6. There’s a magnificent goosebump moment in “Don’t Give Up on Me” which follows this great passage, which others have noted: “I have felt the holy fire of love, been burned by the holy fire of love, made clean by the holy fire of love.” In the last verse as the singer wakes up in the golden dream, something happens to the texture of the musical canvas which elegantly move the listener from his own place, right into the middle of the singer’s dream. I’m a reviewer guy and as such should have some kind of dispassionate curiosity of how the Shive/Gullahorn/Peterson team created this moment. But like good sausage, I just want to bask in its utter goodness; seeing behind the curtain might somehow reduce the charm of the moment. With the, “Now I wake up in a golden dream,” line, I feel the crisp air, I hear the birds sing, I see a striking celestial glow. I feel this magical, supernatural moment which sonically reproduces a sliver of the majesty found in the unknowingly saturated moments of daily living. Man, I’m there. Man, woman, and child, each one of is there. 7. For consequential revelry, how about the song, “Rocket?” So, I have to pick one moment? How about this line?: ” … to count down the seconds, as destiny beckons into the arms of the astral glow.” Maybe it’s not appropriate, and maybe I’m stretching the resurrection theme too far, but I can’t keep myself from following the resurrection theme in “Rocket”—please forgive me—for imagining Jesus wearing a jetpack as He disappears into the clouds, while the disciples stare skyward. 8. “Windows in the World” is a handcrafted masterpiece, a prototype of AP’s songwriting method as noted earlier. While he could have chosen many things, he picked movies, Communion, and marriage to illustrate “windows in the world.” Besides the beauty of the overall concept, my favorite aspect of this song is the songwriter’s choice of marriage as one example of what some call “layered songwriting.” The earthly window of marriage is a reflection—a type—of Christ’s love for the Church. “It’s a window in the world, a little portal where you get a better view.” Indeed. 9. The Bridge in “I’ve Got News.” “So you think you don’t need anyone to love you? So you think you don’t need anyone to love. But you do.” In this section, the normally poetic AP writes uncharacteristically direct. I’m a loner. I have great friends and family, with whom I enjoy spending time. Still, given a choice, my natural inclination is to do what I do alone: books, movies, and music. Me and my art. Then one night I dreamed that my wife of 28 years was gone. The dream was lucid, as was the pain. And guess what? The pain was at least one hundred times worse than I would have guessed. It was palpable. I started to cry the kind of cry that was so deep that I couldn’t catch my breath. I remembered the unspeakable love that I have for my wife. And it changed my behavior (for a half day or so, which is a miracle at my house). Part Three of Stephen Covey’s 7 Habits of Highly Effective People discusses interdependence as being a higher calling than dependence and independence. Then there’s Galations 6:2-3 — Bear one another’s burdens, and thereby fulfill the law of Christ. For if anyone thinks he is something when he is nothing, he deceives himself. We were meant to love. We were meant to be loved. Once again, our friend Andrew Peterson uses his own personal transparency to bless us, reminding us of something we may have known, but buried. Like a dog and his bone, we bury our personal wounds. We don’t want anybody to see it, steal it, or touch it. Grrr. 10. When the choir joins in on the chorus of “The Good Confession (I Believe).” In a most moving way, we hear tacit agreement that the story of one of us is to some extent, the story of us all. The only thing more moving, would be to have the historical Church join in—the disciples, Joseph, Mary, David, Moses, and Abraham singing along too. Some day, they will. I’ve often said that the most moving art is that art which compresses a lifetime of emotion into one work. It’s a formidable challenge, a challenge which AP has navigated successfully, and then some. For we sense the weighty significance of not only our respective lives, but how those individual pieces fit collectively into the Church. My story, yours, the story of our forefathers and apostolic fathers and their mothers and fathers, grandmothers and grandfathers, it’s the same story, written with supreme, infinite wisdom by the Author of Love. That, my friends, brings glory to God. After all, it’s what He wrought. At the end of the day, that’s why I support Andrew Peterson’s music. So, now it’s your turn. I purposely waited for a few weeks to write this, giving us both the opportunity to listen and reflect. My top ten happen to be the group I chose today. Tomorrow will be different. It’s that kind of record. Nevertheless, don’t let the difficulty of the task hold you back. What are your favorite moments from Resurrection Letters, Volume II?

Disclaimer: You may read this and want to defend Andrew Peterson.  I assure you, that won’t be necessary.  I read On the Edge of the Dark Sea of Darkness with my son and we loved it.  Also, I’ve spent time conveying to Andrew in rather specific detail why we loved it and what it did in our imaginations. He knows my deep affection for the book.  He also knows what I’m about to say is not a criticism.  It is, however, funny.  If you want to read up on Andrew’s book and make comments about it, may I direct you to Jonathan Roger’s insightful review.  If you want to discuss the strange phenomenon of dubious honors, this is your place. On the Edge of the Dark Sea of Darkness recently won an award.  I saw it on Andrew’s website.  “Darn right,” I thought.  “Let the accolades begin,” said I.  “Let the movie rights get bought up as the folks at Newberry, Medallion and Pulitzer stand and take notice.” Whenever any of the square pegs are recognized for the excellence they create, it feels like a win for my team.  So I clicked on the link to get the details of “our” book’s recent award.  If you feel me here, if you know exactly what I mean by “it feels like a win for my team,” let me tell you what “we” won. “Best cover.” Yep.  Best cover. Oh man!  Visions of Andrew sitting tucked away in some corner of some coffee shop, pouring over the manuscript– every word, every comma, every exclamation point!  I imagined him getting his two-inch thick editor’s mark-up back from the publisher, as if they took his string of thoughts and tied a thousand little knots in them for him to go back to that same coffee shop untie untie.  I even imagine his wife sitting at the dinner table whistfully poking at her cooling meal with the last prong on her otherwise clean fork, keeping one eye on the clock whose second hand is tick, tick, ticking away the daylight as her husband is peck, peck, pecking away at his laptop, unaware of the hour. But guess what? Best cover!  This warrants a hearty, “Well done, Andrew!  May your cup of satisfaction runneth over!” Having congratulated Andrew on his winning book cover, he replied, “A dubious honor, to be sure.” It got me thinking about my years in seminary.  You’ve got a couple hundred first year students eagerly showing up for “Preparation and Delivery of Sermons.”  We were, after all, preachers in waiting.  The class assumed we knew next to nothing about public speaking, exposition of Scripture or time management. (My professor’s wise adage for sermon length was “Every sermon should feel like twenty minutes.” Nice. But I digress.) There were four preaching classes students took over the course of the MDiv program.  We’d write and deliver two sermons per semester to a class of peers who would also do the same for us.  When we weren’t preaching, we were evaluating each other.  We had these little forms we filled out where we had to make positive comments and offer “constructive” feedback. Every so often a visiting professor, scholar or lecturer would be on campus, and they’d be invited to sit in on these preaching classes we referred to as “batting practice.”  Imagine discovering that John Piper, Sinclair Ferguson or Tim Keller was going to sit in on your preaching class the day you were slated to preach.  There was, of course, nothing for it.  So looking like a High School varsity basketball team assistant in your khaki slacks and navy blue sport coat, you’d give it all you had, which usually wasn’t much. Well, a friend of mine was scheduled to preach on one such day.  A very famous scholar/teacher was at the back of the room listening in as this poor guy preached maybe his fourth sermon ever.  When he was through, the class began to offer their feedback. Our professor asked the esteemed visitor in the back of the room if he would like to chime in.  The icon whose books we all had on our shelves offered this helpful little gem: “I really liked your scripture text.” Ouch! I had a whole bit about how this topic would be good preparation for our celebration of Christmas—God giving a good gift in response to our obvious deficiencies and needs, saving us according to a plan that was all His since we had nothing.  That’s the pastor in me.  But let me go at it another way.  I’m grateful today that there is no contradiction between a lifetime of dubious honors and the hope of hearing at the end, “Well done, good and faithful servant.”  God assures His people that His strength is made perfect in our weakness. Still, there are times in life when it sure seems the Lord is exceedingly committed to perfecting His strength in us publicly.  Just ask my crest-fallen peer who slunk back into his chair with the words “nice text” rattling around in his all-of-the-sudden-vocation-questioning mind, imagining his retirement party or his wake (whichever came first), where one after another would come forward to say things like “If nothing else, the man sure could pick a text.” Have you ever been the recipient of a dubious honor?  Have you ever received obvious sympathy applause?  Do you have a trophy case of “Best Effort” ribbons?  Regale us.

It is one of the ironies of Appalachia that beautiful, changing, fall leaves create a scene that is Edenic just before the bitter winter comes. As it is difficult to enjoy a Sunday night when Monday’s work is already filling the next slot in the viewmaster of our lives, so it is hard to forget that winter is stalking us, and we ought to enjoy the glories of fall while it lasts. Autumn, with its auburn and amber, is a fragile paradise. It is always a season on the brink. The fall of man was, without doubt, the great cataclysm of our history. But the season of fall I find, is more like the preceding Eden. The winter, however, surely is a fall. This is bitter consequence, when men’s hands if not their hearts, go cold. But like common grace still abounding in a fallen world, so does winter have its many charms. Snow descends on strong, submissive trees. Green and brown tokens of bygone seasons peek out from beneath garments of white, like a child’s eyes stand out among layers of a mother’s careful wrapping. The wonder of the winter storm is that it is both beautiful and terrifying, like any woman a man has ever loved. The children are thrilled by the snow -to them it’s magic. They gaze at the pale descent and rejoice at its rapid accumulation. Our inner-child is glad too, but our inner-adult considers spanking our inner-child (working Freudians everywhere into hysteria) because of snow tires, broken hips, bad roads, and predawn scraping of our windshields with an inadequate MasterCard. The same MasterCard that will soon weigh us down in materialistic debt because we have been fooled into thinking silly things about money and joy. But in Appalachia, like so much of the world influenced but not yet overtaken by the furious love of God, we reflect on important things. We consider a small child in the next room, the next house up, or another country. We think of a small child born very far away, what seems like a long time ago. We remember that we had forgotten and we try to remember so that we won’t forget. More than gifts, but yes, gifts. Yes, families, but more than families. Decorations, yes, but also a changed heart. Mercy where wrath was deserved. Music into silence, light into darkness. He came. In answer to that desperate fall, he came. So now there can be goodwill where his favor rests. And because of him, through him, there can be peace. Even on earth. Even, in Appalachia.