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by Jonny Jimison Jonny Jimison is back with the thirty-second edition of his beloved comic, Rabbit Trails. Click here to visit Jonny Jimison’s website.

by Mark Meynell Infinite space offers infinite inspiration. That’s because, in the immortal words of the late, great Douglas Adams, “Space is big. Really big. You just won’t believe how vastly, hugely, mind-bogglingly big it is. I mean, you may think it’s a long way down the road to the chemist’s, but that’s just peanuts to space.” So, as with almost every other playlist in this series, the number of potential inclusions is vast. Inevitably, here lies arbitrariness and exclusion—but I will pursue both with abandon. I was the perfect age for Star Wars when it first came out: 7 in 1977. I even drew a degree of affinity with its universe from the simple fact that I shared a name with Luke Skywalker’s real name. Ever since, I’ve loved the thought of space adventures, though being a scientific and mathematical dunce meant that I could never relate to the jargon and gobbledegook. It was the sheer unbridled romance of it all, the lack of any apparent limitation to the powers of human imagination (apart from pesky things like thermodynamics laws, cosmic distances and the need for oxygen and water, of course). As a result, I’ve always kept an ear out for space music. Not to be confused with spaced music, naturally, although the way that some contemporary composers seem to set about writing for space, you could be forgiven for such a confusion. When the Voyager space probe was first sent into space, someone at NASA had the brainwave of sending a golden disc of recordings to represent the best of us . It contained tracks of indigenous music from around the world (Gamelan music from Indonesia, percussion from Senegal, panpipes from Peru, chanting from the Navajo, ragas from India, and some classics like Louis Armstrong’s “Melancholy Blues” and Chuck Berry’s “Johnny B. Good”). But there was one composer who stood head and shoulders above the others, the only one with more than one track: J. S. Bach. He had three pieces. The combination was designed to impress alien life at human sophistication and civilisation. And frankly, I’m with them. When someone suggested having only Bach on the disc, renowned astronomer Carl Sagan dismissed the idea by saying, ‘That would just be showing off.’ So much for sending our music into space. But what of the music inspired by space? That’s the subject for this list. And to do this we must start with someone who wasn’t writing ‘space music’ per se at all. Symphony No. 14 in D : I Allegro Assai William Herschel (1738-1822, German-British) London Mozart Players, Matthias Bamert (cond.) Herschel was born Friedrich Wilhelm Herschel in Hanover, twenty years or so after the Elector of Hanover became George I of Great Britain. The two states were thus bound by deep political ties for well over a century and the cultural traffic between the two was almost constant. The great George Frederic Handel first visited London in 1710 and would move to take up official positions in 1717. Herschel would accompany his musician father to London four decades later at only 19. He quickly gained his own reputation as a good musician and held posts in various cities like Newcastle, Sunderland, and Bath. This symphony is rarely heard anymore but has a charm all of its own (on display in the first movement here). So much for the day job. Herschel, together with his musician younger sister Caroline, was, in addition, an amateur astronomer. I say amateur, but that’s only because he wasn’t employed as such. The siblings were pretty remarkable scientists as well as internationally renowned telescope makers. William discovered the planet that would come to be known Uranus (from the Greek god of that name, whose name is derived from ouranoi meaning ‘heavens’) although he called it the Georgian star (after the king). Naturally, the French were having none of that name, so for a time it was actually called Herschel —which is why Caroline would make several discoveries of her own, including several comets and nebulae, and in fact, would become the first woman to receive a salary as a scientist and the first woman in England to hold a government position. Quite the family, then. So despite this symphony not having a specific tie-in, there can be little doubt that its composer was inspired by gazing into the night sky. Deep Field: 5. Earth Choir Eric Whitacre (1970- , American) Eric Whitacre Singers & Virtual Choir 5, Royal Philharmonic Orchestra, Eric Whitacre (cond.) We have met Eric Whitacre before in these lists ( #7, Inexpressible Grief Expressed ) and his choral music is a firm favourite. He goes in for lush melodies and rich, scrunchy harmonies which manage to stay on the right side of the sentimental (in case you’d not noticed so far, this is something I appreciate!). In astronomical terms a ‘deep field’ is a photograph of space taken with a long exposure in order to capture even the faintest of stars. These images have reached popular consciousness through the results beamed back from the Hubble Space Telescope and they are breath-taking even to the untrained eye. Whitacre was commissioned in 2018 to write music for a Hubble-inspired IMAX film to be shown at various sites including the Smithsonian and Griffith Observatory. The suite of tracks works brilliantly in its own right, although you can get a sense of the scale and wonder even when viewing the footage on a small screen. Whitacre studiously avoids the clichés of a thousand sci-fi soundtracks while communicating with musical vocabulary that is entirely fitting, using a vast range of tones, including the barely audible. Close your eyes and be transported into deep space. Polaris “Voyage for Orchestra” (2011) Thomas Adès (1971- , British) London Symphony Orchestra, Thomas Adès (cond.) Thomas Adès is one of the most stimulating and exciting of British composers alive. His work is not always accessible immediately (unlike Whitacre, say). But he grabs you by the scruff of your neck and demands your attention. Polaris was commissioned in 2018 for the brand new Frank Gehry-designed concert hall in Miami, the New World Center. Polaris is of course the North Star, the brightest in the northern hemisphere’s night sky, and thus key to getting one’s bearings around the various constellations. Think The Plough (or Big Dipper if you’re North American) and follow the trajectory of the far edge of the Plough’s ‘bucket’ and you’ll find it. Ades called this ‘a voyage’, a one-movement piece but it meanders through different stages and moods. It lasts 15 minutes, so this is not a voyage ‘to scale’! But as the developing music weaves around the orchestra, it is hard not to feel a sense of cosmic adventure. Time’s Arrow: I. The Void – II. Explosive Exposition (1990, excerpt) Anthony Payne (1936-2021, British) Sir Andrew Davis (conductor), BBC Symphony Orchestra Anthony Payne died earlier this year just days after his wife and after illness (though not COVID-19, as far as I can discover). He was a remarkable musician, but I had only encountered him because of his brilliant and utterly convincing reconstruction of Elgar’s 3rd Symphony. He just had an incomplete score together with some sketches and scraps for the rest to work on, since it was left unfinished on Elgar’s desk when he died in 1934. But Payne’s work is a triumph and I adore listening to it. It sounds utterly Elgarian. You won’t think that of this piece, though! This could only be late twentieth-century, influenced by the Russian masters like Stravinsky and Shostakovich as well as modernists on both sides of the Atlantic. It was commissioned for the BBC Proms in 1990 and was deemed a masterpiece very soon. In it, he seeks to depict the Big Bang, a cosmic event of inconceivable proportions! Payne’s audacity of intent is verging on the insane! I’ll leave you to decide how successful he has been. In the Shadow of the Moon (soundtrack) : Re-Entry Philip Sheppard (1969- , English) Philip Sheppard and studio orchestra I was gripped by the 2006 documentary by British scientists and filmmakers David Sington and Christopher Riley, In the Shadow of the Moon . Its premise is simple: tell the story of the men who walked on the moon. There were only twelve. Twenty-four reached the moon’s orbit during the Apollo programme, of whom ten appear in the film (seven actually having stepped on it). If you have not seen it, do so! Last time I checked, it had 95% on Rotten Tomatoes and 91% Audience score. But don’t overlook Philip Sheppard’s soundtrack. It’s stunning and, akin to the others listed in this post which have accompanying footage, it stands its own. He has subsequently gone on to compose for many films and other projects (including Star Wars: The Force Awakens ) and is a Fellow of the Royal Academy of Music in London. The whole disc does everything you want in a soundtrack in spades, but is evocative and moving even if you haven’t seen the film. That cannot be said for (dare I say it?!) the vast majority of movie soundtracks which seem trite and clichéd all too often. In fact, how about this as a fun game for all the family: take an unknown soundtrack at random and then try to retell the story cliché by cliché without watching it! Then compare notes with the actual production! But I don’t think you could do that with this one. After our cosmic voyage, what more appropriate close to the short pieces than Re-Entry . It has it all! The Planets (Op. 32, 1914-17) Gustav Holst (1874-1934, English) Sir Simon Rattle (conductor), Rundfunkchor Berlin, Berlin Philharmonic NB video is different as the recommended recording is not on youtube. So, this is a controversial one to include here. Holst’s Planets suite is not astronomy at all, strictly speaking. It is that serious endeavour’s offshoot, the absurdity that is astrology. The more you investigate its claims the more ridiculous it becomes, quite frankly. It is made up of a sequence of flimsy premises piled high on ridiculous faith-leaps and creative fancies. But perhaps I’m not getting my point across clearly enough. I think astrology is totally dumb. And it has precious little to do with astronomy. Nevertheless, Holst’s Planets is a masterpiece and, for all its popularity, it deserves close attention. Holst was born in Gloucestershire to British parents, his father descended from various European families. Most of his professional life was occupied with teaching music in several institutions, most notably St Paul’s Girl’s School, Hammersmith (from 1905 until his death). It was there that he pioneered music education for women in Britain. Despite this, he managed to sustain an impressive musical output. Holst had premiered a major work for orchestra in 1911 called Phantastes , inspired by the famous George MacDonald book of that title. It was not a success (and has never been recorded, as far as I can tell) so Holst formally withdrew it. He was looking for something else to get his teeth into to overcome the disappointment. The Planets was just that, preoccupying him throughout the First World War, and it would become the piece for which he is best known. The seven planets of the solar system are each depicted in seven movements, evoking their astrological (rather than physical or astronomical) character. I suppose we could say that they thus correspond in some loose way to the seven Narnia books as decoded by Michael Ward in his remarkable Planet Narnia (although Lewis took as his inspiration the mediaeval system which included Sol , the Sun, and Luna , Earth’s moon, instead of Herschel’s Uranus or the 1847-discovered Neptune). Mars, the Bringer of War Venus, the Bringer of Peace Mercury, the Winged Messenger Jupiter, the Bringer of Jollity Saturn, the Bringer of Old Age Uranus, the Magician Neptune, the Mystic These seven movements are so frequently played now and used to accompany a vast range of footage and moods that we easily miss how overflowing with invention and brilliance they are. There are fantastic melodies (Brits will know that of Jupiter as the tune for I vow to thee my country ) and epic rhythms (how many newsreels from the Nazi invasion of the Sudetenland or Russia have been accompanied by Holst’s Mars? Too many to count). At every turn, Holst gives us something new, leaving a unique legacy that pops up throughout twentieth century cinematic music everywhere: there’s the mysterious chills provided by a wordless chorus of female voices in Neptune, or the affecting melancholy of Saturn, and the gorgeous romanticism of Venus’s peace ushered in by tender solos on violin and then oboe. This is truly music to return to again and again.

by Drew Miller It was Pizza Night on Friday, March 13th, 2020. The candles were lit, the music was playing, and I had just adorned two old fashioneds with orange peels, ready for our weekly toast. That particular week had introduced Kelsey and me to the term “social distancing,” the idea of quarantine (surely no more than six weeks, right?), and freshly empty toilet paper shelves at the grocery store. Even in that moment, we were aware that what we were experiencing was a moment —the significance of which would only reveal itself in the slow unfolding of time’s many surprises. We held up our cocktail glasses, each searching the air for a phrase with which to christen the week we had just left behind and the unwritten weeks ahead. And then, with an uncertain shrug, Kelsey said, “To whatever comes next.” Clink. That phrase came to mean many things to us over the course of 2020. In those first days, it was an uneasy joke: What could possibly come next? How bad could it be? By the time summer was in full swing, after tragedy compounded upon tragedy, it had turned to something more like dread: What have we gotten ourselves into? Is there a way out? As the year came to a close, the phrase took on tones of depletion, chronic fear, and desperation: Please let nothing else come next. We’re still reeling from this year we’ve had, and we can’t take any more. And yet, even as the days darkened into an unrelenting doom, we came to know a glimmering thread woven through those days, a strand quietly withstanding, holding fast, holding out hope in the painstakingly obvious observation that we don’t know what comes next. There Will Be Surprises explores hope's subversive interruption of despair at the frayed edges of our imaginations. Drew Miller As I reflect on my moments of deepest despair, I’m struck by the sense of sheer certainty that dominates the state of my mind and heart. Despair makes the outrageous claim of knowing everything that comes next—always only endless permutations of the wounds we’ve come to know so well, wounds that will never heal. On the other hand, the only humble condition needed for hope to grow is the mere admission of ignorance. Hope goes all-in on the unknown , because if any party is going to interrupt this ceaseless repetition of despair, it’s going to have to come from the outside, from beyond the scope of my imagination. It’s going to have to come as a surprise. Album art by Kyra Hinton Song by song, There Will Be Surprises explores hope’s subversive interruption of despair at the frayed edges of our imaginations. This theme has been baked into every decision: writing, arranging, and producing, as well as the visual art that accompanies the album. My last project was altogether grayscale, both sonically and visually—we left empty space in the mix and in the cover art. But, in keeping with the songs, There Will Be Surprises is in full color. Arrangements have expanded from a simple guitar-and-piano-based performance to include drums and bass, electric guitars, strings, and the beloved voices of my friends. And visually, I’m thrilled to welcome Kyra Hinton into this project, who has created an original painting for this album’s cover art. At every turn, color is filling the empty spaces. My hope for you is that wherever and whenever this album finds you, it may travel with you to the farthest reaches of your imagination, stand with you on the precipice, and help you to ask of yourself and of this world we live in, What comes next? Visit KickstartDrew.com to join me in making this album happen.

by the Rabbit Room The arts go far beyond words, melodies, and paintings. For instance, the art of gardening comprises much of what it means to faithfully cultivate God’s creation as bearers of his image—in Tolkien’s words, to “make still by the law in which we’re made.” One of our favorite parts of last year’s Hutchmoot: Homebound, then, was the garden, where we got to explore these themes in relation to the tangible tending and keeping of living things. This year, we’re excited to welcome to the garden Julie Witmer, Andrew Peterson, and Lanier Ivester. Rabbit Room Members, Guess What! We’ll have some fun, special Hutchmoot content for members again this year! As for what it is? You’ll just have to wait—or become a member—to find out. If you want to learn more about what membership means you can read about it on the blog or on our Become a Member page .

by the Rabbit Room The Habit Podcast is a series of conversations with writers about writing, hosted by Jonathan Rogers. This week, Jonathan talks with Bill Haslam, two-term governor of Tennessee, two-term mayor of Knoxville, and author of Faithful Presence: The Promise and Peril of Faith in the Public Square . In a political climate marked by metastasizing outrage and division, Haslam found success by finding common ground and treating everyone—allies and opponents alike—with decency and respect. Click here to listen to Season 3, Episode 33 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 Ben Palpant The next time you come over to our house for dinner, you’ll notice a large bowl of rocks at the center of our table. We call it our Joshua Basket, a shorthand title for a basket full of memories. Each rock has a date and a brief description written on it. Dec. 30, 1997: God provides us with our first home. Feb. 2009: We saved enough money for a new wii, but gave the money away so that our heart could grow bigger (Kiale, Hannah, and Noah) Feb. 12, 2015: Hannah suffers a severe concussion. And so it goes. Rock after rock after rock. As far as I know, the genesis of this idea comes from my Uncle Paul who decided to emulate the Israelites when they crossed the Jordan river. You can find the story in Joshua 4. God parted the river Jordan so they could cross to the other side. Joshua commanded that twelve stones representing the twelve tribes be carried out of the river bottom and arranged as an altar at Gilgal. And Joshua explained that the stones were to serve as a visual cue for the generations to come. Someday, when children saw those piled stones and asked about them, God’s people were to tell their children the story of how God parted the waters and helped them cross to dry ground. Those stones were memory prompts. Every time we sit down to eat around the table, we’re reminded of our stories. And if something especially noteworthy took place during the day, we mark another rock. Taking a moment to remember has the benefit of slowing down time. Most of our days rush past at such high velocity that we hardly remember half of what happened today, let alone what happened yesterday. Slowing down helps the moment to sink in. This isn’t a foreign concept for most of us—often, we slow down time in order to marinate in some personal slight. We want to rehearse whatever events pricked our pride so we can relish self-pity and justify our bitterness. None of us would come out and say it that way, but that’s what we’re doing much of the time. As a side note, social media has become a favorite place to marinate in our personal slights. We can transform social media in the same way that we can transform our lives: by taking the road less travelled and noting those events for which we should give thanks. Staring your own Joshua Basket is one way of building a habit of gratitude. It’s a visual reminder to give thanks whenever you sit down to eat. We don’t become thankful people by giving thanks once in a while. Gratitude has to become habitual. Whatever we practice well, we get better at doing. By the time we reach old age (whatever that is!), many of us will have perfected the art of self-pity and ingratitude. Ironically enough, the people most adept at ingratitude and self-pity think everyone else is selfish and ungrateful. It’s like the old saying, “A card cheat suspects everyone at the table of hiding cards.” As I mentioned in Part 1 of these posts , the Bible focuses so heavily on thankfulness that one gets a sneaking suspicion that we’re hardwired to self-destruct if we stop giving thanks. The real battle, the one we’ve been losing for generations, is with our own unthankful hearts. I feel so trite saying this in light of the massive tectonic changes happening around me, but just because everyone (and I mean everyone ) is trying to shout down their chosen opponent doesn’t mean that this biblical truth has changed or that it has lost its potency. Don’t get baited by your favorite talking head into forgetting where the real battle lies. Don’t get baited into blaming politics for your unthankful heart. None of these things justify ingratitude. What's the biggest effect of not habitually giving thanks for God's blessings? We stop telling our stories. We start seeing only what's right in front of us. Ben Palpant The fearful, selfish heart looks inward, always beholding itself. It cries foul at the slightest provocation. The thankful heart, on the other hand, always looks upward and outward. The thankful man is the blessed man “who walks not in the counsel of the wicked, nor stands in the way of sinners, nor sits in the seat of scoffers; but his delight is in the law of the Lord, and on his law he meditates day and night. He is like a tree planted by streams of water that yields its fruit in its season, and its leaf does not wither. In all that he does, he prospers. The wicked are not so.” (Psalm 1) I’m not saying it’s easy. What I am saying is that an inch of thankfulness (if you can just start with that small step), given time, can become a mile of gladness. A mile of gladness, given time, can grow into fifty, sixty, seventy, eighty, ninety miles of joy. Start with one small rock and start filling your Joshua Basket. I saw a picture of an olive tree growing out of an abandoned house. Searching for light, it became the centerpiece around which the house seemed built. Against all odds, this little plant kept seeking the light. Look at it now! This is the human heart when it gives thanks, growing in nourishment. The unthankful heart shrivels and dies for lack of sunlight. Let me put it another way: What’s the biggest effect of not habitually giving thanks for God’s blessings? We stop telling our stories. We stop remembering what he’s done in our life. We start seeing only what’s right in front of us. We get tunnel vision and this tunnel vision, given time, leads to utter blindness. C. S. Lewis paints a vivid picture of this blindness in The Last Battle . You remember, of course, the end of the story. The battle is over. Lucy, Edmund, and Eustace find themselves under a beautiful open sky in Aslan’s country. They see a group of dwarves huddled in a circle. It becomes clear that they still think they’re in a dark stable into which they had been flung. For those of you who know the story, this logic makes a certain kind of sense, but it wasn’t true. They’re sitting under a beautifully open sky. One dwarf says to Lucy, “How in the name of all Humbug can I see what ain’t there? And how can I see you any more than you can see me in this pitch darkness?” When Aslan arrives, Lucy asks what Aslan can do for them. He conjures up a feast for them. But they cannot be convinced that it is anything but hay and trough water. Their singular goal is to escape being duped by anyone about anything. They will not be deceived, all the while deceiving themselves. Aslan says, “You see, they will not let us help them. . .Their prison is only in their own minds, yet they are in that prison; and so afraid of being taken in that they cannot be taken out. But come, children. I have other work to do.” You and I can be like those dwarves with relatively little effort, especially in our current political climate. The unthankful heart is finding fault everywhere these days except in itself. The unthankful heart prides itself in being more realistic, more politically aware, more with it. The unthankful heart finds everyone else a little soft, naive, simple-minded. And here’s the most devilish part of the unthankful heart: while I list all of its traits in HD clarity, it’s thinking I’m describing someone else. You can’t point to God if you’re always pointing at yourself. The people who effectively point to him are the ones so overwhelmed with gratitude for what he’s done in their life that they can’t stop talking about him. They can’t stop telling stories to each other, testifying to God’s faithfulness and goodness. The people compelled enough to do the hard work of heralding the good news with a strong and courageous voice, saying, “Behold your God!” are people who love God and love people enough to do so. These are selfless people, hopeful people, glad people, storytellers who delight to tell their stories because God’s story is the very source of their thankfulness! Take the road less travelled. Start a Joshua basket. Next time I come over for dinner, tell me your stories one stone at a time. Ben Palpant is a memoirist, poet, novelist, and non-fiction writer. He is the author of several books, including A Small Cup of Light, Sojourner Songs, and The Stranger. He writers under the inspiration of five star-lit children and one dog named Chesterton. He and his wife live in the Pacific Northwest.

by Jeanine Joyner Last spring, when the Rabbit Room announced that the in-person gathering of Hutchmoot was cancelled, I felt my stomach drop in disappointment. I had been among the lucky ones who had raced to our computers and successfully managed to score the coveted and oft-elusive tickets to what has become my favorite weekend each year. It was all for naught—or so I thought. I wondered how they would transition this incredible event to the confines of a computer screen. I couldn’t imagine it being the same or even coming close to creating the deep, spiritual and creative experience that reboots my artistic juices and fills my soul with the knowledge that I am not alone every year. Each of us is a priest and prophet in the Kingdom of God, and we can create little slices of Heaven in the spaces where God has placed us if we will only be willing to gather his people around the proverbial table and pass the peace with a smile and a song. Jeanine Joyner When the Hutchmoot: Homebound tickets went on sale, I was happy to see they offered a small group package, complete with Mystery Moot Kits for all. I purchased mine and began to invite people that I knew would be a gift to the Rabbit Room. There were a few friends who had heard me talk about my experience, two of whom had even been to Hutchmoot before, but the rest were friends from my church. They are a beautiful, creative, and diverse group, not just in ethnicity but also in gifting. One is a spoken word poet, another paints. One writes, another is a talented artist with the voice of an angel. Then there is the budding guitar player and my own daughter who lives and breathes all things creative. Even my husband, who does not share an artistic bent of his own but loves music of all kinds, was able to join us and partake of the feast! It was a recipe for success, an opportunity to bring home and practice what I had learned from my previous experiences during those beautiful autumn weekends in Franklin. I began by packing each attendee’s Mystery Moot Kit in a gift bag with a card. I hand-delivered the kits and used them to help build anticipation for what was to come. I loved the mystery element of the kits, and my friends did too. We all worked hard to exercise self-control and not open all the envelopes immediately! I carefully planned a menu appropriate to the occasion, remembering that quote by C. S. Lewis: “Feasting is an act of war.” I took that admonition to heart and planned my weapons accordingly! I provided snacks that were available throughout the day, and asked my guests to bring lunch items to share. When they arrived, the dinner menus were printed out on beautiful paper and posted so everyone could see and anticipate what was to come. Friday night was baked chicken pasta with salad and several desserts (including Jon Cal’s apple berry crumble) as well as my own apple pie with the Rabbit Room logo carved out of the crust. And, of course, we had ice cream—buttered pecan flavor, to be exact. Saturday was Texas themed because, as I often say, you can take the girl out of Texas but you can’t take Texas out of this girl! We shared a huge tureen of taco soup with all the trimmings, along with two different flavors of cake and a fruity Sangria (for the adults, of course). Together, we chose which sessions we would watch as a group, intentionally keeping the Hutchmoot schedule just as it would have been if we were meeting in Franklin. I cast the video from my computer to the large TV in the living room, allowing the intermissions to play in the background as we milled about and chatted between lectures and performances. The rhythm felt right and gave my guests an experience very near to what I remembered from my own years of attending in person. I enjoyed introducing my friends to artists, speakers, and musicians I have grown to love and marveled at the incredible variety of story, music, and art that was available to us through the magic of the Hutchmoot: Homebound website. (It really was magic. I still can’t believe what they accomplished in just a few short months.) We shared stories, deep and meaningful conversations, and tears. We laughed together and even sank into my big living room sectional with too-full bellies together. As we feasted on all that was Hutchmoot throughout the weekend, I watched God do what he does best. He took people of various ages, ethnicities, backgrounds, and talents who had entered the room as strangers and artfully wove our hearts together until, by the end of Sunday’s sessions, were were singing the doxology in unity with tears in our eyes and hope filling our hearts. We experienced the fullness of God’s Kingdom together, right here in my home. Now, I’m not going to pretend I don’t long for another in-person gathering of Hutchmoot with the long hallway full of books, bear hugs from beloved friends, music trickling down the halls and Jon Cal’s masterpieces that I don’t have to clean up, because I certainly do! But I learned something last year that I will never forget: each of us is a priest and prophet in the Kingdom of God, and we can create little slices of Heaven in the spaces where God has placed us if we will only be willing to gather his people around the proverbial table and pass the peace with a smile and a song. When we reach out beyond our usual circle of friends and share the abundance that is the goodness of God, I believe he smiles and nods in approval. After all, a parent loves nothing more than to watch their children walk in joyful unity with one another. This October, let us feast upon all that is good and true wherever we may be, with brothers and sisters from many walks of life. Let us grow this community and allow it to truly reflect the fullness of God’s Kingdom. And may we have the grace to recognize the gift we have been given when, at last, we are able to walk through the virtual doors of Hutchmoot and hear Pete boom out a hearty “Welcome” from North Wind Manor. Click here to register for Hutchmoot Homebound.

by Jill Phillips It’s been a long time since I’ve been in the studio recording new music, and I’m thrilled to share with you that I’ll be working on an EP with Ben Shive in the upcoming weeks . Ben and I have been friends for years since the early days of traveling with my husband, Andy Gullahorn, and Andrew Peterson (in a silver van!) to support our albums Love and Thunder and Writing on the Wall . Ben and I have been talking for years about writing and recording music together and it’s such a gift to have him working on this new material. The past five years have been a rich, meaningful, difficult, and faith-inspiring journey. I went back to school to get my masters in marriage and family therapy and have been working in the field of mental health while also continuing to perform and write songs. My kids are getting older and I’ve leaned into the busy teenage years that are fast-fleeting. I’ve also leaned into my own personal work, my faith, friendships, being in nature, and other things that give me life, both grounding and expanding my heart. The songs that are coming out of this season are some of my favorites yet. It has been wonderful to see how pursuing two different vocational callings can be generative and inspire continued creativity in different areas of my life. It might have meant time off of recording, but it was not time off of living. I’m ready to integrate what I have been experiencing through the medium of recording songs again. It’s no secret that streaming has changed our musical landscape in a myriad of ways. I love the freedom it gives me to hear new music easily and explore lots of different artists’ repertoires. It has also made it much harder to recoup the cost of recording music and I have been more reliant than ever on people like you to help make it possible. I’m humbly turning again to Kickstarter and communities like the Rabbit Room to become patrons and supporters of this project. I pray these songs find you in the both/and of acknowledging both your laments and the ways we are tethered to a Love that will not let us go. Jill Phillips This EP will feature some of the new songs you might have heard at my live shows over the past few years as well as songs just finished this month. Ben and I recorded our song “Bright Sadness” earlier this year as a template for the work we’d be doing together this fall. All supporters will receive an immediate download of “Bright Sadness.” You can also see some clips from the soon-to-be-released video by my incredibly talented friend Michael Graziano (small-r films) for the song in the Kickstarter campaign. The title, Deeper Into Love , comes from the chorus of “Bright Sadness” and is my prayer for you and for me as we continue to walk this faith journey together in the days we are given. Whatever comes our way—joy, sorrow, and everything in between, may he protect our hearts from callousness and resentment and give us the grace to draw deeper into Love. I pray these songs find you in the both/and of acknowledging both your laments and the ways we are tethered to a Love that will not let us go. Click here to give to Jill Phillips’s Kickstarter campaign.

Hutchmoot: Homebound attendees, check your email inbox! Our inaugural rundown has been sent. With it in hand, you’ll be well on your way to navigating the vast terrain of discovery and surprise that is the Hutchmoot: Homebound website. Not sure what a Rundown is? Allow us to explain. In the weeks leading up to Hutchmoot: Homebound, all attendees will receive periodic emails (dubbed “Rundowns”) from us about what to expect. If you’ve registered for the conference, there are even a few ways that you can get started with your experience right now! Here’s a screenshot of our first Rundown email: (Pssst, Rundowns may end up in that pesky “promotions” folder, so be sure to check there if it’s not in your inbox.) Not yet a Hutchmoot: Homebound attendee? Get your ticket at HutchmootHomebound.com. We’ll see you in October! Rabbit Room Members, Guess What! We’ll have some fun, special Hutchmoot content for members again this year! As for what it is? You’ll just have to wait—or become a member—to find out. If you want to learn more about what membership means you can read about it  on the blog  or on our  Become a Member page .

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 author and publisher Carolyn Clare Givens. Carrie Givens is a publisher and co-founder of Bandersnatch Books . She is also the author of the recently released novel Rosefire . In this episode, Carrie speaks with Jonathan Rogers about writers’ groups, dry spells, the role of “namers” in our creative lives, and characters who arrive unbidden in our stories. Click here to listen to Season 3, Episode 34 of The Habit Podcast. Transcripts are now available for The Habit Podcast.  Click here to access them. Sponsorship on the Podcast Network Are you interested in teaming up with us to support the work you love? Send an email to info@rabbitroom.com Rabbit Room Membership 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 Pete Peterson The first time I met Thomas McKenzie, which was about twenty years ago, I said, “Do you want to hang out and be best friends one day?” I was being obnoxious, joking about how cool it would be for a non-Anglican singer-songwriter dude to be buddies with an Anglican priest. Thomas said, “Sure.” And that was that. Because of his quick and ready “yes,” it’s no exaggeration to say that over the years he became one of my dearest friends. Thomas, my brother and I, Jonathan Rogers, Randall Goodgame, and a few others had breakfast every Wednesday at Waffle House for more than ten years. I broke bread with him countless times, at the Communion table and the Waffle House booth. Today I’m disoriented, shocked, and heart-shattered by his sudden absence. Jamie and I are especially grieving for his wife and surviving daughter. Thomas was an anchoring presence for many of us in Nashville, so dear Laura and Sophie must feel unmoored in ways we can’t fathom. Ella, too, was a delight. I watched her grow up, and asked her to edit Pembrick’s Creaturepedia when she was just sixteen. Her notes made me laugh out loud, and she was smarter than me by a long shot. Much has been said about my friend on social media, and for that I’m grateful. It’s good to see that Thomas was, and is, seen. My brother wrote a beautiful lament for him, and I’ve read pieces at Christianity Today and Religion News Service, not to mention all the posts on Instagram and Twitter. I’ve been speechless for days, unable to comprehend what happened, let alone write something comprehensible about it. But a friend reminded me that writing is a good way to grieve, so I offer here a few memories of Father Thomas McKenzie, my pastor, my priest, and my dear friend. At the first Hutchmoot (our annual Rabbit Room conference), which was held at Church of the Redeemer because of Thomas, one of the sessions was a panel discussion about the arts. There was a long table on the stage, a few mics to share, and a quorum of Rabbit Room writers and artists gathered along one side of it, facing the audience. Thomas was at one end of the table, probably feeling a bit out of place because he wasn’t, at that point, an author. Looking back, it feels pretentious that we would sit on the stage, Last Supper-style, bestowing our opinions upon the folks in the pews, but whatever. It was a good discussion. We fielded questions about art, faith, doubt, vocation—the usual suspects. But toward the end of the conversation, after having held his silence for an hour, Thomas said, “None of this matters without Jesus. He’s the point of all of this. If he’s not, what are we doing here?” For me, it was a watershed moment in the life of the Rabbit Room, and I’ve thought about it a thousand times. It’s so easy to get caught up highfalutin philosophizing about art and artsiness and forget the Person who holds it all together. Without Christ, of course, it all falls apart. Thomas snapped us back into glorious reality that day, and it told me a lot about reality as he saw it. It wasn’t unusual for Thomas to mention his therapist in his sermons. What a bravely humble thing for a pastor to share with his congregation. I grew up, as many of us did, in a culture where the pastor was expected to have things sorted, a culture where the pastor seldom if ever talked about his own sin or brokenness from the pulpit. But here was one who treated it as a matter of course, readily acknowledging his need for forgiveness and counsel. Thomas could be abrasive. He had such a rascally and (for some) off-putting sense of humor, that Jamie didn’t know what to do with him. I, on the other hand, was drawn to that very thing. I loved the fact that the Thomas you saw in the pulpit was the very same Thomas you saw at breakfast or at a party. He was himself, vices and virtues alike, whether he was serving communion or preaching or eating a biscuit at Waffle House. It gave credibility to his sermons because he didn’t have a preacher voice that he turned on and off. I loved him for it. One morning at Dude Breakfast Thomas told us that the church once got an angry letter accusing him of using the F-word in a sermon. He didn’t believe it, so he went back and listened to the audio of the service. He had been telling a funny story and made a scoffing “pffft” kind of noise that, with a stretch of the imagination, could possibly be interpreted as the Worst of Bad Words. Thomas said he wrote an open letter to the church that said, in effect, he hadn’t said the F-word that time, but that he could see how it might have come across that way. He didn’t stop there, however. He went on to say that he had in fact used that word before, and that it wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility that he would slip up one of these days. He hoped that if he did, the congregation would forgive him for it. When we first started attending Church of the Redeemer, as I said, Jamie didn’t know what to make of Thomas McKenzie. I was drawn to, even comforted by, his oddness, but Jamie didn’t get it. Laura and Thomas invited us to La Hacienda after church one Sunday, and it was the first time the four of us had shared a meal. After we got in the car Jamie said, “Did you see how much he loved Laura? The way he held her hand while we talked was so beautiful and affectionate.” It was true. Laura had sat there like a queen as her knight adored her. Something clicked, and from that day forward Jamie loved Thomas as much as I did. Several years ago I experienced a dark night of the soul that lasted a thousand nights. One Sunday morning, just after church, I asked Thomas to pray for me. We ducked into the chapel and he extended to me an empathy that no other friend had, crying with me and praying for healing. He knew his role as a pastor, and leaned into it. He gave me advice, but more than that he gave me his tears. He weathered some very tough storms, as a father and as a pastor. I’m not sure what was going on at the time, but I had parked at Waffle House and was heading into the restaurant when I spotted him in his car. He was bent over the steering wheel, sobbing so loudly I could hear him from ten feet away with the windows up. My first impulse was to leave him alone, but I thought it was better to err on the side of saying too much than too little. I timidly knocked on the glass, and it scared him. He looked up through his tears, rolled down his window, and I said, “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s going on, but I want you to know you’re not alone and I love you.” He thanked me, rolled up the window, and kept crying. A few minutes later he joined us at breakfast. I speak from experience that it’s hard to recover from that kind of weeping and keep fellowship with your friends. It took courage and humility to get out of the car and join us. One night a bat found its way into his bathroom, and he caught it and killed it with his bare hands. He had a katana for some reason, and one night in a rough part of town he had to pull it out of his car to scare off some hoodlums. He wrote an unpublished vampire novel. Thomas bravely preached the truth during these last few crazy years in America, refusing to pull punches on matters of race, politics, religiosity, or neighborly love, always—and I mean always —pointing to the Kingdom of God and the reign of the resurrected Christ. I can’t ever remember a sermon in which he didn’t call for repentance, proclaim the mighty love of God in Christ, remind us that our citizenship is in heaven. His sermons were never merely theoretical. They called us to embody the love of Christ. Speaking of embodiment, I started attending Church of the Redeemer because they offered Communion every Sunday. I travel for a living, so if a church only offers the Lord’s Supper once a month there’s a good chance I’ll miss it for months on end. I grew up in a tradition that celebrated the Lord’s Supper every week, so I really missed it. I ached for it, really. So we started attending Redeemer and I fell in love with the Anglican liturgy. Part of that love is because it was so clear that Thomas loved it. He understood the drama played out every Sunday, culminating in the Eucharist, the foretaste of the Supper of the Lamb. He kept the feast with a contagious zeal, his eyes twinkling and his voice regal. Oh, Thomas. I’ll miss you so much. I’ll miss the way you unconsciously scratched your forearm at breakfast while you talked about movies. I’ll miss the way you looked at me like you actually cared if I told you I was struggling. I’ll miss the way you broke the communion wafer and held it out for the world to see, gazing dramatically beyond the back wall of the church, believing in your heart that you were celebrating the perfect sacrifice of Christ’s body, broken for us. I’ll miss the blessing you offered every week, assuring me that in Jesus my sins are forgiven. I’ll miss the way you goofed around in your fancy priest robes in the foyer just before church started, and when Jamie and I would walk in you’d say, “What’s up, AP!” and it was clear that you were eager to let the festivities—and that’s exactly the word for it—begin. I’ll miss your clear, concise, passionate sermons—always without notes, which blew my mind. I’ve never heard a better preacher. I’ll miss the fire in your voice when you really got going. I’ll miss kneeling and saying “Alleluia” when you said, “Christ’s body, broken for you,” placing the wafer in my open hands. Our eyes always met for a second, and you were so caught up in the glory of what you were doing it was like you were looking through me and into eternity. Your absence is enormous. I feel it in my chest. But it isn't the sudden absence of a loud and clamorous presence, like that of a jackhammer shutting off. That racket is here and will be till the world is made new. Yours was the long and steady presence of a brook coursing over stones, persistent and peaceful, and now the creek has gone dry. Andrew Peterson I’ll miss your beloved awkwardness. You sometimes seemed like a nerdy kid who was trying to fit in. I wonder if that’s why you so faithfully showed up at Dude Breakfast, because here was a group of guys that just liked to be together, who only expected you to be a buddy, not a pastor. I know that’s how I felt. I’ll miss seeing your tenderness with Laura and your daughters. I’ll miss you celebrating Lent, and Easter, and Advent, and Christmas, because your true belief made it all more believable, and more beautiful. I’m sorry we never got together for that last meal at La Hacienda. Things were just too busy. Thanks for inviting us. And thanks for inviting me to your birthday party. I’m sorry I had a show that night. Thanks for inviting me to the desert for that retreat. I didn’t say yes often enough. But you always did. You came over for movies, and bonfires, and parties. There wasn’t a day that I wasn’t proud to be your friend. Thanks for serving your family, your church, your city, and your King. I know there will be good and beautiful things that will come of your early departure. But right now I can’t stop crying. Right now the world seems a drab place, and Nashville is poorer and sadder and less alive than it was a week ago. Your absence is enormous. I feel it in my chest. But it isn’t the sudden absence of a loud and clamorous presence, like that of a jackhammer shutting off. That racket is here and will be till the world is made new. Yours was the long and steady presence of a brook coursing over stones, persistent and peaceful, and now the creek has gone dry. There is one less counterpoint to the clanging world, the dissonant din of humans attempting to shape things to their own image. But your pastoral love was a quiet water, constant, low in the valley and lowering by degrees into perfect humility by grace’s steady pull to the sea of God. We were shaped by it, made more lovely by your love, and by Christ’s love in you. Thanks for saying yes—to Jesus as a young man, and to me when I asked if you wanted to be friends all those years ago. “Precious in the Lord’s sight is the death of his saints.” Oh, God! Help us to see with your eyes. 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 Jonathan Rogers If you’ve read Anne of Green Gables , you probably remember that scene near the beginning when Matthew Cuthbert is driving Anne Shirley from the train station to Green Gables for the first time. Anne chatters away almost without a pause, and Matthew listens, replying only when asked a direct question, and then only briefly. Everything Anne sees is a marvel to her. A plum tree in bloom puts her in mind of a bride all in white (in spite of the fact that she has never actually seen a bride all in white). She renames the places whose names seem insufficiently delightful. An avenue of blooming apple trees becomes the White Way of Delight, and Barry’s Pond becomes the Lake of Shining Waters. “Yes, that is the right name for it,” she says when she christens the Lake of Shining Waters. “I know because of the thrill. When I hit on a name that suits exactly, it gives me a thrill.” Is this girl a writer, or what? When Anne asks Matthew if things ever give him a thrill, he answers, “Well, now, yes. It always kind of gives me a thrill to see them ugly white grubs that spade up in the cucumber beds. I hate the look of them.” Matthew is a good sort, but quite a bit more pedestrian and earthbound than Anne. As for the White Way of Delight, Anne tells Matthew, “It just satisfied me here”—she put one hand on her breast—”it made a queer funny ache and yet it was a pleasant ache. Did you ever have an ache like that, Mr. Cuthbert? “Well, now, I just can’t recollect that I ever had.” “I have it lots of times—whenever I see anything royally beautiful.” Anne sees royally beautiful things everywhere because she always has her eyes open for beauty and delight. “Isn’t it splendid that there are so many things to like in the world?” she asks Matthew. That particular declaration is occasioned by the “jolly rumbling” of the wagon on a wooden bridge. Anne is unusually sensitive to what C. S. Lewis called “joy,” “the stab, the pang, the inconsolable longing” that brings more satisfaction than any earthly consolation every could.  Sehnsucht , as you may know already, is the German word for this longing. If Anne seems out of touch with reality, it is because she is in touch with a deeper reality. Matthew and Marilla are good people, but they are pragmatic people, in bad need of a reminder that there is more to their world than meets the eye. Within a day of Anne’s arrival, Marilla is concerned that Anne has bewitched Matthew, and that she will soon cast a spell on her, Marilla, too. She’s not wrong. Anne  is  a little enchantress, re-enchanting a world that enchants her. Even after a first night of heartbreak, Anne can’t help but rejoice in the morning when she looks out the window and sees another cherry tree in bloom. “Oh, isn’t it wonderful?” she said, waving her hand comprehensively at the good world outside. “It’s a big tree,” said Marilla, “and it blooms great, but the fruit don’t amount to much never—small and wormy.” “Oh, I don’t mean just the tree; of course it’s lovely—yes, it’s  radiantly  lovely—it blooms as if it meant it—but I meant everything, the garden and the orchard and the book and the woods, the whole big dear world. Don’t you feel as if you just loved the world on a morning like this?” Marilla, the pragmatist, has her defenses against Anne’s bright arts. But a pragmatist as good and honest as Marilla is really no match for Anne’s kind of enchantment. “Pragmatism is a matter of human needs,” wrote G. K. Chesterton, “and one of the first human needs is to be something more than a pragmatist.” If Anne seems out of touch with reality, it is because she is in touch with a deeper reality. Jonathan Rogers Robert Farrar Capon talks about  amateurs , appealing to the etymological sense of the word: an amateur is a person who loves. An amateur makes and plays and works from motives of love rather than self-interest or pragmatism. And the world, according to Capon, needs all the amateurs it can get. I have quoted the following Capon passage before in this space, but it seems so relevant to Anne Shirley that I’m just going to have to ask you to indulge me: [The world] needs all the lovers—amateurs—it can get. It is a gorgeous old place, full of clownish graces and beautiful drolleries, and it has enough textures, tastes, and smells to keep us intrigued for more time than we have. Unfortunately, however, our response to its loveliness is not always delight: It is, far more often than it should be, boredom. And that is not only odd, it is tragic; for boredom is not neutral—it is the fertilizing principle of unloveliness. In such a situation, the amateur—the lover, the man who thinks heedlessness is a sin and boredom a heresy—is just the man you need. More than that, whether you think you need him or not, he is a man who is bound, by his love, to speak… There, then, is the role of the amateur: to look the world back to grace. That’s why I love Anne Shirley so much. She is the consummate amateur, forever looking the world back to grace. She’s a model for everyone who does creative work—not just as “the arts,” but all work and play that tells a truer story about the world where we find ourselves, from hospitality to entrepreneurship to computer programming to child-rearing to friendship to gardening. And, goodness knows, we need truer, better stories these days. [Editor’s note: Starting  September 14th , Jonathan Rogers’s “Writing with…” series of online creative writing courses continues with  Writing with Anne of Green Gables . Mark Twain, that old curmudgeon, said, “Anne is the dearest and most loveable child in fiction since the immortal Alice.” He went on to say that Anne of Green Gables is “the sweetest creation of childlife yet written.” Yes. Exactly. How does Lucy Maud Montgomery create such a vivid, alive character as Anne Shirley? How does she make us care so deeply about the goings-on in a little neighborhood outside a tiny village in the smallest province in a remote corner of Canada? Those aren’t rhetorical questions. Those are exactly the kind of questions that will be asked—and, hopefully, answered—in Writing with Anne of Green Gables. Register at TheHabit.co/Anne .]

by Cindy Anderson Hutchmoot: Homebound, a seat at the table for everyone. Trusting these words to be true, my seventeen high school students and I registered for this online conference, hoping it would feel welcoming and inviting. The event was more than we could have hoped or imagined. I wanted the students to feel like an integral part of Hutchmoot. They were not too young to learn, grow, and share their experiences. We placed our photo on the map of attendees, which immediately reminded us that we were not alone; we were part of an extended Hutchmoot family that spanned the world. The stories, music, poetry, and recipes (and even kazoos!) all made us feel part of something bigger than ourselves. I required my students to watch several sessions of their choosing and write responses. These teenage students found a joy that they did not expect. Playing games and having songs sung over them, picture books read to them, and liturgies spoken to them was a breath of fresh air. They didn’t realize how much they needed this beauty until they found themselves in the middle of it. We all watched Malcolm Guite’s session because, well, we love Malcolm Guite, and we regularly read his poetry in class. This was one of my favorite thoughts from one of my students: “Malcolm Guite explains that he writes formal poetry not because free verse or other forms of prose are inferior, but because having set standards that force creativity can in actuality set him free. With this knowledge, we should not simply read to feel, but sit with it in deep meditation and reflection. Words have much reasonable power when left to the trained imagination. Guite continues to show that only by the development of our interpretations can we ‘perceive the poem of our existence.’” One student wrote about “Bright Sadness” by Jill Phillips: “She was able to capture the pain every believer must suffer to be able to experience the grace of Christ, and it was powerful.” Another quoted David Taylor’s words: “The Psalms provide grammar to speak to God.” The theme of hope continued in this student’s reflection on Inkmoot: “As I watched the process, the long, detailed process, it made me wonder and ask, in spite of COVID-19, how does this small pause in our lives impact this image? How have I been changed, so as to play my role better in His art as a whole?” One of my favorite responses came after the session by Hutchmoot chef John Cal. “I really enjoyed the details John used when describing his favorite childhood meal,” the student wrote. “It reminded me of my dad a lot, the way he likes his eggs; how he doesn’t enjoy ketchup but loves Tabasco. One thing he came back to a few times was that we believe we live in a world where there isn’t enough, and maybe we don’t have enough money, or space, or time, but God gave us the capacity to be able to create. We can make something out of what seems like nothing; we can make more to be enough.” We all connected with Joshua Luke Smith. His talent with music and words were amazing, and we discussed that if we could meet him in person, we would want to be his instant best friend. We knew he would pay attention and listen to us. Sunday worship was impactful and beautiful, and we longed to watch the video again and again. We need to make time and space in our lives for this kind of creative renewal. Our creativity is a gift, and we must use these gifts to make the world a better place. Cindy Anderson Steve Taylor has said that “a true artist is always learning.” My students are true artists. They are varied in skills and passions, but they are always learning and discovering their gifts. I am grateful for Hutchmoot: Homebound. My class could not have experienced the conference without the online opportunity. I hope classrooms, families, homeschool co-ops, and community groups will gather together for Hutchmoot: Homebound 2021 to learn and grow together. We need to make time and space in our lives for this kind of creative renewal. Our creativity is a gift, and we must use these gifts to make the world a better place. My students know this is true, but to spend a few days being reminded of that truth is needed now more than ever. My students will not be writing session responses this year; instead, we will be writing letters to the speakers and artists who impact us the most. This will be our artistic endeavor—sending gratitude for the invitation of expanding our knowledge and our community.

by Chris Yokel Author’s note: This essay contains spoilers for the 14th century British poem Sir Gawain and the Green Knight and the 2021 film The Green Knight . If I spoil the poem for you, well, your bad, you’ve had six centuries to catch up. However, spoiling the film for you would be more understandable, so perhaps steer clear until you’ve seen it. What do a 14th century British epic poem of Arthurian myth and a 20th century Southern gothic novelist from Georgia have in common? More than you might think. After a year’s delay due to the pandemic, filmmaker David Lowery’s anticipated adaptation of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight finally arrived in theaters last month. As someone who discovered epic poems such as Beowulf and Sir Gawain through my love of Tolkien, and who has taught the Gawain poem multiple times to students as an English professor, I was very excited to see Lowery’s take on the story, especially after having watched his other films like the hauntingly meditative A Ghost Story and the surprisingly good remake of Pete’s Dragon . For those unfamiliar with the plot of the original poem, it’s an odd one to be sure. At Christmastide, a mysterious Green Knight shows up to King Arthur’s court at Camelot to propose a game: one of the knights of the Round Table may strike him a blow with his own axe, but he would get the chance to return the blow in a year and a day. Gawain, Arthur’s nephew and the youngest, most inexperienced knight, accepts the challenge and beheads the Green Knight (as one does for a Christmas game), only to have the knight pick up his severed head, remind Gawain of his promise, and ride off. The rest of the poem follows Gawain’s trials and tribulations as he eventually sets off to find the Green Knight and receive his comeuppance. Lowery, in a similar cinematic style to A Ghost Story , turns the poem into an eerie psychological and mythic meditation on honor and character and death. He also provides some interesting twists. Whereas in the poem Gawain is already a dedicated and honorable if still inexperienced knight, in Lowery’s film Gawain (Dev Patel) longs for honor yet has no apparent will to seek it, aimlessly spending his days drinking and his nights with his favorite prostitute Essel. One of the first lines he utters in the film is “I’m not ready” as he lies dazed and drunk on the brothel floor. What he needs is a disruptive push, perhaps even a forceful one. This is where our Southern gothic writer, none other than Flannery O’Connor, comes in. I don’t remember if anyone ever gets their head chopped off in one of her stories, but like the Gawain poem, they are full of grotesque violence. O’Connor did not revel in violence for the sake of violence, however. In her stories, violence has a specific point: With the serious writer, violence is never an end in itself. It is the extreme situation that best reveals what we are essentially… Violence is a force which can be used for good or evil, and among other things taken by it is the kingdom of heaven. But regardless of what can be taken by it, the man in the violent situation reveals those qualities least dispensable in his personality, those qualities which are all he will have to take into eternity with him… —Flannery O’Connor, Mystery and Manners , 113-114 She also says, “I have found that violence is strangely capable of returning my characters to reality and preparing them to accept their moment of grace. Their heads are so hard that almost nothing else will do the work… reality is something to which we must be returned at considerable cost…” (Ibid, 112). Like many of O’Connor’s characters, Gawain in Lowery’s film is living in a self-delusion that he must have stripped away. He desires honor and yet he doesn’t live honorably in his everyday life. He laments to King Arthur that he doesn’t have any tales to tell of himself, and yet he does nothing to seek them out. When he finally goes out to seek the Green Knight, he believes that this one confrontation will suddenly change him into an honorable man, as can be seen in his conversation with the lord he stays with on his journey: Lord: And what do you hope to gain from all this? Gawain: Honor. That is why a knight does what he does. Lord: And this is what you want most in life? Gawain: It is part of the life I want. Lord: And this is all that takes for that part to be had. You do this one thing, you return home, a changed man, an honorable man, just like that? Gawain: Yes. — The Green Knight The problem is that life doesn’t work this way, or at least not usually. We don’t suddenly become virtuous in one great moment, but we change by degrees as we make choices. As Gawain embarks on his journey to face the Green Knight and his doom, “those qualities least dispensable to his personality” are revealed and tested through violence, difficulty, and temptation. When Gawain is captured and trussed up under a tree by three young scavengers, Lowery introduces a moment where the camera pans in a circle to reveal Gawain’s skeleton, then pans back around to the still alive Gawain, who decides not to accept his fate and struggles to free himself. Both cinematically and narratively, Lowery sets up Gawain’s journey as a series of often violent encounters that offer the young knight a choice as to what kind of man he wants to be. These encounters culminate in Gawain’s arrival at the Green Chapel. It is important to note at this point that at the outset of his adventure Gawain was given a magic green girdle by his mother, Morgan le Fay, which would protect him from any danger (basically like a cheat code for the Hero’s Journey). Gawain loses the girdle to the scavengers, but is later offered another magic girdle if he succumbs to the sexual temptation of the wife of the Lord whose home he stays in, which he does. So Gawain finally arrives to receive his blow from the Green Knight, decked with this hopefully magic girdle, and yet when the time comes, he flinches, and then (gasps and puzzlements for those familiar with the original poem) he runs away back home. He returns home, is knighted by Arthur and then becomes king upon Arthur’s death. He has a child with Essel, but then takes their son and abandons her because she is not of noble blood. He marries a princess, rules a crumbling kingdom, sees his son die in war, gets scorned by his people, and finally sits alone in his castle while his enemies break down his gates. He removes the green girdle that he’s worn all this time and his head rolls off. Except none of this has happened. He’s still in the Green Chapel, kneeling before the Green Knight, about to have his head lopped off. And then this scene happens: Gawain: Wait. *Gawain removes the green girdle and casts it aside* Gawain: There. Now I’m ready. I’m ready now. Green Knight: Well done, my brave knight. Now… *draws a finger across Gawain’s neck* Off with your head *smiles* — The Green Knight When faced with the ultimate violent confrontation—his own swift death—Gawain has a revelation of what his life would be like if he were to live the way he always has, desiring honor but not truly living in an honorable way. He would obtain power and prestige, but he’d still have to face death and his own falsehood in the end anyway. So after the many mistakes and false starts and small steps toward virtue in the film, he finally chooses to die with honesty. However he may have lived before, he chooses to take honesty “into eternity with him” to quote O’Connor. And surprisingly to Gawain, this is when his moment of grace arrives. Instead of killing him, the Green Knight commends him, playfully pantomimes cutting off his head, and smiles. Some viewers have thought this ending ambiguous, but after watching the film a second time, it’s pretty clear to me that Gawain lives and the Green Knight lets him go in peace, much like in the poem. Through this violent—and yet ultimately not fatal—game, Gawain is forced to confront his truest self and decide what man he would like to be. Ironically, this one moment does prove to be the final catalyst in changing him into an honorable man, or at least a man who is now ready to try and live honestly for the rest of his days. The Green Knight is rated R for violence, some sexuality, and graphic nudity.

by Carolyn Arends Isn’t this what you yearn for? Aren’t you tired of living at a pace that blurs out beauty, peace, or joy? Don’t you want to be at home? – Rich Villodas, The Deeply Formed Life It seems to me that, in the great Venn diagram of “places and spaces that help us find our way home,” the Rabbit Room and the Renovaré Book Club overlap in some beautiful ways. That’s why it always brings me joy when the Chief Rabbits welcome a Renovaré Book Club Update. Thanks, Rabbits! Here we go… The Renovaré Book Club is about to begin a new season, and you are warmly invited to join us. This year we’ll be reading together: Book One: The Deeply Formed Life , written by Rich Villodas, who pastors a multi-racial church in Queens, NY. Rich explores five transforming values—Contemplative Rhythms, Racial Reconciliation, Interior Examination, Sexual Wholeness, and Missional Presence—in a treatise on spiritual formation that feels at once strikingly fresh and deeply classic. (If that doesn’t seem to make sense, read it to see what I mean.) Rich himself will be facilitating our journey through this book. Book Two:  The Journal of John Woolman , by—you guessed it—John Woolman. One of America’s first abolitionists, 18th century Quaker John Woolman gently but actively resisted slavery, injustice to Native Americans, cruelty to animals, and conscription. His personal Journal was first-published in 1774 and has never been out of print. Never read it? We have the remedy! Quaker scholar Jon R. Kershner will guide us through this one. Book Three:  A Burning in My Bones by Winn Collier . This is the authorized biography of Eugene Peterson, and it comes guaranteed to grow your soul. Winn will be our facilitator, and I have it on good authority that he’ll even be sharing some otherwise unpublished correspondence with Peterson. (Eugene, that is. There are a lot of Petersons around here!) Book Four:  Renovation of the Heart by Dallas Willard. This definitive, meaty work on spiritual transformation turns 20 this year. Dallas’s good friend, Gary Moon, will help us mine its treasures, while several Renovaré Ministry Team members (many of whom were close to Dallas) will pitch in as well. We begin October 4th, and registration is open now. Membership in the Club includes weekly guides through the books, exclusive resources from the authors/facilitators, online community, and the option to join or start an in-person or Zoom discussion group. Good things continue to happen when Rabbitarians and Renovarians meet. We hope you will join us in the Club.

by Jonny Jimison Jonny Jimison is back with the thirty-third edition of his beloved comic, Rabbit Trails. Click here to visit Jonny Jimison’s website.

by Millie Sweeny I bolted up the stairs, heart racing in response to my husband’s call. He was the calm one, the unflappable med student; that level of urgency in his voice froze my blood. Bursting into the bathroom, I saw. Our one-year-old son, his eyes and lips swollen, his perfect round baby belly splotchy with an ugly red rash. My husband, already on the phone with the pediatrician, asking, “Do we give Benadryl, or bring him into the ER for Epinephrine?” Our life changed that moment. In a span of minutes, from when we gave our baby a taste of what we were sure would be his new favorite food to when his body rebelled, we were living in a different world. A more hostile world. Someone described the mental shift to me as though the color orange could send your child to the hospital: suddenly you notice it everywhere. Going to the grocery store became for me something akin to walking a beach strewn with mines. I called my best friend, sobbing, the day I picked up my son’s Epipen, our new constant companion. Phone, wallet, keys, Epi. I raged against God, my fear and anger battling themselves into weariness as I threw out our giant jar of peanut butter and washed my hands over and over, dreading every holiday and birthday party in the future. The intensity of the world’s fallenness landed on my fragile heart that season, when I learned that this good created thing, the humble peanut, could strip my tiny son of his life. It rocked me. The good became not good. Almost eight years have passed since that evening, and we have, counter to all my original and persistent fears, been more than okay. His allergy is, of course, only a small limitation on his otherwise healthy body. I have learned to relax my hold some, for he is not all mine. He is his own, hid dad’s, his friends’, and ultimately, his Father’s. And there is a lot of wonderful life to live outside the realm of peanut butter. Every Sunday, gathered with our small and beloved church family, we hear the words of Paul, and of Jesus: On the night Jesus was betrayed, he took the bread; and giving thanks, he broke it saying, “This is my body, broken for you. Take and eat, in remembrance of me.” We rise and walk forward, holding out our hands to receive the sweet loaf. We eat together, heads bowed in prayer. Some weeks I have a flash of worry about the bread, wondering if something has changed about its bakery production lines. Other times I eat in trust. In those moments, when anxiety creeps into the mystery of communion, there is an ache deep in my gut. I think, One day, we will gather around the table, and I won’t have to wonder about what is offered. Jude can eat anything he wants, without questioning. The table is, for many on this broken Earth, a place of struggle. The gift of food itself, in all its savory, salty, sweet wonder, is for many a source of sin or brokenness or fear or lack. The good has become not good, and we suffer for it. The wrong meal in Eden has polluted every meal since, and though we look to redemption, the shadows still lurk. But the table is being redeemed. Gathering weekly around the bread and wine is one way we proclaim Christ’s upside down kingdom, eating and drinking together in remembrance and faith. Our own tables, too, are called to action: to the opening of our homes, hearts, and pantries to friends new and old, to family, and to the stranger in our midst. As Doug McKelvey writes in Every Moment Holy , these table gatherings are a declaration that “evil and death, suffering and loss, sorrow and tears, will not have the final word.” The wrong meal in Eden has polluted every meal since, and though we look to redemption, the shadows still lurk. Millie Sweeny My friend and pastor, Greg, often says the dining room table is the most evangelistic piece of furniture in your house. Years of lingering for hours around such hospitable tables (including his) have shown me the truth of this, and gospel grace in abundance. These tables, where Christ is present in laughter and friendship, give to all equal seating, equal place, equal share. For my family, this has meant others graciously ensure the food is safe for my son. To others, this means something different, as it did for the first century Christians when Jews ate alongside Gentiles, slaves alongside masters. Whether guests are vegan, avoid gluten, or struggle to eat one-handed around a wiggling baby, the table is a place to come alongside one another in the truest sense. Jesus’ ministry was, in Greg’s words, “a roving dinner party,” where Pharisees and prostitutes both shared in the company of the Messiah. When all things are made new, and we gather together around the wedding feast of that same Jesus, we will eat in pure joy and celebration. The bread will be sweet, and free of nutritional labels. No one will pass it by in fear of gaining weight, or stuff it down to purge later. No one will stuff their pockets against the next day’s hunger. Wine will be poured freely, but no one will drink to forget. I long for this. The days my son comes home from school frustrated he missed out on a treat, the longing becomes an ache. When dinner conversations are strained, when a friend’s addiction to alcohol causes ripples of hurt, when parents must monitor the bathroom after their daughter eats, when death robs kitchens and tables of cooks and guests, making them into reminders of loss—our hearts ache with hunger, for a better meal and a better Host. And He is preparing it, even now. There might even be peanut butter.

by Rebecca D. Martin “’What fun! What fun to be off again, off on the road with dwarves! This is what I have been really longing for, for years! Goodbye!’ he said, looking at his old home and bowing to the door.” —Bilbo Baggins, The Fellowship of the Ring There was a time when I enjoyed road trips. Back when I began college, I landed in a group of friends who jumped in the car on a whim and freely drove here, there, anywhere. Freedom. Community. Fun. The open road. These carefree folk indulged in gleeful midnight drives and weekend jaunts: I joined in with untethered abandon. The mountains! The beach! The hills of North Georgia! The Hard Rock Café in downtown Atlanta in the middle of the night. The hot, flat center of Nowhere, Alabama to visit a friend of someone’s friend. But somewhere along the decade between going to grad school and staying home with a toddler, my traveling tendencies grew fewer, my goals for the road smaller, more planned, more manageable. Precise. It seemed I preferred predictability. Really, I prefer home. I suspect that’s partly because, in recent years, I’ve exchanged the footloose and fancy free road trip for actual life-hauling moves. Our family moves a lot. I move a lot. After an eighteen year childhood stretch set firmly in one city, I have been repeatedly carried away to someplace new. I haven’t always liked it. “You step into the Road, and if you don’t keep your feet, there is no knowing where you might be swept off to.” Yes, Bilbo. Agreed. College was the beginning of that road, and town after city after town has followed. The most recent move has been particularly difficult. Two weeks after leaving our house in Blacksburg, Virginia, we traveled back for a day of cleaning and grabbing up odds and ends. We unlocked the kitchen door and looked around. The first home we’d ever owned stood empty, save for the dust in the corners. Some potential buyers came to look with high hopes, but decided it wasn’t the place for them, after all. “It needs a lot of work,” my husband heard the woman say. I found myself sitting on the sole remaining piece of furniture—a piano bench—in tears. The small space was surprisingly empty even of memories. How could this be? I read The Lord of the Rings trilogy most years, usually in the fall. In the beginning of Fellowship , I’m always more than a little pained by Frodo’s newly-bought house at Crickhollow. How can any house— any house—replace Bag End? Impossible. In the end, of course, it doesn’t have to; Frodo gets to go back home. Still, in those moments before Frodo and Company must continue so quickly on their tri-book journey, Frodo looks around at Bilbo’s familiar furniture arranged in an unfamiliar place, and tries to convince himself that Crickhollow could be home: “‘It’s delightful!’ he said with an effort. ‘I hardly feel that I have moved at all.’” I don’t believe him. It is a long goodbye when heart takes leave of home. Rebecca D. Martin With each year’s reread, I end up getting through less of the series. I think it’s because each year I need less; less adventure, less wizardry, less epic battle, less grandeur. Two falls ago, The Fellowship of the Ring sufficed. Last September, I was satisfied to read the hobbits safely from Bag End to the house of Tom Bombadil. This year, I took the first book off the shelf a few months early. Something in this upheaved summer told me I’d need it. I cracked the covers that will soon fall completely apart, and I found myself slowed up by that first chapter or two. I pored over and over certain paragraphs and phrases: “For some years he was quite happy and did not worry much about the future.” I couldn’t move beyond Frodo’s slow, pleasant early years at home in Bag End. And, of course, those moments when Frodo can’t make himself go: “To tell the truth, he was very reluctant to start, now that it had come to the point. Bag End seemed a more desirable residence than it had for years, and he wanted to savor as much as he could of his last summer in the Shire.” Even on the day of departure, Frodo wanders the darkened rooms of Bag End; he walks to the bottom of the garden path; he must drag himself away. When he and Pippin do finally go, he pauses yet one more time: “‘Goodbye!’ said Frodo, looking at the dark blank windows,” and waving his hand. It is a long goodbye when heart takes leave of home. Undoubtedly, I remained in this segment because I was looking around my own home, cleaned, then boxed, then emptied as the furniture was carried off. How could I leave this place where I had cooked new meals, made new friends, brought home a new baby? To add insult to injury, Frodo’s move follows on the heels of the pleasantest weather in memory: “The Shire had seldom seen so fair a summer, or so rich an autumn.” It was, indeed, a particularly, painfully lovely spring this year in Southwest Virginia. The trees were a healthy, non-drought green, the lilies flourished, and there were, for the first time, cherries to pick. Our backyard had never looked better. This, I realize, is often the way of things: when life is normal, I see all the flaws—the chipped paint, the uneven ceiling; when normal life is lost, the familiar grows bright before my eyes. The birds sing louder, and I want to stay forever. When I read those opening pages of Fellowship back in June, I could only laugh for trying not to cry. Frodo willingly marches out into misery, danger, and despair to save everyone but himself, so far as he knows. But that is not the full extent of his sacrifice. Till this year’s reading, I had never realized the depths of what slows Frodo up as he heads out on his journey. His deep desire is to stay, not merely in comfort, but in a sense of place, history, memory, family. Yes, he is supposed to go out into the world and do this grand thing. But his dragging feet are caught on the threshold of his love for home, that very place he most wants to save. Of course he longs to stay. And so, this year, I had no need to travel the Old Forest, go through Bree, or visit Rivendell. I remained where Frodo and Sam wished they could: The Shire. If they couldn’t keep watch over home themselves, I’d do it in their stead. If I can’t stay in the home we spent three years imbuing with memory, love, and meaning—if home must be, for now, a row of townhouse rentals set down in yards of pavement in a new city—then I won’t read past page 142. I’ll find solace in Bilbo’s garden. Like Frodo on that first and only night in his Crickhollow house, I look around this temporary place and say with some effort, “This does look like home.” I try and mean it. That won’t stop me from hoping someday we’ll have a place of our own again. One where I can settle in. Fewer road trips for me, and hopefully no more moves. Just a backyard window view, one with daylilies and cherry trees.

by Pete Peterson [Editor’s note: Black Friday is upon us even sooner than usual this year (in order to compensate for supply chain issues), along with its all-too-familiar sense of moral conflict . Many of us are asking questions like, “To what degree can I participate in this without selling my soul to American consumerism?” Well, great question. A couple years ago, Executive Director Pete Peterson wrote a helpful post exploring some of those tensions and why the Rabbit Room chooses to participate in Black Friday . We’re re-sharing it here, along with some of the deals that we are offering this year in the Rabbit Room Store.] It’s become a yearly tradition for the Rabbit Room to join in the Black Friday madness, and I’ll be honest: there’s always a part of me that’s uncomfortable with it. Especially since we became a non-profit organization, I feel a degree of disparity when we jump wholeheartedly into something that seems so commercial. In a recent staff meeting, the topic came up and we really asked ourselves why? Why participate? Should we? Is this appropriate? Is this participation in the madness of material culture in line with the Rabbit Room’s mission to create and curate music, story, and art to nourish Christ-centered communities for the life of the world? I think the answer we arrived at is something worth sharing with our readers, our members, our donors and supporters. And what it comes down to is one word: generosity. One of the ideas that’s always nagging at the back of my head is that a creation, a work of art, whether a story or a song or a mug or a painting, isn’t really finished until it’s found its completion in someone who can receive it. And I like to think that’s where the Rabbit Room comes into the picture. So yes, Black Friday. But not for profit. Instead, for the generous work of spreading the good and beautiful into the world. Pete Peterson We love people who create for the goodness of it, and when we find things we love we want to share them with others, and we want to support those creators in such a way that they can continue to create good things and adorn the darkness of the world. These ideas inform almost every decision we make in the Rabbit Room. How do we care for artists? How do we care for those who receive their work? How do we allow that commerce of ideas and beauty to grow and thrive so that it gathers an ever greater audience around the great story at the heart of Creation itself? So when we see a thing in the world like Black Friday that in some ways seems crass and commercial and material, I wonder if maybe we have a part to play in making that beautiful too. If people are going forth into the aisles and shelves of the internet in search of good things and good deals, might it not be part of our calling to ensure we present our options along with all the rest? And here’s where I think we take real delight in the opportunity: Black Friday is a chance for us to be generous with what we’ve been entrusted with. The Rabbit Room houses a wealth of good, good work by people who care deeply about their craft and their audience and the Kingdom, and on Black Friday we throw the virtual doors open and invite folks to taste and see. That seems like a right and good thing to me, and it’s a true pleasure when I see books and music and artwork that I love flying out of the store to be given to others as gifts. It makes me happy for the artists who created these works. It makes me happy for those who will receive them. And I trust that what we’re creating and offering is building our ability to continue putting good works into the world. It’s loving artists well. It’s loving the community well. It’s widening the circle and welcoming anyone who’s willing to come and gather around. So yes, Black Friday. But not for profit. Instead, for the generous work of spreading the good and beautiful into the world. This year, we have great discounts on Volumes 1 and 2 of Every Moment Holy, Letters From the Mountain , The God of the Garden , new prayer cards from David & Phaedra Taylor , and much more. Click here to see all the deals we have in store . And C lick here to visit the Rabbit Room Store’s Black Friday page (Deals will go into effect beginning on Friday, November 5, 2021).

by Janna Barber The other night in bed, I told my husband, “I’m sad.” That’s not a statement I allow myself to say out loud very often, and never without being prompted first; but something about that dark space felt safe, so I risked it. “I know,” was his response, which was comforting in and of itself, to be seen and known by the man I love most. And then he added, “I wish I could make it better, but I’m still here, and I love you.” I teared up as I thought of Ted Lasso’s famous quote from Season 1. “There’s something worse than being sad, and that’s being sad and alone… ain’t nobody in this room is alone.” And then I thought about what a beautiful reflection John was to me of Jesus in that moment, and I was once again grateful for a good marriage to a good man. My sadness didn’t suddenly disappear, but after a few more minutes it began to feel a little bit lighter. Becca Jordan’s new album, Becoming Ordinary , gives me a similar feeling, as she taps into the power of the Holy Spirit and whispers words of grace and comfort to her listeners. Her first song, “Prologue,” begins this way: When all the lights go out And you are sitting in the dark Pay attention, pay attention —Becca Jordan A few weeks before I began writing my review of this album, I started reading a book that repeatedly asks the main character to pay attention, so when I heard Becca sing that last line, I figured I should listen closely.  In the dark is a voice In the voice is a song In the song a love that sees you —Becca Jordan Carter Jones, the main character in the aforementioned book, is told virtually the same message by an unlikely figure who appears just when Carter needs him most.  In the dark is a voice In the voice is a song In the song an invitation —Becca Jordan Becca repeats the chorus with conviction as the melody intensifies to reflect the urgency of her message, and it’s the perfect beginning to an album that goes on to give us example after example of ordinary communion with an extraordinary God. The second song, “All I’ve Got,” demonstrates the importance of saying things out loud, and bending down when we pray. Sorrow, loneliness, and anger are all acceptable offerings when we put them on the altar of God, trusting him for transformation. Like the psalmists of old, Becca pours out her heart to the Lord in song, trusting that he cares for her as much as the lilies of the field and the birds of the air. One of my favorite lines from this album comes near the end of the song “Human,” where she sings, “you’re not afraid of me.” This song feels like a journal entry I could have written myself, as it wrestles with dashed hopes and too-high expectations. Becca confesses the shortcomings of her day to God, but finds a soft place to land as she remembers that he knows and understands her humanity even more than she does. You’re not afraid of me I don’t have to be Anything other than Human —Becca Jordan On Becca’s website she says that this record is about “leaving behind all the illusions of what I thought my life would be, and picking up what it is—mundane, sometimes deeply lonely, sometimes fraught with joy, and mostly just very ordinary—and giving it to God.” Her words remind me how the longest part of the liturgical year is called Ordinary Time, so named for the fact that it’s not focused on activity and celebration. Rather it’s the day to day life where simple things like caring for others and being obedient to the Lord are the focus. Jordan’s song “Ordinary, Everyday Love” brings these ideas under the microscope in the lives of Sam, Dale, and Gene, giving concrete examples of what it looks like to love others. Sorrow, loneliness, and anger are all acceptable offerings when we put them on the altar of God, trusting him for transformation. Janna Barber My favorite song on this album is called “Memory.” Becca says that it grew out of her work with the elderly, where she often plays music at a group home. Over time she noticed that some of the residents who were usually not engaged would liven up when she sang songs they recognized. Becca likens this to our walk with Christ, how we’re prone to forget that we really are known and loved, but then we have an encounter that wakes up a sleeping part of our hearts and reminds us of the truth. I love how this song echoes Zephaniah 3:17, which tells us that God rejoices over us with singing. Becoming Ordinary has many gems that sparkle , but the one I’ll mention last is called “Daylight.” Becca’s voice conveys the compassion necessary for this simple song to work, as she sings directly to a hurting friend, promising that things will be better soon. I’m thankful for the way this whole album reminds me that presence is often the best gift you can give someone and that small, ordinary acts of kindness ripple out into eternity, long after they’re done. Click here to listen to Becoming Ordinary on Spotify , and here to listen on Apple Music.

by the Rabbit Room This week on The Habit Podcast, Jonathan Rogers talks with memoirist and professor at New College Franlin, Dr. Carolyn Weber. Carolyn Weber is the author of Surprised by Oxford and Sex and the City of God . This conversation between Dr. Weber and Jonathan Rogers was recorded in front of a live audience at New College Franklin. They discuss St. Augustine, spiritual memoir, and the idea that “selection is the hardest part of creation.” Click here to listen to Season 3, Episode 46 of The Habit Podcast. Transcripts are now available for The Habit Podcast. Click here to access them. Sponsorship on the Podcast Network Are you interested in teaming up with us to support the work you love? Rabbit Room Membership 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 Shigé Clark [Editor’s note: As we enter into the celebration of Christmas, we’d like to share with you a profound piece from Shigé Clark that has grown more deeply pertinent since it was first published in 2019. In it, she explores the history of “Battle Hymn of the Republic” in tension with the ways in which the gospel testifies that peace will come to earth.] I now know three songs set to the tune of “Battle Hymn of the Republic.” The classic version published in 1862 is probably best known to all of us. I’ve sung it in triumphant chorus at church and later at West Point, where our starched uniforms with their flashy buttons lent us an extra (if unearned) level of pride in singing the military march. When I actually commissioned in the Army, I learned the tune better as the cadence “Blood Upon the Risers.” So it was that as I sat in church and the band began playing the melody, my first flash of thought was, “Why are they playing a cadence?” Common sense immediately caught up, and as the first familiar line began, I realized, of course, it was “Battle Hymn.” I thought it was a weird choice for communion, but hey, it’s triumphant, and I’m new to this whole Anglican tradition. Maybe it was meaningful to this service in a way I didn’t understand. Then the song changed in the second line. Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord You are speaking truth to power, you are laying down our swords Replanting every vineyard till a brand new wine is poured Your peace will make us one Many of you may recognize this as Audrey Assad’s recent song “ Your Peace Will Make Us One .” This was my first time hearing it, and it’s a brilliant display of the power one song can hold, especially when molded and considered in the context of previous works. The song’s association with previous versions lends it greater depth and nuance than it could carry on its own. “Battle Hymn” began as a soldier’s tune, which Julia Ward Howe crafted into a march of righteous indignation for the Union side of the Civil War. Despite these honorable origins, it has a Manifest Destiny-esque appeal—casting its singers as though they’re on God’s side of whatever conflict it’s being applied to at the time—and it has since been used as an anthem for a wide assortment of causes (sometimes in support of directly opposing sides). It speaks to God’s wrath, justice, and judgment. It speaks to the unequivocal stomping out of evil in defense of a righteous cause. This is a familiar mindset for many of us. It’s the mindset in which I joined the military. You go out and defeat evil by attacking it. You protect the defenseless by destroying those who would hurt them. There is trampling, and lightning, and terrible, swift swords. Soldiers took the tune back up in World War II with “Blood Upon the Risers,” and it has since been an Army staple. In this variation, it’s a marching cadence about a young paratrooper who has a parachute malfunction during a jump and dies on impact in the dropzone. The triumphal “Glory, glory, hallelujah” in both other versions of the song becomes “Gory, gory, what a helluva way to die” in this one, yet the tone of the song remains triumphant, the lyrics at times simultaneously graphic and gleeful. I wonder how often we go marching into figurative or literal battle on God's behalf when he would instead call us to gentleness. Shigé Clark A general rule of military cadences—and of military humor at large—is that we make light of death. We sang “Blood Upon the Risers” as a way of laughing in the face of the real possibility that we could die jumping out of an airplane (or helicopter, in my case). There’s a reason we have marching songs rather than simply counting cadence. Song is powerful—song sung in unity even more so—and somehow this is recognized even in the most regimented and horror-struck corners of existence. We sang about death so that we could laugh as we huddled in bunkers beneath mortar fire; so that it didn’t catch us off guard when it came for our friends, or coworkers, or people we were trying to help. We sang gory songs like “Blood Upon the Risers” because if we could sing about it, if we could laugh at it, if we could cheer over it in unison, if death could be a thing of glory rather than horror, then it could hold no power over us. I’m not going to go into all of the ways that’s actually incorrect, or how the civilian world often does much the same thing with the way it glamorizes and venerates military service. I say all this to set the framework for you. I need you to hold these depictions of ruthless judgment and jubilant violence as the context of your thought and imagine this familiar tune coming on, then somewhere out in the darkness a soft voice sings to the same, resolute melody: I’ve seen you in our home fires burning with a quiet light You are mothering and feeding in the wee hours of the night Your gentle love is patient; You will never fade or tire Your peace will make us one Peace , the music whispers to the soldier. The pounding of thunder and mortar shells gives way to a mother’s soft singing beside a crackling fire. Peace , it whispers, as a broken and divided body stands row by row, making their way to kneel together in defiant communion. Peace , it whispers in a steady, undeterred march. It is peace that will make us one. The juxtaposition of these songs staggered me. The more I live and come to know my God, the more I wonder how often situations actually call for our righteous fury, and how much more often they call for our unyielding love and empathy. Don’t get me wrong, I still believe in righteous causes and righteous rage. For everything there is a season, and I’ll usually be the first to tell you that there’s a time to get angry and a time to fight (just see my last post ). Yet I also know that David—man after God’s own heart and perhaps the Bible’s most celebrated warrior—wasn’t permitted to build God’s temple because he was a man of war, and I wonder how often we go marching into figurative or literal battle on God’s behalf when he would instead call us to gentleness. As we come to the end of Advent, this rings even more true—isn’t it the entire story and surprise of Christmas? Perhaps it is peace, and not retribution, that is the glory of the coming of the Lord. Shigé Clark I had a conversation with a friend a while back, about how we as Christians today are so sure of the way God works and what’s going to happen. Just as sure as the people of Israel in Jesus’ time were—so sure from their knowledge of scripture that he was going to come marching in, all swords and fury, to save them. So sure that Christ’s coming meant all of the evil, wrong, other people would finally be put in their place, and all of the good, chosen people would be vindicated. So unable to grasp the unimaginable creativity of God and the unforeseeable depth, and breadth, and soaring, whirling, all-consuming scope of his love for us. We today read the New Testament as the Israelites did the old and believe—again—that we understand how all this is going to go down. Again, we call for lightning, and fire, and judgment, and vindication. I can’t say for sure that isn’t how it will happen. Our God has surely shown himself exacting and just. He certainly could come with righteous sentence, mowing down evil with a terrible, swift sword. He is God, after all. He has the right. Yet, I’d like to think that if I have to see the hearts of men sifted out before his judgment seat as “Battle Hymn” describes, then my own heart will weep in devastation for the brokenness of humanity. And if my heart would weep—my selfish, judgmental, and bitter heart—then what of the heart of the Father? Absolutely we groan for the end of all evil, but is it the trampling or the replanting of the vineyards that we yearn for? Perhaps freedom and the end of injustice look less like the warfare portrayed in the first two variations of this song and more like the dismantling of empires that Assad describes. Perhaps death, even in service of a just cause, is never something we should glory in or grow desensitized to. Perhaps it is peace, and not retribution, that is the glory of the coming of the Lord. What I know right now is this: First, that a “fiery Gospel writ in burnished rows of steel” wasn’t the Gospel that reached into the darkness and pulled me bleeding into the arms of One who loved me without cause. Second, that when Jesus could have called on legions of angels to fight on his behalf, instead he told his people to lay down their swords and healed the man his disciple had wounded. Glory, glory, hallelujah Glory, glory, hallelujah Glory, glory, hallelujah Your peace will make us one

by the Rabbit Room Merry Christmas from the Rabbit Room! In celebration, we’re sharing a Christmas Day reflection by Thomas McKenzie from his Advent devotional The Harpooner , accompanied by Sara Groves’s nativity song “Just Like They Said.” The Prayer of the Day O God, you make us glad by the yearly festival of the birth of your only Son Jesus Christ: Grant that we, who joyfully receive him as our Redeemer, may with sure confidence behold him when he comes to be our Judge; who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen. Scripture: Luke 2:8-20 (NIV) And there were shepherds living out in the fields nearby, keeping watch over their flocks at night. An angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified. But the angel said to them, “Do not be afraid. I bring you good news that will cause great joy for all the people. Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you; he is the Messiah, the Lord. This will be a sign to you: You will find a baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger.” Suddenly a great company of the Heavenly host appeared with the angel, praising God and saying, “Glory to God in the highest Heaven, and on earth peace to those on whom his favor rests.” When the angels had left them and gone into Heaven, the shepherds said to one another, “Let’s go to Bethlehem and see this thing that has happened, which the Lord has told us about.” So they hurried off and found Mary and Joseph, and the baby, who was lying in the manger. When they had seen him, they spread the word concerning what had been told them about this child, and all who heard it were amazed at what the shepherds said to them. But Mary treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart. The shepherds returned, glorifying and praising God for all the things they had heard and seen, which were just as they had been told. Homily: Emmanuel Today is a day of celebration, the first day of the twelve-day Christmas season. You’ve been preparing for twenty-five days for this moment. Enjoy yourself. Spend time with people you love. If you’re alone, do something special for yourself. God has not left you orphaned. He is with you. And he will come to you again and again. Thomas McKenzie If your church offers a Christmas Day service, please attend. While Christmas is often thought of as a family holiday, it is first and foremost a holy day of the Church. If your congregation does not have a Christmas Day service, find a church that does. These services are not well-attended, of course. Most people have other things going on. But worship is the very best thing to do on the Day of Incarnation. Whatever you do today, remember that Jesus is with you. In his Incarnation, he became Emmanuel, “God with us.” Through his Resurrection and Ascension, he is with us still. No matter what’s happening in your life today—whether you’re alone in an empty apartment, enjoying a house filled with family, at the beach, or in a hospital bed—God has not left you orphaned. He is with you. And he will come to you again and again. Psalm 110:1-5 The Lord said to my Lord, “Sit at my right hand, until I make your enemies your footstool.” The Lord will send the scepter of your power out of Zion, saying, “Rule over your enemies round about you.” Princely state has been yours from the day of your birth; in the beauty of holiness have I begotten you, like dew from the womb of the morning.” The Lord has sworn and he will not recant: “You are a priest for ever after the order of Melchizedek.” The Lord who is at your right hand will smite kings in the day of his wrath; he will rule over the nations. Click here to view The Harpooner in the Rabbit Room Store. “Just Like They Said” by Sara Groves Laid my head down, fell asleep Woke to voices like a mighty rushing wind Sky on fire, sky on fire They told me how I’d find Him And it was just like they said Just like they said it would be Wrapped in a cloth, laid in a manger No one believes me, no one believes me They shake their heads and say, “What good comes from Bethlehem?” I know what I saw, I know what I saw And it was just like they said Just like they said it would be Wrapped in a cloth, laid in a manger Years later I walked by this place I know this place The roof caved in, but I know this place Cause I ran the whole world And it was just like they said And it was just like they said Just like they said it would be Wrapped in a cloth, laid in a manger He was just like they said Just like they said He would be Wrapped in a cloth, laid in a manger Laid in a manger Laid in a manger Laid in a manger

by Kelsey Miller A few months ago, I first learned about the phrase “trail magic.” It’s a thing out there in the hiking world to leave behind sustenance for other travelers at particularly difficult parts of the trail. You might reach beneath a bench as you are gasping for breath and find a much-needed granola bar and bottle of water. It might be that you stumble into a gorgeous view right as you were about to give up. It might be the encouragement from a fellow hiker that keeps you moving up a steep incline. It’s all trail magic: what you need when you need it. A friend of mine was using the phrase to describe a recent experience with his young children. Parenthood seems to have a lot of mundaneness, some drudgery at times. But here were his children, absolutely losing their minds over Boo at the Zoo. The hype was contagious. And as a parent, this stuff was trail magic for him. There would be meltdowns and discipline and fatigue to come, no doubt. Probably even later that evening when the sugar rush kicked in. But in those moments, he would have this moment to look back on: the hype and magic his children felt at such a simple pleasure and new experience. It was what he needed when he needed it. A figurative bottle of water for a parched parental spirit. I can think of two particular moments of my own trail magic. The first is early March 2020, when my beloved Katie was about to marry Ruben. Drew and I flew to Austin for a few days to enjoy all of the festivities. I don’t know if I can describe how rich and good this time was without falling back on clichés. There was so much laughter and so many tears and so much dancing. I looked around at the reception and just felt this big love for Katie and this big love for Ruben and this big love for all of these friends around me and big love for the margarita in my hand and big love for my own husband and big love for the sacrament of marriage, this mystery that allows people to pledge their lives to one person and mean it. Perhaps that is what trail magic is all about: the tangible and metaphysical and metaphorical reminder that we have not been forgotten. Kelsey Miller Drew and I were out running errands the day before the wedding, picking up a few things Katie needed around town. We stopped for lunch at the True Food Kitchen in downtown Austin and I wept. I’d spent the last 24 hours in the company of women who are among the best I can name: in their charity, their humor, their willingness to share their love and prayers. I couldn’t stop crying. Eventually I squeaked out, “I don’t feel cynical right now.” If our waiter thought it was odd, he didn’t let it show. He just kept bringing me napkins to wipe my face, a real human-to-human kindness. Those few days in Austin were, though we didn’t quite know it, a last hurrah of normalcy before a new way of being was ushered in. And my last note was gratitude. The second is just a few weeks ago. Our friends Jon and Helena hosted a gathering of friends. We were all invited to bring something to share, a story or a song, that had meant a lot to us that past year. A characteristic of trail magic is that the moment is hard to describe. The words hardly do it justice. That is certainly how I feel about that evening. The room was filled with friends and food and a Christmas tree and hearth-fire. We were all there to give and receive in equal measure. The atmosphere was attentive. When Melinda finished her Beethoven Sonata on the piano, the room absolutely erupted. We were all so proud of her. Helena and her ten-year old daughter began the night by singing the song “Stay Gentle” by Brandi Carlile. There is something about mother and daughter harmonies and the hopefulness of a child singing about keeping the eyes of a child. And as I listen to that song again and again, one lyric always catches at my throat: “No one’s forgotten about us.” Perhaps that is what trail magic is all about: the tangible and metaphysical and metaphorical reminder that we have not been forgotten. That someone out there sees how hard it is and sends us a buoy for our spirits. That we don’t always have to feel the way that we have been feeling. That things change. That we can change. That there is water for parched mouths and we can drink big gulps of it. That we don’t have to be cynical or sad. That we are less alone than it feels like we are. That there is more to life and this universe than we can currently see. This past year has been another One of Those Years. I won’t list all of the global and personal tragedies, but I’ll assume you have your own too. It’s been difficult. We are all tired. And what will the coming year hold? In the words of my husband, “there will be surprises.” I’m counting on it. Miraculously, impossibly, joyfully, no one has forgotten about us. I’ll be hitting the the trails in 2022, eyes peeled for magic. [Editor’s note: This piece originally appeared in Kelsey’s newsletter. Want to receive more writing like this in your inbox? Click here to sign up. ]

by Janna Barber A justice centered, theologically rigorous, people-affirming, life-giving, and Spirit-breathed church is possible because God is still in the blessing and miracle-working business. —Yolanda Pierce, In My Grandmother’s House It’s a rare Sunday when I don’t cry in church, but it’s not because I’m sad. In fact, it’s usually the opposite. For the last three years, I’ve been part of a church plant that makes me feel like David, who thousands of years ago proclaimed, “I rejoiced with those who said to me, ‘Let us go to the house of the Lord.’” Granted, there have been moments of sadness here and there, especially since some folks I love no longer join me at church, but the overriding experience in the room each week is one of joy, and it’s that unexpected joy that makes me tear up Sunday after Sunday. Like the other day when the mother of a Latino family sitting in front of me was holding the ten-month-old baby belonging to the interracial couple sitting in front of them. I saw little Luca look up at teenage Jonah, and I couldn’t believe how much they looked like brothers, even though they aren’t related at all. Scenes like that are more beautiful than the most ornate church I’ve ever seen, and they more than make up for the conveniences of established churches I sometimes miss. Our church plant is called Bridge Church , and we meet in an elementary school on the south side of the river that runs through the middle of town. The school is in one of those neighborhoods that used to be rundown, but has lately become the best place to buy and flip historic homes, so lots of new businesses are popping up now—along with a few new churches. But, we’re the only ones setting up chairs every week in a gymnasium. My husband, the Executive Pastor, takes charge of the work necessary to pull it off. He and several other men, including our son, show up at 7:30am each week to unload the trailer and set up two classrooms for children’s ministry—along with backdrops, computers, sound monitors and the rest of the band’s equipment. We average fifty people most weeks, not including kids, and our ages are ten months to seventy. We have black families, white families, blended families, and many single people. Some of us live downtown, several of us live out west, and the rest of us are from north, south, and east. We have construction workers, bus drivers, teachers, engineers, architects, homemakers, and social workers in our church. Some of us drive nice cars and have pools in the backyard, while some of us struggle to get a ride week after week, but the one thing we have in common is how much we love to worship. Our worship leader’s name is Kenny and before we ever had a service, my husband and I got together with Kenny, Anthony (the Teaching Pastor), and Kenny’s favorite bass player, Chris, to discuss how Bridge should structure service each week. Something I’ll never forget from those early meetings was hearing Chris and Kenny talk about the importance of having a good time at church. I’d never heard church described that way before. I was very familiar with people saying the music was good or the preaching was good, even more familiar with people complaining when they thought either was bad, but I had never known people who expected to have fun at church. For me, fun might have happened incidentally at church, before or after Sunday morning meetings, in the halls of Sunday school, or around a table in the Fellowship hall, but it was not the main vibe of the churches I knew before coming to Bridge. Bridge Church is unique in that we started as an intentionally multi-ethnic and multicultural ministry of reconciliation in Knoxville, Tennessee, during 2018; but we are not unique in the fact that we have fun. Apparently, that’s been happening in black churches in America for a long, long time. I just never knew because I’d never been part of one before. But Kenny and Chris and Anthony have taught me a lot over the last few years, and I’m so thankful for how they share their hearts and lead us into the presence of God every week, which is much more joyful than I ever imagined it to be. Going to church has been my Sunday morning habit for nearly forty-five years, and though I‘m not always raring to go at 10:00am (especially when it’s cold outside), I can’t imagine getting through the rest of the week without it. I’ve been a member of at least ten different churches in my life, and have visited dozens more, but something about becoming part of Bridge has made me want to celebrate the goodness of belonging to God’s beautifully diverse family. And what better way to celebrate than to write about it? Last year I published a memoir , lamenting some of the loss I’d experienced in life, as well as the fact that I didn’t know how to lament those losses in the first place. Having grown up in a culture that denied the validity of such mourning, it took writing a book for me to find permission to grieve. Well, now that I’ve spent three years in the presence of people who know the value of celebration, without denying the hardship of real life, I’d like to help more people find this joy for themselves. At a time when so many are walking away from church, or deconstructing faith altogether, might I suggest that diversity could be the way forward? For far too long the family of God has been segregated, and we’re missing out on so much goodness by continuing to remain separate. The book of Revelation tells us that one day people from every tribe and every tongue will bow before the throne of Christ in worship. Yet that glorious scene is available to all of us even now, if we get out of our comfortable traditions and try something new. Bridge Church is not a perfect church because there’s no such thing as that. We’ve made mistakes in the last three years, and several families decided our little experiment was too much work and bailed (truth be told, I’ve thought about leaving a time or two myself). But the ones who’ve stayed have grown closer to God and each other and are beginning to see the work God is doing in the community around us—a community that’s struggling and looking for hope, but also has gifts to give us whenever we serve them. I had never known people who expected to have fun at church. Janna Barber Paul taught the early church (which was a pretty diverse group, too, as I recall) that it’s better to give than to receive. Two thousand years later it’s still true, even in South Knoxville, Tennessee. The time I’ve spent with this little congregation called Bridge Church has given me more joy than I knew was possible, and Sunday after Sunday, that joy spills out of my eyes as tears—so often that I’ve begun carrying a small handkerchief in my purse to help wipe them away during service. Because this forty-five year old white woman has a new definition for “blessed,” and it’s got nothing to do with whatever is currently trending on the internet. Instead it’s based on the connection she has to the Ancient One who made her, and the many varied reflections she sees of him in the people of this world. Kenny often instructs us to “lift up holy hands” during worship because it reminds us to surrender our hearts and minds to Christ while singing praises to him; and in my imagination I sometimes picture our hands joining the thousands of saints across the world who worship Jesus, as well as all the millions of saints who’ve lived and served God through the ages before this one. These hands come in every shade, from palest white to silky olive and beautiful black. Some of them are small and some are large, many are aged and worn, while others are delicate and young. Some are strong, some are weak, some may even be dirty, but they’re all being made new by the power of the Holy Spirit. I believe that kind of vision is sacred, worthy of a few tears, even if it looks a little crazy to those who don’t understand. So be it. A friend of mine once told me that the prophets of the old testament were the first poets, and I’m lucky to be counted among them when people call me a poet. If that’s the case, I’m happy to be thought of as a little odd when I cry in church or raise my hands in adoration. Church has become a full body experience for me these past few years, and the result is unspeakable joy and glorious tears.