What are you looking for?

by Andrew Peterson [Editor’s note: This post was originally written as a letter to the Rabbit Room email list the day after the Winter Solstice, on Tuesday, December 22nd. We share it here both as an offering of closure to the year 2020 and as a first step in the direction of hope for the year ahead.] Merry Christmas, friends of the Rabbit Room! I don’t know about you, but I feel an odd sort of numbness as we inch closer to the end of 2020. I think it’s because of the emotional whiplash: first the disbelief, in March, that the virus would really upend the entire world, followed by the dawning realization that things were going to get much worse before they got better; then the shock and grief at all the sickness and loss of life, not to mention the loss of so many people’s livelihoods; then the death of George Floyd and all the deep national wounds it exposed; then the political division that drove a relational wedge between friends and family members. Still, mixed in with all the bad news was the feeling, for some, that pre-COVID life had been moving too fast, and the lockdown provided some real and necessary wake-up calls. We reassessed. We remembered how important human contact is—not least of which was the holy human contact we experience at church. We looked at the world, and our place in it, a little differently. I was fascinated to read that when the country was standing still back in the spring, one of the top Google searches was, “Why are the birds louder?” The birds, of course, weren’t any louder—it was just that the world had gotten quiet enough for people to hear them again. There’s so much grace all around us, and suffering is a sure way to get us to hear its song. When we started this ministry fifteen or so years ago, we had no idea what it would grow into. Just like writing a song, you have to hold loosely to your own ideas and let the thing become what it wants. Then God can surprise you. Well, I would have been surprised back then if you had told me what the Rabbit Room would look like in 2020. Here’s a quick rundown of what the year’s looked like for us. Douglas McKelvey basically climbed Mt. Everest with the completion of Every Moment Holy, Vol. II: Death, Grief, and Hope . He started on this book well before he knew how much the world would need it, so it was with a clear sense of providence that he worked to craft more than a hundred liturgies specifically for seasons of death, sickness, grief, and the great hope of the Gospel. He labored for months, working directly with people who have suffered bereavement to hone these liturgies into something pastoral and tender, giving us prayers for all manner of painful situations. I saw the first proof copy of the book a few days ago, and when I merely read the titles of the different prayers to a friend who had lost her father, we both cried. I couldn’t be prouder of Doug, artist Ned Bustard, editor Pete Peterson, and the whole Rabbit Room Press team for tirelessly working to complete this volume. It’ll be available early next year. With both conviction and sadness we cancelled Hutchmoot and Hutchmoot UK. Those events are in many ways the incarnation of everything we try to do around here, but there was just no way to host a conference in the midst of a pandemic. But because this team is incredible, we offered up something wonderful. Hutchmoot: Homebound was an online experience like no other. For only $20, with the help of an amazing community and staff, we put together over 80 hours of online content that ranged from deeply theological, to artistically profound, to utterly goofy. Thousands of people tuned in, and it went so well that we’re hoping to do it again one of these days. Early in the lockdown, we realized that people were hungry for ways to stay connected, so we created a weekly roundup of online concerts, lectures, reading groups, and the like , so the Rabbit Room could be your one-stop resource for finding edifying content. One of the many advantages of being a nimble organization is that you can pivot with relative ease to serve the community’s needs. I was so proud of the way the Rabbit Room staff worked to provide connection for so many. Books and music were flying out of the warehouse, because in such a time as 2020, people all over the world were hungry for stories and songs that reminded them of the good, the true, and the beautiful. Speaking of the good, true, and beautiful, Drew Miller worked to produce not only our daily blog content from many different writers, but also podcast after podcast, like Jonathan Rogers’s The Habit , Pete Peterson’s reading of Fin’s Revolution , The Molehill , Leslie Bustard’s The Square Halo , and more. SO MUCH GOOD STUFF. 2020 saw the release of Helena Sorenson’s wonderful, soul-stirring novel The Door on Half-Bald Hill , the audio production of Pete Peterson’s Frankenstein , as well as his filmed adaptation of Wendell Berry’s Sonata at Payne Hollow , the audiobook of Jennifer Trafton’s Henry and the Chalk Dragon , and volume one of Every Moment Holy , read by the great Fernando Ortega and Rebecca Reynolds. We were proud to have our first ever scholar-in-residence, the brilliant Steve Guthrie, who is Belmont University’s professor of Theology, Religion, and the Arts. He wrote a series of posts about a theology of sound , which is utterly fascinating, and he also led an online book group for Let Justice Roll Down , by John Perkins. Speaking of book groups, Jonathan Rogers, alongside John Cal and Jennifer Trafton, also led an online discussion of Robert Farrar Capon’s towering work, The Supper of the Lamb . Chris Thiessen curated playlists for Lent , Eastertide , and Advent , as well as “A Literary Playlist,” “Songs that Make Us Smile,” and “A Lament for Justice” to carry us through this year. After years and years of praying and dreaming, we’ve finally completed North Wind Manor. Jamie Peterson took the lead on designing the place, from the shape of the house to the color of the bathroom light fixtures, and it brings me great pleasure to hear people gasp when they walk into the house. It’s ironic that we created a space for hospitality and connection in a year when nobody’s really allowed to gather, but we trust that the near future will allow for the house to be full of music, laughter, poetry, and the smell of good food. Many thanks to you all for funding a place that will hopefully be a part of Kingdom work for many years to come. We had tremendous help with shipping from Skye Peterson, Rachel Matar, Elise Vedders, Kirby Waggoner, and a host of volunteers who showed up to help stuff envelopes and tape boxes when we were overwhelmed. It’s dangerous to make a list like this, because I’ve certainly left a lot out. The crazy thing is, all that stuff happened in a pandemic year, which means there were no Local Shows, no in-person events, no conferences, no traveling on our part. Lockdown meant more work, more opportunity, not less, and the team did it all with such great joy. It’s remarkable to me that all the aforementioned work was done by a staff of just five people, along witha bunch of volunteers at home and abroad. Just like writing a song, you have to hold loosely to your own ideas and let the thing become what it wants. Then God can surprise you. Well, I would have been surprised back then if you had told me what the Rabbit Room would look like in 2020. Andrew Peterson I started this email talking about numbness, but the act of writing down all the ways God has provided not just the work but the means to do it, has led me to a feeling of gratitude, satisfaction, and the pleasure of seeing a field well-tended. So I want to thank the Rabbit Room team, the many donors and members, the patrons who are supporting not just our work but the work of the many artists, authors, and poets whose work we support. And I thank God, for holding all things together, for redeeming us, for the promise that this story is moving forward, nearer and nearer to the resurrection and the New Creation. I’m writing this message the day after the Winter Solstice, the darkest day of the year. I love that day, because it marks not the triumph of darkness, but the turning of the tide. On Thursday, Christmas Eve, there will be a few more seconds of light in the day than there were today. The light is gaining ground, a bit at a time, and will continue to do so until the bright days of high summer, when my bees will be singing their way from flower to flower and winter will seem like a dream. Jesus is making all things new. He is the wonderful counselor, and the government will be on his shoulders. We in the Rabbit Room love to tell that story, and Lord willing, will keep telling it, world without end. Merry Christmas, AP

by Adam Whipple The season of Epiphany has me thinking about curiosity. In my twenties, I lived for the moments of revelation that came pouring out of great books. I chewed through volumes of Lewis, Chesterton, Berry, Merton, and Schaeffer, awaiting supernovas of understanding like an addict filing coins into a slot machine, itching for the payoff. I still love those feelings of sudden comprehension, but anymore, the worship therein smacks somewhat of Gnosticism. In part, it’s my hand stretching after knowledge-fruit. Epiphany is a revelation, but it’s at God’s prerogative. Not to disparage the undeniable value of careful study, but no matter in what sense the Wise Men were wise, Epiphany is specifically the Lord’s choice, not the direct result of anyone’s erudition. These thoughts and the on-again-off-again homeschooling of the pandemic have made me wonder: what is the place for curiosity within the Kingdom of Christ? My eleven-year-old is good at wanting to know everything, and she’s not alone. Most of us carry around little mental satchels of unanswered queries. We await an audience with one who knows, be that the Lord or someone in a position of expertise. Putting God in the dock seems to be something of a human pastime. Not only did C. S. Lewis title an essay thus, but his majestic novel Till We Have Faces also pits the heroine against a god in a final courtroom scene. Beyond Lewis, personal deconstruction is normative enough that we have a social lexicon for it. We seek God’s answers—directly or indirectly—in philosophical proofs, in archeology, in geology, in physics, and in our own introspection. We value books like Mere Christianity and The Everlasting Man . For myself, I plan to pin God to the wall about dinosaurs after I die. Are they dragons? Are they really old or somewhat new? Couldn’t we have had some good info-graphs in Genesis? Why couldn’t Moses have written something more like a Popular Mechanics article, quick and brightly-colored? Though I remain quite fact-obsessed, I feel increasingly disabused of the notion that God will reveal everything to me upon my death. Paul’s promise to the Corinthians that at some juncture, we who are in Christ “shall know fully, even as [we are] fully known” seems more about being one with the Lord than about possessing all knowledge (I Cor. 13:12). I don’t expect the Father to be handing out study sheets on brontosaurus at the resurrection. I do long, though, for a more complete picture of holy curiosity. Whatever else it may be, curiosity is a virtue, because our Lord came as a child. Precious little narrative exists regarding the childhood of Jesus. Some fragments from outside the scriptural canon consist of miraculous stories more like the movie Brightburn than the Gospel accounts: Jesus is a powerful, vengeful pre-adolescent, killing and resurrecting his playmates by turn and bringing clay animals to life on the Sabbath to the chagrin of his neighbors. Much of this is easily dismissed by his community’s incredulity at him in Luke, chapter four. “News about him spread,” records the good doctor. “Isn’t this Joseph’s son?” say the crowds. If they had grown up around a young miracle-dispenser, his authority and power would have come as no surprise. Thinking of Jesus as curious is dangerous, I suppose. Curiosity is tied inextricably to ignorance, and we don’t like thinking of the Son of God as ignorant. Jesus’ potential curiosity as a child—or as an adult—leaves us writhing amid the fully-God-fully-man debate, a mystery, to be sure. Tacit implications of Jesus growing “in wisdom and in stature” (Luke 2:52) make us squirm. Was there some point when he, the Lord, was not responsible for his actions? What does it mean for the God-man to learn obedience (Isaiah 7:15-16)? To actually be once-young? Epiphany is a revelation, but it’s at God’s prerogative. Adam Whipple We can know that curiosity can be sanctified. The biblical narrative begins with both sides of curiosity present, the worshipful and the idolatrous. The man Adam names animals he has never seen. He and the woman Eve work the Garden, new to the endless peculiarities each plant has to offer, left in wonder at tastes and colors which no one has yet described. Yet they also eat from the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil, partaking of understanding which was not theirs to wield. “The woman saw that the fruit of the tree was good for food and pleasing to the eye…” (Gen. 3:6). You can practically see the pendulous drupe glistening dew-flecked in dappled light. It honestly makes me long for a taste just thinking about it. Without getting too deep into a controversial passage, that picture is one of curiosity—curiosity where it should have been tempered by truth and humility. It is the same curiosity that plays a part in leading a child to steal a brightly colored packet of candy, or in leading a man to steal another glance at a woman not his wife. However, broken curiosity obviously isn’t a proper representation of all curiosity. I’m glad for Isaiah’s insinuation that Jesus had a naturally burgeoning body of human knowledge. In the midst of the oft-referenced prophecy about the virgin birth is an interesting little gem: The virgin will be with child and will give birth to a son, and will call him Immanuel. He will eat curds and honey when he knows enough to reject the wrong and choose the right. But before the boy knows enough to reject the wrong and choose the right, the land of the two kings you dread will be laid waste. —Isaiah 7:14-16 Before he knows enough. Before he knows how to reject the wrong and choose right. Jesus’ perfection and wisdom are more complicated than I like to let myself believe. So what about my curiosity and my questions? How does hypostatic union really work? What happens when one passes the light-speed barrier? What is the actual role of man’s sub-salvific agency in accepting grace? How do the imputed guilt of Adam and the sinlessness of Jesus relate? And most importantly, was the story of Saint George and the dragon a tall tale, or did it involve a Spinosaurus aegyptiacus ? There are people who have attempted to answer these questions, but I always feel dissatisfied with their explanations. Whenever we verge upon the mystical, earth-bound logic must give way. I believe it was Michael Card, at a conference or breakout session, who at one time mentioned a professor of his who had the audacity to answer some questions with “I don’t know.” He also mentioned how good it felt to hear the man say that. I’ve listened to a lot of R. C. Sproul, and I can vouch for my own relief, once in a blue moon, to hear the good doctor say that he didn’t know something. Personally, I’m great at lecturing my children, but I try to remember, when I don’t know an answer, to let them in on my limitations. It reminds me of one of my more favorite verses. Remember that “for such a time as this” conversation between Mordecai and Esther (Esth. 4:14)? Mordecai entreats his cousin to help prevent genocide: “Who knows but that you have come to royal position for such a time as this?” My favorite part—the part often left out of t-shirt designs and song lyrics—is the “who knows.” I hear it in the voice of Chaim Topol’s Tevye from Fiddler on the Roof (1971), and I’m so glad it’s in the Bible. For one thing, it makes Esther less the American-style savior of her people and more a servant of the Lord, a servant whose only role within God’s sovereignty is plain obedience. In times of televangelists and cult personalities who imply, apparently, that they get emails from the Lord, admissions of proper human limitation definitely sound virtuous to me. Who knows? I don’t know if the Lord will ever tell me everything, but I do know that he has given, does give, and will give me Himself in Jesus. Personally, I like to think of God answering my jabbering queries with nothing but a twinkling eye and a wry little smile. Maybe he’ll tell me a tiny bit about velociraptors, too. To tell the truth, I don’t know.

by Millie Sweeny As a young, poor newlywed, trying to make a life on love and peanut butter money, I desperately wanted to learn to bake bread. Memories of my childhood home, a tiny house we moved out of when I was in high school, are permeated with the warm, curling scent of fresh bread, unrolling fragrant steam in the house. I think that house always smelled like bread. At least, every single memory does. These were the days before the Great British Baking Show captured our hearts and our Netflix accounts, before you could learn to tile your bathroom just from YouTube. I spent weekend hours at the library, hauling home heavy and beautiful books with pages stained with oil splatters and flour dust (that’s how you know it’s a good one). Underproved, overbaked, my patient and hungry husband ate them all, and encouraged my efforts. Then, one evening, I opened the door, tired and late from work, to a home that smelled magical. I couldn’t put my finger on it. What is that? It smells like…cinnamon rolls! I pestered my husband, who rebuffed me, laughing. It’s nothing! But then I found it. Sitting on the dryer, happily rising, a pile of dough. It was pillowy perfect, and smelled like heaven. Andrew confessed that his grandmother, every year she visited, would make him bake with her. He has known the secrets of bread since the age of ten or so. He’d been watching me struggle, letting me learn and fail. Then he taught me how. Now, baking bread is part of my weekly rhythm. Part of our liturgy, our common rule. It is most often the simple, whole wheat loaf from his grandmother’s recipe, but sometimes focaccia or pita or challah, sometimes cinnamon rolls or hot cross buns. I want my children’s memories to smell like bread, too. In early September of 2020, our memories smelled like ashes. The world around us was burning, burning, burning without respite. The Willamette Valley in Oregon is lush and green, surrounded by those fabled fir forests that make it so beautiful. And flammable. Every breath was toxic, filled with particulates of destroyed homes, trees, lives. The smoke lay so thick upon our yard that we couldn’t see our next door neighbors. When the sun pushed through mid-morning, it was an unearthly red. I couldn’t bake bread. We live our small lives of love and hope, trusting in today, trusting in tomorrow. We plan for the dough to rise. Millie Sweeny For several days, all order ceased. We lived moment to moment, checking the news obsessively, watching the fire line creep closer and closer, knowing that a single spark could cause infinite destruction. We watched friends evacuate. We prayed and packed bags, tried to play board games with the kids, tried not to imagine all the what ifs . My thoughts were nothing beyond the next five minutes. I couldn’t plan supper, couldn’t finish a glass of water, couldn’t think about the next steps for our fixer-upper home. With time, of course, the rains came. The winds shifted. The immediate danger passed. Life began to resume. Our lungs began to taste fresh air again. I have always known that the act of baking bread is somehow holy, tied to the story of the whole world. There is bread everywhere in our story, from manna to the Last Supper. In our frenetic culture, it is a meditation on a slower pace, on more intentional living. But it is also a meditation on hope. To make bread, one must plan ahead. The yeast must be activated. The dough must be kneaded, must rise, be degassed, shaped, risen again, then finally given into the warmth of the oven. When I blend in the oil and salt and honey, sprinkle in the flour, I am hoping, trusting, resting. In the time the bread takes to rise, anything could happen. When I leave my dough to prove, I am hoping that my husband will return home from work. I am hoping my children will come home safe from school. I am hoping we will gather around our table together, eating and sharing. I am trusting that no catastrophe will strike, no emergency call me forth from tending the rising. ' I am trusting that my heart will beat, my lungs expand, my neurons fire. I am resting in the promise that daily bread will be provided. I am planning for a future that may not come to pass. We do this daily, hourly, without conscious thought; we make great and small plans, trusting that the earth continues its dance around the sun, bringing morning and evening. We live our small lives of love and hope, trusting in today, trusting in tomorrow. We plan for the dough to rise. And like the bread of communion, we eat in remembrance. We live these lives in hope because of our Prince and Brother, broken and made whole, who promises a future sure to come to pass. Let us bake and break bread together, friends; let us eat together. Let us hope and wait together. Whether it’s the scent of rising bread, or whether it’s freshly tilled earth, exhaust from a mended engine, sweet-smelling cedar shavings or the pungency of oil paints—let’s fill our homes with these scents of promise, of tending today and looking to tomorrow. Our memories should always smell so, I believe, on this earth and the new.

by the Rabbit Room We are grateful to get to share another new, timely liturgy from Douglas McKelvey’s upcoming Every Moment Holy, Vol. II : “A Liturgy for Seasons of Uncertainty.” And not only is the text of the liturgy now available—Kristyn Getty has shared a special video reading of the liturgy as well. In the midst of whatever follows, O Lord, let me meet your mercies anew, and anew, and anew. In the midst of my dismay, fix my eyes again and again upon your eternal promises. How this ends—that is up to you. If the next news is favorable, I will praise you for the ongoing gift of life. If tomorrow’s tidings are worse, still will I proclaim your goodness, my heart anchored ever more firmly in the eternal joys you have set before me. And when, whether days or decades from now, you finally bid me rise and follow you across the last valley, I will rejoice in your faithfulness even there. Especially there— praying Thy will be done, and trusting by faith that it will be done. That it is being done. Even now. Even in this disquiet. I am utterly yours, O Christ. In the midst of this uncertainty, I abandon myself again to you, the author and the object of all my truest hopes. Amen. Click here to download the full liturgy at the Every Moment Holy website. And click here to order Every Moment Holy, Vol. II: Death, Grief, and Hope at the Rabbit Room Bookstore.

by the Rabbit Room “Okay,” you might be thinking, “Was there anything to like about 2020?” And you have a point. But amidst all the stuff we thoroughly disliked about 2020, there was some stuff that helped us get through 2020 as well—stuff like amazing albums, spellbinding movies, and cathartic books. So it is our great pleasure to share here today the vast ocean of recommendations from our blog contributors that is “Stuff We Liked in 2020.” We hope you discover something in here that you like, as well. Pete Peterson Film/TV Twin Peaks: The Return – So weird, so baffling, so good! Better Call Saul – This might be one of the great TV shows of all time. I cannot wait for the final season. Cobra Kai – Cheesy, campy, dumb, hilarious, sentimental, and unexpectedly endearing—I love all of it. Books Every Moment Holy, Vol. II: Death, Grief, and Hope by Douglas McKelvey – As the editor, I know I’m cheating here, but I don’t care. This is a monumental work and I’m honored to have played a small part in giving birth to it. The Door on Half-Bald Hill by Helena Sorensen – If there’s a book of 2020, this is it. Good beyond hope. Letters from the Mountain (forthcoming, by Ben Palpant) – Cheating again. This lovely series of letters about the calling of a writer will be out later this year and I can’t wait for folks to be blessed by it. Music folklore by Taylor Swift – First Swift album I’ve ever listened to—and it’s so good! The documentary/live film is also great. Idiot Prayer by Nick Cave – I know he’s indulgent and sometimes a parody of himself, but I love being suspended in his “bleak and fishless sea.” Wake Low’s eponymous debut album – More please. Chris Thiessen Music Reunions by Jason Isbell & the 400 Unit Innocent Country 2 by Quelle Chris & Chris Keys folklore by Taylor Swift Film/TV Better Call Saul Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom Twin Peaks Books The Color of Compromise: The Truth About the American Church’s Complicity in Racism by Jemar Tisby Go Ahead in the Rain: Notes to A Tribe Called Quest by Hanif Abdurraqib Surprised By Hope: Rethinking Heaven, the Resurrection, and the Mission of the Church by N. T. Wright Drew Miller Books Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell by Susanna Clarke – I was editing Malcolm Guite’s episode of The Habit Podcast, and when Jonathan Rogers asked him that last question he asks all his guests (“Who are the writers who make you want to write?”), Malcolm answered “Susanna Clarke” and cited this book. I decided to read it and Malcolm was spot on, of course! A very long, winding book full of humor, mystery, and subtly Christian undertones in the best way. It kept me occupied in the first months of the pandemic—whenever I got super overwhelmed, I knew that I could escape into this wild and wildly entertaining story. If you find that you like this one and decide you want something a bit darker by Susanna Clarke, try Piranesi (Helena wrote about Piranesi in her section of this post). 44 Scotland Street series by Alexander McCall Smith – If Susanna Clarke sustained me through the initial shock of lockdown, then Alexander McCall Smith has gotten me through the winter so far. This is low effort, high reward reading, perfect for right before bedtime. It began as a serial in a Scottish newspaper, a chapter every day, so it has that thrilling feeling of an artist riffing on ideas and making stuff up as he goes along—without ever coming across as half-baked. Each chapter is invitingly short, and the books bounce around among a lovable and cringe-worthy cast of characters, each of whom are fumbling their way towards their own conceptions of happiness. It’s wickedly funny and often touching, and there are FOURTEEN of these books! A new one just came out in November. I’m currently on the sixth book. I’ve got a long ways to go. The Decadent Society by Ross Douthat – The last book I read before the pandemic stopped us in our tracks. Perhaps an ill-timed release for a book, but Douthat’s insights are as pertinent as ever, even if we have more immediate concerns now than the ones he raises. It gave me much-needed language for the sense that American culture keeps repeating itself in an endless (seemingly hopeless) feedback loop of derivative art and arguments. Music Thirties by Jill Andrews – This is one of those albums that proved itself to me by the sheer number of times I returned to it for a comforting, immersive listen, whether in the car or through headphones at the end of a long day. Honest, understated songwriting complimented by melt-in-your-mouth production. Plus, it’s an embarrassment of riches—13 songs, 43 minutes long. There’s lots to love here. World on the Ground by Sarah Jarosz – I read somewhere that Sarah contemplated holding off on releasing this record when it became clear that she wouldn’t be able to tour it like she hoped, and I’m so glad she didn’t go through with that. This one kept me excellent company throughout the summer. Ideal road music, full of harmonically adventurous melodies, intriguing characters, and some quite relatably humorous lines (“Drive across the desert in your blue Ford Escape / Hopefully your car will live up to its name”) Debussy piano compositions – Kelsey and I have just been pounding the “Calm Debussy- piano” playlist on Spotify this year. Ha! You can tell what we’ve really needed. But seriously, next time you feel like you can’t get a full breath after some horrific news headline, trying playing his “Préludes / Book 1, L.117: 8,” “Rêverie,” “Estampes: I. Pagodes,” or, of course, “Claire De Lune” and let it take you away. I believe that the piano is the best instrument. There are many ways to prove me wrong. But Debussy is one way to prove me right! Film/TV The Great British Baking Show – I mean, come on. Take some of the most adorable, eccentric people you could ever imagine, watch them laugh and cry with one another as they overcome the unflinching scrutiny of Paul Hollywood, and be shocked at some random hilarious thing that Noel Fielding says. It’s a blissful coping mechanism that hasn’t let me down yet. Emma – This movie is addictive. It’s one of those where you can feel the economy of the craft—meaning that every shot, every beat of the accompanying music, every facial expression, every pause in conversation, is for a reason. It’s a thrill to watch, pitch-perfect and clever and ultimately redemptive in surprising and rewarding ways. Every moment feels like a punch line. What a treasure. The Social Dilemma – If you haven’t watched it yet, then wait for an evening when you feel ready to face the social media monster-in-the-closet and have at it. If you’re like me, you think you’ve heard all the critiques anyone has to say about Facebook and the attention economy and how it rewires our brains—but watching this will organize that information into a cohesive, compelling narrative that will actually leave you feeling empowered. Chris Yokel Books How To Be An Antiracist by Ibram X. Kendi – An important eye-opening read on racism in America. The Rivers of London series by Ben Aaronovitich – Imagine if adult Harry Potter were recruited by the London Metropolitan Police. Native: Identity, Belonging, and Rediscovering God by Kaitlin B. Curtice – An exploration of what it means to be indigenous and Christian in America. Music folklore + evermore by Taylor Swift – The stripped down folky Taylor Swift project I’ve always wanted. Out of Body by Needtobreathe – Possibly their best album. Cannot Be, Whatsoever by Novo Amor – Basically the Welsh Bon Iver. Video Games I didn’t really watch many new films or TV this year, but I did get a PS4, so here are my top 3 video games: Horizon Zero Dawn – A gorgeous open world post-post-apocalyptic game with a compelling storyline. Spider-Man – Webbing through NYC is just FUN. Rise of the Tomb Raider – Lara Croft searches for a macguffin that grants immortality in Siberia. Jen Yokel Books The Great Belonging by Charlotte Donlon – As pandemic life has heightened the rampant loneliness in our world, this book couldn’t be more timely. Written as a collection of small essays and reflections, this book was a comforting friend as winter began to set in. Handle with Care by Lore Ferguson Wilbert – And another timely book… Lore Wilbert’s beautiful, reflective book on the ministry of physical touch. I reviewed it for The Rabbit Room , if you’d like to read my thoughts there. Thinking it may be time to read it again soon. Revelations of Divine Love by Julian of Norwich – Technically, I’m still reading it, because it’s one to savor. Who knew a medieval mystic and Black Plague survivor would become such a good companion for these times. If you’re interested in diving in, I recommend the contemporary English edition from Paraclete Press. More Books Because I didn’t watch a lot of movies this year, I’m using my movie slot for more books. Of course, you all NEED to read The Door on Half-Bald Hill . But here are a few more I loved… The Golem and the Jinni by Helene Wecker – A lonely golem and a restless jinni meet and strike up an unlikely friendship in 1899 New York. It’s a beautifully written blend of mythology and historical fiction, and a perfect winter read, if you’re looking for a story to get swept up in. Station Eleven by Emily St. John Mandel – I almost put it down a few times because a post-apocalyptic pandemic novel in 2020 was… a lot. I’m glad I didn’t. It’s a dark story shot through with glimmers of hope and humanity, and the ending makes it all worthwhile. Virgil Wander by Leif Enger – Every time I read Leif Enger I remember why I love his books and wonder why it took me so long. A delight. Music Drive In Show by The Lone Bellow – Of all the things I’ve missed in this season of social distancing, live music might be the thing I miss most. We had cancelled tickets to see The Lone Bellow at the beginning of the year, so when they came back around for a Drive In theater tour, I was grateful they came up our way. Sure, it felt a little odd in some ways, but they put on a fantastic show that made everything feel almost normal for a night. Peopled with Dreams by John Mark McMillan – I’m here for anything JMM releases, but I really appreciated the subversive joy of this album right at the start of the year. “Juggernaut” was my 2020 Easter song. Random Sufjan Stevens records – There was a moment when I got on a random Sufjan kick. I still haven’t listened all the way through The Ascension , but I finally listened to Michigan , revisited Illinoise , and appreciated the moody sci-fi weirdness on Aporia . folklore by Taylor Swift – I know, it’s already on lots of other lists, but in this house we absolutely enjoy T-Swift and may or may not have pre-ordered the vinyl. Andrew Roycroft Books A Passion for Ignorance: What we choose not to know and why by Renata Salecl – Watching a year unfold in which there was so much conscious unknowing among people and institutions whom I have respected, I felt a need to understand why ignorance is valued and pursued. Salecl’s book is succinct, but deeply affecting, showing the devastating effect of turning a blind eye and deaf ear. I understood more about myself, social media, and the mayhem that we have affectionately come to call 2020. A Diary of Private Prayer by John Baillie – I have used Baillie’s book sporadically in the past, but 2020 was the year when I discovered its daily worth and wonder. The simple format of the prayers, their candid confession of sin and celebration of God’s great creation opened up new pathways for approaching God. This is a refreshing and life changing resource. Waiting on the Word by Malcolm Guite – My own spiritual background does not make much of the liturgical seasons, and consequently Advent has tended to be a vague sense of anticipation about Christmas coming. Malcolm’s selection of poems, his gentle-toned leadership through the beauty and nuance of the seasons, and his God honouring reflections drew my heart out after the Saviour in fresh ways. Film/TV Little Women – Little Women topped and tailed 2020 for us as a family – with a cinema trip after Christmas 2019, and then a DVD night at Christmas past. The film just gets better and better, and while I’m delighted to see the strength with which the female characters are dignified and invested, I also learned a lot about quiet, supportive, strength as a man. The production values are so high, and the performances are uniformly wonderful. Contagion – I never caught the original release in 2011, and so watching this movie in 2020 was incredibly surreal. While the last thing on my wishlist was more pandemic, the film showed me the inevitability of what the world is presently facing, as well as the fact that this middle space we occupy is not permanent. Mosul directed by Matthew Michael Carnahan – There is no shortage of Iraq/Afghanistan war movies on the menu these days, but Mosul (the acted movie, not the documentary) was an eye-opening insight into the work of Iraqi forces against ISIS. The fraternity among the soldiers, and the non-Western view of a country’s struggle with insurgency, were fascinating elements of a devastatingly well directed and acted movie. Music Conversations by Sara Groves – I’ve only come into contact with Sara Groves’ work in the past few years, and her 2001 release Conversations has been a constant companion through this past year. Some of the songs have now come to frame major decisions we have faced as a family, and have given us words of realism and hope through some difficult times. ‘Painting Pictures of Egypt’ has now become completely proverbial in our conversations together. Patient Kingdom by Sandra McCracken – There’s an earthy transcendence in all of Sandra’s work, and Patient Kingdom embodies this so powerfully. The musicianship is first class, the lyricism is direct and profound, and the whole project has lifted my heart heavenwards over and over again in 2020. The Arcadian Wild by The Arcadian Wild – Hutchmoot Homebound introduced me to The Arcadian Wild for the first time, and I have spent a lot of time since then trying to figure out why it took so long for me to come across them. This album from 2015 is so deft musically, and nimble lyrically. It has been a good friend through the last half of 2020. J Lind Books Stages on Life’s Way by Søren Kierkegaard – My quarantine project has been to read through Kierkegaard’s pseudonymous authorship, and this link in the chain was a challenge. It’s more obscure and much longer than most of his works, so the commentaries weren’t particularly helpful. But it was the first time that I found myself holding my life view up to those of his many characters—which was, as I understand it, one of his primary goals in writing under pseudonyms. Philosopher of the Heart: The Restless Life of Søren Kierkegaard by Clare Carlisle – I’d read and loved Lowrie’s biography of SK, but this new one (2020) is phenomenal. Every chapter is bookended with an imaginative depiction of Kierkegaard in real time: he’s trying to get comfortable in the train carriage; it’s Christmas, and he’s writing alone by candlelight. In lieu of a standard chronological bio, the reader is invited into his day-to-day. Beautifully done. Plus, Carlisle responds to emails. The Book of Hours by Rainer Maria Rilke – Love poems to the divine, recommended by Bob, one of the patron saints at my parish. No words. I’ll be re-reading it soon, no doubt. Music The Ascension by Sufjan Stevens – The title track is an extrabiblical hymn, a confession of an evolving faith mid-rebirth (i.e., when it’s dead). Hearing him sing “to everything, there is no meaning” is maybe the most meaningful moment of the album. Fetch the Bolt Cutters by Fiona Apple – If Billie Eilish spun out at the finish line and resurfaced 20 years later, she’d probably make something like this. “St. Augustine At Night” by Dawes – Maybe the only song that really hit me off Dawes’ latest album, but it vindicates the whole record. Helps me empathize with the madness behind the MAGA. Taylor Goldsmith wordsmithing at his best. Mark Meynell Books I’m going to cheat: in 2020 I finally completed Anthony Powell’s (pronounced ‘Pole’!) mammoth 12-volume masterpiece, A Dance to the Music of Time (a narrative with a cast of over 300, set in and around London from the 1920s to 1960s). It’s breathtaking, with some of the most striking but economical pen-portraits of characters I’ve read. But that’s not one of my three… The Fatal Eggs by Mikhail Bulgakov – Better known for his Master and Margarita, this is a brilliant, punch, satirical science-fiction from the early years of the USSR. If you are an HGWells fan, you’ll love it especially. I Am Dynamite!: A Life of Friedrich Nietzsche by Sue Prideaux – This is one of the best biographies I think I’ve read on anyone. Nietzsche is a spectre haunting the 20th century and beyond, and we will never begin to grasp what the world around us means without coming to terms with him. But he’s an intimidating figure. This brilliantly brings him to life and gives in-roads into his thought (which is notoriously hard to pin down in places). One thing is clear: that whatever you thought he was is almost certainly wrong. But what a tragic figure. Heartbreaking, really. The Silence of the Girls by Pat Barker – Nostalgia about some past era is the triumph of imagination over reality since few of us would be comfortable in any period not our own (much that we might wish it otherwise). If you don’t believe me, this book will cure you. In lesser hands, it would be a crude gimmick; in Barker’s (best known for her superb World War I Regeneration trilogy), it’s a triumph. A retelling of the elements of Homer’s Iliad through the eyes of one captured Trojan, Queen Briseis, now one of Achilles’ prize slaves. I couldn’t put it down. I always suspected Achilles was a cad. Now I know it. Film/TV I couldn’t make up my mind whether or not to put Tenet on here (I love all the Nolans’ films, however uneven). So I think I won’t. Parasite also deserves mention. Astonishing movie. But everyone will put that, so again, I won’t. It’s hard to remember what we watched this year, to be honest, what with two full-on UK lockdowns (and now a third) and basically completing Netflix. But these have stuck in my mind: Delhi Crime – As a Nordic Noir addict, I’m a sucker for a deep detective show (True Detective season 1 the pinnacle IMHOl season 3 pretty great too; give season 2 a miss), the darker the better. This is a superb 7-part show, based on a true crime (horrific assaults on a woman and her boyfriend on a bus), which opens up a world of which I knew precious little. Brilliantly acted and shot (think Michael Mann colours), we were gripped. The Bureau – Brilliant French espionage series, starring the utterly compelling Matthieu Kassovitz amid a host of other fascinating characters in the French secret service. North Africa and Iran are a focus – as is the perennial spy’s dilemma of who to trust… Mr. Jones – True story of the Welsh journalist (James Norton, known from McMafia and Grantchester) who got the news of Stalin’s deliberate starvation of Ukraine in the 1930s to the world (incidentally, with some support from the late, great Malcolm Muggeridge, but that’s not picked up in the film). Literally millions died. It’s impossible to say how many. Directed by the Polish Agnieszka Holland, it’s a tough but surreally beautiful watch. Weirdly, I’d read Anne Appelbaum’s 2017 history of the tragedy (Red Famine: Stalin’s War on Ukraine) earlier in the year and was blown away by the film’s apparent accuracy. Never has the sound of eating been used to such poignant effect… Music Elbowrooms by Elbow – One of countless lockdown specials out there, I’ve had this on a loop at times. A wonderful exercise in the familiar being recrafted into something beautifully poignant and affecting. Weightless just gets me. every. single. time. Letter to You by Bruce Springsteen – He just keeps producing the goods at the right moment. Debussy-Rameau by Víkingur Ólafsson – Slightly different, this one. Ólafsson is an Icelandic concert pianist and one of a kind. But he too transforms the familiar in surprising and unpredictable ways. Here he splices work by two seemingly different Frenchman – Jean-Phillippe Rameau (1683-1764) and Claude Debussy (1862-1918). The result is musical alchemy, perfect for inspiring aural constellations in the mind! But it needs time and patience. Matt Conner Book s The Colossus of New York by Colson Whitehead – I’m 16 years late to Whitehead’s paean to New York City, but I’m so glad I read it. Whitehead’s vignettes take the reader from NYC’s rainy streets to regular subway rides and Coney Island to Central Park, and each vivid description is so beautifully written that I was compelled to go back and re-read several pages only to further appreciate the wordsmith at work. On Religion by John Caputo – I’ll let Caputo speak for himself. “The name of God is the name of the chance for something absolutely new, for a new birth, for the expectation, the hope, the hope against hope (Rom. 4:18) in a transforming future. Without it we are left without hope and are absorbed by rational management techniques.” Small Country by Gaël Faye – Brutal and beautiful. A coming-of-age story of 10-year-old Gabriel growing up in Burundi as civil war takes hold. Music Punisher (Dead Oceans) by Phoebe Bridgers – Bridgers’ makes no secret of her intense love of Elliot Smith (she even sings a song to him here), and his influence is certainly felt throughout Punisher ‘s dark compositions. However, Bridgers’ vulnerability in documenting her own depressive thoughts, self-destructive tendencies, or regretful decisions is a real gift, especially when the songs are this beautiful. An easy pick for favorite album of 2020 for me. Non-Secure Connection (Zappo) by Bruce Hornsby – If you stopped following Hornsby years ago—perhaps when he was reminding us of “the way it is”—then you’ve missed out on some of the most inventive albums released in the last few years. Non-Secure Connection is the follow-up to Absolute Zero. Both are worth your time and attention. Everything Else Has Gone Wrong (Mmm…) by Bombay Bicycle Club – I’m a sucker for British rock, so I was eager to see how Bombay Bicycle Club sounded after a six-year absence. This latest album is, in my opinion, their best work yet with a spirited set of pop/rock songs that utilize every instrument and texture they can find. By the time Jack Steadman sings “This light’ll bring me home” on the closing “Racing Stripes”, you’re more than ready to go back to the beginning. Film/TV The Collective – If you enjoyed Spotlight, which won Best Picture, then watch the real thing. This Romanian documentary plays out like a slowly unfolding thriller as journalists dig deeper into multiple layers of gov’t corruption at every level, all of which started with a nightclub fire that killed dozens of people needlessly. An important reminder of the importance of investigative journalism and accountability. First Cow – Even the title will likely draw a laugh, and to try to describe this movie as anything more than a beautiful meditation on friendship will only push you further away from giving it a try. This movie takes its time but the journey is well worth the investment. The Vast of Night – This low-budget sci-fi flick flew under the radar even for at-home viewing, but it’s a captivating film that feels like Spielberg-ian suspense. Beautifully shot movie that was clearly someone’s long-held pet project. Jill Phillips Books How To Do Nothing by Jenny Odell – This is the best book I read this year. Odell brings an artist’s perspective to the discussion around technology and the commercialization of how we spend our time and attention. It is strangely hopeful and casts a vision for what might happen if we all slow down and “resist the attention economy.” Hidden Valley Road by Robert Kolker – This was a heavy read, but I learned so much about the history of mental health through the story of one family’s journey with mental illness. Troubled Blood by Robert Galbraith – I love the Cormoran Strike books and was grateful for another one in 2020. 'Film/TV Irresistable – This was surprisingly sentimental and hopeful. I loved Jon Stewart’s take on this divisive political climate and the common humanity that connects us and moves us forward. Steve Carell is always a joy. Peanut Butter Falcon – This movie really moved me. The acting was incredible and the fact that it is set in the Outer Banks of North Carolina where my family grew up made it that much more special. Ted Lasso – I bet this makes a lot of lists. Looking over my choices I was drawn to movies that highlight the goodness of people and love that conquers hate. This was no exception. It was so nice to see a character that was just so KIND and uncynical. Music Damage by H.E.R. – I listened to this song over and over again this year. I love H.E.R. and love even more that she has worked with so many Nashville artists including Scott Mulvahill! I love the vibe, the production, and her beautiful voice. “This Must Be The Place” by Talking Heads – I know this is an old song, but it’s been a gift to me in this season. I was blown away by David Byrne’s American Utopia (which I would have added to the movies list if I didn’t already have three) and rediscovered the power of his music. This song might be my favorite. Andrew Osenga Music Good Luck With Whatever by Dawes – This album just came out in the Fall, but it immediately became the only non-work music I listened to the rest of the year. There are so many wonderful songs and performances, but the song “Didn’t Fix Me” is easily my favorite written/performed/produced song I heard all year. Atlas: Space by Sleeping at Last – What a perfect and gorgeous record. Excellently written and heartbreakingly beautifully captured. Blake Mills by Blake Mills – Rediscovered this one again (again!) this year. So many ridiculous songs and sounds and GASP the guitar playing!! Film/TV Last Week Tonight with John Oliver – the only TV show I watch every week. He’s brilliant and insightful and yes, offensive at times, but I love that he isn’t cynical. They go in depth on interesting problems and then always leave you with some course of action you can take. I love that it invites action and service. And yes, wickedly funny. Knives Out – I punched my couch alone in my living room because I was so happy and anxious and excited at the same time by this movie. Loved every second of it. Onward – What a great story! Hilarious and fun and beautiful. Another Pixar classic. Books Every Good Endeavor by Tim Keller – A book about work and faith and rest that was incredibly profound for me. Essentialism by Greg McKeown – Under the wire. I read this in the last four days of the year and it has completely changed how I will approach 2021. Simple, insightful, and profoundly useful guide to getting rid of the clutter in your work and life and focusing on what’s really important. Highly recommended! Paradise Sky by Joe R. Lansdale – A wild, funny and thought-provoking tale of an African-American gunslinger in the old west. American Spy by Lauren Wilkinson – My wife found this on Barack Obama’s reading list from last year. An amazing first-person novel of an African-American CIA spy, now in hiding to protect her young son. SO GOOD. I also finally read The Road by Cormac McCarthy without quitting by page 20, and while I recognize it was excellent I did not like it at all. It was like the James Taylor of books for me. Ron Block Books Robert Falconer by George MacDonald – As usual G-Mac weaves a story in many dimensions. A winding road, truth, theology – deep enjoyment and a lot to chew. High Performance Habits: How Extraordinary People Become That Way by Brendon Burchard – Once again – in the transition last year where gigs and recordings for me flipped off like a switch, I needed some kicks in the tail to keep on track as I recreated myself. To Bless the Space Between Us: A Book of Blessings by John O’Donohue – This book is beautifully deep without being technical or complicated; it’s almost childlike at times. A look at life in this world by a poet-priest-philosopher. Film/TV Foyle’s War – Rebecca Reynolds told me about this a long time ago, and even lent me the DVD set. We didn’t dig into Foyle’s world until this year. I love characters who always do their best to choose to do what is right and good, especially when it gets complicated. Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D . – It’s possible, even likely that one of the scriptwriters was on something when they were writing some of the seasons, but I really enjoyed the crazy story arc and the characters. Les Miserables with Dominic West, a mini-series – Six episodes allows for a little more exploration of Fantine’s story, plus other elements like Val Jean going back to prison. No movie or series can do this book justice, but I usually applaud them anyway for trying. Music Who Are You Now by Madison Cunningham – Just before the music circuit fried this year, I played on a Cayamo Cruise with the Soggy Bottom Boys. It was a shipload of great artists, and we hosted several jams in our suite. Madison Cunningham showed up one night, and Sean Watkins of Nickel Creek introduced us and said, “Madison is a really great artist.” Little did I know – the next day I walked up to watch her show on deck and thirty seconds later I was a lifelong fan. Drew Holcomb and the Neighbors with Ellie, Molly Tuttle, Sean and Sara Watkins, Dirk Powell, Buddy Miller, and a bunch of others played amazing and lovely sets. Church Street Blues by Tony Rice – Tony passed on Christmas Day, marking the fading of the fantastical musical era I had the privilege to grow up in. If you like story songs with soulful, folky, but confident vocals, and absolute top level guitar playing, get Church Street Blues. Tony has been absolutely integral to my musical story, and his vast influence has covered everyone I grew up with, plus the next generation like Nickel Creek, and today’s bands like Punch Brothers. He has been legendary in Bluegrass circles since the early 1970s. Lead the Knave by Arty McGlynn & Nollaig Casey – An iconic Irish guitarist, producer, arranger, and composer, Arty passed away as well this year. I played with him once on a Jerry Douglas Transatlantic Sessions show in Londonderry, Northern Ireland. I’ve been listening a bunch to this groundbreaking album with his partner. Mesmerizing and mood-creating. Helena Sorensen Books Piranesi by Susanna Clarke – I can’t say much about this story without spoiling it, but this is my favorite kind of book. It’s dark and atmospheric, the writing spare, and it leaves you with a sense of being surrounded by mystery. Susanna Clarke’s unblushing embrace of other worlds is bold and inspiring. How to Teach Your Children Shakespeare by Ken Ludwig – I bought this book as a guide for myself, planning to read it as a reference before creating a Shakespeare unit for my homeschool curriculum. But Ludwig’s infectious enthusiasm and total lack of pretense convinced me to read the book aloud as the kids and I worked to memorize twenty-three passages from Shakespeare’s greatest plays. We had so much fun. Okay For Now by Gary D. Schmidt – There are lots of great children’s books that don’t make great read-alouds. Gary D. Schmidt’s books, however, are as much a treat for the reader as for the listener. And if you want to teach your children that people can change, if you want them to understand that the actions of even the “bad guys” are motivated by fear, shame, grief, and trauma, Schmidt is the writer for you. (We also read The Wednesday Wars and Lizzie Bright and the Buckminster Boy this year. The latter is very, very heavy.) Film/TV Little Women – I adored Greta Gerwig’s structuring of this story (the first I remember crying over, some time around age 11). In multiple scenes, we see men, with their wealth, education, and power, standing apart from a knot of women who fill the scene with life. Theirs is the passion that coaxes music from a dusty piano, the sparkling conversation that enlivens the silent room, the appreciation for beauty that gives value to overlooked artistry, and the depth of feeling that imbues every circumstance with meaning. I also love that the film begins with Jo’s attempt to flourish inside the limiting expectations of a male editor with no imagination. She’s angered by Frederick’s suggestion that she has more to give, and it takes the loss of her sister, the loss of her dearest friend, the loss of her job, the loss of everything that is not really her, to show her that her story is more than enough. Emma – I loved this version of Austen’s novel, and I was surprised by the quirky, unexpectedly perfect soundtrack. But the performances of Josh O’Connor, Miranda Hart, and Bill Nighy took the cake. The Crown – This series is wonderfully written and acted. Jon and I rewatched the first three seasons in order to get a better sense of the character arcs. Sometime in Season 3, Rupert Greyson-Williams introduces a motif that involves male singers executing a descending interval. Just two notes. But they land with a finality that stirs such dread. It’s as if the song and the singers are collapsing under the weight of the institution. And watching teams of people scurry around that institution, shoring up its cracks and touching up its colors, certainly fills me with dread. In Season 4, we see more clearly than ever how the thing they’re fighting to preserve is killing them. Music “Psalm 116” by Mission House – This arrangement was one of the many gifts of Hutchmoot: Homebound, and I have listened to it hundreds of times. It has one of those melodies that rolls along deliciously, each phrase leading into the next in such a way that I find it hard to stop singing. When Andrew and Skye add their harmonies on the second verse, it’s delightful. Steve Guthrie Books The Plague by Albert Camus – This is the first thing I’ve read by Camus. It seemed like a good book to tackle in the midst of a pandemic, and though admittedly it’s not a Rom-Com, it actually ended up being pretty absorbing and even enjoyable. Moreover, though the book was written nearly seventy-five years ago, some passages speak to the events and emotions of this past year with an eerie clarity. The book describes the spread of bubonic plague through a small North African city, but Camus also intended the sickness to serve as a parable of fascism and Nazism in their spread across mid-century Europe. “We all have plague,” one of the characters concludes darkly. This book is worth reading then, not only for its insight into how people respond to a pandemic, but for how it depicts the deadly contagions of hatred, paranoia, cynicism, and desperation. My Life with the Saints by James Martin – James Martin is a Jesuit priest and popular author. This book is a memoir of Martin’s own spiritual journey, told through biographies of different Catholic saints who have influenced him at one point or another along the way, or whose stories parallel some part of Martin’s own experience. The book taught me a lot about faithful men and women of God from across Christian history, many whose names I hadn’t heard before. Their stories were encouraging and inspiring (and a kind of salve after reading Camus’ depiction of human sinfulness in The Plague !). Martin is an engaging and funny writer, and easy to follow—I actually listened to this as an audiobook. As I look back over the last year’s reading, this book stands out because of the rare combination of boxes it checks: informative, spiritually enriching, interesting, and fun. The Wound of Knowledge: Christian Spirituality from the New Testament to St. John of the Cross by Rowan Williams – C. S. Lewis wrote: “I believe that many who find that ‘nothing happens’ when they sit down, or kneel down, to a book of devotion, would find that the heart sings unbidden while they are working their way through a tough bit of theology with a pipe in their teeth and a pencil in their hand.” That pretty well describes my experience of this classic study of Christian spirituality from the former Archbishop of Canterbury. Williams considers the Apostle Paul, Athanasius, Augustine, Luther and others, and how they understood the Christian vocation of prayer, contemplation, and the pursuit of union with Christ. This is not always an easy read (though Williams, who is also a poet, writes beautifully). Nevertheless it is a deeply rewarding one. Film/TV Vera – This British detective series has been the go-to date night watch for my wife and me over the past year. The series is based on Ann Cleeve’s Vera Stanhope series, and is set in Newcastle-upon-Tyne and the surrounding Northumberland countryside. The writing and acting are terrific, but really, I’d tune in just to hear DCI Vera (played by Brenda Blethyn) say “that’s alright, luv,” or “nevermind, pet.” Episodes are available through Amazon (or even better), for free through the Nashville Public Library’s Hoopla streaming service. Liyana – A visually beautiful documentary about a group of orphans in the African nation of Eswatini, who are participating in a story-writing workshop. It is a story about the transformative power of stories. The movie shifts between filmed segments that tell the stories of the orphans, and animated segments that tell the story they write together. Streaming on Amazon, GooglePlay, and YouTube. Wolfwalkers – This animated film was produced by the same Irish studio that created The Book of Kells and Song of the Sea. (If you haven’t seen those yet, go watch them immediately. I’ll wait here.) Like the two previous films, Wolfwalkers is based on Irish folklore and features a rich, graphical animation style that draws heavily from Celtic art and iconography. This story is set in Ireland in 1650 and has both historical and fantastical elements. The story pits the rational Puritanism of Oliver Cromwell against the fantastical paganism of the Celts, in a way that ultimately is probably a little one-sided and unfair to the Puritans. (For that matter, the early Celts were warrior tribes who practiced human sacrifice, rather than the crystals-and-crafts-loving environmentalists suggested by the film.) Nevermind all that; enjoy the eye candy. This is a great movie. Available on Apple TV+. Music Chet Baker Sings by Chet Baker – For my money Chet Baker was the very coolest exponent of the “Cool Jazz” movement of the 40’s and 50’s. I’ve always loved his trumpet playing, but for some reason had never spent much time with this classic 1954 recording that features him as a vocalist. If you’re looking for an easy way in to jazz, or a soundtrack to listen to while imagining yourself as a character in a film noir detective drama; or, if you really dug La La Land , and would like to meet some of the music that inspired it—this is your record. Agape by Jesus Molina – Jesus Molina is a 25 year-old Colombian jazz pianist of almost other-worldly virtuosity. A lot of the fun of this album is just enjoying (or if you’re a pianist, perhaps despairing over) his extraordinary keyboard pyrotechnics. But in addition to the flash, there is real substance here and some solid musical compositions. Molina also gets my vote for “Musician with the Purest, Most Innocent, and Exuberant Love of Jesus.” Most of his song titles reflect Christian themes, and one of his online bios says that he was taught to play piano “by the best teacher in the world, our Lord Jesus Christ.” That’s the sort of thing I might read with a chuckle if I hadn’t heard the guy’s chops. From This Place by Pat Metheny – Jazz guitarist Pat Metheny recorded his first album in 1976, 44 years before the release of From This Place . Over that long career he has become (I learned from the NPR segment reviewing this album) “the only recording artist in history to win a Grammy award in 10 different categories.” Metheny’s music has always had a cinematic quality – unfolding in a lyrically linear fashion, rather than following a verse/chorus/bridge sort of format. That film-like character is accentuated on this album, which features Metheny’s quartet accompanied by the Hollywood Studio Symphony. It’s a recording to put on in the background while you make dinner or sort papers at your desk. After two or three times through you’ll be surprised to discover how deeply these long elaborate melodies have worked their way into your psyche.

by the Rabbit Room The Habit Podcast  is a series of conversations with writers about writing, hosted by Jonathan Rogers. This week, Jonathan Rogers talks with Joel Clarkson, author of Sensing God: Experiencing the Divine in Nature, Food, Music, and Beauty . Jonathan Rogers and Joel Clarkson discuss writing’s role in waking us up to the physicality of the world, Jesus as both firstborn of creation and firstborn from the dead, and the limits of intellect to account for the depth of what it means to believe. Click here to listen to Season 3, Episode 1 of The Habit Podcast. Transcripts are now available for The Habit Podcast. Click here to access them. Special thanks to our Rabbit Room members for making these podcasts possible! If you’re interested in becoming a member, visit RabbitRoom.com/Donate.

by Laura Trimble I wasn’t planning to mend my son’s shorts. Goodness knows, the weekly battle to get him to surrender his favorite article of clothing to the laundry was bad enough. I hate to admit it, but a tiny part of me was looking forward to the day that scooting across concrete sidewalks on his bottom had its inevitable result. But try explaining “threadbare” to a three-year-old as he points to the patched knees of your own jeans and asks, “Can’t you sew them just like yours?” It’s true I devoted hours of quarantine to repairing my own jeans in the sashiko style, in which the slow act of mending is made even slower by embroidering the repair. In the process, I discovered a whole world of visible mending enthusiasts who use social media to swap both stitch patterns and also the philosophy behind their work. Mending, they assert, is a statement that we are more than what we consume. It protests against shoveling money into newer, better, trendier products as fast as possible, without regard to where the castaways pile up. It shows that we are more than mass-produced patterns and optimization algorithms attuned primarily to profit margins. That we can be creators and caretakers, conserving what is dear to us. Above all, visible mending is an act of grace. Instead of hiding the flaws of a worn-out garment, mending proclaims to the world just how well this garment is loved. And that love, lingering fondly over the uniqueness of its story, is what makes it beautiful. So now I find myself spending a slow Sunday afternoon on the porch embroidering a tiny pair of athleticwear basketball shorts, which itself feels rather like a contradiction. The ultra-performance nylon-mesh world is not meant for mending. Athletics is all about leaving behind that which holds you back, and flaws hold you back. The pursuit of what is leaner and sleeker leaves no time to consider the fate of last year’s model—that what is ultra-performance is necessarily disposable when something better comes along. But these shorts mean none of that to my son. They are gentle around the waist, soft to the touch. That is their weakness, but also all the reason he needs to love them. He dreads the weekly recurrence of laundry day, when he has to be separated from them for a whole two hours while they undergo the ordeal of washing. He doesn’t care that I had to scavenge a worn-out swimsuit in the wrong color to put huge mismatched patches on the seat. Anything to delay having to throw them away. Which kind of world do we humans belong to? We are capable of great progress, outdoing our own expectations, making things newer and better than they have ever been. But we are also prone to flaws, to wearing thin, to breaking under strain. I wonder which of these tiny, careful stitches I’m making won’t hold up under playtime conditions. But the beauty of stitches is that there are so many of them. If a few give way, plenty of others will take up the strain. We are kidding ourselves if we believe we are always like the new shorts, never the ripped ones ready to be cast aside. Not even the high achievers among us are made to be ultra-performance athleticwear. We are soft around the edges, liable to fray, vulnerable to other things that are soft and beautiful, that awaken our love. But that does not make us disposable: we know in our bones that we should belong to a world where things are worth mending, a world of Sunday rest where there would always be time enough to make loved things beautiful. We know in our bones that we should belong to a world where things are worth mending, a world of Sunday rest where there would always be time enough to make loved things beautiful. Laura Trimble This is not that world. In the quiet of my mending, I can hear the Sisyphean soundtrack of performance humming in the distance, on the highway, on train tracks, overhead. I think of the devastating Oregon wildfires that barricaded us in our houses this fall with the smoke of a harried world burning itself out in its haste. I think of the dark promise, oddly consoling in its honesty, that this world and everything in it will wear out someday like a garment. “You will change them like a robe and they will pass away,” says the singer of Psalm 102, “but you are the same and your years have no end.” The very next psalm hints that the objects of God’s love will nevertheless endure: even though humanity withers like grass, somehow “from everlasting to everlasting, the Lord’s love is with those who fear him, and his righteousness with their children’s children.” It is those He holds in remembrance who outlast the decay to which all human efforts must succumb. Jorge Louis Borges, in his poem “Everness,” calls it God’s “prophetic memory” that “guards from loss” those things which He deems worth remembering. Only because of the divine love that notices, that remembers, is anything everlasting. Especially us. For ten dollars and free two-day shipping, I could replace my son’s shorts. Or at the cost of two days’ worth of spare time, I can show my son he is loved so much that whatever he loves becomes worthy of my attention, too. God could have just replaced us and all of His world at far less of a cost than the cost of redemption. But He would rather have us, broken bits and all, with the marks of mending all over us, to show that it was worth any cost to Him not to throw us away. And that story makes us beautiful. I wouldn’t be mending these shorts otherwise.

by the Rabbit Room The first in a weekly, six-part Lenten series exploring themes of human frailty and suffering through music, story, and art. This week’s post features an image by Jamin Still, a song by Drew Miller, and a new liturgy by Doug McKelvey from Every Moment Holy, Vol. II . An Image: Candle by Jamin Still Jamin Still reflects on the relationship between anguish and hope found in the psalms which inspired this work: The psalms provide a model for looking at and processing pain and suffering. They lead us to acknowledge hardships and give us permission to feel what we feel. Nowhere do we see, “Put on a good face and pretend that everything is OK.” The psalms do not tell us to ignore pain or to pretend it doesn’t affect us. God allows us to question, he allows us cry out in our anguish. But coupled with this raw emotional response, the psalms remind us of perspective and hope. They say, “Yes, feel deeply the sting of injustice. Feel deeply the wrongness of disease and death. Scream to the heavens in your anguish and in your inability to understand the brokenness of this world. But know that there is hope. All will be mended, all will be made right again, even if you don’t understand now.” Is this hope an empty promise, given to simply make us feel better? No. Christ, of course, is the embodiment of that promise. And here’s the thing: God allowed himself to experience pain, like the pain that we so often suffer and do not understand, in order to fulfill the promise of all things new; in order to bring us hope. We may not understand, but he does. Our light might be extinguished, we might be snuffed out, but dawn is about to break. —Jamin Still A Song: “Into the Darkness” by Drew Miller Drew Miller shares the backstory of “Into the Darkness”: The week after Hutchmoot 2019, I did two things: bought a guitar I’d been eyeing up all summer and wrote this song on it. When Kelsey went to bed, I was strumming five chords, and when she woke up, I had five verses. Each of the first four verses explores a strategy as old as Eden for avoiding suffering: distraction via decadence, works righteousness, pedestalizing creativity, and the quest to eliminate mystery. When we reach the end of these dead-ends, life often drags us, kicking and screaming, into the darkness. Then the fifth verse presents another way—not a way out, but a way through. I’ll give you this spoiler alert: the darkness is not the enemy. The darkness, it turns out, is one of the greatest friends available to us, if only we have the honesty and humility to receive it. —Drew Miller For more Lenten songs, explore our Lent Playlist on Spotify and Apple Music. A Liturgy: “An Exhortation Making Space to Speak of Dying” by Doug McKelvey Children of the Living God, Let us now speak of dying, and let us speak without fear, for we have already died with Christ, and our lives are not our own. Our dying is part of the story that God is telling to us, and part of the story that God is telling through us. It is not a dark and hopeless word we must take pains to skirt or mention only in hushed whispers lest our conversations grow awkward and uncomfortable. Rather, death is a present and unavoidable reality, and one through which we—the people of God—must learn to openly walk with one another. Yes, it is cause for lament. Death is a horrible and inevitable sorrow. It is grief. It is numb shock and raw pain and long seasons of weeping and ache. And we will experience it as such. But it is more than all of that. For it is also a baptism, a prelude to a celebration. Our true belief that Christ died and was raised again promises this great hope: That there will be a newness of life, a magnificent resurrection that follows death and swallows it entirely. Death will not have the final word, so we need not fear to speak of it. Death is not a period that ends a sentence. It is but a comma, a brief pause before the fuller thought unfolds into eternal life. Beloved of Christ, do not hide from this truth: Each of us in time must wrestle death. In our youth we might have run in fear from such lament, but only those who soberly consider their mortal end can then work backward from their certain death, and so begin to build a life invested in eternal things. We should remember death throughout our lives, that we might arrive at last well-prepared to follow our Lord into that valley, and through it, further still, to our resurrection. Death is not the end of life. It is an intersection—a milestone we pass in our eternal pursuit of Christ. Yes, death is an inhuman, hungering thing. But it is also the pompous antagonist in a divine comedy. Even as it seeks to destroy all that is good, death is proved a near-sighted buffoon whose overreaching plans will fail, whose ephemeral kingdom will crumble. For all along, death has been blindly serving the deeper purposes of God within us— giving us the knowledge that all we gather in this short life will soon be scattered, that all we covet will soon be lost to us, that all we accomplish by our ambition will soon be rendered as meaningless as vapor. Death reveals the utter vanity of all our misplaced worship and all our feebly- invested hopes. And once we’ve seen, in light of death, how meaningless all our human strivings have been, then we can finally apprehend what the radical hope of a bodily resurrection means for mortals like us—and how the labors of Christ now reshape and reinterpret every facet of our lives, Rebuilding the structures of our hopes till we know that nothing of eternal worth will ever be lost. Yes, we are crucified with our Lord, but all who are baptized into his death are also resurrected into his life, so that we live now in the overlap of the kingdoms of temporal death and eternal life— and when it is our time to die, we die in that overlap as well, and there we will find that our dying has already been subverted, rewritten, folded in, and made a part of our resurrection. Have we not all along been rehearsing Christ’s death and his life in the sacrament of his communion? We have been both remembering and rehearsing our union and reunion with him. O children of God, do you now see? Your pursuit of Christ has always demanded a daily dying to your own self, and to your own dreams. That final, brief sleep of death is but the last laying down of all those lesser things, that you might awake remade, set free, rejoicing in the glorious freedom that will be yours. Yes, hate death! It is an enemy— but an enemy whose end approaches, and whose assault can inflict no lasting wound. Yes, weep and grieve! But more than that, believe! The veil is thinner than we know. And death is thinner still. It cannot hold any whose names are dearly known to God. Rejoice in this! Death is neither a grey void, nor a dungeon cell—but a door. And when Christ bids us pass through at last, we pass from life to Life. Amen. Click here to download “An Exhortation Making Space to Speak of Dying .”

by the Rabbit Room The Habit Podcast is a series of conversations with writers about writing, hosted by Jonathan Rogers. This week, Jonathan Rogers talks with Jen Pollock Michel, author of A Habit Called Faith: 40 Days in the Bible to Find and Follow Jesus. Jonathan and Jen discuss the inescapability of seeing what we expect to see, habits as creating your own momentum, the stifling posture of spectatorship, and the lessons to be learned from finishing well. Click here to listen to Season 3, Episode 6 of The Habit Podcast. Transcripts are now available for The Habit Podcast. Click here to access them. Special thanks to our Rabbit Room members for making these podcasts possible! If you’re interested in becoming a member, visit RabbitRoom.com/Donate.

by the Rabbit Room This week, we are grateful to share a liturgy from Douglas McKelvey’s upcoming Every Moment Holy, Vol. II : “A Liturgy of Thanksgiving at the Return of Joy.” You can now view the full text for the liturgy as well as a special reading from Rebekah Lyons. For a long season, O Lord, I considered as an impossibility what I now know as unshakeable truth: That after loss, pain, tragedy, tears, sorrow, doubt, defeat, and disarray, I will hold a more costly and precious joy than any I have held before; and this not in denial of my loss, but manifest in the very wreckage of it. And so I know this unexpected joy is no glib and passing fancy. It is rather the diamond-hard treasure unearthed and recognized only when lesser hopes have collapsed. It is the knowledge of your unwavering faithfulness, O Christ, now experienced and owned. It is the bright beacon of your promises blooming in the night like signal fires upon mountain peaks. I came to the end of my own hope, O God, and found that your hope held me still. I saw through the ruin of my own happiness that your better joy stood firm— an unassailable fortress that even death could not throw down. And you have lifted me from where I lay wounded on war-torn fields, and have planted my feet solidly upon your ramparts. [If one experiences any sense of guilt at the prospect of delighting in life again, include the following: O God, guard my heart against any tendency to transmute this joy into the guilt of a survivor, as if to delight in your good gifts were somehow a betrayal of my love for the one I lost. No, my Lord, let me never believe such a lie. This sense of returning joy is no offense against their memory— indeed, it blooms from the very seed of the hope of a world made new, and encompasses the expectation of their resurrection, and of my own, and of our jubilant reunion.] And so I will celebrate your goodness in the land of the living. I will delight in this life, even as it is lived in the shadow of death, for a day will come when all of your children will rise eternal, taking joy together in these created spaces. Yes, in this age I will mourn with all my heart. And that is right. And yes, I will rejoice with all my heart as well. For that is also right. You, O Christ, have faithfully shepherded me, your child, through the passages of a world broken and fraught with separation and loss, and you have guided me again to the bright remembrance of joy—even of a joy that wells up within my sadness. You have lifted my eyes to the sight of sunlight shafts piercing the darkest clouds, gracing in gold a distant hill to which I will inevitably one day come. You have whispered to me again and again, that the end is not the end. And I have begun to believe it— not just in my head, but in the blood and bones and heart of my own experience. This surprising joy is like the aroma of a wedding feast prepared and awaiting my arrival in some verdant wildflower meadow. It is the substance of all secret hopes. It is the assurance that all lost things will be found, that grief will be upended, that all spaces hollowed by sorrow will become eternal repositories of glories untold, and that all things will one day be revealed as mysteries of mercy and grace, designed for your glory, O God, and for the great good of your people, your bride, your beloved. O my soul, water this joy with your tears, and bathe all remaining tears in streams of joy, for this joy is no small and passing thing. It is the very spring of eternity bursting from the parched soil of your sorrow, flowing forward into eternity. Deep has called to deep, and deep has answered. This joy will not be quenched! Take joy! O my soul, take everlasting joy, and drink! Amen. Click here to download the full liturgy at the  Every Moment Holy  website. Click here to watch Annie F. Downs’s reading of “A Liturgy for Embracing Both Joy & Sorrow” ,  here to watch Kristyn Getty’s reading of “A Liturgy for Seasons of Uncertainty,” and here to watch Andrew Peterson’s reading of “A Liturgy for Those Who Have Suffered a Miscarriage or Stillbirth.” And click here to pre-order Every Moment Holy, Vol. II: Death, Grief, and Hope at the Rabbit Room Bookstore.

by J Lind Let’s go back: it’s the day of my last album release. A year of DIY psychoanalysis, rice-and-beans budgeting, and humiliating sessions with Real Musicians has at long last culminated in these seven beautiful horcruxes being released into the digital aether in a modest attempt to satiate the world’s desperate need for more media. Does this make me a hero? A hero wouldn’t answer the question, so neither will I. But many of you indie artists know the feeling: you’ve grappled up the mountain for months, a spotless ram tied awkwardly to your back; you’ve weathered hailstorms of self-doubt and firestorms of pragmatism, from budgets to deadlines. And behold, you’ve arrived at the altar! The sacrifice is prepared and offered up. It’s the day that you’ve been waiting for. For me, though, almost every goal achieved and finish line crossed has been quickly followed by a season of melancholy, or at least vocational confusion. What now? What’s the point? I’ve come to interpret my creative work as an attempt, at least in part, to imbue the meaningless with meaning. Struggling toward some goal, particularly one that I deem noble, prevents me from actually sitting with the absurd, from staring into the abyss for any amount of time that might allow it to stare back into me. Wired to Struggle Friedrich Nietzsche, the patron saint of nihilism who committed his life to overcoming it, has something to say about this aspect of our nature. In On the Genealogy of Morals (1887), Nietzsche reconstructs a distant past in which so much of early man’s time is devoted to struggling: struggling with nature, whose frigid temperatures overwhelm his primitive technologies and whose saber-teeth pierce his squishy flesh; struggling with competing hominids, whose frequent ambushes dominate the Pleistocene and wreak havoc on his peace of mind. In this brutal state of nature, the victors are those who have developed a drive to struggle. In other words, the survivors are those who not only tolerate the struggle but actually require it, who have integrated the struggle instinct into their value hierarchy, their existential framework. Nietzsche suggests that one can’t be fully human without struggling with something. When I’m not struggling with something outside of myself, I’m struggling with myself. This is the sinking feeling after the day that you’ve been waiting for. Because the struggle isn’t over—it’s only internalized. J Lind But then came “the most fundamental change he [man] ever experienced—that change which occurred when he found himself finally enclosed within the walls of society and of peace.” Primitive man became so wildly successful in struggling with these external forces that he actually overcame them, or at least organized them so that Carl the Caveman could, you know, go for a walk without worrying about a snow leopard ripping out his jugular or a rival tribesman clubbing him back to the stone age, i.e., back to his childhood. This relative civility, which has only improved over the eons (fact check pending), meant that man no longer had so many external forces with which to struggle. And yet the drive to struggle, the cognitive machine at the root of his success, continued to spin. Nietzsche speculates that humanity’s instinctual need to struggle combined with the apparent lack of any external opponent had a tragic effect: the struggle turned inward. In lieu of leopards, man wrestled with his own nature, waging war with the very instincts upon which his core values had previously rested. (Nietzsche proceeds to target the foundations of morality itself, but I’m obviously too humble and good to do that.) For my storytelling, the point is this: when I’m not struggling with something outside of myself , I’m struggling with myself . This is the sinking feeling after the day that you’ve been waiting for. Because the struggle isn’t over—it’s only internalized. Starting Over Flashback to album release day. After a wild celebration (Facetime with mom), I’m left twiddling my thumbs in existential unrest. My struggle machine is cooking, and the heat is turning inward, the hottest it’s been in that direction for many months. With very few shows in the holiday season ahead, the prospect of a “break” is daunting. Sure enough, I’ll spend weeks riding waves of melancholy, even frustration, in the interim between projects. My emotional unrest suggests that I’d put so much stock in accomplishing the thing that I probably failed to appreciate the struggle itself. And there are all kinds of wonderful days to be waiting for: graduating college, playing that show, marrying that person. Or the day that you’ve been waiting for might be much grander, even metaphysical: Nirvanic enlightenment, Marxist utopia, the Promised Land, the Second Coming. There’s no shortage of goals, and some good ones at that. But so much of the meaning of the experience, the real meat and potatoes of this adventure, seems to come from the struggle itself. The bulk of the plotline is about the pilgrimage, not the arrival. It really does seem like we’re hard-wired for the struggle. So, the question that I’ve been chewing on is this: how might I choose to savor the struggle more and more, in all its unabashed brutal beauty? The Land of Canaan will probably always be on the horizon, in one form or another. But how can I cultivate joy while I’m still in the desert? Kierkegaard has something to say about this, but I’ll save it for my next blog post. In the meantime, I at least have another day to be waiting for. You can listen to J’s new song, “The Day That You’ve Been Waiting For,” here . And if you found anything inspiring in this post, it was probably an insight from Nietzsche or Kierkegaard that J conveniently forgot to credit. He’s one passionate amateur. Click here to listen on Spotify and here to listen on Apple Music .

by the Rabbit Room We are so pleased to get to announce a brand new season of The Local Show, livestreamed from North Wind Manor, beginning on Tuesday, February 23rd with Andrew Peterson, Buddy Greene, Jeff Taylor, Ron Block, and Scott Mulvahill! Every other Tuesday night, starting on February 23rd, you’ll be able to tune in at 7:30pm CST on our Facebook , Vimeo , and YouTube pages. Other artists who will make an appearance this season include Zach & Maggie , J Lind , and Becca Jordan . More artists will be announced as they are confirmed. Our heartfelt thanks to our friends at Ronald Blue Trust for making this unique season of The Local Show possible. In order to create a quality Local Show livestream and offer it to the wider community, we need to reoutfit our equipment. We also want to care for our artists—especially now—by paying them well. If you’d like to be part of supporting The Local Show and the artists we love, please email us at info@rabbitroom.com for details on becoming a sponsor.

by Adam Whipple I have sympathy for suffering waters. Burns and creeks spiderweb the hills of East Tennessee, echoing by their burbling the chords of a different era. Not to glorify the past, but there was a time when one didn’t worry so much about drinking from a stream. My wife was raised on well water, and for a time, we got fresh drinking water from a community spring on the east side of town. Under a roadside shelter, people would line up with bottles large and small, preferring the taste of clay and mineral particulates to the fluoridated precision of city-run taps. I personally liked collecting our water there, because it mitigated the tendency of my mind to callus over. Trained by the convenience of a kitchen sink, I can easily dismiss my connection to the many waters near which I reside—the waters on which my neighbors, my children, and my animals depend. At Love’s Creek spring, we had to pay better heed to the weather, for example. Collect too soon after a storm, and you’ll have extra silt in your mouth. Plus, you had to stand and wait your turn, chatting with strangers and glorying in the general un-productivity that peppers a life well lived. Village pumps and wells are a longstanding tradition of the world anyway. Through the lens of history, sinks and faucets are the exception. I ought not think myself or others lowly by dint of these good labors, nor be overawed by the latest kitchen hardware. In addition, creeks are one half of the water-and-soil language that make up the terroir of our sundry regions. I’ll spare you my rant on bottled water—though it is quite dramatic—but unless you’re irrigating your life with English Mountain or Aquafina, everything local that you eat tastes a little like home. Rivers themselves are spoken tongues, white-noise voices unique to their geographic physiognomy. Caring for them is caring for humanity. Thus, we’ve begun rehabilitating the little stormwater creek behind our house. It isn’t much, though it can get fairly assertive after a good squall. In seasons of flood, it creeps up the rise of the backyard, eddying Van Gogh swirls of dark and froth through impeding brambles. It’s been home to our resident dinosaur, a snapping turtle the size of a manhole cover (or larger, depending on who tells the tale). Rufus-sided towhees make their winter pilgrimage and skitter in the surrounding underbrush. Rabbits graze and thump alarm beneath battlements of cocklebur. Herons and red-tails pass on their patrols. Yet like many an urban waterway, it isn’t as whole as it might be. In time past, some enterprising soul shoveled a dam into place at the bottom of the yard, just above the creek line, perhaps for livestock. These days, the pond it creates is only for mosquitos. I’m in the midst of cutting a hole into it, though I have to be cautious about runoff from the garden. Someone also put down plastic netting along the creek bed. It might have been a good idea in the short term. Soil unrestrained by plants and rocks will travel for miles along streams, affecting oxygen levels, plants, and animals. Furthermore, unnatural erosion—that is, humanly exacerbated erosion—is an unsung concern of urban and rural areas alike. Plastic in a creek, however, is slow poison. It leaches chemicals and degrades into ever-smaller pieces, creating a snow of pollution that filters into the food chain, being consumed by animals and perhaps even, new studies are suggesting, gathering on the tips of taproots that you and I eat. We decided to create a riffle, a little zigzag of rocks that encourages moving waters to meander instead of rushing. The plan is to take up the netting section by section, setting down lines of rock instead, and eventually replacing invasive privet with cattails, switchgrass, and bluestem. It’s slow work. It doesn’t pay fiscal dividends, but it is good labor in the service of others, of those who will occupy this land when we are gone. We’ll hopefully be poking away at this job as long as we’re here at The Watershed. We have to be careful about it. We can’t take too many stones from any one parcel of creek bank, or pull back offending plants too quickly, lest we encourage erosion there. I’ve weighed the idea of buying a load of stone, though I struggle with the knowledge that it would have to come from somewhere else, impacting someone else’s sphere, as it were. In the end, I suppose, it is Scriptural to say that all actions—even the best—are somewhat marred. We must do the good of which we’re able anyway. And this? This is where we are. As a Church. As peoples. Ideas do not happen in a vacuum. I myself am a watershed, and everything trickles into my speech and my daily actions. Adam Whipple The Capitol Insurrection and the war of thoughts that have marked American society have not exempted Jesus’s Church. I find myself grateful to sources of rhetoric that have offended my brothers and sisters, for they point out how I’ve been a poor servant to my neighbors. When my critics actually see a Levite in me instead of a Samaritan, I must repent somehow. I have somewhere an old Hutchmoot folder, into which is tucked a paper liturgy by Doug McKelvey, a precursor to Every Moment Holy . Called “The Liturgy of Lost Rhyme,” it washed through my spirit several years ago with the line, “The demons of this age are ideas.” What demons have I fed or served by my own thoughts? Ideas do not happen in a vacuum. I myself am a watershed, and everything trickles into my speech and my daily actions. Ecclesiastically speaking, we’ve had netting in place for a long time. This is a gross oversimplification, but just to mention a few things (of which I have much personal experience): racism, misogyny, the Church as a political bully, the freedom of markets over servanthood, the refusal to criticize or accept criticism from our friends—all these, some for pure ill and some well-intentioned, have been the plastic netting barely holding down the mud on the riverbeds of our hearts. So, too, has been the traditional social contrivance that we mustn’t talk about religion or politics. The silt and pollutants have washed down to us. People cannot breathe. So what do we do? We pull the thing up. With unflinching determination, we removed the failed artifice of Christ-less ideas, replacing it with the Gospel, the truth that is Jesus. Should we be surprised that such endeavors aren’t pretty? When you try cleaning a sickened creek, you stir up mud, and you get covered in it. Wherever you step, you send little clouds of effluvium downstream to who-knows-where, affecting other parts of creation. You end up with an ugly collection of litter, some new, and some of it mired in place long ages ago. You make mistakes. Your efforts are occasionally striped with the sin of vanity, the desire to impress others. Yet overall, the job is a good one. Necessary. Commanded. “Blessed is he who does not walk in the counsel of the wicked, nor stand in the way of sinners, nor sit in the seat of mockers.” (Psalm 1:1) “If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness.” (1 John 1:9) A wild man in camel hair and holding a gnarled staff should haunt our dreams, reminding us how to prepare the way of the Lord. We are so exhausted. All of us. There is immeasurable work ahead. Much of it consists of thinking hard, listening well, and talking carefully. There will be a lot of wait-and-see, and a good deal of try-again. It is holy work. It is the prayerful work of healing the sick, having finally realized that sickness is not limited to our cells and tissues. The good news is that it isn’t new. Repentance and the actions it necessitates are an ongoing work of God’s people, and the Church has been at it since her beginning. Among the great cloud of witnesses, we are not alone in our efforts. Take courage. We will be doing this for the rest of our lives, to serve those who come after us. Such service is worship of the King.

by Andrew Roycroft Two roads converge on the way to Jerusalem, each finding their terminus at the foot of a cross. Two ways of looking at the world, at power, at prominence, and redemption, collide and compete with one another, and one of these will be the road we travel by. As the Lenten season continues, as Christians of various traditions and backgrounds reflect on the way and work of Christ, this post will take some time to look at how we approach and appropriate his suffering in 2021, and will hopefully help us to think about how we travel. The way of power and fury In many ways, Jesus was alone in the crowd as he approached Jerusalem. Thousands of people from far-flung places surged into the city to mark the Passover, a journey of faith and tradition reaching back long into their ancestry. Among this traffic were Jesus and his twelve followers—disciples marked by their allegiance to this man. For the disciples this was the eve of greatness, the messianic moment to which all of their history had been pitched, the consummation of their hopes, long wounded by the politics of larger nations. As Jesus walked towards the cross they watched carefully for the crown; as he laboured under the psychological weight of his coming suffering, they felt a scarce suppressed joy that he was coming as a new sovereign. Finally history would tilt in their favour, and they loaded their expectations on to the man, curiously gripped by a sorrowing sense of foreboding, who walked ahead of them. The triumphal entry was a bit unorthodox, the optics slightly off. Instead of a steed, their king came into the city on a donkey, and the religious leaders of the day seemed unimpressed. Regardless, they had opportunity to ply him with questions about the coming kingdom, about the advent of power, about the righting of the scales. His response had pointed away from apocalypse now, to waiting, and further world events which seemed to defer a new political dominance. “This linocut, ‘Blind Bart,’ is an illustration of the man who calls out to Christ for healing in Mark 10:46-52. Although it is true at all times, especially during Lent we feel that the cry of Bartimaeus is our cry: ‘Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!'” —Ned Bustard As the week progressed, as Passover approached, the King seemed to be descending lower, rather than rising higher. Their meal together had been overshadowed by talk of flesh and blood and betrayal, by words of departure and deferral, and by the final insult of Jesus washing the feet of the men he had led all of these years. In Gethsemane, the situation became terminal. Wretched and anguished sleep had been punctuated by Jesus, seemingly nerve-jangled and perturbed, begging for company as he prayed. Then the crowd had come, headed by Judas, seizing Jesus, reducing him to chains, and carrying him into custody. Peter had brandished his sword, a final swipe at the powers of this age, a final parry at the disappointing end of hope and salvation that this arrest brought. Then the gall of death, the weakness of his body wracked along the beams of a cross, his thirst, and sweat, and blood, and the blasphemy of a crowd who could not only crucify their leader, but do so with impunity. The sun, eclipsed at noon, had set on this whole salvation project, the man from Nazareth a wrecked cadaver flopping untidily into the arms of those who took him to burial. If this was kingship, it seemed to be only over a realm of disappointment and disdain, a nation of powerless fools condemned to death by Roman rule. For the disciples, their road into Jerusalem was one of ‘now’ not ‘yet’, a faith of entitlement and easy access to the upper hand. The devastation of that first Holy Week is hard to measure, but their perspective is all too easy to mimic. Faith in Christ can be portrayed as an upgrade to the luxury lounge, as a means of finding our place in the world, of gaining traction in society, and gaining access to the corridors of power. Of all the lament and repentance which might mark this Lenten season, perhaps a frank confession of this should be a high priority. This past year has exposed just how rapacious Christian ambition can be, just how devastatingly locked into politics it can become, of how our expectations can not only fall short of, but run counter to, what Christ came to achieve. Where we have married our hope to the fickle groom of power and advancement, we have not only found ourselves jilted at the altar, but left shamed by his record of debt and destruction. One road to Jerusalem can be to see in Christian faith a means to our own ends and ambition. To take this line is to see the cross as a shameful impasse, as a dead end in an otherwise strong trajectory of influence and affluence. The way of pain and victory For Jesus, expectation and realisation had held a bitter harmony all the way to the city. The weight of his cross was felt long before it was laid upon his shoulder; the ring of hammered nails and the toxic invective that would hound him to the grave, all rang in his heart before they reached his ears. While his disciples bickered about who was first, and bartered for the best seats, the Saviour was envisioning the horror-scape of Golgotha. While they jittered with excitement about a restored kingdom, he trembled in anticipation of being a ruined King. While they boasted of their allegiance to him even to the point of death, he read the signals in their body language, saw Judas fingering the hem of the money bag jealously, saw Peter prattling out his personal loyalty while thinking little of the cost. This past year has exposed just how rapacious Christian ambition can be, just how devastatingly locked into politics it can become, of how our expectations can not only fall short of, but run counter to, what Christ came to achieve. Andrew Roycroft The Upper Room had been a parallel world, his words hibernating in the consciences of these men, awaiting the wakening of the Spirit long hence. Gethsemane had been the final tipping of the balance. In earth, sodden with tears and hard wrought blood, he had pleaded and bleated lamb-like for relief from the pain that was to come. Unlike Adam, not left long alone in the garden, Jesus had roused his company several times, only to see them sag into sad slumber again and again. What was to be borne on the morrow, would be borne alone. The trial, before the Romans and before the religious, had been a mockery and a reduction of all that was right. Justice left the building, to be replaced with the flat-palm blows of soldiers, the pomposity of Pilate delegating everything but his power, and with the baying of a crowd craving a cross with Jesus’ name on it. He had watched all of this, silent, submitted, sorrowing, but certain that the way of pain was the way to victory. The cross had crushed him, even before the hill. Its brute weight too much for bone and muscles ribboned by rods and flagellation, and then the joggling into place on Calvary, the tearing tension of nails in hands and feet, the casual mockery, the absence of consolation or care for his bloodied brow. The silence was like darkness, the darkness like silence, the Psalmist’s anguished dirge transposed into a key not singable by anyone but him. Death, the final enemy, the culmination of all these other days, came suddenly in the end, like a thief. This is the true road to Jerusalem for us. Not that of power and fury, but of pain awaiting victory. Jesus is in the underclass, in the underbelly of a world set on winner takes all. Jesus is the loser in the political games of Jerusalem, the seeming victim of victorious religion and impervious Rome. Jesus is in the minority, following a vision of greatness predicated on sacrifice, ruin in anticipation of resurrection, death followed by life, glory preceded by shame. His promise to us as his followers is not that his way along this road provides us a bypass around it, but guarantees that we must follow him into it and through it. To follow Christ is to lose the franchise, and bear the reproach. It is to feel the sting of being misunderstood, and maligned. Following Christ means receiving hatred in return for our love, rejection in response to our embrace, and enduring suffering on the way to glory. Such words might meet us in our pain and disappointment in this season, they might fortify us afresh not to wrangle against every personal wrong, but to rest in the example Jesus has shown. To accept our trouble is not to acquiesce to it, to sing Psalms in the darkness is not masochism, but the kind of faith that holds to resurrection even as life ebbs away. Perhaps such teaching rips from our hands the laurel wreath that we have been platting with money and influence, and replaces it with a crown of thorns. Such a loss is ultimately our gain. Conclusion Two roads converge on the way to Jerusalem, each finding their terminus at the foot of a cross. Two ways of looking at the world, at power, at prominence, and redemption, collide and compete with one another, and one of these will be the road we travel by. As we walk towards this Easter season may God give us grace to trace the bloody footprints of his Son, and to see in him our salvation, and our grand exemplar of how our pilgrimage through this world and into life truly progresses.

by the Rabbit Room The Habit Podcast is a series of conversations with writers about writing, hosted by Jonathan Rogers. This week, Jonathan Rogers talks with W. David O. Taylor, author of Open and Unafraid: The Psalms as a Guide to Life . W. David O. Taylor is a theologian of the arts, Associate Professor of Theology at Fuller Seminary, and a director of initiatives in art and faith. His most recent book is Open and Unafraid: The Psalms as a Guide to Life . In this first-ever practical episode of The Habit Podcast , David Taylor walks listeners through the spiritual practice of writing psalms of lament. Click here for more resources related to the writing of psalms of lament, including a worksheet, a chapter excerpt from Open and Unafraid , and a forum where you can share and discuss your psalm of lament. Click here to watch the short film in which David Taylor gets Bono and Eugene Peterson together to discuss the Psalms. Click here to listen to Season 3, Episode 7 of The Habit Podcast. Transcripts are now available for The Habit Podcast. Click here to access them. Special thanks to our Rabbit Room members for making these podcasts possible! If you’re interested in becoming a member, visit RabbitRoom.com/Donate.

by the Rabbit Room Calling all music-loving kids, parents, and slugs named Doug: Slugs & Bugs is making a new Sing the Bible album, and you’re invited to help make it happen! In the words of Sparky the Lightning Bug, “Let’s get this slug started!” As you’ll see on the special SlugStarter page , Doug the Slug is currently halfway up the mountain, taking a much-deserved coffee break. But with your help, he can get all the way to the summit! Plus, there are all kinds of fun prizes to be had for helping him out—like autographed show posters, access to a Q&A session with Mr. Randall on April 10th, an invitation to the premiere of the Slugs and Bugs Show Season Two, and so much more. Here’s a message from Mr. Randall about the Sing the Bible, Vol. 4 project: Every morning I carry my Bible up the stairs. And these days, I’m so glad it’s heavy. It’s like a counterweight to all that would pile on and sink me into oblivion. As I read, the Bible lights a joyful path through the darkness. So naturally, I can’t wait to share these new word-for-word Scripture songs for  Sing the Bible Vol. 4! The theme for  Sing the Bible Vol. 4  is joyful discipleship, with 26 Scripture verses about what it really means to follow Jesus.How do we do it as a family? How does it change us? And what’s with all the barnyard animals? Join me, along with Doug the Slug, Sparky the Lightning Bug, and a host of other friends like Rain for Roots, Lakeisha Williams and various members of the Goodgame family, as we sing our hearts out in celebration of following Jesus along the well-lit path. Bwap, bwap-a-dibbity do! —Randall Goodgame Click here to visit the SlugStarter and be part of this fun new project.

by Rory Groves It was explained to me early in my career: 100 leads, 10 calls, 1 sale. It is known as The Sales Funnel. Imagine an inverted triangle, with curious tire-kickers spilling out the top, followed by significantly fewer “qualified prospects” in the middle (most having absconded after discovering the price), and finally a few brave “clients” trickling out the bottom. “It’s a numbers game,” I was told. The more leads that were dumped into the top of the funnel, the more sales fell out of the bottom. One astute observer explains it this way: “Marketing is a multifaceted discipline that has one objective: to separate people from their money.” I wholeheartedly adopted the approach when I started my own software firm. After all, who was I to argue with success? It was the height of the Dot-Com Boom, and I got in line to collect my Dot-Com Millions—a seeming birthright to CompSci graduates of the late-90s. It wasn’t long before my dreams were dashed by the Dot-Com Collapse, to be followed again by the Great Recession. The axiomatic business truths I had embraced were not generating the kind of results I had hoped for. Nor was the solitary, overly-specialized environment of computer programming bringing the sort of fulfillment and connectedness I increasingly desired with my growing family. So I moved my family from the city to the country in hopes of finding another way forward. Weary (and wary) of the technology industry’s addiction to obsolescence, I began to research more durable ways to work. Historically, professions lasted hundreds of years and were passed down in the same family from one generation to the next. Today, the average worker will change careers every five years. Was it possible, in our day, for families to work together and build something that would last? I discovered dozens of examples of historical professions—authors, masons, carpenters, silversmiths, midwives—which have been around for centuries and are still thriving today. I met people who were second- or third- or fourth-generation professionals, working the same careers as their great-great-grandparents. They were trained by their own parents, inheriting something more than merely a vocational education. Most surprisingly, I discovered that people working in these trades, by and large, never spent a dime on marketing. For them, it was not a numbers game. They did not have Sales Funnels; they had Relationships. No Little People Francis Schaeffer said, “We must remember throughout our lives that in God’s sight there are no little people and no little places.” This contrasts with popular success maxims that suggest we should never spend more than a few minutes with someone who can do nothing for us. Schaeffer’s colleagues report that he would “gladly sit and talk for hours to someone the world (or the church) might consider insignificant. He was just as happy talking with the maid or the janitor in a hotel as he was meeting famous church, business, or political leaders.” People were not accorded as Leads, Prospects, and Clients to Schaeffer; they were Sons, Daughters, Brothers and Sisters. On our farm, every activity is a family affair. Picking blueberries, stacking hay, mending fences. . . there may be little hands on a farm, but there are no 'little people.' Rory Groves While researching historical trades, I spent the better part of a year working construction part-time with a local carpenter. During one of our remodeling projects, I met the electrician he hired to re-wire the room. I asked how long they had been working together and was surprised by the answer: two generations. The electrician’s father was also an electrician who worked with the carpenter’s father. Their “vendor relationship” was older than they were. It’s hard to imagine anything so enduring in our transitory age. And yet, this arrangement was common for most of human history. Family businesses in farming, carpentry, and metalsmithing not only lasted for generations, their relationships did as well. The Industrial Revolution reordered society’s thinking around efficiency rather than relationships. Statisticians record that, in the pre-industrial way of life: The apprentice system was in vogue, and all parts of a trade were then taught where it is now usual and needful to teach but a single branch. The youth who aspired to become a shoemaker might, for instance, during his period of apprenticeship, acquire knowledge of every step from the tanning of the leather to its embodiment in the finished shoe. —Wright, Comparative Wages, Prices and Cost of Living Families that divided into factory labor no longer educated, mentored, and discipled their children at home. Dependency on the family and community was replaced with dependency on the employer. Work was no longer a context for older generations to transmit faith and values on to the next generation. It was an impersonal, at times de-humanizing, place that existed solely to make stuff. Gaining the Whole World The rapid rise in industrialization resulted in unprecedented material abundance, but came at the cost of imploding family and community relationships that had endured for centuries. Thirteen-year old Willie Bryden’s sole job was opening a door for the mule cart in a local coal mine. He was one of the many Trapper Boys, as they came to be known. “Waiting all alone in the dark for a trip to come through,” relates the photographer, “Willie had been working here for four months, 500 feet down the shaft, and a quarter of a mile underground from there.” —The Trapper Boys (Photo: Lewis Hine/Library of Congress) Historians record that, “It was not until 1842 that the hours of labor for children under twelve years of age were limited to ten per day.”  The English theologian and agrarian G. K. Chesterton roundly condemned the indiscriminate use of technology, noting that, “None of the modern machines, none of the modern paraphernalia . . . have any power except over the people who choose to use them”—a warning aimed as directly at the coal mines in Chesterton’s day as the keyboards in ours. The “Unrevolution” But there is reason for hope. People are waking up to the collateral damage of industrial efficiency. They are trading their cheap abundance for healthy, sustainable alternatives, trading factory-fed conveniences for the inefficiency of human relationships. In the last fifteen years, the United States saw an increase of four million home gardens and two million community gardens as people tilled up their manicured lawns to plant beans. Farmer’s markets increased from fewer than 1,800 in 1994 to over 8,000 by 2013, and can now be found in nearly every city, often by the dozen. Agrarian writer Gene Logsdon refers to this phenomenon as the “Unrevolution in Progress”: The new economy understands that farming is a biological process, one to be handled with careful love and very gentle agronomy and husbandry, not industrial production that concentrates on cramming more and more animals under one roof to lower the per unit cost of production. —Gene Logsdon, Letter to a Young Farmer: How to Live Richly Without Wealth on the New Garden Farm Among the historical businesses I researched, customers were not numbers in a funnel. The artisans I spoke with have face-to-face relationships with their customers, and know them by name. Often they know their children by name. It is not surprising, then, that these are the most enduring professions in a time of continuous upheaval. On our farm, every activity is a family affair. Picking blueberries, stacking hay, mending fences. . . there may be little hands on a farm, but there are no “little people.” Everyone is important, and everyone is needed if the farm is to survive. It is not an industrial economy , it is a family economy . Each year we raise a hundred or so chickens, two pigs, and a dozen sheep on open pasture. These animals are well cared for their whole lives. We intentionally do not “scale-up” beyond what we can handle ourselves. In the summer months, we host Customer Pickup Days where whole families arrive to pick up their shares. They stay to tour the farm, play with our kids, and catch up with our family. Many of our customers have been buying from us for years. We care for the animals and the land, and our customers care for us. It is a very small-scale operation, but it is sustainable. When God plants a seed, it multiplies into an abundance—the Sales Funnel in reverse. I spend a lot less time at the keyboard now, and certainly take home a lot less pay. But I get to work alongside my family, and we are growing rich in relationships. It’s hard to argue with that. Rory Groves is a technology consultant and founder of multiple software businesses. Several years ago he moved his family from the city to the country to begin the journey towards a more durable way of life. Rory and his wife Becca now reside in southern Minnesota where they farm, raise livestock, host workshops, and homeschool their five children. He is author of  Durable Trades: Family-Centered Economies That Have Stood the Test of Time.

by the Rabbit Room We’re so excited to share with you a brand new podcast by Jonathan Rogers: The Hobbit Podcast, a series of conversations with hobbits about breakfast. To kick off this new series, Jonathan Rogers interviews poet, hobbit, and breakfast-lover Malcolm Guite. Every time I’ve ever seen the poet Malcolm Guite, he’s been wearing a waistcoat. He smokes a long-stemmed pipe and blows smoke rings. He often ambles about in the countryside. He’s not very tall. He loves breakfast. And I think I’ve seen a picture of him going barefoot in public. I’ll leave you to draw your own conclusions. —Jonathan Rogers Click here to listen to this first episode of The Hobbit Podcast. Special thanks to our Rabbit Room members for making these podcasts possible! If you’re interested in becoming a member, visit RabbitRoom.com/Donate. Oh, and… April Fools.

by the Rabbit Room The Habit Podcast is a series of conversations with writers about writing, hosted by Jonathan Rogers. This week, Jonathan Rogers talks with Andrew Peterson, Jennifer Trafton, Pete Peterson, and Doug McKelvey, all authors and contributors to the Wingfeather Tales collection. Wingfeather Tales started out as a Kickstarter stretch goal for The Warden and the Wolf King , Book 4 of Andrew Peterson’s Wingfeather Saga. Andrew recruited five of his friends to write stories (and a poem) set in Aerwiar, the world of the Wingfeathers. He also recruited some of his favorite illustrators to illustrate. That compilation has been re-released in hardcover by Waterbrook Press. In this episode, five of the contributors—Andrew Peterson, Jennifer Trafton, Pete Peterson, Doug McKelvey, and Jonathan Rogers—discuss collaboration, community, and Wingfeather Tales. Click here to listen to Season 3, Episode 12 of The Habit Podcast. And click here to view Wingfeather Tales in the Rabbit Room Bookstore. Transcripts are now available for The Habit Podcast. Click here to access them. Special thanks to our Rabbit Room members for making these podcasts possible! If you’re interested in becoming a member, visit RabbitRoom.com/Donate.

by Amy Baik Lee Here is a memory. I am one of the early arrivals in the school pickup line on a wintry afternoon late in 2019. The tiny parking lot is bounded by a gray concrete wall built against a hill ahead, the school building to my left, and a sere upward slope of brittle grass on my right. Aside from the silhouetted movements of the other drivers, nothing moves in my monochromatic surroundings; I turn the engine off and let my mind wander. Every once in a while our daughters step up onto a new but invisible stage of growth and understanding. Lately it has been the subject of death, and our six-year-old in particular has been absorbing it by degrees, her progress peeking through in statements she utters as we run errands or take our walks. “I want to live in the new heaven and earth, but I wish we didn’t have to die.” “Do souls ever die?” “I don’t want you to die, Mommy.” I don’t let on nearly as much, but I am working through the notion of death again too, as I’ve had to do through my own developmental stages: first as a newlywed, then as an adult in her thirties, and most recently as the mother of two children. Death never seemed this appalling to my twenty-year-old eyes. I was ready to cast off and see the world then, and worried more over my parents’ worry than myself. But I am connected to many more ties of affection and love today, and every one of them makes the threat of loss more painful, though every one of them is also worth the pain of possible severance. I turn the key to check the car clock, then check my pulse. Medical issues have given me a few practice rounds in letting go. Is this something that can be ignored? What is the cost if I try? What if I make the wrong decision? Is this a new normal? Not too long ago, on a difficult day when mental and physical pain blended in a disquieting haze, a question stood out so clearly that it was almost audible: “Can you be brave?” I can’t , I whispered instantly, in a tone identical to our six-year-old’s voice when she is in despair. But even before I finished uttering the words I remembered that, all protests and resistance notwithstanding, this selfsame daughter often gathers her courage to do exactly what needs to be done. On her first day at this weekly homeschool program, she gripped my hand with all her might as we walked into the classroom. She clung to me for a second, asking softly where I was going afterwards, but then she went to sit down beside the other children and let her daddy and I wave goodbye from the door. I am slower, but I’m learning. If I must carry my current cross, then—as C. S. Lewis wrote—“surely you need not have fear as well?” His attitude has been a strengthening, almost jovial tonic to me in a culture that continually seems surprised that human beings should suffer or die. Of the death that looms over our awareness like a wall closing in with erratic speed, he says: Can you not see death as the friend and deliverer? It means stripping off that body which is tormenting you: like taking off a hairshirt or getting out of a dungeon. What is there to be afraid of? You have long attempted (and none of us does more) a Christian life. Your sins are confessed and absolved. Has this world been so kind to you that you should leave it with regret? There are better things ahead than any we leave behind. —C. S. Lewis, Letters to an American Lady For a few years now, the light of a long-awaited home has been growing on the horizon behind the fact of my mortality. I know the timing and the manner of my own eventual end are not up to me, though it’s taken me a long time to admit it. I’ve given up whatever control I attempted to have on the matter. It’s a relinquishment I’ve been able to make for the same reason, I believe, that Tolkien chose to give us the image of a “grey rain-curtain” rolling back, and Lewis the image of a great waterfall coursing upward at the world’s end: more and more, it’s becoming possible to approach death and see straight through it. A few weeks before my father-in-law died, I took my older daughter to a coffee shop. In between a stream of conversation topics, we watched other customers order croissants and mochas, and we listened to the swoop of the revolving door as they left. Between the whirring noises at the barista’s counter, we could hear the green trees outside rustling in the summer wind. “Do you know what I’ve been thinking lately?” I said gently, half to myself and half to my thoughtful companion. “I’ve been thinking that because of Jesus, death is not something you and I have to fear as we might have before accepting his rescue. We know what lies beyond it, so death itself is just a door—and even though for some it might be as simple as a glass door and for others it might look more like an iron portcullis—in the end, it is only a door, and not something that can ever swallow us up anymore. When we walk through it, we’ll be home.” I looked at her over the rim of my tea mug and saw that she understood. But I don’t yet know how to phrase this to my smaller girl, who is asking not simply about death, I think, but also how one can approach the grief of the separations caused by death without despair. Is there a human, even fully grown, who doesn’t struggle with object permanence? What explanations or relatable images can I introduce to this particular child about the death—to begin with—of believers? What might give her a portion of the peace that I’ve gained? The clock hits the hour, and the tan metal door opens. A single stream of vibrant little faces and bouncing backpacks begins to trickle out. All of the parents look up from their phones and books at the same time, but none of us moves; we know each class will troop out past the automobiles and file into the gym, where they’ll be sorted into the right order to be picked up. More and more, it’s becoming possible to approach death and see straight through it. Amy Baik Lee I spot my little one in the second group, right as she sees me. “Mommy!” She waves with a brightness that hasn’t ebbed in five months. How glad I am that, though shy, she has found a place of her own here. One morning a week, as I wave goodbye to the departing car, I pray that she and her sister and their father will abide in Him and He in them — that they will know His love deeply and be the bearers of it to others. At home this afternoon she’ll tell us about her day: a morning and afternoon filled with riveting tales that she is excited to tell because, out of all the family, she was the only one to witness them. She’ll describe the beanbag game she played with her friends at recess. We’ll learn how much she ate of the mac-and-cheese-and-broccoli she looks forward to every week. She might even share a few lines of the the new song she learned in music class. And as she talks, I’ll give silent thanks again for how her Shepherd has walked with her—for her growth in grace, by grace—and for the good work he has prepared for her to do. Even on the days she isn’t aware of it, even if she should someday lose sight of it, her life is a story of his love. I smile as I watch her walk with a cheerful spring in each step, and I wave back. “See you soon, Mommy!” she calls. See you very soon, sweetheart. The gym door shuts behind her class. I start the car again as the line begins to move. And I know.

by Drew Miller After this, when Jesus knew that all was now finished, he said (in order to fulfill the scripture), “I am thirsty.” A jar full of sour wine was standing there. So they put a sponge full of the wine on a branch of hyssop and held it to his mouth. —John 19:28-29 To be patient in an emergency is a terrible trial. Over the last year, I’ve thought often of a scene at the end of The Sound of Music : Nazi soldiers begin banging on the door of the abbey where the von Trapp family has taken shelter, and one of the nuns hurries to the door in her fright. But she is quickly and quietly corrected by Mother Abbess, who tells her to slow down—if she opened the door too hastily, looking flustered, the soldiers would immediately know they had found the family. So she stops, breathes, and walks calmly to the door. In any emergency, to abide with patience in our need is to take the blessed middle path between the near-irresistable offers of denial on the one hand and domination on the other. It takes enormous effort not to either freeze or fight, because each of these ensnaring alternatives to patience are survival instincts, complete with their own internal logic: If I could need less right now, if I could shut down all systems not essential to my survival, then I might escape. Or, if I could overtake my circumstances by brute force, then I might escape. In order to survive, I must become less. Or, I must become more. But Jesus is not trying to survive. “I am thirsty,” he says, and by saying this, what else does he say? “I am still here. You are still here. I am thirsty with you. This thirst we share, it is not a liability. This thirst we share, it is not a license to kill. This thirst we share, it is a narrow passage to an open space Called acceptance, repentance, patience, gratitude, returning, rest.” But what do I do , I can hear myself asking, when the emergency seems to last forever? When the din of violence and chaos reaches a critical threshhold—then exceeds that threshhold the very next day? When the ugly fact is that to freeze or to fight, to deny or to dominate, are my only alternatives to heart-wrenching pain? When all the patience in the world won’t change a thing? As the nun rushes in her fright to answer the door, the correction of Mother Abbess holds within it more than mere tactical advice. Latent in her correction is a reminder to the nun that she has access to patience, to presence, to returning and rest, even and especially in the moment of her greatest need. The soldiers banging on the door, compelled to follow the orders of denial and dominance on the grounds of the promise never to need again, forfeited their access as a rite of passage. The alluring daydream of power, large-scale operation that it is, requires such forfeitures as routine maintenance. The soldiers do not know that they are thirsty. They do not know where they are or who is there with them. And they dare not wonder too much about it, because to do so would be to risk losing their fictional moral license to raid an abbey. In mustering up her patience, the nun does not acquire a superpower to fundamentally change the situation. But her patience does expose the truth of that situation: the truth of shared human need, the soldiers’ denial of that need, and the futility of their resulting violence. Whenever a human being demonstrates their access to this patience, this presence, this returning and rest, God lavishly holds out through them the possibility of such returning to every other soul in their presence. “I am thirsty,” Jesus says, and we feel our dry tongues against the back of our teeth. “Abide in me, and the trial will be no less terrible, the emergency no less severe, but the difference will be that you will stay here. You will stay with me. And you will know that you are thirsty.”

by Pete Peterson [Editor’s note: This post was originally written and shared last year, at the beginning of the COVID-19 pandemic.] My favorite moment of the entire church year is Easter Sunday. I love standing in the packed sanctuary and hearing the congregation proclaim “He is risen indeed” like a peal of thunder. But this year we don’t get to do that, and no live-streamed church service can adequately replicate that moment. As I was grieving the loss of that celebration, though, I had an idea. I ran it past the Rabbit Room staff to be sure I wasn’t crazy, and I think we all got a little choked up thinking about how good it could be. So we sent out an email asking a few folks to send us videos of themselves and their families saying “He is risen. He is risen indeed.” We’d edit them together with some music (Andrew’s “Risen Indeed” from Resurrection Letters, Vol. 1 ) and call it a day. Simple right? Well it wasn’t long before we realized that this provided us a chance to make the Easter declaration on a broader scale than even an Easter Sunday in-person service. Folks began asking friends in different countries and different languages to send in videos. The project grew from a few friends, to an assembly of Christians from the whole world across. This may not be every nation and tribe, every people and tongue, but it does include more than 40 nations and more than 25 languages, with more than 150 participants in total. The result makes me cry every time I watch it. This is the Church. The Bride of Christ. Alive and well. Socially distant, yet eternally present, in sickness and in health. From all of us, to all of you, Happy Eastertide! Declare it far and wide. Christ is risen. He is risen indeed. Alleluia, Alleluia. P. S. (We’d love it if you’d pop over to Facebook and post a video of your own Easter greeting in the comments.) Pete Peterson is the author of the Revolutionary War adventure The Fiddler’s Gun and its sequel Fiddler’s Green . Among the many strange things he’s been in life are the following: U.S Marine air traffic controller, television editor, art teacher and boatwright at the Florida Sheriffs Boys Ranch, and progenitor of the mysterious Budge-Nuzzard. He lives in Nashville with his wife, Jennifer, where he's the Executive Director of the Rabbit Room and Managing Editor of Rabbit Room Press.

by Andrew Peterson [Editor’s note: This was adapted from a 2019 post.] And now it begins. After forty days of fasting, after the harrowing darkness of Good Friday, after the long silence of Holy Saturday, after the dawn of Easter like a slow explosion of light over the greening hills of the Northern Hemisphere, we move into the joy of Eastertide. As much as I love that it all leads to Resurrection Sunday, I think my favorite part of the whole drama is today: Easter Monday. I’m writing this in the Chapter House, having just cleaned up the property after 100 guests for yesterday’s Easter Feast at the Warren. Nobody’s coming over. No parties. The bluebirds seem relieved that there aren’t kids traipsing around the pasture and poking their heads into the box where the babies are growing, and it’s business as usual again for the bright red cardinal pecking around the yarrow by the front door. I woke to a downy woodpecker grazing the trunk of the ash tree outside my window, and spotted a house finch a few minutes later. A big squirrel bounded through the grass between the white oak and the edge of the wood, furtively, as if he’s heard rumor of my pellet gun and my fierce defense of apples. (I planted apple trees ten years ago and have only eaten one apple to date, thanks to the squirrels’ mad habit of nibbling them and tossing them half-eaten to the ground before they’re ripe.) The Warren feels happy and profoundly peaceful, and I think it’s because of all the fuss the church calendar has caused for the last forty days. Disclaimer: I didn’t grow up in a church that paid much attention to the church calendar. I had a vague idea that Lent was a thing because of my one Catholic friend, but other than that I had no idea how rich and helpful it could be to move through the story of the Gospel over the course of a year. The irony, whenever I’ve heard any pushback on observing the church calendar, is that I don’t know a single Christian who doesn’t celebrate Christmas and Easter—and those same people look forward to the rhythm those events make of the years as they pass. So yeah, they follow at least a portion of the Christian year whether they think of it that way or not. It was just a few years ago that I first began observing Lent, and it wasn’t long after that when I realized Easter is more than just a day. It’s a season. Eastertide lasts fifty days. I read somewhere that the whole season of Easter is called “the Great Day of the Lord.” There’s this intensely glorious ramp up to Easter Sunday, starting with Ash Wednesday. Lent moves slowly, like a funeral procession, toward Holy Week, and if you’re fasting from something you probably find yourself looking forward to Easter with a measure of desperation. When Palm Sunday arrives, you know things are about to get serious. Holy Week can be exhausting, emotionally and physically. Not only are you on the final stretch that leads to the darkest day in history—there are (if you’re up for it) communion services at noon every day, there’s a Tenebrae service on Wednesday, a Maundy Thursday service, a Good Friday service, the agonizing wait of Holy Saturday, and then—then!—Easter. The resurrection of Jesus of Nazareth. At our house, we party. I cry happy tears all morning. Church is bright and joyful. Then we come home and eat piles of food and laugh and revel in the victory of Christ. But it’s not over. I feel in my chest a loosening of tension, a relief that the grieving of Lent is past, the hard-fought self-discipline is behind me, and I can enter the days of work and rest with a subtly euphoric freedom from the thistle and thorn that infests the ground. Andrew Peterson Then, you see, it’s Easter Monday. It’s just beginning. Now we get a glimpse of the New Creation, because now we discover the “now what?” We go back to work, life resumes its usual routine, yes, but with the massive difference that now we live in that Great Day of the Lord for fifty days, a fitting foretaste of what’s coming to us after Christ’s return. I walked the property this morning and saw in the blackberry blossoms and green strawberries a fullness of time that feels less like the end of a story than the beginning of one. C. S. Lewis wrote in the final scene of the Narnia chronicles, “Now at last they were beginning Chapter One of the Great Story which no one on earth has read: which goes on for ever: in which every chapter is better than the one before.” That’s what Easter Monday feels like to me: the beginning of a season that shouts, “He’s making all things new!” Keep your eyes peeled, because the waves of that distant shore sometimes wash over the hills of Tennessee with great glad joy. I feel in my chest a loosening of tension, a relief that the grieving of Lent is past, the hard-fought self-discipline is behind me, and I can enter the days of work and rest with a subtly euphoric freedom from the thistle and thorn that infests the ground. I’m still working in the fields, but for now it’s with gladness and not groaning. I know it won’t last. Creation still awaits her king. But moving through the story this way piques my yearning for the New Jerusalem like nothing else, and I’m happy to join with Christians all over the world who hold fast to the hope of the resurrection by truly celebrating it not just on Easter Sunday but on Easter Monday and for the next forty-nine days too. That’s why we’re doing the show tonight in Nashville, and why the Resurrection Letters tour was born. I usually don’t share my setlists because I like for there to be a bit of mystery to a concert, but it felt right to let you in on what these shows have looked like. (We’ve even posted playlists on iTunes and Spotify.) We open the second half with “Hosanna,” a Palm Sunday song. Then I explain to the audience that we’ll walk through the crucifixion by playing all the songs from Resurrection Letters: Prologue: “Last Words” (the seven things the Gospels tell us that Jesus said on the cross) “Well Done, Good and Faithful” (which incorporates Isaac Watts’s setting of Psalm 22, the “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” psalm) “Always Good” (a lament) “God Rested” (about Jesus’s interment in the tomb) After each of these songs we blow out a candle and the stage lights darken. There’s no applause after each song. After the last candle is extinguished the room is plunged into darkness and silence is kept for a few minutes. It’s a time to enter the tomb and to feel the weight of Christ’s death. Then, a candle is relit. Brandon drums the opening of “His Heart Beats,” and the lights are back as we proclaim, “His heart beats, his blood begins to flow, waking up what was dead a moment ago.” At this point, at every show on the tour, the crowd bursts into applause. Most nights they leap to their feet. We can barely sing for the joy in our hearts. As I told someone yesterday, “It’s the perfect story.” After that we move through a series of songs about the resurrection and the New Creation: “Risen Indeed” “Rejoice” “Remember Me” “Don’t You Want to Thank Someone” “I’ve Seen Too Much” “Invisible God” “The Good Confession” “Is He Worthy?” “All Things Together” “All Things New” Now that it’s Easter Monday, and we’re living in this foretaste of the Great Day of the Lord, our hearts will be on fire tonight at the Ryman Auditorium as we give thanks to Jesus for who he is, what he’s done, and what he’s going to do. I hope you can tune in and celebrate with us. So from now until May 23rd, I wish you a happy Eastertide. The Kingdom is coming and the Kingdom is here. Andrew Peterson is a singer-songwriter and author. Andrew has released more than ten records over the past twenty years, earning him a reputation for songs that connect with his listeners in ways equally powerful, poetic, and intimate. As an author, Andrew’s books include the four volumes of the award-winning Wingfeather Saga, released in collectible hardcover editions through Random House in 2020, and his creative memoir, Adorning the Dark, released in 2019 through B&H Publishing.

by Jonny Jimison Jonny Jimison is back with the thirtieth edition of his beloved comic, Rabbit Trails , featuring none other than Denethor. Click here to visit Jonny Jimison’s website.

by the Rabbit Room Artists & is a project created to meet the need for community among visual artists. Throughout this project, we will learn the stories of artists we know and respect, looking inside their studios and hearing about their work, process, and rhythms. In this second installment, we hear from Gina Sutphin and Bailey McGee. Gina and Bailey discuss how they each began their creative work from a posture of supporting their artist-husbands, not as artists themselves, and how visual art is merely one facet of creativity in each of their lives. Click here to join the  artists &  group on Facebook. And click here to watch the first installment of “Artists & their Stories,” featuring Kyra Hinton and Jamin Still.