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From the Proprietor: This is an album review from my good friend Ben Shive, whose musical opinion holds a lot of water in my book (a mixed metaphor that is so strange a picture I decided to leave it). I have The Innocence Mission’s hymns record, and it’s in regular rotation on Sunday mornings at the Warren. I haven’t heard this record yet, but Ben makes a compelling case for how I should spend my next ten bucks. All day, since your haircut in the morning You have looked like a painting, even more than usual We are in the wind, planting the maples We meet an older man who seems to know I miss my dad And he smiles through the limbs We talk easily with him Until the rain begins This is the brotherhood of man Waiting at the airport on my suitcase A girl traveling from Spain became my sudden friend Though I did not learn her name And when the subway dimmed a stranger lit my way This is the brotherhood of man I never can say what I mean But you will understand Coming through clouds on the way This is the brotherhood of man It’s all I can do not to print the entire sleeve of the record here*. We Walked In Song is so lyrically picturesque it’s almost a photo album. A treatise on brotherly love, these songs collectively speak a blessing on humanity. As Karen Peris, the band’s front-woman and writer, sings benediction after benediction–to her children, to loved-ones lost, to the brotherhood of man–her voice is the sound of love sweetly bearing grief. All this is couched in melodies and harmonies that radiate warmth, with generally sparse and understated accompaniment. Guitars, piano, harmonium, and touches of percussion are usually all that adorn the lyric. There’s very little drum set on the record, and it’s frequently saved for the end of a song. When the drums finally kick in, however, The Innocence Mission sounds like The Sundays in a rainy-day mood, and that’s a very good thing. This band has been making music for a number of years and I have sadly been unaware of them until now. But from the opening bars of We Walked In Song, I knew that The Innocence mission and I were old friends just meeting. *Here’s a link: http://www.theinnocencemission.com/walked_lyrics.htm

I’m sitting behind the merchandise table backdrop in a gigantic church building, nursing a cold. We just finished soundcheck a few minutes ago, and I have a little pocket of time before I have to go shower and eat dinner before tonight’s concert, so I thought I’d fill you in on what the Christmas tour has been like so far. Let’s see. We have Sara Groves and her husband Troy, along with their three sweet kids, Jamie Rau (road manager and nanny), Jill Phillips and Andy Gullahorn, along with their youngest son Tyler, Dan Brown (sound guy and author of the Da Vinci Code), Andrew Osenga, Marcus Myers, Gabe Scott, Bebo Norman, Cason Cooley, Garett Buell, and Ben Shive. Seventeen people! The rehearsal in Nashville before we left was a sweet (if stressful) time, where we played through the songs at at rehearsal studio while wives chatted over pizza and our many kids ran around jumping over gear cases. Music is a fine thing, partly because it’s a community effort. I remember emailing with a guy named Jef Mallet who writes the comic strip Frazz, which I like. He’s a music fan and we’ve exchanged emails a few times, partly because in my first email to him I asked if he was Bill Watterson in disguise, which would be like him asking me if I was really James Taylor or something; he took it as a high compliment. Anyway, one of his strips joked about how books are usually dedicated to just one person while CDs have paragraphs of thank-you’s in the liner notes. The joke, if I remember correctly, was that musicians are long-winded or something. Can’t remember. The point is, I felt compelled to write him to let him know that (now that I’ve made records and written a book) there’s a huge difference between the two. Book writing, for the most part, is a solitary occupation. You only really get any work done at the expense of social interaction. Sure, you’ll need your manuscript read by people you trust, and their input is invaluable, but the bulk of the work is done alone. Music, on the other hand, is by nature a community effort, and anyone who’s put a record out or played professionally for any amount of time realizes early on that there’s just no way to make this kind of art on your own. (I guess there are exceptions when it comes to solo musicians and folky stuff–Bruce Springsteen did it with Nebraska, but you know what I mean.) I have the feeling that in forty years I’ll look back on these times fondly. I count myself blessed beyond measure to share the stage with songwriters like Osenga, Gullahorn, Groves, Phillips, singers and players like Shive, Norman, Scott, Buell, Cooley, Myers (I had to write each name down in case one of them reads this and thinks I left them out on purpose; we musicians are a fragile lot). I love the way music pulls us together toward a common purpose. I love the way we prepare in an empty auditorium, hoping that each seat in the house is filled, and that each heart who attends will be filled too. We eat together, laugh together (or play Boggle together, which is what they’re probably all doing right now), and then, just before the show, we pray together. The thrill of walking out on a stage to share your gifts with a good audience is like nothing else I know. I went to an artist’s retreat last week at Charlie Peacock’s Art House. The room was filled with musicians and writers of an intimidating caliber, and during the question and answer time I was too sheepish to speak up, though I had definite opinions about what we were talking about. But at some point in the retreat the conversations were sometimes tinged with frustration or discontent. It seemed like many of the artists were wanting the Answer to the question of how to succeed in the music business. I admit that I’ve gone through long periods of frustration, looking for that same Answer. But the Lord has shown me that there is no Answer apart from him. He’s the only place we’ll ever find satisfaction or joy. I don’t know why God has blessed me with being able to play music for a living. He knows I don’t deserve it– —- Just after I wrote that last sentence, I got interrupted. It’s now 11:03 PM, and the show is over. We’ve packed up and are sitting on the bus, about to head to Taco Cabana for a midnight snack (when you’re in Texas, you just have to stop at the Cabana). I re-read what I was writing earlier, and I’m not sure how to wrap it up. I’ll say that the show was a delight. The musicians assembled on this tour are humble, gentle, joyful, and I’m thankful for each of them. It would be easy to idealize this group of people. It’s important that you know that we’re sinful. We talk frankly about the nature of our sins here on the “Guy Bus”. I’ve spoken with the Groves fam and the Gullahorns on the “Family Bus” and I know that the same is true over there. We’re a community of people who have doubts and insecurities, people who are lustful, selfish, greedy. The tour’s been going for not even a week and I’ve probably had to apologize four times already for saying something I shouldn’t have. That sinfulness (and I know this confounds Satan) allows us to love one another better. We can hold one another up only because we are bent low with our own weakness. What a beautiful mystery we find ourselves in. I keep wondering why God allows us to sing these songs, why he fills my life with such goodness. I will keep asking that question, because the answer is so good I love to hear it over and over again. AP

G.K. Chesterton said, “If I am asked, as a purely intellectual question, why I believe in Christianity, I can only answer… I believe in it quite rationally upon the evidence. But the evidence in my case is not really in this or that alleged demonstration; it is in an enormous accumulation of small but unanimous facts.” These small but unanimous facts are those moments in your life which come by and show you glimpses of what is going on beneath the surface of your life, when all of the sudden life becomes infused with great meaning, and you believe you have encountered a truth that you feel was meant to change you. Have you ever experienced a “moment of truth” in your life which just seemed to scream above the noise, telling you that life is just absolutely filled with meaning? The burglars had more or less trashed my dad’s office. I remember sitting in the old one room school house which stood at the end of the gravel road I grew up on, which my dad had recently begun leasing as office space for his struggling computer business. That school house was something of a southern bookend on the boundaries of my childhood—my grandpa’s house being the northern limit. Between that school house and my grandpa’s house, my childhood took place. My grandpa lived like a farmer, though he had made his living selling cars. His property surrounded ours, and his hay mow, woods and creek were more than enough to fill summer after summer with adventure. He was a quirky man, set in patterns which included keeping hens, growing bamboo, eating at the same diner for lunch and every so often giving my parents a sum of money so that they could purchase “funeral clothes” for my brother and me—which usually constituted twill pants, a sport coat and a clip-on tie. These were the clothes we were to wear to Grandpa’s upcoming funeral, whenever that would be. Mom and dad would dress us up in our “funeral clothes,” get a Polaroid of us with our dog Zombie, whom my grandpa loved dearly, and take the picture to over to grandpa. He would regard it for a while as a look of pride spread across his weathered face, and he’d say something like, “Those are fine looking boys.” A year or two would pass and we’d do it all over again. New clothes, new Polaroid, same expression. The burglary took place during the Christmas break of my senior year in college. I had just returned from a semester of study in Jerusalem. Lisa and I were engaged to be married later that summer. Dad and I stood among a mess of scattered papers, jumbled wires and up-ended furniture—all of which seemed to have a light covering of the dusting powder the police had used to try to recover fingerprints. The mood was light, really, especially since dad was in the process of closing the business down. So we were doing more talking than anything else. I had just a few minutes before I needed to head home to clean up for my shift delivering pizza. As I was getting ready to leave, the phone rang. It was the nursing home at the hospital where my grandpa had been living for the past year or so. They told dad that grandpa was ailing, and he had better come on out. I told dad I’d meet him there after I changed my clothes. I arrived no more than five minutes after dad, and found my dad standing beside my grandpa, holding his hand. Dad looked at me and said it wasn’t more than a minute earlier that Grandpa had breathed his last breath. There we were. It was all at once more than a hospital room on the nursing home wing. It was a room of fathers and sons. Three generations of Ramsey men gathered in one room, two seeing the third off. And it was a room drenched with meaning. Busy lives had ground to a halt. I remember how that moment carried for me so much meaning. It was a moment of truth. Three generations, each gathered there shaping the life of the others in lasting and powerful ways. One last time we would set out to buy new “funeral clothes.” This was a huge moments of truth for me, because I was given an intense picture of where I had come from, as my dad and I stood there at Grandpa’s bedside. I was part of a family—a line of men known for respectable successes and sometimes pretty definitive failures. I had a heritage. I had a history. I had come from somewhere. And a big part of that had just died. It was one of the first times I really recognized that I was no longer a kid—but a man, a Ramsey. And life was moving along quickly. Winston Churchill once said “Men occasionally stumble over the truth, but most pick themselves up and hurry off as if nothing has happened.” Somewhere between birth and death we hurry off as if nothing has happened and get ever so busy or self-important that we forget certain truths we once stumbled over as we reduce the significance of our lives down to such unimportant things as productivity, revenue and prestige. But sometimes the truth won’t let us hurry off. Sometimes the truth reaches up and stops us dead in our tracks. It holds up a mirror and we catch a glimpse of our reflection. Has this ever happened to you? Have you ever seen yourself making the same parenting mistakes your parents made—mistakes you just knew, when you were younger, you would never replicate. Such mistakes were so obvious to you then, yet so natural to you now. Or maybe you catch a glimpse of a look in your spouse’s eye who is regarding you as something of a stranger who has gotten too consumed with your professional life to have much of a personal one. Or maybe there is this “one thing” you have hungered for all your life, swearing to yourself that if you could just have that “one thing” you would be happy, but you realize, even if just for a fleeting moment, that there is no way that thing you want so desperately could really satisfy you. No, you’re much too complex for that. I believe God has fashioned truth to be something we stumble over and stumble onto. Truth is a divine corrective, a force to be reckoned with—showing us the wonder and terror of our fragile lives, awakening in us an insatiable hunger to know why we are here and what we are worth. Moments of truth constantly testify to the wildness of life. C.S. Lewis wrote, “It seems to me that one can hardly say anything either bad enough or good enough about life.” (Letters of C.S. Lewis) Moments of truth can overcome us with fear—like when a father stands in the delivery room as the urgent, focused faces of medical staff attend to the woman and baby he’d give his very life to protect. They can overwhelm us with joy—like when a young woman leaves her wedding reception, gets in the car covered in shoe polish exclamations and realizes for the first time that the wedding planning is over and the marriage has begun—that he is her husband and she is his wife. We don’t ask for these moments of truth to shape us into the people we are becoming. They just do. Why do we regard these moments of truth with such reverence? Because as people made in the image of God we understand, no matter how subdued and repressed the truth may be to us, that if something is true, it is like an anchor holding our lives in place in the cosmos. Truth beckon us: “Come and see that life has meaning and that it is of enormous importance.”

Walt Wangerin is a name I’ve seen in print many times. My dad had Ragman and Other Cries of Faith lying about at home for years and I remember thumbing through it at Christmas or Thanksgiving, reading bits here and there, and being intrigued by the style of writing; the words on the page had a canter to them, and a sparseness that gave them strength. When my buddy Jason Gray let me borrow his first edition copy of The Book of the Dun Cow I was appreciative. Jason has recommended and/or given several books to me (The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency, The Father Brown Omnibus, Helprin’s A Soldier of the Great War to name a few), and he hasn’t steered me wrong yet. When he told me that he and his family had read The Book of the Dun Cow aloud at Easter I was even more interested. I’d been working on songs with an Easter theme for a while, so I was curious to see how a novel about a boisterous rooster and his coop would tie in. Chauntecleer, the main character, is unforgettable and utterly unique. I’ve read a lot of books over the years and I’ve never come across a character quite like Chauntecleer: admirable, courageous, self-sacrificing, irritable, cranky, and loud. (He reminded me of certain members of my family, to be honest.) I’m sitting on the tour bus right now and it’s a little too distracting to dissect the book’s finer points. But I’ll tell you that the story is epic; the writing precise, colorful, masterful even; and while it’s no allegory for Christ’s death and resurrection (which I think is a good thing), it is a story of light overcoming a great darkness. I just might read it again next year, around Easter.

You’ve just got to love a good genealogy (see Genesis 10, 11 and 46, 1 Chronicles 1-9, Matthew 1 and Luke 3). A while back I took on the task of copying the Bible by hand. I am not very far along, but the reason I wanted to do it was so that I might have the disciplined exercise of pouring over every word contained in it, and also so that my children and grandchildren might know that the word of God was dear to me—that it might be dear to them too. In my writing, I have copied a few genealogies, and they always lead me to ask, “Why are these things here?” From them we should be amazed and humbled, because in them we learn that God keeps His words in ways no human plan could ever succeed in doing. See. Noah begat three sons—Shem, Ham and Japheth. Ham and Japheth disgraced their father, and so God’s blessing rested upon Shem. Shem’s line begat Abraham. Father Abraham had many sons. God promised Abraham would be the father of a great nation—the people God would bind Himself to in covenant, and from whom He would ultimately provide the “Lamb” who would bear the sins of the world and usher in reconciliation with God that will last forever. Abraham begat and begat and begat. And his sons did the same— and before you know it, Boaz (the guy who married Ruth) begat Obed who begat Jesse who begat David. David became the King of Israel, which took its name from Jacob, whose name was changed to Israel by God, and who was the son of Isaac, who was the son of Abraham—see how fun this is! And God expanded the details of His Covenant with His people to David by telling him that his throne would be established forever and that from David’s line the Messiah would come and reign at the right hand of God. While David’s descendants begat, the people of Israel summarily abandoned God altogether. And generations later, one of David’s line, King Hezekiah, discovered the word of God on a dusty old shelf in the temple (2 Ch. 29-31), and he began to read—and the people of God heard the word of God again—after years and years of disregard. But obedience would not last, and eventually the people of God were exiled to places all over the middle-eastern world—to the extent that the line of David had become almost unrecognizable. Until once upon a time, later, there was a girl named Mary, engaged to a boy named Joseph. They lived in an out of the way town called Nazareth. Joseph was descended from the great King David, though for his part, he was a carpenter—a blue collar man of no reputation. They were working hard toward a life they could live out together as husband and wife. All this was interrupted in a moment. Mary and Joseph would both suffer suspicious looks from friends and relatives, questioning their virtue because Mary did, you recall, conceive out of wedlock. And ultimately, as the prophet Simeon told them, a sword would pierce their very souls. How did Simeon know this? He knew the line from which the Messiah would come—and the prophecies concerning Him. In genealogies we are given a picture of an amazing thread that runs through redemptive history—a thread God has sewn through and for which no one can take any more credit than a man can take credit for his own birth. The thread that runs through redemptive history is God’s fidelity to His wayward people, preserving the line of blessing He promised to trace on through into eternity. The One in whom your righteousness rests, the One who represents you before the throne of God, the One who calls you His Bride comes precisely from where God said He would. So why does it matter that Obed begat Jesse? Because their lineage is part of the unbroken line from Adam to Christ. Christ came from the line God promised Abraham He would come from thousands of years before. And Abraham looked forward in faith. So you are called to look back in faith, and marvel at the precision and profound miracle of the unbroken line in God’s redeeming plan, and to understand that the genealogies of Scripture are telling you your story.

Nebraska football fans are passionate. I know this to be true because I am one and have been for most of my life. As a preteen boy, before most of the games were on T.V., I had a game day routine. My popcorn was strategically placed next to my pop, both far enough away that they wouldn’t get knocked over from an over zealous cheer, but close enough so I could indulge without stretching. The radio was tuned to 1110/KFAB. From pre-game prognostications to post-game interviews and scoreboard shows, I usually listened to the roughly twelve hours of game day programming from beginning to end. Like a psychological thermometer, one could gauge the temperature of my mood by how well the Huskers were doing. If they won, as was routine, I was happy as a pig in mud. When faced with a rare loss, I cried. A year or two ago, I finally outgrew the crying part. Yes, Nebraska fans are passionate. Though I’m exaggerating a bit on the duration of my tears, I can’t deny that even at my age, my mood rises and falls with the ups and downs of the Husker football team. When I began to follow the Huskers, our coach was the legendary Bob Devaney. Mr. Devaney was a jovial sort, hired in the early 60s to turn around an anemic football program. The Nebraska faithful and administration demanded some changes and got it when they hired the plain-talking coach away from Wyoming. Indeed, Mr. Devaney did turn the program around. With an assist from Tom Osborne, hired initially as a young graduate assistant, the football program started to soar. In 1970 and 1971, Nebraska won back to back National Championships. I don’t have to consult a reference book to make sure those dates are correct. I remember. I was twelve years-old, but I remember. Mr. Osborne was the Offensive Coordinator and was later promoted to Assistant Head Coach. And though the reserved Coach Osborne and socially effusive Devaney were as different as the sun and moon, Devaney trusted Osborne and sensed his superb intellect. Before cashing in his coaching chips and taking over as Athletic Director, Devaney hand-picked Osborne to succeed him as Head Football Coach. The year was 1973. And when Tom Osborne retired from coaching 25 years later, even those that didn’t follow college football knew his name. He was to become one of the most successful coaches in the history of college football, with a combined record of 255-49-3 through 1997, when he stepped down after winning another national championship. Osborne won thirteen conference titles, went to a bowl game for all 25 years that he was the head coach and won three national championships in his final four years. Needless to say, he is a member of the College Football Hall of Fame. I appreciate the wins. I really do. But the vagaries and trivia of wins and losses pale to the point of insignificance when laid beside the personal legacy that Tom Osborne left in his footsteps. Simply put, Tom is a man of God. On a very visible stage, Tom conducted himself with dignity, humility, honesty, honor, compassion, fairness, kindness, thoughtfulness, and peace. Like a paperback page-turner, the years have passed, yet Mr. Osborne hasn’t changed. Many books have been written about this man’s legacy which is in fact not his own legacy at all, but the testimony of that which happens when a man yields to the indwelling power of the One Living God. While Tom retired to the political arena and was elected to the House of Representatives, the drum beat of Cornhusker football marched on, though in far less capable hands than what preceded it. Frank Solich was fired by Athletic Director Steve Pederson. When Pederson announced the hiring of Bill Callahan in 2004, hopes for Callahan were high, but with the face of college football changing drastically, parity, reduction in scholarships, and who knows what else, Bill Callahan just didn’t get the job done. The 65-51 loss against Colorado was probably the last straw for many Husker fans, but the second losing season in four years and the Huskers’ second losing season in 45 years didn’t help matters. Callahan was 0-10 against teams ranked higher than 20th, 25-21 against Division I opponents and 15-18 against Big 12 opponents. Around here, that doesn’t fly. I am a passionate Nebraska fan and understand that these silly games sometimes make fans lose their collective heads, but the incessant outrage went too far, even for me. Husker Nation lost its way in the maze of perspective. Yes, I suppose when your team hasn’t had a losing season since the 50s there’s bound to be a certain level of hysteria, but the screeching sound was unbecoming. People were losing their minds. Listening to the tone of callers on sports talk shows, you would think Bill Callahan were a baby killer. He’s a coach that tried and failed. Fan’s tone of meanness and antipathy didn’t fit the crime. We’re not trying to cure brain cancer here. It’s just football. During the Missouri/Kansas game, a game that with important national championship implications, I saw a public service announcement about sportsmanship which was produced–I think–by the N.C.A.A. It showed regular people doing regular things, but getting heckled and booed by a hidden crowd. One scene showed a senior citizen clumsily trimming his hedge, while a rowdy voice screams sarcastically, “Trim bushes much, you jerk?” The announcers tag line is something like this: “You don’t behave this way in the rest of your life … why do it when you go to the game?” A few weeks ago, with the Husker football program in shambles, Steve Pederson was fired as Athletic Director and Osborne was hired as Interim Athletic Director. Largely due to the near unanimous respect that Osborne enjoys in Nebraska, much of the hysteria died down. On the day after Thanksgiving, Mr. Osborne announced that he had met with and fired Bill Callahan as Head Coach for Nebraska football. As in other times when he crossed troubled waters–critical losses, harsh criticism from national media for giving players too many second chances when they messed up, heart surgery, “can’t win the big one” talk from Husker fans, and on and on–Osborne managed this difficult situation with grace, dignity, and honor. As I listened to the now 70 something Osborne navigate the ensuing storm of reporters and questions with composure and dignity, I found myself with an unexpected surge of emotion. I’ve watched this man operate for nearly 40 years now with rare class. As Osborne extemporaneously explained his actions, I was once again amazed by his strong compassion, quiet ethic, and impeccable integrity. With humility, he fielded difficult questions with candor and serene authority. He was especially generous to Coach Callahan and his assistants, being careful to spare their dignity and to speak of them respectfully. Tom Osborne has had a profound influence on the way in which I live my life. His example is worthy of imitation and as I watched him speak again on Friday, I realized the many ways in which his beliefs and behaviors have become a part of me. I don’t mean to say that I have been worthy of his example, only that his life has been a significant inspiration. We are all on stage–some of us more, some less. This isn’t profound, but it is often overlooked. But whether our stage is large or small, big or tall, literal or metaphorical, it’s visible from where people sit; there is a sphere of influence of which we should be aware. To our children and those near us, we may play a starring role. To others, maybe only a bit part. To still others, maybe it’s a memorable supporting role. Sometimes, the person on which we might expect to have the least impact, ends up being one that we influence the most. These are windows of opportunity as we play a character that’s as real as life itself. And people are watching.

I once had a silly daydream. It was a vision–at least for one album–that Andrew Peterson went hip hop. In support of the project, I witnessed Ben Shive, then known as Jive Shive the DJ, laying down some scratch while Andy Gullahorn–pants sinking six inches below the top of his boxers–led the congregation in breakdancing. Behind the curtain, Andrew Peterson emerged to open the show with his new rap version of “Nothing To Say.” I admit that it’s a radical idea, but a great experiment, I must say. Having come to know many of Andy’s most loyal supporters, I have a strong hypothesis that there exist a large, loyal contingent of A.P. devotees that will invest in anything the man brings to market, even a rap or punk rock project. Why such loyalty? Well, like trying to craft a short list of desert island items, the answer to such a query is similarly faceted. Even so, I think I can consolidate it into three primary reasons: quality, candor, and truth. A.P. aficionados know, as much as they know their own name, that Andrew Peterson will fashion his work with precision and punctuality; almost like the painstaking focus of a tool and die maker building patterns for aerospace parts. Quality. The song, the lyrics, the music, the art–they will not fly until they are right. “Right” in this case means thoughtful, beautiful, insightful, layered, poetic … and true. This man won’t use a marginal word or phrase when another will communicate more clearly. Truth. It’s rare to find a passive A.P. supporter. When pressed, even casual observers of Andy’s music will often admit–at one point or another–to being assaulted by the truth. Once clobbered, a man is seldom ever the same. Unexpectedly, we are shaken by discovering truth (sometimes very fundamental truth) more clearly, more deeply, more explicitly, than what we knew before. Like a psychic mirror, we find reflections of feelings and deeply held beliefs we know to be true, but lack the emotional vocabulary to enunciate. Candor. In Derek Webb’s The House Show CD, one of his song introductions suggests the best thing that could happen to a believer is for his private sin to be displayed on a newscast for all to see. One of the most unfortunate things that happens in communities of believers is that in our human effort to become more like Jesus, we transmute into perverse plastic puppets, clumsy facsimiles with painted on smiles and artificial charity. It looks real, but it sometimes misses the mark of authenticity. An Andrew Peterson song isn’t a tell-all biography; nor do we want it to be. It’s not a movie; it’s a snapshot, a glimpse of reality through the keyhole. Lines such as “It’s the fear that I’ll fall / One too many times / It’s the fear that His love / Is no better than mine,” remind us that we are not alone in our spiritual walk, that other travelers walk similar roads. Andrew Peterson’s work assists us in confronting our own humanity. In seeking to become more like Christ, we must admit the truth of where and who we are. Not who we would like others to believe we are, but who we really are. Grounded in the truth that we are in Christ, we can begin to appropriate what that means. If we are inauthentic curmudgeons camouflaged as superstar Christians, we not only fool others–more tragically–we sometimes fool ourselves. A.P. has a history of laying it on the line. On stage and in our speakers, he tells us the truth about himself. That’s not to say that we know everything and it’s not to say that we are vicariously glorifying sin, but in learning of his struggles, we are reminded that he is a little like us. He’s human, not one of those scary puppets. In that, we may find the courage to understand our own darkness. Not that it’s okay, but that it’s okay to admit it. I am hopeless as a writer. The introduction to my review of Appendix M: Media / Music / Movies just took me eight paragraphs to write. The thing is, the introduction is really the review. You see, as much as any of Andrew Peterson’s more “polished” efforts, Appendix A and Appendix M are testament to the aforementioned themes of quality, candor, and truth. While it’s true that some of the musical performances on “M” lack the gloss of studio projects, that which we lose in studio sparkle is more than offset with enhancements and transparency. Take the opening song on M, “Further Proof” for example. It’s a song about writing a song. Oh yeah, and in the ostensible purpose of letting us in on the mechanics of songwriting, we–oh, by the way–just happen to stumble upon a clever primer on the nature of those things that last. It’s candid; who else offers commentary on the process in the process? It’s quality work because it’s good; in structure, in content (cerebral in a light-hearted way), and clarity. Finally, it conveys truth by contrasting the temporal with that which is eternal. As consumers, value is inextricably linked with quality. Are we getting our money’s worth? After all, Appendix M doesn’t have a jewel case and there’s only eight songs. “Pshaw,” is not too far from the response that a typical Andrew Peterson supporter might offer to that question. Here’s what we get: 1. Eight tracks featuring songs that we’ve never heard before, or at least never heard in quite the same way before. These are songs that for one reason or the other didn’t make it on to a standard project: they didn’t fit the theme, were only done live, or were sung by somebody else (Jill Phillips on “All the Way Home” in what–as we might expect–is an otherworldy performance). 2. A personal welcome and introduction from Andrew Peterson himself. 3. A play-by-play from Andy featuring a description of each track, how they came to be, and what they mean to him. 4. A variety of wallpaper for your computer desktop including shots from The Far Country; Behold the Lamb of God; Slugs, & Bugs & Lullabys; and, The Ballad of Matthew’s Begats. I just replaced The Far Country wallpaper with one of the Behold the Lamb of God versions. 5. Fifteen video clips. The video of Andy and his first (only?) skydiving experience is worth at least $13.00 by itself. Also catch live versions of old favorites such as “Rise and Shine,” “Venus,” “Loose Change,” and more. We are also treated to Andy’s cover of Rich Mullins’s “The Color Green.” One of my favorite videos is the electronic press kit, one of those continuous loop clips you see playing in your local Christian bookstore, selling the CD and offering the public an inside look at the recording artist “as a person.” Andy has the look of a little boy, ready to go to Sunday School, wearing clothes that give him a bad feeling. When wearing clothes that were mandated by Mom, my brother and I used to refer to this bad feeling as simply, “the feeling.” We still talk about the feeling in the way that only adults can when they have known each other since childhood. I would describe the feeling as an uncomfortable, eerie fashion sense that you look better to your mother than everyone else, including yourself. At the last funeral we attended together, grabbing his tie and pulling gently, I ask my brother if he had “the feeling.” He did. Andy looks “that” uncomfortable. And yet, though I smile to myself in places, like when I watch the shot of Andy in the button-down shirt with puffy sleeves, I am genuinely moved by pictures of his wife and kids, of the studio clips where and when “Family Man” was recorded, and Andy’s own extemporaneous words about the song. 6. 46 personal journal entries, some of which are fall-down hilarious, and most of which are moving and insightful. I’ve never mentioned or admitted this out loud or in print before, but I’ve always felt comfortable in the role of contrarian. As a kid, I would often reflexively take the opposite view. What I learned from that–besides having a lot of fun and annoying my friends–was that there was often more truth on the opposite side of conventional wisdom. So I wasn’t afraid to look. Maybe I’m wrong (but then again maybe I’m not!), but it seems to me Andrew Peterson often pursues a similar track when he writes. He’s unafraid to turn an idea on it’s head. That’s not to say contrarians don’t pay a price. We are often bruised and scorned (long time A.P. supporters may remember the controversy surrounding “Mohawks on the Scaffold”). On the other hand, there’s often beauty and truth where others fail to tread. As you read these journals, look for A.P.s tendency to view things differently than otherwise might be expected. 7. Chord charts for Love & Thunder; The Far Country; and, Appendix A, Bootlegs and B Sides. This guitar hacker, able to read and use tabs only v-e-r-y slowly, really appreciates the chords. That way, I can just hack away. I feel more in my element. Much of what I like about this project is its humor, variety, and serendipity. Even the title of this eclectic effort was encouraged by some rather low-brow bathroom humor at the Andrew Peterson message board. Those characteristics–humor, variety, and serendipity–not bathroom humor–are probably more intrinsic in the appendix projects than Andy’s studio albums. Still though, in an effort that is closer to a scrapbook than a bound and published hard cover book, we find quality, candor, and truth. After all, it is an Andrew Peterson project. And though we shouldn’t hold our collective breath for that rap version of “Nothing to Say,” Appendix M, Media / Music / Movies offers enough offbeat fun and unconventional surprise that you won’t need to bother yourself with the kind of startling daydream that started this review. Just buy the CD.

When it comes to wanting what’s real, There’s no such thing as greed. So sings Karin Bergquist in the first track of Over the Rhine’s 2007 CD, The Trumpet Child. She sings it in a voice so sultry it makes me blush a little just listening to her. The Trumpet Child is about desire, about longing. The title track is about the Second Coming, that event for which the whole creation waits with longing and desire. I’m trying to resist the temptation to quote the lyrics to the whole song here, but I hope you’ll at least indulge me in a long quotation: The Trumpet Child will banquet here Until the lost are truly found…The rich forget about their gold, The meek and mild are strangely bold. A lion lies beside a lamb And licks a murderer’s outstretched hand.The Trumpet Child will lift a glass, His Bride now leaning in at last. His final aim–to fill with joy The earth that man all but destroyed. That last, Chestertonian idea–that joy rather than judgment is the ultimate aim of Judgment Day–helped me make sense of the whole album. The rest of the songs on the CD concern themselves with desires and longings that are very much of this world rather than the next. The most persistent theme is sexual desire, usually unrequited. The desire for joy and the desire for pleasure aren’t the same thing; Bergquist and her husband Linford Detweiler (they wrote all the songs on the album) never conflate the two. But they do acknowledge that there is a place where genuine joy and earthly pleasure overlap. In groping around for that place, they’re willing to get it wrong; instead of saying, “Here’s what earthly desire ought to be like,” they seem to be saying, “Here’s what earthly desire is like…now what does that tell us about our truest desires?” When it comes to wanting what’s real, there’s no such thing as greed. But the truth is, we want a lot that isn’t real, and Detweiler and Bergquist are willing to wrestle around with that too. So in the song “Trouble,” we get the lyric, If you came to make trouble, Make me a double, Honey, I think it’s good. Or in “Who’m I Kidding but Me,” You smell like sweet magnolias And Pentecostal residue I’d like to get to know ya And shake the holy fire right out of you, But oh, who’m I kiddin’ but me. But then there’s “Let’s Spend the Day in Bed,” a sweet, quiet song about–well, staying in bed all day. It’s a picture of marital bliss that is more than a metaphor for the abundant life. The point, it seems to me, is that this is the abundant life that Jesus promised–or, rather, a little sliver of it. Obviously there’s more to the abundant life than earthly happiness. But where and how and why they’re connected–those are questions worth exploring. In Detweiler’s lyrics, the trumpet that will blow on the last day Is being fashioned out of fire. The mouthpiece is a glowing coal, The bell a burst of wild desire. I love that image. We’re each of us a swirl of desires, some noble, some petty, some seedy. This CD explores many of those desires, including the seedy. But poised above them all is that fiery trumpet. And when it blows, we won’t be relieved of desire, but swept up in a greater, wilder desire. The glowing coal will burn away the false desires and leave the true, and the Trumpet Child will fill the universe with the joy that was the point all along. p.s. It occurs to me that this isn’t really a music review. I guess it’s a poetry review. I’ll rely on the Rabbit Room’s more musically sophisticated readers and contributors to address the music itself, which is pretty fabulous.

From the Proprietor: I didn’t ask Russ to write this. We spoke on the phone several weeks ago about this issue and I expressed the awkwardness I felt about the age-old conversation. He responded with this post. Andrew Peterson has a problem. He’s not alone in what I’m about to describe, but since he is the proprietor of this fine Rabbit Room, he’ll be my exhibit A. See, here’s his problem: his hope is that this site will serve to promote books, music, art and ideas he and his contributors think are worth your time. The problem is that his own works would be counted among them by his contributors. But Andrew doesn’t want to appear narcissistic, and worries he’ll appear to be promoting himself if his works are reviewed and recommended here. What to do, what to do? Luckily for Andrew, I have a solution. Lean into it, Andrew. Lean into it. This site was your idea and it does exist to promote your music and books. And I for one, hope you become filthy stinking rich as a result. I hope your grandchildren–may they be many, smart and ruddy–can go to the college of their choosing, twice, as the result of Rabbit Room. I pick on Andrew here, but this whole “online community” thing has me thinking a lot about how things are changing for artists today. In particular, I’m thinking of how artist promotion takes place– and I really like what I’m seeing. The Rabbit Room is just one example, but since you’re here, lets go with it. Here’s how I see it. Of course there’s a place for critical reviews. You should be able to go places to find, for example, that So-and-so’s new album is generally being met with a collective yawn. Such places (Billboard, Paste and Relevant, etc.) do exist. If people are looking for a webzine to objectively cover the media coming out in today’s market, there are places they can go–professional establishments. This site, as I understand it, is not that. The Rabbit Room exists to introduce visitors to thoughtful art and engaging discussions. And because it does, most if not all you find here will be written about in a positive light. And that’s okay. In fact, its good. When Andrew roped his contributors into this venture, he said “With reviews, I imagine them reading as if you were telling a buddy about this book that you experienced and that you just love. Or film, or record.” So, dear reader, that’s what we’re up to here. Now for a word on the artist promotion aspect of this website. Andrew’s contributors are here because we like Andrew Peterson, and most of us like him because we’ve gotten to know him through his music. And Andrew, along with the other Square Pegs, have many times come to a professional fork in the road, faced with the choice of taking the industry’s highway to contractual obligations in return for corporate promotion or going it alone on the grass roots level, hoping and praying it all works out. Andrew, and many like him have chosen the road less traveled. But for this to work out, one must promote oneself often, shamelessly and with an eye toward turning that self-promotion into cold, hard frozen pizzas, electric bills and mortgage payments (not to mention all the other strange things one has to buy that the rest of the world doesn’t even think about, like 15 passenger vans, t-shirts with your own name on them and Stuart Duncan’s time.) So Andrew Peterson bears a responsibility to promote Andrew Peterson. He’s one of THOSE grassroots guys! Hence, his problem. At least it would be a problem if his music was bad. But its not. And we don’t need Andrew to tell us its good to know its good. Same goes for Peters, Phillips, Gullahorn, Goodgame, Osenga and the rest of the Square Pegs. What we do need, however, is to find our way to their music. And that takes promotion. Shameless self-promotion? Yes, in part. But it also takes something more. It takes rabbit rooms, blogs, virbs, street teams, iTunes, artistic alliances, online stores, myspace, youtube, noisetrade and a million other inter-related, cross-referenced, just-a-click-away opportunities for fans to add to their collections and future fans to discover folks like the Square Pegs for the first time. For those “grassroots” artists who have elected to depend upon word of mouth, street teams for local shows, those shows themselves and the world wide interweb to draw and retain their audience, they are, in effect, relying on their “paying customers” to also be their PR department. And it follows that the “Paying Customer Public Relations Department” would want to do their job well so that there might be more product for them to both purchase and promote in the future. It is really backward from what used to be, if you think about it. It used to be the PR people were employed by the label to accumulate from the audience as much money for the label as possible, which would in turn bring greater revenue to the artist. But in the grassroots paradigm, the PR people are the audience, essentially handing over their own money directly to the artist, buying recorded music, attending concerts and sometimes even outright “underwriting” future releases so they can be imagined, written, recorded, packaged and purchased by the very same people who promoted the previous records and underwrote the newer projects in the first place. (Read this paragraph again. Its awesome!) So if the Rabbit Room is meant to draw our attention to art worth having (which it is), and if Andrew’s art can be counted among that (which it can), and if this site was his idea (which it was), and if he has bills to pay (which he does), and if you, dear reader, are here because you’ve already ponied up some cash to buy an AP record (which you may have done, or maybe you’re a pirate) or see a concert or get an “I Like Cheese” t-shirt, can’t we all just live at ease with the fact that if Andrew sells some units through this site, we should count that as a success and say, “Good for you, Andrew. Here’s another $15”? It didn’t used to be this way, but I, for one, am glad it is, because what we all get out of this new deal is the confidence of knowing that what makes it to our iPod is what the artist meant to deliver–not some guy in a corner office trying to figure out the best way to make the most money out of a musician who started writing and singing for love of the song. So with this, dear reader, are you aware that Rabbit Room has a lovely store? The holidays are approaching fast.

Most of my thoughts today find themselves in orbit around a concept seen throughout the Bible. Unfortunately, it’s leapt out of the pages and into my own life as well. It started when studying Paul’s words in his letter to the Philippians, urging them to focus on eternity and not to be distracted by the temporary things that can dissuade and distract. It’s a beautiful piece (and a familiar one) where Paul resolves that the once profitable things in life he now considers “loss for the sake of Christ.” Of course, that’s easier said than done. The issue is that the things that “dissuade and distract” seem so nice. And they do, in fact, satisfy us for a bit. We know they will feel good, quench the thirst and appease the hunger in that moment. And when we are desperate or undisciplined, it’s the quick and easy choice. Esau needed to eat. And in a moment of poverty, a birthright wasn’t going to satisfy the need. The Israelites were in a similar position when entering the Promised Land. The book of Numbers details a story where two (and a half) of the famous twelve tribes decided that the land on the wrong side of the Jordan River was suitable for their livestock. Lush with grass, waterfront property so to speak, and a noticeable lack of Canaanites to fight made for a spot even Baby Bear could love (it was just right). I’m sure it was just fine. I’m sure it looked great. And it was probably was okay. But it wasn’t the Promised Land. It wasn’t the place that God had called them to inhabit. It was a good, temporarily satisfying place on the way to what God had intended and that was just fine for them. And sometimes that’s just fine for me as well. I’m tempted all the time to turn the stones around me into bread – to use my own power or abilities to make my own way and feed my own hunger for various things. Waiting on God to provide or doing the diligent work to get to my final destination are things that don’t come naturally to me. My own inclination, as an only child (and human), is toward the immediate solution. I’m drawn toward this, I think, because not only do I have the tendency to settle, but I’m watching this tendency all around me. Husbands and wives settling on the wrong side of their marriage and choosing the easy way to satisfy their frustrations in the arms of another. Leaders settling on the wrong side of their calling and giving up because the river seems too wide. All of us are so grateful for any “Get Out of Jail Free” card that we’ll snatch it the moment the “chance” comes. But that’s not the calling. And we know it. We know that even as artists there is a deep work to be done to pursue excellence. We all have rivers to cross and lands to inhabit. And part of me wishes I still had my birthright.

I’m currently engaged in a discussion, called Perfection vs Communication, on another site, where there are some with an extreme view who say that what’s important in music is feeling, raw emotion, that communication is the point. Others stress the significance of disciplined study (especially me at times), though none of us say expressing emotion isn’t the point of all the study. For my part, I’m continually stressing the balance of the paradox. Learning to play banjo, guitar, or any other instrument involves work. Enjoyable work, much of the time, but work nonetheless, requiring focus, determination and patience. It take study to really play a banjo; I mean it takes years of digging into the masters, especially Earl Scruggs, to build a good foundation of technique, to develop a solid right hand, to get the timing very even and regular. Bluegrass is a precision music, and has been for the most part from the time its radical innovations exploded onto the American music scene back in the 1940’s. As banjo players, we build precision. Timing. Tone. Making sure the space between our notes is very even and regular, insuring our right hand has power in reserve and can sustain a seamless sequence of notes through song after song. I’ve used drum machines and metronomes since around 1980; I have Reason on my laptop so I can use it as a drum machine. I’ve played with records with good timing for years; Flatt & Scruggs and Jimmy Martin recordings especially. There’s one record in particular, called The Bluegrass Album, with Tony Rice (guitar), J.D. Crowe (banjo), Doyle Lawson (mandolin), Bobby Hicks (fiddle), and Todd Phillips (acoustic bass) that I have played with thousands of times. I wore out one LP, bought another one, and then cds came out. I have two copies on cd, and now of course it’s in my iTunes. But really, inside all this technical mastery and study, what is the banjo all about? Passion. Convictions. Anger. Beauty. Excitement. Strength. Power. The banjo is to the bluegrass band what the electric guitar is for rock. It’s a passionate instrument, with a strong attack and not a lot of sustain. Explosive. That passionate part, that raw emotion, that human experience coming through metal strings, wooden bridge, and banjo head, is the mystery of banjo playing. Then why all the focus on timing, drum machines, and technique? Can’t we just play with raw emotion right off the bat? Why bother with years of study? Why not just pick one up and flail away with passion? The timing, tone, and study part is about the Mastery of banjo so that the Mystery can come through it. Dorothy Sayers compared the creative act of the artist in The Mind of the Maker as a mirror of the creativity of the Trinity. The infinite mind and purpose of the Father; the Son, working out His incarnation in sweat and blood; the Spirit, manifesting God through human experience, and in that manifestation causing a response in others. Music can be studied forever and still not be fully explored or mapped; that’s God, infinite in His knowledge. That’s partly why we study the Bible, to gain a deeper knowledge of who God is and how He thinks, and ultimately, if we’re thinking rightly, to be led on into working out deeper expression of God Himself – which is the Son and Spirit part of the process. We “work out our own salvation,” which is the sweat and blood of the faith choices we have to make daily, “for it is God in you who works to will and to act according to His good pleasure.” The Father in us, working by the Son to express the Spirit. We study music for the same reason – to gain a deeper knowledge of what music is (Father) and to be led on into working out a deeper here-and-now experience (Son) and expression (Spirit) of what it really means to be a musician. Study of musical fundamentals can help us express Mystery in a deeper way. Now, there are people who study the Bible and use it primarily as fodder for reminding themselves that they are so much better than ordinary, common rabble. Their desire is mastery, yes, though not in order to incarnate; it is a means to dominate. Likewise, there are people who study music, have notebooks full of scores and theory and lines and charts and graphs on music, and never use all that as a means of incarnation; they never take it to an instrument, or if they do, they’re more concerned with what and how much they know than with how they use what they know. Technical mastery of an instrument can become the End for some. But, as always, wrong use of something does not make the thing bad in and of itself. Perfectly good doctrine, like anything else, is something neutral that can be used rightly or wrongly. I’d rather talk with a grandmother who has no schooling but years of practical Christian life experience than someone who can quote the Bible, read Greek and Hebrew, and knows everything Calvin ever wrote but has not worked what he knows out into expression – into reliance on Christ working itself out in “Love God and love your neighbor.” With mystery and mastery we have some quantifiable elements, absolutes. Timing: a drum machine is a direct line to Timing Headquarters. Pitch: if the band is tuned to A440, and we’re singing in A336, that’s flat. It may be only ‘relatively flat’, but it still sounds like Hell. And then there’s the Mysterious. The way a particular line of melody makes us feel. How the chordal context of a note changes what the note means and how it feels. What pictures music produces in our heads! I remember first getting Fernando Ortega’s Shadow of Your Wings and listening to it driving to Nashville up I-65. One song started with Fernando’s piano, and the record’s engineer Gary Paczosa had captured it it so perfectly that for two seconds, rather than windshield and cars and road, I literally saw, like a vision, those soft felt hammers hitting the steel-wound, vibrating strings inside the piano. The passion, the welling up of emotion, the deep thought and hope that great music engenders in our minds. That’s Mystery. In Mastery, we have the knowable, the learnable, consisting of this scale, that scale, this exercise, transcribing this Earl Scruggs solo or that one. And we have the unknowable, the unteachable: Mystery. When I practice, I think about the knowable and learn what I can of what is knowable. Instructional videos. My drum machine. Slow-down software that makes learning other people’s solos a lot easier than slowing 33 rpm LP’s down to 16rpm on an old record player, like I did as a teenager. In technical practicing I focus on mastery. When I perform or record or just sit around doodling on the guitar or banjo, I forget about mastery. I listen, I feel the song, and I then just play whatever comes to me in that feeling. I don’t think, not a lot, anyway, about what notes I’m going to play in a solo; the first order of business is to listen, feel what the song makes me feel, to hear what the melody does, and play. Sometimes, many times, I come up with a moving solo this way. There aren’t many people who would accuse me of being too heady and soulless in my guitar or banjo playing; when I play on a recording or on stage, I’m interested in giving the listener an emotive moment or experience. But in practice I like learning new techniques, focusing on timing, and other mastery aspects of playing music. We can learn about God. That’s good. It’s not only necessary; it’s commanded. There is much about God that we can know and understand and quantify to a certain extent (for instance, I can know “God cannot lie” is an absolute, knowable, Biblical fact). But we can’t stop there, at mere intellectual knowledge, like an overzealous type who likes to insult and beat other people down in Bible arguments and congratulate himself on what a great job he’s doing for Jesus (Gunfyter4God@ImSoGreat.com). It’s only a means to an end. We’ve got to know God Himself, to experience Him. And in knowing Him as He means to be known, He incarnates Himself in and through us and gives the people in our lives an experience of Him. We are the instruments that He plays. His technical mastery is perfect. But, unlike my banjo, as instruments we are sentient, have a will of our own, and have a choice – will I allow Him through faith to express Himself through me, or will I follow lies and deceit and let the Devil play crappy, lame, out-of-tune, and badly distorted songs on me? But I’m wandering into another subject, and we were talking about music. For me, mastery and mystery capture what it means to be a musician – human and divine, flesh and Spirit, the meeting together of two seemingly contrary things, the one being used as a container or manifestation of the other. The two are not contrary; as our human flesh becomes the means of Divine manifestation, so I focus on mastery in practice, and look to use that mastery as a means to expressing mystery. I’m not always successful at it, but the heart is there, the part that can’t be taught or learned, the mysterious part, and it comes through most of the time in performance or recording when I let go of everything I’ve learned and just fly by the seat of my pants in faith. The Christian life is the same. We study, gain knowledge of the Person who lives inside us, work that knowledge and that Person deep into our consciousness, and then let go and just be by faith, by inner reliance on Him. “Faith is the substance of things hoped for.” One of my old pastors put it this way: “Faith is the concretization of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.” Faith reaches into what is hidden and brings it down into concrete expression; it reveals a Mystery. That’s what Mastery of knowledge, whether Bible study or musical improvement, is really for – not to puff us up and make us feel “greater than other men, sinners,” but to make us better conduits and communicators of Mystery.

As we get closer to Thanksgiving, I couldn’t resist writing about a family movie that features food and offers a lot to be thankful for. Two of the things that my wife Taya and I enjoy the most are good stories and good food. In Ratatouille we got to enjoy both – and with our kids, too! I’ve been a big fan of Brad Bird since I reluctantly watched The Iron Giant to be a good dad. I both laughed (and even cried) harder than either of my boys at the time and it’s become a movie we’ve returned to again and again. Then of course came The Incredibles, which is arguably one of the best superhero movies ever. When we started seeing ads for Ratatouille, I’ll confess I wasn’t that excited to see it, but my interest was piqued when I found out that Brad Bird was the wizard behind the curtain for the latest Pixar film. So we went to see it, and we weren’t disappointed. What I love about Brad Bird is that he is able to make films that are both really “cool” and vulnerable at the same time. There is real heart to his stories, yet they never rely on sentimentality to play our emotions. The scenes from The Incredibles when Helen Parr suspects that her husband might be having an affair in his mid-life crisis were surprisingly tense and poignant. Even though the story was obviously fantastical, it all felt very rooted in reality to me. I didn’t expect an animated film to be this grown up. I think the same is even truer of Ratatouille. The movie is an amorous love affair with fine food made for an audience who is more likely to ask for mac and cheese than they would baked brie with mango chutney. It’s the story of a rat with a penchant for gourmet food and dreams of being a great chef. He’s got the gift, but as a rodent lacks, well, a certain quality of homo sapien-ness. He finds an unlikely ally in the kitchen of a once-vaunted restaurant in Paris. Perched under the hat of his human friend Linguini, Remy’s knack for cooking up delectable dishes reinvigorates the restaurant’s reputation – but what would Paris think if they knew a rat was calling the shots? The script is obviously clever and the animation is state of the art, so rather than comment on the story and style, I’d like to relate a couple scenes that I loved. Every time the rat Remy would taste a certain food, the background would fade to black and there would be a play of color bursts behind him to visually represent Remy’s experience of taste. When he would combine that certain food with another the play of light and shapes would deepen in complexity, whirring and spinning and going off like a fireworks display. We laughed out loud with delight thinking, “yeah, that’s what that flavor looks like!” That Bird could so effectively communicate the sense of taste through visuals is a testament to his gift, and it’s one of my favorite things about Ratatouille. But it was a scene towards the end of the movie that stole the whole show for me. When Anton Ego – the bitter, arrogant, and curmudgeonly food critic whose jaded reviews make or break restaurants – walks in, we know we’re in for Ratatouille’s equivalent of a showdown at high noon (only it’s dinner time, and instead of guns it’s a critic’s pen and a rat’s whisker – not that kind of whisker, but, y’know, the kind you whisk with ;-). Remy puts together a simple serving of ratatouille, a traditional French Provençal stewed vegetable dish, and serves it to Anton Ego. With one taste, his eyes open wide in wonder-filled bewilderment as the camera zooms into his pupils and takes us deep into Ego’s past where we see him as a little child in a fond memory of his mother serving him ratatouille. The scene is genuinely tender, and when the camera zooms back out we see that the dish has awakened more than just a kindly childhood memory, but also the child himself long buried in Anton Ego. I didn’t see this coming, and this scene did for me something similar to what the ratatouille did for Ego. I was unexpectedly moved to tears and a real sense of wonder and joy came over me. This is why: I know this isn’t necessarily what the movie is about, but in this moment Ratatouille reminded me of what the best art can do in us – art done with devotion, care, and great love. It restores us and reminds us of the promise of a more beautiful time, both a time passed and a time to come. It names us and gives us back to ourselves. It makes us children again in that it makes us feel wonder. It awakens the possibility of love, redemption, forgiveness, and rebirth. And that’s of course what happened when cynical food critic Anton Ego, a heartless shell of a man, tasted a dish that was made with great love by an unlikely chef – a rat! The cynicism melted in a moment and he was born again, or baptized, or whatever you want to call it. I don’t want to spoil the end for you, but suffice it to say that Anton Ego passed from the walking dead into the land of the living again and became a large hearted man who rediscovered his love of food and even life. The movie also offered a wholesome message for kids that anyone can pursue what they love, and that they should do so even in the face of critics and seemingly insurmountable odds. It had the added pleasant aftertaste of making our kids interested in more adventurous foods! Most importantly for me is that it reminded me that anything we do with great love has the potential to transform the world around us. If you love movies about food, check out: Tortilla Soup, Chocolat

[This discussion is continued from yesterday’s post by Russ, “Creative Intent: What Are You Thinking?”] …your thoughts about the questions Russ raises are fascinating. I’d love to add something equally fascinating to the discussion but I don’t think I can. I don’t think. Here’s what I do think. Art, like the artist, and like the Artist (capital A), is mysterious. There are a few ways to look at it. Maybe art is meant to be appreciated and interpreted privately, in the confines of your soul, where its work is most potent. Trying to nail the meaning of a piece of art down can be, frankly, like driving a nail into a piece of fine art. It’s like handling fine china: the more you turn it this way and that, the more chance there is that you’ll chip it. We can get so carried away looking for the meaning of the dandelion that we have forgotten to delight the simple, unpretentious, serendipitous beauty of the flower itself. There is a kind of art whose beauty is in its plenteousness. It pervades our days and makes them brighter and more bearable. Ron, you mentioned elevator music in an appropriately pejorative sense. In another way, though, God’s beauty is also littered all about, and it makes splendid what would otherwise be mundane. There are songwriters (Katy Bowser for some reason comes to mind) whose music isn’t meant to be disseminated but enjoyed. Some of Alison Krauss and Union Station’s music (the jamming bluegrass songs like “Little Liza Jane”, for example) don’t mean something in the heady, beatnik, pipe-smoking way. They’re just beautiful splashes of light in the world, made by sub-creators who were compelled to make the musical equivalent of God’s dandelion or waterfall or gazelle. (I think contemporary Christian music is sorely lacking in this department. We’re so burdened with wanting every song to change the world that we’re not bothering to try and change the sad guy on the eighth row’s countenance. It’s hard not to smile when you listen to Chet Atkins play “Centipede Boogie”.) But there’s another way to look at art, and I’m mainly going to be thinking of it from a singer/songwriter standpoint. I want my music to communicate. What drives me to make music is that I’m lonely. I’m (very) happily married, I have three (very) amazing kids, a good church, great friends, and yet I sometimes feel as lonely as a bone on a sand dune. I have Christ’s spirit in me, I believe (deeply) that there is a God and that he knows and loves me. But I’m hammered with doubt, sin that shocks even me, inconsistency, and the deep ache in my belly that reminds me that this world has yet to be made new. When I write songs (not the kid’s songs or the funny songs; those are to me like those simple, pretty dandelions) I want those songs to call out into the darkness and be heard by someone. I’m crying out in the hopes that someone will hear, and answer, and that that someone who also feels alone will be comforted. I’m looking for a connection between me and the audience. When they respond, when they applaud or feed me with that intangible sense of graciousness that tells me that they see who I am and that they like me anyway, I feel joy. I feel satisfaction. I feel God’s pleasure. When I first started playing concerts, I felt a sense of urgency with my songs. I knew that I didn’t have a CD for them to take home and live with, so I only had one shot to communicate what I wanted to say. I worked to make sure that the point of the song was understandable on the first listen. Having a record takes some of that pressure off because you know (hope) the folks will listen to the CD again and again and what may not have been clear the first few times will snap into place finally and the listener will experience that “Aha!” moment that I so love in my favorite songs by Rich Mullins, Andy Gullahorn, Randall Goodgame, or the Weepies. For that moment to happen, though, there has to be an idea that the songwriter is trying to communicate. There are so many different kinds of art. Some art communicates beauty. It doesn’t aspire to anything more, and that’s perfectly fine. Other art strives to communicate ideas, beautifully. (Some art doesn’t really try to communicate anything, and is called self-expression. This to me is self-important and vain. To create something for public consumption without a thought for the listener, without meeting him halfway, is like babbling in a nonsense language about how no one pays you any attention.) I don’t want to beat the dandelion analogy into the ground (though it’s not really an analogy), but I think that God communicates to us in artistically diverse ways, too. He communicates beauty to us for its own sake in nature. His goodness is expressed in this, his eternal power and divine nature, as Kevin pointed out from Romans. We can look at the things God has made and infer that he is good. Rich Mullins: “The thing that’s cool about music is how unnecessary it is. Of all things, music is the most frivolous and the most useless. You can’t eat it, you can’t drive it, you can’t live in it, you can’t wear it. But your life wouldn’t be worth much without it.” But then, God also communicates ideas, beautifully. Communion. Baptism. Marriage. There is a poetry in his sacraments that communicates a specific revelation that a dandelion could not. God knows that we are a hard-headed, forgetful people, so he pares down the analogy of the seed descending and rising again and gives us baptism. We are lowered into the water and are raised again in a perfect picture of both our death to our old life and our rebirth to a new one and the promise of our resurrection to come. He knows that it is hard for us to believe that the story that happened two millennia ago is true so God gives us communion so that we might remember that it was real, palpable flesh and blood that Jesus sacrificed. He knows that we are hungry and need to be filled, that we need to be reminded in communion both that he is the king and that his outrageous love invites us to feast with him at his table. His love for us is a sacrificial love, and we were made to be lifted up only when we lay ourselves down, so he gives us marriage. He invites us to be bound to him, and him to us, he teaches us about covenant and dying to self and abiding love and deep affection. These two kinds of art–the flowers and the sacraments–communicate and express and create; they remind us that we are not abandoned; they can evoke sadness or gratitude or joy or sorrow; they enrich our days; they summon our thoughts to higher things, deeper things, holy things. This is what art can do. What it should do. The finest artists the earth has ever known have failed to come close to creating something as remarkable as a dandelion. Still, we fumble along, making because we have been made, tethering the worlds of our imaginations to earth in stories and pictures and songs, and our father in heaven is glad. I don’t know if this answers any of the original questions, but there’s my left-handed, non-mathematical brain’s answer.

This post is a bit of an experiment in attempting an open discussion about the creative process between any and all reading these words. So if you’re up for it, please weigh in with a response at the end. Odds are you’ve seen a version of Rodin’s “The Thinker.” Have you ever wondered what he’s thinking about? Rodin’s The Thinker (1880, bronze), has been portrayed in a host of ways, ranging from listening to headphones to sitting on a toilet to contemplating his pint of beer. I’m a pastor. Sometimes when I’m teaching on the authority of Scripture in the believer’s life, we talk about the Thinker. Is there authorial intent or can I interpret what I see in that sculpture any way I wish? Am I free to decide what’s on The Thinker’s mind? Who’s to say what he is thinking about anyway? Well, Auguste’ Rodin, actually. It came as a surprise to me that “The Thinker” is an historical figure. He is Dante’. And The Thinker was sculpted to sit atop a larger sculpture called “The Gates of Hell.” (Here it is.) Rodin wanted to capture the thought process Dante’ must have had to subject himself to in writing “The Inferno.” On close inspection of the Thinker, you’ll see a great burden on the countenance of Dante’ as he contemplates the loss of souls into eternal punishment! And Rodin was captivated enough by the weight of such thoughts that he wanted to try and capture it. So the Thinker is not just some guy thinking about nothing in particular. He is Dante’ thinking about souls being lost in hell. And regardless of what anyone believes about the afterlife, Rodin is the authority over what’s on the Thinker’s mind because he cast the sculpture. To put him on the commode cheapens Rodin’s authorial intent and, it seems to me, makes it so the beholder will never really be able to comprehend what Rodin meant to say. Some non-objective and abstract artists today leave the interpretation of their work completely up to the beholder. But if we mean to communicate truth through our art, can we create without intent? What do you think? I’d love to hear from all kinds of artists on this. Here are my questions, and I’ll number them in to basic categories for the sake of discussion. If you have a particular artistic focus (songwriter, painter, writer, instrumentalist, etc.), do tell, and perhaps we can see how the responses vary according to genre. 1. Regarding the creative process; Is communication an inherently necessary part of the creative process, or can we create good art without intending it to “mean” anything by it? 2. Regarding the presentation of what’s been created; What, if anything, do artists owe their audience? And conversely, is that audience obligated to try to understand the artist’s intent, regardless of whether they agree or disagree? Or, how important is it that when people engage the arts, they’re “picking up what the artist is putting down”?

Pickle – n. Bitter, semi-crunchy, mysteriously preserved, zombie-like remnant of a once innocent and delicious cucumber. Awful, unnatural, and quite possibly blasphemous. Mondays are my days off and every week I look forward to having lunch at the little ‘mom and pop’ sandwich shop here in town, Live Oak Subs. These folks know how to unleash the true power of Sandwich (that’s right, capital ‘S’). Every sub is made with love. The meat is sliced thin and laid on with care, positioned just so. The tomatoes are always ripe and placed perfectly centered just where they belong. Red Onions are properly sliced and arranged and never substituted with onions of lesser pedigree. All these and more lay between two pieces of soft homemade wheat bread that is never too thick nor the crust ever too hard and it’s all wrapped up with care so that when I sit at my table and unfold the wax paper, I’m greeted with a perfectly neat, unmangled, kaleidoscopic vision of colorful, sandwichy goodness. Oh, be still my rumbling tummy. But what’s this? Wrapped up alongside this bit of lunchtime glory is a long spear of a sickly-green dill pickle and it’s bleeding its drippings all over my sandwich. I wrinkle up my nose at first and pick it up carefully between two fingers like a dangerous bit of biohazard but since I’m trying to eat healthier lately I decide it can’t be that bad and what the heck. Crunch. I eat it. And it is just as awful as I thought it would be. Thank goodness it’s gone. I giddily catch up my sandwich and find that an amazing thing has happened. The pickle has bittered my mouth and left all my tastebuds parched and agonzing for something sweet. When I bite into the sandwich its glory flows into the depths of my being in ways I never imagined possible. Praise the sandwich. I sit there eating and the people in the booths next to me eye me with with suspicion as I moan in pleasure and possibly even cry a little for joy. When the last morsel of sub was gone I sat and considered the fact that it was the pickle that made the difference. Oh, the sandwich would have been good without it, but I certainly would not have appreciated it as much. But it was even more than that, the pickle actually prepared the way for the goodness to come. The pickle exposed the full glory of the sandwich I had previously taken for granted. It left my mouth soured and puckered and ready to welcome the nature of the feast that would follow. I always eat my pickles now and I don’t complain. Thank God for pickles.

The church I grew up in was one which operated on a liturgical calendar—a schedule of worship which ensured that the “big events” of the faith were observed and celebrated. The colors of the vestments in the sanctuary would change during the different seasons of the liturgical year. During Advent it was dark blue. Lent and Easter were purple and those days between Easter and Pentecost (usually April and May) were gold and white, while Pentecost itself (in late May) was red. So from November until May, the colors were always changing with the liturgical seasons of the church, heralding Christianity’s high points (like the birth of Jesus and His resurrection from the grave) and low points (like His suffering and crucifixion). But from May until the beginning of Advent in November, there was basically one six-month long season. Its color was dark green and its name was “ordinary time.” This name always used to strike me as a bit disappointing—as if it was expressing some notion that during those months, nothing much was happening between God and His people. It didn’t focus on the highs or the lows of the faith like Christmas or Good Friday. There wasn’t a lot of unfolding drama—no advent wreath candles to be lit, no dried palm branches to tie in knots, no midnight singings of Silent Night. Its focus was on the “other stuff” believers needed to know. It was ordinary time. I came to learn later that “ordinary time” was not a way of calling that time mundane or common, but rather came from the word “ordinal”—which means “counted time.” It was time to be counted, weighed, used and invested. Ordinary time, as time to be counted and invested, is not exclusive to liturgical calendars. Ordinary time is a common experience for every single person. We live mostly between the extreme highs and lows of our lives. I’d venture over 95% of our lives are spent in “ordinary time.” Its walking with one foot in front of the other, every day, slowly, steadily, devoted. We’re tempted to think of this time, as I did with the liturgical calendar, as somehow less “spiritual” than the highs or even the lows of life. But ordinary time is not only spiritual, it is essential for the Christian life. How do I know this? Because the Christian life is grounded upon relationships, and relationships require time, lots of time, lots of ordinary time doing ordinary things which add up to what we know as friendship and faith.

George Macdonald was the grandfather of us all. ~Madeleine L’Engle Ten pages into George MacDonald’s Lilith I was thoroughly entranced—there’s nothing like a memory-haunted library and a mysterious visitant and secret doors to get this girl to sit up and take notice. Twenty pages in I was right royally baffled. I found myself floundering and sputtering about as gracelessly as the book’s protagonist, Mr. Vane—and asking almost as many questions. “How am I to begin where everything is so strange?” he poses to his new-found and utterly unreadable guide, Mr. Raven. I wanted to know the same thing. Alluring as this new world was that he—and I—had been ushered into, I couldn’t quite find my footing. But after another forty or so pages of exquisite bewilderment a light began to spread, like one of the incarnate moonrises in the book itself: I was supposed to be confused. It was my journey as much as it was Vane’s and I had as much to be shocked and riveted by as he did. In short, I had as much to learn about living and dying and really living as the benighted hero stumbling about in a world that wavers behind the very thin scrim of this one. For if Lilith is about anything, it’s about losing one’s life to find it indeed. There’s a hazy distinction that materializes slowly between the characters that are actually dead and the ones that have merely ceased to live. The latter are pitiable things, whether walking around in the prime of life or rattling naked in their bones. The former—those voluntary dreamers that Mr. Vane encounters early on in Mr. Raven’s ‘cemetery’—have merely found what life is all about. “I am alive!” I objected, shuddering. “Not much,” rejoined the sexton with a smile, “—not nearly enough. Blessed be the true life that the pauses between its throbs are not death!” Stoutly refusing the invitation to exchange his image of life for the real thing, Mr. Vane embarks on a journey that is truly fantastical in every sense of the word. This culminating work from the very Grandfather of Fantasy is admittedly a wild ride, peopled with warring phantasms that knock each other to pieces and monsters so gloriously grotesque that I can’t help but think MacDonald secretly enjoyed describing them. But for every evil there is a beauty that dazzles and hurts with its flash of true and living fire. And as I watched Mr. Vane bumble along, tripping over his own efforts and misguided intentions, I couldn’t help but flinch at his stupidity. It just hit a little too close to home, all this workaday dullness to the unbearable realities of joy. With Lilith, I felt like Grandpa George picked me up by the scruff of the neck and gave me a brisk shake. And a kiss for good measure. Weaving the Talmudic myth of Adam’s ‘first wife’, Lilith, into a story about an ordinary person encountering the love of God is frankly something that only MacDonald would take on. I’m not even up to explaining how he did it. With his untrammeled imagination and wild faith in the goodness of the Giver of Life, he whisks us from the library of an ancient country house to the very feet of the Ancient of Days. And all with that impetuous joy that seems to wave back and hasten us along from the next hilltop he’s mounted, as much as to say, “Never mind all those loose ends and questions of yours—just wait till you see what’s ahead!” “You have died into life, and will die no more; you have only to keep dead…” [Editor’s note: Ron Block is another big fan of this book. Read his review here–from way back in 2007! George MacDonald’s Lilith is available in the Rabbit Room store.]

“Please don’t gush,” I was told as I set to write my first paper on the work of C.S. Lewis. I’m sure Oxford has seen many wide-eyed, all-too-vocal Americans awed at the books and town of their favorite author. I held my tongue and curbed my pen, but as I entered the realm of the man whose stories shaped my childhood, it was hard not to slip into amazement. The honored presence of Lewis, for those keen to notice, is everywhere in Oxford. He peers out from a portrait in the Eagle and Child where the Inklings are memorialized in a wall of old photos. He is discussed and debated at Tuesday night societies. His home is a short bus ride from the city center, and one may visit the very study where he composed the Narnia books. I even spotted his name in a Bodleian exhibit of medieval literature where a book of Old English poetry from his own library was on display, opened to a page of his meticulous notes. I knelt down so I could see right into the glass case and read those tiny lines of literary brilliance. I rose and sighed at the sheer amount of knowledge those lines reflected. The man basically footnoted his own footnotes. My formal study of his life for one tutorial only deepened my admiration. At Oxford, where it takes hard work and excellent grades to get a “first class” degree in even one subject (equal to a summa cum laude designation in the U.S.), Lewis took three “firsts” in difficult subjects: Philosophy, English Literature, and Classics. He read and wrote in numerous languages, including Greek, Latin, German, and French, and like the scholars of old, carried out entire correspondences in Latin alone. My stock of awe was increased by the accounts I heard of his excellent philosophical conversation at high table, his vast knowledge of literature, his ability to quote from various classics, and his fearless confidence in debate. I didn’t gush but I was awed. Overawed. My curiosity then, was quite piqued as I began to hear accounts of Lewis from those who actually knew him and encountered one unlikely word again and again: humility. Lewis, it seems, who went by the name “Jack,” offered a humorous, kindly, and decidedly humble face to the world. I heard these accounts of Lewis at the Oxford C.S. Lewis society. Becoming a member of that lovely group and hearing the weekly talks was one of the great treats of my time in England. My education in Lewis began with a talk by Walter Hooper, Lewis’s secretary at the time of his death. Hooper told us of Lewis’s dedication in answering almost every letter he received; answering children’s questions about Narnia, offering advice or book recommendations to curious students, extending hope and prayer to those in doubt. Lewis, he mentioned, also quietly funneled may of the proceeds from his apologetics books into a fund for the poor. At another meeting, we heard from Bishop Simon Barrington-Ward, chaplain of Magdelene College, Cambridge, when Lewis taught there. He described long conversations with the kind, hearty Lewis, and told us of Lewis’s almost childlike capacity for wonder at the natural world. Most memorably, he told us of the deep peace, something almost like light, that he found in Lewis’s presence near the end of his life. Like the peace that comes after a battle won, he said, Lewis’s calm came from the grief he knew and the doubt he overcame after the death of his beloved wife, Joy. The last account of Lewis I heard was from Laurence Harwood, Lewis’s godson. He read us excerpts from delightful letters, full of whimsy and humorous advice, that Lewis wrote to Harwood when he was a boy. But the best letter was one that Lewis sent when Harwood lost an academic prospect in his late teens. The way Lewis wove both compassion and challenge into that letter, comforting a disappointed young man, yet showing him countless new possibilities gives insight into the deep, prayerful care Lewis brought to his relationships. The common point to all these talks was the mention, at some point in the evening, of the kindness and humility that marked Jack’s life. Always, always, that one idea surfaced and with it, a host of small details adding up to a life of startling humility. As I heard these accounts, I began to wonder if it was, in part, a humble heart that gave him the ability to write so clearly to the heart needs of his generation, and those to come. For though his brilliance is undeniable, it is the comradely tone, the childlike love of story, the struggle with sin so compassionately described that wins him readers again and again. As I pondered this, I remembered an anecdote that I’d read, or heard (I can’t remember which) of a conversation that Lewis had with Walter Hooper, his secretary at the time of his death. One day, as they sorted through letters, they were discussing the knights of the Round Table who went out in search of fame, glory, and “worship.” Surrounded by letters to Lewis from dozens of smitten readers, Hooper was struck by the similarity of Lewis’s fame to those of the knights and asked the hard question: was Lewis was aware of the fame he garnered and did he have to resist the desire for worship? “Every day,” was the gist of Lewis’s quiet answer. In the daily prayer book I use, the morning prayer has a line that has come to my mind over and over as I consider the life and legacy of C.S. Lewis: “Christ this day be within and without me, lowly and meek, yet all powerful.” This is the power I see in the life and writing of C.S. Lewis. Christ in his startling genius, Christ powerful in the written and spoken words of a highly-trained mind. Educated, gifted in the art of rational thought, he had in addition the full blown beauty of a vivid imagination informing his view of reality and the way he described it. He was one of the best read and best educated men of his times, able to debate and converse with the experts in his fields. Yet he used this gift not to “gain worship” but to speak Christ into the world, to tell him into stories that shape us still, to defend him against the unbelief of his age. Yet his power was also that of Christ, meek and lowly, the servant of all who yearn and seek and need. Comforter of widows, writer of letters to the hopeless or confused, giver, helper, Lewis lived a live of private integrity that gave an unshakeable foundation to his presentation of Christian truth to the world. When I look at his continuing popularity I think it must be in part because the life he lived embodied and enfleshed the truth to which he called other people. And that is a model of life, belief, artistry, and influence that any writer, any academic, anyone with a hope of shaping the world should follow. I came away from my study of his life with a model for what I hope to become. Lewis, I saw unabashedly, is my hero. Oh dear, I think I just gushed.

The Peterson family just started reading The Lord of the Rings aloud this summer and I’ve been nerding out a bit more than usual (which is saying something). I thought I’d re-post this piece from four (four!) years ago. So my nine-year-old son Aedan just finished reading Tolkien’s The Return of the King for the first time. He came downstairs after he finished and we talked about the ending, about the mysterious Undying Lands to which the elves were compelled to go; about how happy and sad he was for Sam, who had a family and a home in a restored Shire but who had to go on without his dearest friend; the bittersweetness of Frodo’s farewell at the Grey Havens. I can’t imagine a more poignant or complete ending to the story. I told him that Ben Shive wrote a song about the Grey Havens, and I played him that song from The Far Country while he read through the lyrics. (I don’t normally push my own music on the kids, so he wasn’t too familiar with it.) I was impressed all over again at what a great writer Ben is, not to mention Tolkien. What is it about that idea of being wounded and ill-at-ease in our present condition that resonates with me so? Obviously, it’s because I’m wounded and ill-at-ease. Much of the time I feel content with my lot, and why shouldn’t I? Most of the people reading this have been blessed with the means at least to own a computer, and the leisure at which to browse websites with it. You have the ability to read, to see, to think, to type. What could we complain about? Well, about the fact that our hearts are crippled and weak. Our literal eyes may be able to see, but the eyes of our hearts are often so bloodshot and weary that our souls trip and fall. Sunday’s sermon was about Hope. Hope is not the same as optimism, the pastor pointed out. Optimism has its place, but it is at its core the name given to a way of looking at things. The glass is either half full or half empty–our opinion of it doesn’t change the amount of water in the cup. Sure, it changes our disposition, and of course an optimistic one is the better of the two. But Hope goes deeper. Hope gives thanks that there is such a thing as water, and remembers that whether the glass is empty or full, there is a greater story being told. If there is water in the glass, then somewhere beneath the earth, in cathedral caverns where no eye has yet seen, a clear river courses. I may cry out in pain or sorrow (which seems to me anything but optimistic), and yet have hope, though I cling to it feebly. Hope lies deep and silent. Aedan’s reward for finishing the book was that we all watched The Return of the King–all seventeen million hours of it–Saturday night. The book itself is so precious to me that the movies, though they’re perhaps as good as they could ever hope to be, pale in comparison. But I was moved to tears several times this Saturday night, sitting next to my wife and my boys with the volume turned up way too loud. The couch rumbled. I didn’t marvel so much at the movie (though it really is a marvel in so many ways) as the story itself. This has been beaten into the ground, I know, but–what a story! What a gift Tolkien gave us. I kept watching Aedan and Asher’s faces during certain parts of the movie, like when Shelob poisons Frodo and Sam feels that all is lost. The boys were looking upset, so I paused the DVD and talked to them about eucatastrophe. It’s a word Tolkien coined in his essay “On Fairy Stories” which means, basically, the opposite of catastrophe. He calls eucatastrophe the “sudden joyous turn”. It’s that moment when all seems lost, when evil seems to have finally overcome every good thing, when the hero can go no further. Then light prevails against the darkness. The good guys win. When you’re writing a story, like I am now, you realize that there’s not much story if there’s nothing at stake. If there’s no evil, no enemy, no point at which the hero is at the end of his rope, then the thing falls flat for some reason. But if we want the good guys to win (and almost universally we do), why do we put our heroes through so much? Because we grow into what we are meant to be by walking through the fire. I told the boys about how the story of Jesus’ resurrection is the ultimate eucatastrophe. When Jesus, the perfect man, God made flesh, cries out and exhales his dying breath, the sky is black and roiling, the ground shakes, the dead emerge from their tombs and haunt Jerusalem, and the sheep scatter. But Sunday morning, more than just the sun rises. Everything changes. It’s not just a story, it’s the story. A sudden joyous turn, indeed. Un-pause. Gandalf is sitting with Pippin beside a bulwark, a scared and weary Pippin says, “I didn’t think it would end this way.” Ian McKellen, who as far as I have read is hostile toward Christianity and Christ, speaks through Gandalf such a moving description of Heaven that I pause the movie again. Rewind. Turn on subtitles so the kids can read it. Play. Gandalf: End? No, the journey doesn’t end here. Death is just another path. One that we all must take. The grey rain curtain of this world rolls back and all turns to silver glass. And then you see it. Pippin: What, Gandalf? See what? Gandalf: White shores…and beyond, a far green country under a swift sunrise. Pippin: Well, that isn’t so bad. Gandalf: No. It isn’t. Then comes the sound of the door being battered down by trolls and orcs. Pippin and Gandalf are snapped out of the dream back into the present, and Pippin closes his eyes and swallows. How well I know that feeling, the feeling of taking a deep breath and bearing up a little longer for the sake of the hope and great joy that lies before me. The kids looked at me sideways, wondering why their dad was sniffling. Finally, Frodo bids his friends goodbye at the Grey Havens. I didn’t pause it this time, but as soon as the film was over I talked with Jamie about the wound that we all carry. Just like Frodo, we have wounds that are too deep to heal this side of that grey rain curtain; the wounds of the Fall, of our daily sin, of our loneliness and selfishness and tendency to believe the lie over the Truth. I ache to board that ship and sail away to those white shores and that far green country. Hope holds me up. It’s what I cling to, and all I ever want to cling to. “We know that the whole creation has been groaning as in the pains of childbirth right up to the present time. Not only so, but we ourselves, who have the firstfruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly as we wait eagerly for our adoption as sons, the redemption of our bodies. For in this hope we were saved. But hope that is seen is no hope at all. Who hopes for what he already has? But if we hope for what we do not yet have, we wait for it patiently.” (Romans) Lord, give us patience.

There’s no doubt about it, my mother has the gift of hospitality. Enter her house nearly any time of day and you’ll be greeted by the warm smell of something delicious being whipped up in her kitchen, as if she were just hoping someone might stop by. Her house is always immaculate and inviting, neatly decorated and comfortable, and she converses easily with everyone she meets. She just seems to know intuitively how to make people feel welcome. But I did not inherit my mother’s gifts; most of my talents are from my Dad. I am a thinker, an introvert, and I do not have an aesthetic bone in my body. So imagine the shock I experienced when I decided to stay home and care for my firstborn son. I knew, because of the wonderful care my mother had given our family, how important it was for me to take on this role, but I hadn’t realized how naturally it came for her until one day when I asked: “What did you want to be when you were a little girl?” “All I’ve ever wanted to be is a wife and mother,” she told me. It was not the answer I wanted to hear. Something must be wrong with me, I surmised. And thus began a warped worldview I’ve only recently realized I possessed. Unfortunately, I lumped all of women into two distinct categories: those who were naturally gifted in the domestic arts, like my mother, and those who were not, like me. The result of such thinking was a ten-year struggle between my role as Mom, wife, and homemaker—and my passion for writing. And then I met Jill Phillips, a recording artist who works from home while caring for three kids with her husband Andy Gullahorn, who also sings and makes music. I went to Jill’s house one afternoon and met her kids and saw how she mothered them, and we talked about finding time for our passions in the midst of our daily lives. Jill told me about a book she’d been reading and invited me to a small group meeting with other women who were reading along with her. The book was Real Love for Real Life: The Art and Work of Caring by Andi Ashworth. It’s a comprehensive look at the ways we view the role of caregiver in modern times, and it’s a defense of the value of that vocation. Ashworth examines her life before and after she began placing an emphasis on her calling as caregiver, and she offers encouragement as well as exhortation for anyone seeking to make the most of their daily relationships. Without romanticizing or dismissing the hard work that goes into caregiving, Ashworth lays out specific ways to examine our current methods of care and offers concrete examples of how we can do a better job. The chapter Jill’s group discussed that morning is called “Rest For the Weary,” and it really grabbed my attention. “Because the work of caring is invisible to so many people, and because caregiving as a vocation has been neglected by our society, we need to bring it out of the shadows and help people understand what we do. When you value what you do and correctly name it as work, respect and appreciation for your efforts will likely spread throughout your family and beyond.” (p. 122) Finally, here was a book that validated the work I knew my mother had done and I was trying to do, and also gave me the language I needed to understand that this work was far more comprehensive than a clean home and a well-cooked meal. My calling didn’t have to look exactly the same as my mother’s, and if God gave me a different set of skills, it didn’t have to mean I wasn’t doing a good job caring for my family. I could still use the gifts he gave me to fulfill that calling in my own unique way, like my ability to be a good listener, my off-beat sense of humor, or my natural awareness of other people’s moods. “If you are someone whose primary work is to care physically and emotionally for those entrusted to you, then you are in the business of imagining for the good of those people and working to bring about what is true and lovely and admirable in them. Your gifts, your time, and your work are important. You are not alone. Like countless others through generations, you are participating in God’s perfect design to love in the everyday realities of life. In doing so you reflect the beauty of a God whose love knows no limit.” (p. 18) I went home, and later that summer I started a small group at my church with several ladies who read the book with me. These ladies helped me discover things about myself, ways that I was already using my gifts to care for my family and new things I could try which might even encourage my creativity in writing. They helped me recognize the error of my thinking about only two categories of women, and I began to let go of the idea that my role as caregiver and my passion for writing had to be at odds with one another. It’s still tricky at times to navigate both paths, but I’m encouraged when I remember that this season of life, with all of my children at home, is fleeting and no one else can be their mother but me. “Embracing the seasons of caregiving helps us seize the moment for what it is: a portion of time that is small when seen against the whole of life on earth and the vast expanse of eternity. Yet what great significance is found in a single opportunity to love someone in a way that can never be repeated.” (p. 156) The best thing I learned from this book is that taking care of people encompasses a great deal more than domestic giftedness, and it’s not something only mothers can do. The truth is that all women, and all men for that matter, have abilities and talents which enable them to care for other people. It’s just that our definitions of caregiving are too narrow. It’s not something only wives and mothers do. It does not merely involve cooking and cleaning, and it’s much more than menial labor, regardless of the fact that so many people who do it do so without getting paid. “While caregiving is often associated with women, it’s clear from the Scriptures that all God’s children are responsible to take neighbor-love out of the abstract and bring it into our concrete, daily lives. Our overarching vocation in the kingdom of God is to take care of the earth and its people, to protect and develop what God has made.” (p. 11-12) I’m so glad the Rabbit Room Press has republished this book – it deserves our attention. It’s not just a book for women, and it’s not just a book for mothers. It’s a book for Christians. Let it encourage you to seek out the non-efficient business of loving and caring for the people in your life. May it open your eyes to the value of a love that is lived out in real life, in the nitty gritty corners of caring, not just the esoteric planes of exultation. And as a result, may the people you love see your work as a reflection of a creative, loving God who values people enough to be intimately involved in their daily care. “When we live in light of the gospel, we view time and people from the perspective of eternity. Even the small things we do to show people they matter can make a difference. We make our offerings, not knowing if our efforts will even be noticed, but knowing that each person matters supremely to God, and he notices. We live by faith, not by sight, entrusting the outcome to God and knowing that we’re participating in his work of caring for the people he loves. That knowledge fills all of our caregiving with eternal significance.” (p. 46) [Andi Ashworth’s Real Love for Real Life is available in the Rabbit Room store.]

I’m working on a book, and I wrote this today as part of a chapter. I thought it might be a blessing to my fellow Rabbits this summer. The Celtic Christians, like the Romans, usually worshiped in rectangular buildings (as much as some modern people would love to think of Celts worshiping in forests and glades, or in round buildings where everyone was equal before Mother God, it’s not true). The evidence indicates that these Christians stood during worship, with women on one side of the room and men on the other. They required two priests to celebrate the Eucharist, just to make sure it was legitimate. These priests stood before a raised altar at the front of the room. Over that altar hung a large object. In the Roman churches at the time, the object over the altar was a cross. Sometimes the cross had a representation of the body of Jesus on it. This is true to this day, of course. Roman Catholic churches, in fact most churches, have a large cross in a prominent spot. Though video screens have now replaced crosses in some churches, it is right and good to have a cross hanging front and center. The cross reminds us of our redemption and forgiveness through the sacrifice of Jesus. It is a potent symbol of our faith. The Celtic churches did not have a cross. Instead, they had a crown. This was, for them, the central meaning of the Gospel: Jesus is King. Remember that they lived in a land which boasted many warlords, so many kings. Invaders constantly crossed into Celtic lands. War for the right of rulership was a common experience. Who was or was not the real king was often in doubt. In this context, the Celtic Church lifted up Jesus as the one true King, the King of Kings. You may see how counter-cultural this was, and how dangerous. I can’t imagine that many lords liked the idea of their people declaring someone else as Lord every Sunday. You may also see how amazing it was that some Celtic warlords practiced the Christian faith and why a few of them are now thought of as saints. I would not argue that we should replace the Cross with the Crown as the central image of our faith. But what if we did? On one hand, we might lose some important things, like the suffering of Jesus and our call to suffer with him. We might lose our focus on his tremendous sacrifice on our behalf. We might lose some hard-won compassion. Those would be a terrible losses. But there is something to gain in the Crown. The Crown might remind us that we are not our own masters. It might remind us that in all our political, cultural and economic difference we are still all subjects of one great ruler. It might remind us that our will is not to be done, but rather His will. A Crown might remind us that Jesus is Lord, whether we want him to be or not. Of course, we could want both things–The Cross and the Crown. That would be something, wouldn’t it? A Church that saw Jesus as both the Suffering Servant and the Reigning King? A Church that saw herself as both redeemed and submitted, as forgiven by the King but also reigning with Him? That would be a grand image to take from the Celtic Church, a gift they can give us these many centuries later.

Real Love for Real Life is not only a beautifully-crafted exploration of the calling of caregiving, it is a gift of care in itself. Andi Ashworth writes with great compassion and great humility, and the result is a book that will literally change lives and give souls courage to dwell in Christ’s love in concrete, practical ways. Andi’s perspective is refreshing and rare, in the way that all good, old, true things are: a voice of affirmation to an often overlooked and sadly neglected part of the Body of Christ, and a loving challenge to a generation that seems characterized by isolation, busyness, and hurry. She is such an inspiration, a genuine example of a lifestyle of love. It was my great privilege to ask her a few questions on the occasion of the release of the Rabbit Room Press edition of her timeless–and timely–book. Lanier: In your book, you paint a picture of caring as a unique and legitimate vocation, encompassing a limitless spectrum of opportunities for expressing love in practical ways. People tend to think of caregiving as specific to the needs of the helpless–the sick, the dying or very small children–and while you honor these special cases as sacred and necessary, you cast a vision that goes beyond them, embracing the daily occasions of a lifetime. You point out, however, with great compassion, that the calling of caregiving is one that receives very little outward validation in our day and age, particularly as more and more of the details of our daily lives are outsourced to “professionals.” To the ones called to love in such concrete, often mundane ways, your words are literally wine to the soul, a much-needed voice of affirmation amid a wilderness of hurry and efficiency and convenience. In the ten years since you first wrote such life-giving words, would you say that the attitudes within the Church have changed towards caregiving as a valid calling? If so, how? What are some of the things that you would say to encourage this generation to consider the vocation of caring, or to help individuals recognize it as a calling in their own lives? Andi: There is small and steady progress with the Church’s understanding of the nature of vocation. Organizations like The Washington Institute for Faith, Vocation, and Culture do a huge service by helping people fully understand the meaning and mission of vocation. But in the general church culture as in the larger society, there is one big issue that gets in the way of a full comprehension of caregiving work and vocation. Work continues to be largely understood only in terms of a work/compensation model. And most of the caregiving that takes place in everyday life is not paid labor. The mother or father caring full-time for children and family life, the homemaker creating a home that’s interesting, alive and welcoming, the person who’s always meeting the practical needs of neighbors and friends, the work of hospitality . . . there are a million different versions of what caregiving can look like. It’s hard work and it’s creative work, but so much of it takes place behind closed doors or without much fanfare. The results are seen, felt, and enjoyed by others, but it’s rare for folks to really notice or think about the labor that went on behind the scenes. Biblically speaking, work has an intrinsic value of its own when it’s carried out to satisfy genuine need. The value of someone’s work has nothing to do with whether or not it has a paycheck attached to it. It’s crucial for caregivers to understand this, to learn a holistic theology of work, to know their labor matters to God and to the flourishing of families and societies. Everyone needs to know their work matters. It’s very wearying to feel invisible to the world or to the people in your own household. But if you can latch on to the truth that caring for human life is a very powerful work that actually changes the shape of people’s lives and the way they experience the world, you will have a vision that can hold you even in the midst of dismissive cultural attitudes. Real Love for Real Life was born out of my own need to understand all these things. It’s a very personal book, full of stories. It was also very important to me to write about the imaginative, creative, and artful side of caregiving. Van Gogh said something like this: “the highest form of art is fashioning human lives.” I’m not sure if that’s the exact quote, but it’s certainly true. You’re creating all the time–creating a mood, creating a meal, making a sick person comfortable, creating a celebration, nurturing compassion, creating a welcome–you’re always making. When our imaginations are captured by the idea of creating good stories in the lives of the people we’ve been given to love, a world of possibility opens up. It must be said that a lot of caregiving work is tedious, repetitive, and wearying. Washing endless loads of laundry, a thousand trips to the grocery store, cleaning up after children, all the bits and pieces required to care for a spouse or friend who’s battling illness. But if we can keep in mind the bigger story we’re creating, it goes a long way in bringing meaning to the details. If you are someone who’s drawn to respond to human need in practical, creative ways, take it seriously and live it out faithfully. The world is desperately in need of people who are gifted and called in this way. L: You place a great emphasis on recognizing individual gifts as clues to opportunities for service in the body of Christ. How did you come to such a clear and tailored sense of your calling, especially in a world that is constantly shouting at us to “do it all?” Can you elaborate on how you have learned to say “no” to good things that simply don’t line up with your personal calling? A: For many years, because we were a self-employed music business family, I did a lot of work that was necessary–accounting and administrative stuff–but that I had no natural ability for. As time went on I was increasingly frustrated spending my days working in an area I was not drawn to, not gifted for, and would never have chosen had it not been connected to my husband and our family income. At the point of my highest frustration, about sixteen years ago, I took a class from a counselor that changed my whole way of thinking and living. For the first time ever, I considered my personality type, my gifts, the settings I preferred to work in, the tools I like to use, fields of knowledge I already had, and others I would like to pursue. I thought about the things I love to do and will always do in some capacity because they are integral to who I am. I began to understand that those things are inside me because God has put them there and I’d be wise to pay attention. For one thing, I realized I’m a writer and began to pursue that seriously. And I started looking at my life in other ways to see what it was telling me. My journals helped me see that caregiving was huge and continual. We had a constant stream of people coming through our home, the Art House, and I was taking care of them all in one way or another, so the caregiving included our children and family but it was much more than that. Once I had the tools I to think about vocation, I could see that I was good at caring for people and that I’d been inclined that way since I was a young girl. I was naturally nurturing, but I’d also learned through response, experience, and study. I had skill in cooking, listening and staying at the table with people who needed to talk, giving counsel and speaking honestly about my own life, anticipating need, creating beauty in our environment–really all kinds of things I’d never thought of as being anything special–but in fact they were. They were exactly what was needed in the life God had given us. I’ve been so grateful to have navigational tools as my responsibilities have expanded into other areas, but caregiving in different forms continues on. The more I can name my callings, I am free to say “no” to things that are not mine to do. I can trust God to provide someone else. I am now more inner driven than outer driven. Naming the different parts of my vocation isn’t something I did over a decade ago and never had to do again. Chuck and I do it all the time. Periodically we take stock of our individual and shared callings because they shift and change, the shape of our family changes, and our own needs change. It’s really important to know what our work requires of us at any given time, not to mention caring for our marriage and our bodies. And understanding the relational aspect of calling is crucial–that we’re most responsible inside our circle of immediate and extended family and close friendships. Requests are coming at us all the time and there’s no possibility of keeping up with everyone, so there has to be a way to navigate. The unanswered emails, Facebook messages, and phone calls often feel like failure, but we know we’re not without limits. We have to have an order of priority and ultimately live before the Audience of One. Everyone does. We’re all capable of trying to split ourselves in so many pieces that we don’t end up being any good to anyone. L: I love the fact that you and your husband have evaluated your calling as a couple, and have made such intentional choices in accordance with your vision for home and family, and the ministry that can take place within these contexts. What are some of the ways that you compliment each other in this shared life, and how do your personal vocations enhance those of your marriage? A: My husband, Charlie Peacock, is a very gifted musician, songwriter, record producer, entrepreneur, thinker, writer, speaker . . . the list goes on and on. It’s not really fair for one person to be good at so many things, but there it is! He’s wired to thrive in complexity and loves to juggle many things at the same time. I have to juggle too, but when it comes to writing, creating a talk, or preparing to host the occasional large event in our home–when there’s something attached to a deadline, I need space to concentrate and pour myself in. I need to focus on that one thing as much as possible. My husband, on the other hand, can write a book while other people are in the room! He learned that kind of focus when we had small children. He would sit at the piano and work on songs while the kids were noisy and playing in the same room because music was our bread and butter. We didn’t have any other place for him to go to be alone. I, on the other hand, have to tune all the way in to the people in the room. It’s the way I’m made and it’s also been necessary for the life we’ve had. We’re different in many other ways too. He makes quick decisions. I’m a processor. He’s an improviser. I’m a preparer. We’ve come to understand over all our years together that our two very different kinds of wiring are actually very complimentary. One style is not better than the other, just different. Our life has needed both. So our styles are different, but we have many, many shared concerns. Place is very important to us. A life of the mind is important. Ideas are important. People are important. We live and work in a century-old, renovated country church where our recording studio, offices, and home all string together. We’ve been making things and serving people from this place for many years. We partner in the work of Art House America, a non-profit committed to the encouragement of imagination and creativity for the common good. A lot of that work has been hospitality based, but it’s changing. We can’t invite the world into our home anymore in the same ways we always have. But we now have a virtual Art House, a blog where we publish essays that reflect Art House America cares, concerns, and joys (arthouseamerica.com/blog). I work closely with our editor, Jenni Simmons, to have a hospitable blog that offers a wide range of topic areas–Creation Care, Artful Children, Feast, Music, Visual Art, Bookish, and much more. A change like that–shifting focus from our place to the blog is healthy for our marriage at this stage. I still love meeting with individual people, which I do often, but right now I really care about creating a blog that educates, inspires, and goes way beyond our front door. And Chuck has a very heavy production schedule, so he’s not as available these days either. After 37 years of marriage we are more sensitive to each other’s needs personally and vocationally than we’ve ever been. We’re shifting accordingly and that is key to a good marriage and a fruitful life. L: One of the things that is especially refreshing about your perspective on caregiving as a calling is the gentle reminder of our human limitations. You have a lot to say about the needs of the caregiver, and the necessity of receiving care as gracefully as we give it. What are some of the ways that you have learned to recognize your own needs and boundaries? What are some of the practical ways that you replenish your own wells of creativity and artistic giving? A: Hospitality has taught me about my limitations probably more than anything else. A hospitality vocation makes for a rich life, full of treasured relationships and involvement in people’s lives. But I’ve had many seasons of being so completely burned out by always having people around and not having privacy, I felt I would internally combust. I am an introvert and so is my husband. We were in our early forties before we learned the true meaning of introvert/extrovert. It was a revolutionary bit of information. I am highly relational, but I also need a lot of alone time and private space to reenergize and be with people again. When we began to understand our needs, we made adjustments. And we’ve been making adjustments ever since–everything from small tweaks to large changes. We made a huge change just this year. At the end of 2011 we both decided that our life of having people stay with us so often was at an end. We’d been at it for thirty years, with increasing intensity over the last twenty. But we’re in a different season now. In addition to what I’ve already talked about, we have five grandkids and will soon be adding to that number. Our daughter and son-in-law are several years into an international adoption process and we eagerly await the arrival of our newest grandchild, whenever it happens. We want to be present with all these little ones. So as much as we value hospitality and will always maintain that kind of life in some way, we’re drawing the line at overnight guests as much as we can. Aging is helping me pay attention to a healthier way of living. At 56 years old I have to take care of my body and conserve my energy for the things I’m called to now. I’m more aware than ever that I can’t push and push beyond my mental or physical energy, so I’m trying to be wise and take care of myself. Regarding practical ways to replenish, I’m walking and swimming multiple times a week and trying to eat well consistently. I’m newly in touch with my garden in a way I haven’t been in years. I planted garden spaces all around our property, and then got too busy to take care of them. I still have help with maintenance, but this year I’ve had my own hands in the dirt–planting, weeding, and deadheading. It’s very nourishing to me to be a part of creating beauty outdoors. I read a lot. Well-written books are huge in my life. Literary novels and memoir are important. Cookbooks are necessary and inspiring. I read the Bible for food and breath and life, always. I write in my journal often. If I get to go the beach once a year, I’m a happy girl. I love bike riding when I’m in California visiting family. The beauty of sacrificial behavior inspires me. Greatness in visual art, literature, music, theater, and film feeds my mind and soul. A wonderful, connecting conversation with a friend does too. Every now and then we get to go to Laity Lodge, which is a retreat center in the hill country of Texas. We usually go there to work in some way–to be a part of the speaking team or for Chuck to play music. But I always come away refreshed in body, mind, and spirit when I’m there. The setting in the Frio River Canyon, the hospitality, the food, the people, the caliber of teaching and music and art making, and the restful schedule all serve to make Laity Lodge one of the most special places I know. It’s not often that you can go somewhere to be a part of the work, but come away refreshed and inspired. L: It is significant to me that you focus more on the concept of celebrating the ceremonies of life, seeing them as chances to anchor your loved ones in tangible experiences of love, rather than merely holding up traditions. How do you live in harmony with the changing seasons of your life, while still maintaining such a strong sense of family connectedness and continuity? A: I want to leave my family with a heritage of memories and a strong sense of belonging. It was important when my kids were growing up and it only gets more important as grandchildren have come into the picture. I think I’m more in tune to this longing because my parents divorced when I was very small and the most anchoring experiences I had were with my maternal grandmother. My dad was hardly in my life at all. My mom was very much in my life, but died when I was a young woman. So I’ve often felt rather rootless in regards to family of origin. By the time I was old enough to care about where I came from and ask questions, my mother and all my grandparents were gone. One of my aunt’s, my dad’s sister, has been really generous about passing on family information, but on my mom’s side I don’t have much. So I probably overcompensate by saving every scrap of paper someone generates in our family, keeping loads of journals, and wanting to do what I can while I’m around. I want to leave a trail of experiences, recipes, photographs, and stories that communicate love, belonging, and family history. In the first years of our marriage, Chuck and I came very close to not making it. When the grace of God came to find us after we’d been married for seven years, we learned to be intentional about creating in family life and having stories to call our own. I guess in one way or another we’ve been doing it ever since, only now with the help of our grown children. When our kids were growing up we didn’t have a lot of continuity surrounding major celebrations like Christmas. For one reason and another we couldn’t keep things the same every year. But we found our way into different traditions. We made a big deal of Valentine’s Day, making it a celebration of the love within our little foursome instead of something only for Chuck and me. For ten years, until our daughter, Molly, left for college, we wrote letters to each other and read them aloud after a sharing a special dinner. I have the letters in a scrapbook. Once in a while I’ll get them out and read them again, crying every time, especially with the last batch! With grandkids we have rituals and traditions–dances under the disco ball in our living room, cooking together, decorating Christmas cookies with the whole family, playing games in the car that Chuck creates on the spot! For little kids, even the smallest rituals have meaning because it’s all about continuity and sharing something together. My first granddaughter and I even have a tradition of making the coffee together whenever she spends the night. We started it when she was a toddler and she’s now eight. When she was tiny she sat on the kitchen counter while I rinsed out the coffee maker and filled it back up with water. Then we opened the jar of coffee beans, smelled the rich aroma of good coffee, poured it in the grinder, ground the beans while she counted to ten, put the coffee in the coffee filter, placed everything back on the coffee maker, and she would push the “on” button. At eight years old she can do most of this by herself. But everything must be done in the proper order and we never skip the step of sniffing the beans and commenting on how good they smell. In the whole scheme of things this is very small, but it belongs only to the two of us and I bet she’ll remember it when she grows up! Gatherings with family and friends–holidays, birthdays, Mother’s and Father’s Days–anchor us. Earlier this year I was thinking of the significance of these kinds of gatherings for family life. My thoughts became an essay titled “Why We Gather.” A long time ago, I heard my friend Nita Andrews say something profound and beautiful. I wrote her words in my journal: “rituals and traditions become our interior secret, something of time, place, and history. They are patterns of beauty that we can create, and our people will keep them as the place of their heart, the place that they came from.” I believe this and I want it for the ones I love. L: How has the acknowledgement of caregiving as both an act of worship and an art form impacted your personal relationship with Christ? A: I love what William Barclay has written: “Real worship is the offering of everyday life to him, not something transacted in a church, but something which sees the whole world as the temple of God.” Worship does happen in the gathering of the Church, of course. But one of the beauties of the Christian faith is that we can also worship him through our ordinary, daily lives, even when we’re not aware of it. Since the love of God and love of people are intertwined, there is great meaning in the thousands of ways faith can express itself through love in an individual life. Matthew 25 says that when we feed the hungry, give clothes to people who need them, care for the sick, give drinks of water to thirsty people, visit shut-ins, and welcome strangers, we’re actually serving Christ himself. This scripture has a very wide application, but I try not to miss what it means in my own life as I feed hungry people around my table, give drinks of water to my grandchildren, or welcome strangers into my home. The message is clear that even the smallest act of caring for another human being in a life giving way is an enormous expression of love to God himself. It’s about meeting human need where we find it and we find it in the life God gives us. I also know that going after beauty is the right thing to do. It’s such an obvious thing to say that beauty matters to God, but it’s true. It’s also true that people are cared for through beauty. So when I do even the smallest things to bring beauty into our life, arranging a vase of flowers from the garden or ironing a beautiful vintage tablecloth for the kitchen table, I feel the pleasure of it and the rightness of it. How could I not love a God like this, who is sovereign over every square inch of the universe, and yet whose love and involvement brings meaning to even the smallest details of my life? Everything matters and so I run to him with every need, every gratitude, every desire, every heartache, and every hope. L: Andi, thank you so much the gift of your time and your words, both here and in your book. I know that they will bear God’s grace to many, in the giving and receiving of care in His name. The new Rabbit Room Press edition of Real Love for Real Life is available in the Rabbit Room store.

After taking a hiatus from blogging in order to focus on writing and spending time with my family, I’m dipping my toe back in the waters to give you an update on what’s brewing in our world. In November of 2011, Centricity and I talked about doing a Christmas record for 2012, and as I wondered about what that would like—what kind of Christmas record I could get really excited about—I thought about a Gray Christmas tradition that involves one of my favorite books by one of my favorite authors: Beyond Words by Frederick Buechner, a kind of dictionary/encyclopedia of religious words and characters that come to new life under Buechner’s observant eye. Every year I pull the book off the shelf and look up each of the characters who make an appearance in the Christmas story, and every year I’m moved by the humanity of these people who find themselves unexpectedly caught up in the middle of The Greatest Story Ever Told. With all that has muddied the waters of the meaning of Christmas in the years since “redemption ripped through surface of time in the cry of a tiny babe,” it’s been good for me to be reminded that it actually happened, once upon a time, in a certain place, in the lives of very real people who look much like myself. So I set out to write and record a collection of Christmas songs based on the individual characters in the story, filling in the gaps with traditional Christmas carols that would advance the narrative. Our own Andrew Peterson’s masterpiece Behold The Lamb Of God: The True Tall Tale of The Coming Of Christ was also a guiding light for me, an example of a non-traditional Christmas album that has found a home in the hearts of so many people, deepening their experience of the wonder of Christmas. I had no idea what I was getting myself into! Here I had an opportunity to take it easy and record a bunch of classics and be done with it! But once this other idea took hold of me it drew me deeper and deeper into it until each of the characters presented themselves, asking for their stories to be told. Ten songs later (and several others that won’t make the record) we decided we had to stop and leave some room for the carols that would help identify this as a Christmas collection. Making a Christmas record is tricky because just about everyone has a different opinion about what a Christmas record should be. Actually, it’s less an opinion than it is an impassioned conviction. When I let word out about this project on my facebook page one commenter would write something like: “Please do the classics!” and then the very next commenter would write, “whatever you do, don’t just do the songs that everyone else does – original songs please!” Even my own house is divided over the idea of what makes a great Christmas record. Throw into the mix the consideration of what kind of songs best serve what radio is looking for and what my record label Centricity is hoping for (though they’ve been very generous to let me chase my passion on this) and it makes for a bit of a tightrope walk. Trying to please everybody is the enemy of creativity and at some point in the process I had to set aside the various imagined expectations. My guiding prayer became this: to make the kind of record that was true to God’s call on my life, that most honored the heart of God made flesh in Jesus, and that gave a voice to those who were there on that holy night at the dawn of redeeming grace. This left me at the mercy of my most demanding critic: myself. But it also put me in a position to be led by my delight. It seemed like a great opportunity to work with my friend and one of my favorite producers, Cason Cooley, whose work on Katie Herzig’s The Waking Sleep and Jill Phillips’s In This Hour are great examples of both his playful adventurism and his humble service to the song (do yourself a favor and check out both of those records!) Cason’s work has a quirky and joyful exuberance that I thought would be a perfect fit for this project. I wanted it to be a really joyful record. As I got deeper into the story and the characters, though, I found myself in an intense narrative peopled with characters in the midst of great drama and crisis. The young girl who carries the secret of angels; the heartbroken young man whose fiancé is pregnant with another’s baby (will he forgive her when it’s in his power to ruin her?); the wisemen with their gifts of gold (will they give the child what he desires most, the gift of themselves?); the harried innkeeper so overwhelmed with his work that it’s hard for him to recognize the wonder on his doorstep that would make him whole. Yet there is great joy in the midst of this sober drama, too: the exuberance of the shepherds, wide-eyed and breathless the moment after the angels split the sky with their chorus. They are running into town with Gloria! still ringing in their ears—not entirely sure where they’re going, but what is there to do but run!—to see the newborn King. And of course there is the child himself who will make us children again and heal the world with joy. I’ve played the little bits that we’ve gotten done so far for some friends, and I received the greatest compliment I could have hoped for when a friend told me that he thought it sounds more like “me” than any thing I’ve ever recorded. Complicated scheduling and a spring full of touring made it more difficult to pull this project together than we ever imagined, but Cason and co-writing friends like Randall Goodgame, Andy Gullahorn, Nichole Nordeman, and Joel Hanson have been generous in their time and care to help me bring these songs to life. And so here we are putting the finishing touches on a collection of songs about the incarnation that we hope will surprise, delight and give people a sense that once upon a time and a place, among men and women just like us, a baby was born who changed everything. It’s the greatest story ever told, and it’s a story that we are all a part of, caught up in, and inexorably shaped by. Frederick Buechner, whose writing plays a significant part in these songs, has said that the story of one of us is the story of us all. If we’ve done our job well, then hopefully these characters will feel like old friends, as familiar as the person in your mirror. I hope you like it when we’re finished! I’ll write soon about the experience of writing and recording this record.  Until then, merry Christmas!

I’ve been a fan of Carolyn Arends since 1995, when I saw her open for Rich Mullins at the Ryman Auditorium here in Nashville. That means that for seventeen years of my life I’ve been affected by the songs and writings of this most excellent Canadian. I count it a great blessing to call her a friend. Her newest book, Theology in Aisle Seven, is a collection of pieces she wrote for Christianity Today, and is available here.  –The Proprietor The day before he died, my father wore what his doctors called the “Star Wars mask”—a high-tech oxygen system that covered most of his face. Pneumonia made his breathing extremely labored, but that didn’t keep him from chatting. “Pardon?” my mom would ask patiently, trying to decipher his muffled sounds. Exasperated, he’d yank off the mask, bringing himself to the brink of respiratory arrest to ask about hockey trades or complain about the hospital food. After several hours, he gave up on conversation. He started singing. “What are you humming?” my mom asked. My dad repeatedly tried to answer through the mask before yanking it off again. “‘With Christ in the Vessel, I Can Smile at the Storm’,” he gasped. “Wow,” murmured my mom, before singing it with him. My dad learned “With Christ in the Vessel” at Camp Imadene in 1949, the summer he asked Jesus into his 8-year-old heart. Six decades later, hours before his death, that silly old camp song was still embedded in his soul and mind, and he was singing it at the top of his nearly-worn-out lungs. I have never liked thinking about my own death. But I’ve considered it enough to know I hope I go down singing, or at least speaking or thinking, something about Jesus. I suppose that is why I found myself sobbing on an airplane while reading Margaret Guenther’s The Practice of Prayer. In one section, Guenther discusses the Eastern Christian discipline of continuously repeating the Jesus Prayer: “Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.” She reports her own efforts to incorporate the practice into her daily life, even sizing up the logs she chops for firewood by the number of Jesus Prayers she’ll likely get through before they are cut. I love the idea of having such truth-giving words ingrained into my routine. But here’s Guenther’s line that really got to me: “I hope that by imprinting [the Jesus Prayer] on my subconscious, it will be with me for the rest of my life, especially at the end, when other words will perhaps be lost to me.” Guenther, a former professor at General Theological Seminary in New York, is an accomplished and educated woman. Yet she is humble and practical enough to do what she can to prepare for her own death—and for the possibility that even before her death, her mind might fade into dementia. In a culture consumed with denying mortality, here is a woman who plans for it, in a way that affects the minutiae of her life now. Many early Christian communities encouraged believers to engage in the spiritual discipline of considering their own deaths—not in order to create morbid fear, but to put this life in the proper perspective. Memento mori, medieval monks would say to each other in the hallways. “Remember your mortality,” or, more literally, “Remember you will die.” Death unaddressed is the bogeyman in the basement; it keeps us looking over our shoulders and holds us back from entering joyously into the days we are given. But death dragged out from the shadows and held up to the light of the gospel not only loses its sting, it becomes an essential reminder to wisely use the life we have. When we remember the mortality of those around us, they become more valuable to us. Madeleine L’Engle once noted that when people die, it is the sins of omission, rather than the sins of commission, that haunt us. “If only I had called more,” we lament. Remembering a loved one’s death before it happens can spur us into the sort of action we won’t regret later. And remembering our own mortality helps reorder our priorities; a race toward a finish line has a different sense of purpose and urgency than a jog around the block. When a believer acknowledges that he is headed toward death (tomorrow or in 50 years), he can stop expending the tremendous energy it takes to deny his mortality and start living into his eternal destiny, here and now. And he can be intentional about investing himself in the things he wants to be with him at the end, much the way Guenther seeks to make the Jesus Prayer a permanent part of her psyche. I don’t want to romanticize death. My friend Bernie calls it “the Great Gash,” and I must confess that on the six-month anniversary of my father’s passing, the hole left by him is still gaping. But though death hurts, it is not the end. Though we mourn, we do not mourn as those who have no hope. And so I offer my dread of death to the Author of Life, asking him to help me to number my days rightly. I don’t know how many I’ve got, but I want to use every one of them to get the truth about who Jesus is—and who I am in him—more deeply ingrained. That’s why I’m teaching my kids “With Christ in the Vessel.” We sing it at the top of our lungs. ———————————— From the April 2011 Issue of Christianity Today, now included in the the new ebook THEOLOGY IN AISLE SEVEN.

In 2002, Andi Ashworth, the co-founder of Art House America (along with her husband, music producer Charlie Peacock) published, Real Love for Real Life: The Art and Work of Caring. The book is Andi’s care-filled challenge to find creative ways of bringing beauty into the lives of those around us, and it’s become a book beloved by readers everywhere. Sadly, Real Love for Real Life went out of print and copies became scarce. When Andi approached us to discuss the possibility of putting it back into print as a second edition, we were more than happy to help. Rabbit Room Press is now proud to announce the release of the second edition of Andi Ashworth’s acclaimed Real Love for Real Life: The Art and Work of Caring, featuring a new preface to the second edition written by the author. If you, like many, have been anxious to read it but haven’t been able to find it available, fret no longer. It’s now on sale in the Rabbit Room store. Russ Ramsey discussed the book back in 2008. And Jill Phillips discussed it in 2010. Look for a new Rabbit Room review and an new interview with Andi Ashworth in the next week. Here’s what Publisher’s Weekly had to say: “Edith Schaeffer’s The Hidden Art of Homemaking (1971) and What Is a Family? (1975) have sold steadily in Christian bookstores for over a generation, and now Ashworth offers daughters (and sons) of Schaeffer’s early readers an equally inspirational tribute to caregiving. Wife and business partner of Nashville musician Charlie Peacock, Ashworth maintains in this solidly biblical yet culturally aware book that caregiving, loving, and serving other people is to some extent the duty of every Christian. For certain Christians, caregiving is also a lifelong vocation that, though undervalued in our productivity-obsessed world, deserves as much respect as any paid employment. Ashworth is no Martha Stewart: she provides encouragement rather than crafts and recipes. Nor is she Pollyanna: she recognizes that caregiving can be tedious and exhausting, and only those who set firm boundaries and rely on God’s help are likely to persist. Ashworth’s own struggle with balancing business and home life increases her credibility as she promotes flower gardens, hospitality, and leisurely conversations over dinner . . . If her abundant anecdotes evoke nostalgia for a bygone era, they also reinforce her point that “when we create beauty in our environment, relationships, music, cooking, poetry, and celebrations we express our hope for the new heaven and new earth that God promises.” Ashworth does not provide a detailed road map to her peaceable kingdom, but she clearly shows that if it is ever to be created, someone must care.”