What are you looking for?

by John Cal Editor’s Note: This year’s return to an in-person Hutchmoot gathering also allowed our favorite chef/writer John Cal to bless us with his thoughtful essays before each evening meal. What follows is his Thursday night pre-meal address from Hutchmoot ’22. Self: Let’s start at the very beginning. It’s a very good place to start. (Spoken) When you read you begin with . . Response: A-B-C Self: When you sing you begin with do-re-mi. Response: Do-re-mi Self: The first three notes just happen to be do-re-mi. Response: Do-re-mi Self: Do-re-mi-fa-so-la-ti…. Do, a dear, a female dear Re, a drop of golden sun Mi, a name I call myself Fa, a long long way to run So, a needle pulling thread La, a note to follow so Ti, a drink with jam and bread And that will bring us back to do, oh, oh, oh Everyone: Do, a dear, a female dear Re, a drop of golden sun Mi, a name I call myself Fa, a long long way to run So, a needle pulling thread La, a note to follow so Ti, a drink with jam and bread And that will bring us back to do, oh, oh, oh, do We were friends. We were supposed to be friends, but the world around us changed. The rules were different. Our surroundings had shifted. It all happened as if overnight while none of us were paying attention. We no longer knew how to relate to each other, and it was all tempered by how very hungry we all were, wandering the city streets in Austria. During my senior year in college, my dear friend Marsha Steiner got engaged to Tomaś Bartulec, a kind Czech man she met while working abroad in Prague. After two years of courting and many flights back and forth between The Czech Republic and Lincoln, Nebraska, he proposed, and together they planned a Christmas wedding in the small town of Trinec, just south of the Polish border. Six of us, of her college friends, got the money together for plane fares to Europe. We borrowed backpacks. We told our families that in lieu of Christmas, we’d be half a world away at the wedding, supporting our friend Marsha, of course. It would be worth the great sacrifice, and a week-long jaunt through Central Europe afterward didn’t hurt. But it’s hard being in a new world. Exciting, exhilarating, yes. The challenge and adventure can be thrilling, yes, but also hard. The six of us had always been friends under the construct of college—dorm rooms, cafeteria halls, admin buildings, computer labs—but who were we without the comfort of familiar surroundings? Jeremy wanted to see cathedrals. Gina wanted to buy shoes. Sissel and Tim had been to Europe before and wanted to meander through nostalgia. Unlike the rest of us, Leslie managed to be a good time wherever she went, and I, like I always want, as I’ve always wanted, longed for a quiet corner to sit, sip something delicious, and watch the world around me. With all that we disagreed on, one of the more difficult things to navigate was that three of us were vegetarians and three of us were not. Perhaps it is different now in 2022, but nearly two decades ago in Central Europe, vegetarian restaurants weren’t easy to come by, and so we ended up eating a lot of pasta. It was the easiest way that we all could share meals together, and we were all getting sick of it. We were beginning to fracture down the middle. It’s been a long three years since we’ve all been together, and the world feels—the world is —different. In this new world, I’ve found myself contemplating the beginning, my first Hutchmoot, over a decade ago now. My friend Ashley had attended before, and when she invited me along and I agreed to go, I asked, as any good Enneagram 6 does, “Is there anything I should think about to prepare?” “People will assume that you believe all the same things they do,” she said. The last three years have been such a palpable reminder of how not true that assumption is. And maybe for some of you, these last few years feel like new territory, but I’ve been brown my whole life. Some of you are women or Asian or differently abled. Even in these crowded halls, even among friends, there are lots of ways someone can feel alone—like a scared nun turned governess for a grieving captain and his seven children. Just three Hutchmoots ago, I was having a conversation with a man, a theology student I’d put in his late 20s, who had just become an Anglican and was in the process of studying to become a priest. “Anglicanism has so much truth,” he said. “I wanted to be aligned with a church that has roots in ancient tradition. ” “Yeah,” I agreed. “I’ve mostly attended evangelical churches, but I just started to go to a liturgical church and have really loved the rhythm of it.” “Sure,” he replied, “but not all liturgical churches are created equal. Anglicanism is not like Catholicism or Episcopalianism which have both gotten so much wrong about God.” At the time I was living in Portland, Oregon, and attending services at an Episcopalian Cathedral. So how do we do this? Because I still believe it’s worth doing, this being in a room together, after everything that has happened—not just in the past three years, but with all of the stories that each of us carries—when so many of us feel so raw, with everything we’ve experienced, with everything we know…with protests and shootings, with masks and vaccines, with embryos and babies, and banned books, with what each of us may feel about the police, or the president, or whether or not Black Lives Matter. Let us make Christianity a place where we recognize the Divinity in one another, that breath, that life, that spark that was first shared with us in Eden. John Cal When I was a kid growing up in Hawaii, I had a Youth Pastor that would often tell us the story of how the word ‘aloha’ came to be. “Before the ancient Hawaiians became a polytheistic society,” she said “they believed in one god, who they called Alo, and ‘Ha’ is the Hawaiian word for breath. So when we say aloha to one another, we are sharing the breath of God.” Similarly, Moses’s recording of the creation story found in the second chapter of Genesis talks about the shared breath of our God: “Then the Lord God formed the man from the dust of the ground.” Sometimes it’s hard to remember that He made us and He called us good. “He breathed the breath of life into the man’s nostrils, and the man became a living person.” This acknowledging of breath happens in so many greetings, so many beginnings when people come together around the world—like the nomadic Bedouins, who greet each other by rubbing noses, or the Maori of Aotearoa who rest their foreheads against each other before sharing a sacred breath. In Greenland, it’s called kunik when you sniff someone you love and then press your nose on their skin to breathe on them, and in Tuvalu, you press your cheeks together and inhale. I even hear hints of this sacred exchange in the meaning of the Sanskrit greeting namaste: that which is divine in me bows to that which is divine in you. It was raining in Austria, that day when our differences came to a head. By that time, many of us weren’t talking much to one another. In the days before Yelp or smartphones or even coffee shops with Wifi, the best we could do was wander the streets looking for something besides pasta to eat. We walked south away from the Danube past restaurant after restaurant that just wouldn’t do. First through Stephansplatz, down Kärntner Straße. We turned east at the opera house. Then a few blocks down, the place on the corner had a big fish on its sign, and all at once and almost instinctively, like when Peter and Andrew were first called by Jesus, we turned inside. I don’t know how we came to a consensus that the place on the corner was acceptable. We didn’t even look at the menu before we went in, but I do know that being out of the rain helped. I honestly can’t remember what anyone else ordered, but I do remember what my supper tasted like. I was so overwhelmed and afraid to try something new. For a moment, I think I may have even believed that it would have just been simpler to have pasta again, a meal that on face value we all believed in enough, but that didn’t really leave anyone satisfied. The waiter helped me order when he saw me panicking with so many choices in front of me. “What does it taste like?” I asked. “Creamy and sharp and a little sweet,” he said. “You might like it.” Isn’t faith the worst? Taking a step into the unknown, believing the assurance that it’s going to be okay, but living in the reality that it might not be. I took a chance on the unknown, the Thom Kha, a Thai soup made with chicken and coconut milk and galangal root; and like so many bowls of soup before—my grandmother’s chicken and rice, my father’s favorite Portuguese bean, bowls of corn chowder shared with friends—it warmed me from the inside. As we sat around the table, as the six of us in our differences shared an intimate space, as we supped and breathed together in this new world, it all became just a little easier. We didn’t have to agree on everything to be friends. We didn’t even have to agree on much. I just had to remember that the person sitting across the table from me was made from the same stuff I was: dust and breath. I get that the room is still heavy with all the things that may divide us, and whether we should or should not talk about race or sex or politics, or even begin to tackle the really polarizing issues like whether or not Princess Leia is a legitimate Disney Princess. I get how hard it is. I get what we are facing tonight as we sit across from each other, as we share in our supper, as we sit across the table not from ideas or beliefs but from real living people. And I am not naïve to believe that a bowl of soup can fix any of that, but I do believe it can help us get to the next step. The ancient Hawaiians understood, as did Moses, and the Bedouins, and the Inuit, and the Maori that the same Divine breath that is in me is also in you. Maybe one day I’ll understand too. Maybe one day, I’ll be counted as a person who shares the breath of God. So after all this time, let us come together. Let us join with the Divine in the ongoing creation of the world. Let us make Christianity a place where we recognize the Divinity in one another, that breath, that life, that spark that was first shared with us in Eden. And if for a moment you forget, when it all becomes just a little too hard, first, take a breath, then remember what you’ve been given from the very beginning. It’s a very good place to start.

by Russ Ramsey Allow me to introduce you to this special Limited Rabbit Room Edition of Rembrandt is in the Wind . I dedicated this book to my art teachers from middle school and high school because they played a formative role in developing my love for art. The Rabbit Room played a similar role in my desire to write.  Back in 2007, I received an email from Andrew Peterson asking if I would like to be part of an online community he was hoping to build—a place, he said, “where you’ll find writings and reviews by artists and appreciators of art, conversations about creation, storytelling, songwriting, and the long journey of becoming who we’re meant to be.” The idea was that we would focus on the kind of art, books, music, film, and ideas we’d recommend to a friend over lunch—just the good stuff. I believe my first articles were about the TV series Band of Brothers and Phil Keaggy’s instrumental masterpiece Beyond Nature . (Good grief, I just went back and reread those two essays from 15 years ago. You can see hints of the newness of the Rabbit Room in those posts, and I can see a young writer trying some things out—some of which I’ve developed over the years and kept, others of which I have moved on from. Such is the way of the writer. You can also find an old relic of a video featuring Stuart Duncan and the Captains Courageous from the recording sessions for Resurrection Letters II —circa 2007—if you follow a link in one of the essays. You’re gonna want to watch that video.) Writing for The Rabbit Room was my first experience with crafting pieces that were intended to be read by a largely anonymous audience. One byproduct of being part of this gathering of writers was that we had the opportunity to help each other develop. We shared early drafts, experimented with style, and received honest feedback. The Rabbit Room is where I first learned about my voice as a writer. Who was I? What did I have to say? How would I go about saying it? This community is where I worked through all of that and so much more early on as I developed in this craft I love so much. Because of this history, I cannot begin to tell you how much it pleases me that Zondervan wanted to do a limited edition of one of my books with The Rabbit Room. How is the Limited Rabbit Room Edition different from the original Zondervan Reflective edition? It is full color throughout with a larger trim size and a lovely blue bookmark ribbon. Also, the team at Zondervan took the time to completely redo the page layout so that they could place all the images I included in line with the text where they are mentioned—no flipping back and forth to the full-color insert in the middle. Finally, it truly is a limited edition. They didn’t print many, and when they’re gone, there will be no second run. So it is with no small amount of gratitude to Andrew and the entire Rabbit Room community that we, together with the fine team at Zondervan Reflective, offer this beautiful limited edition of a book I know I would not have written had it not been for this community. I hope you enjoy it. Click here to order the new limited full-color hardcover edition of Rembrandt Is In The Wind from the Rabbit Room store. Russ Ramsey is the pastor of Christ Presbyterian Church Cool Springs in Nashville, Tennessee, where he lives with his wife and four children. He grew up in the fields of Indiana and studied at Taylor University and Covenant Theological Seminary (MDiv, ThM). Russ is the author of the Retelling the Story Series (IVP, 2018) and Struck: One Christian’s Reflections on Encountering Death (IVP, 2017).

by David Mitchel “ . . . together through ages of the world we have fought the long defeat.” (Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings II. 8.) Of the things most books have in common, I delight especially in dedications. Whether formal, obligatory, funny, or profound, they can reveal much of an author’s temper and, specifically, the spirit in which a book was composed. Wendell Berry’s dedication to his latest collection of Port William stories, How it Went , is as fine an example of this as I have seen. “This book is for Den—who defined my task: ‘How to remember, and why.’” All Berry’s books—essays, poetry, Port William stories—are rich in memory, and the hows and whys of remembering; How it Went particularly so. Told from the point of view of an elderly Andy Catlett, one of the Port William membership’s most articulate storytellers, the book distills the refined and telescopic qualities of well-preserved memories like few others. Like a bottle of wine, a memory will not lie about the land and weather that produced it, but the memory aged fifty years will not be as it was on first impression. It will either gain richness with faithful and judicious storage, or be ruined if abused or neglected. David Mitchel A common modern error about memories is that they exist in two kinds: correct or errant (with the second kind comprising the mistaken and the deliberately tampered with). A human’s mind’s eye, however, is a more sensitive instrument than a camera or microphone. And a memory faithfully preserved may yet change over time, as it nestles into new contexts and resonates with other memories. Like a bottle of wine, a memory will not lie about the land and weather that produced it, but the memory aged fifty years will not be as it was on first impression. It will either gain richness with faithful and judicious storage, or be ruined if abused or neglected. Catlett’s mind proves to be—in How it Went as elsewhere—a cellar full of faithfully stored memories, conveying precisely the conditions in which they were born and adding complex resonances gained through decades of reflection. The fidelity of Catlett’s memories, and the preservation of his memories in writing, is also underscored by their telescopic quality. He can remember how he remembered events as a boy or as a younger man, when the memory was fresh from the vineyard, and reflect on that memory itself through how he remembers as an older man. If you’ve not read any other Berry, or any of the other Port William books, you may be tempted to conclude from what I’ve written thus far that How it Went is so many layers of navel-gazing. Not so; narrator Andy Catlett is a faithful witness of a treasured place and beloved persons. Like all faithful witnesses, he is aware of and accounts for himself, but that is not his object. His object is to convey the essence of the lands and persons he loves. And that brings us to the why of his remembering. Port William, its membership, and the nearby countryside and farms are beautiful and fragile. In them, we see the fragility of beautiful things, and the beauty of fragile things, especially when those things are under threat from the acids of modernity and postmodernity. Keeping the memory of them alive is their only protection, their only hope of forming sound human affections and commitments: Now, in his latter years, Andy knows that [Alvin Coulter’s farm] could not have lasted as he saw it for very long. And by this he understands how fragile it was, how temporary and passing, in the rush of the terrible century in which he and it had so briefly and so lastingly met. For he has never forgotten it. He could not have forgotten it. That day . . . he stood without moving, . . . looking with all his might at the beautifully kept small place that was surely one of the first landmarks or measures of his conscious allegiance, that would never again be far from his thoughts, that no doubt had influenced every right decision he had ever made. (Berry, 28-29.) It is here that the quality of the memory becomes crucial. When a time, a place, and a community have a fragile beauty that makes them dear, it becomes easy to idealize them, then defend them with reactionary anger. Hannah Coulter once had an eschatological vision of a “new Port William coming down from heaven, adorned as a bride for her husband” (Berry, Hannah Coulter, 43.), but the characteristic memory of the Port William membership does not ascribe to Port William an Edenic age stolen by invaders. The fragility of Port William’s beauty under the sun, “in the rush of the terrible century,” colors its memories with sadness. Those in the Port William membership, no less than the Lady Galadriel of Lothlorien, are well aware that they are fighting a long defeat. But in How it Went , that sadness mingles with generous measures of humor and hope, producing an atmosphere not unlike what Alexander Schmemann called “bright sadness.” It is an atmosphere that, if we could once get our heads into it, would never again be far from our thoughts. #WendellBerry David Mitchel is a small-town lawyer who has represented clients in a broad spectrum of causes, ranging from foster care to business transactions to property disputes to the defense of criminal charges to federal habeas corpus and Civil Rights actions. His passion for literature and story, which he caught first from Tolkien, informs all of this work—which requires patient, careful adjudication of competing stories and creativity to help clients and courts write the rest of the story justly and wisely. David was born and raised near Baltimore, Maryland, went to law school at Washington and Lee University in Lexington, Virginia, and now lives in central Virginia with his wife Libby and their two young daughters.

by Leslie E. Thompson Having grown up in a non-liturgical tradition, Advent as a practice is new for me. Though my mama handcrafted beautiful felt nativity-scene Advent calendars for us, we couldn’t control ourselves and always thought the calendar worked best with all the pieces at once. Rearranged. Over and over. She didn’t seem to mind. Then there was the annual Advent candle my grandmother would gift each year–a tradition that sounds warm and delightful but always ended up being a waxy reminder of forgetfulness when we’d have to burn through four days at once. Of course, there was the weekly candle lighting at church–featuring a family carrying a single flame, carefully yet briskly walking down the aisle toward the candles at the altar before the fire went out. Even though I’d been surrounded by Advent, the reality of it as a framework for understanding Christmas didn’t sink in until I was an adult. I’ve grown to appreciate it, especially the practice of assigning themes to each of the weeks; It provides space for processing the complexities of the season. The timeframe from Thanksgiving to the New Year is one of immense joy and celebration, but it brings memories of loved ones lost, reminders of dreams deferred, and longings for things to be made right. It was this dichotomy of celebration and grief that we had in mind when developing the Every Moment Holy Advent journal. We wanted to offer a reminder that the same God who invites you into a celebration will also sit with you on the back porch while you grieve the loss of someone who used to sit in that now-empty chair. The same God who invites you to rejoice, also mourns the loss of your pregnancy. The same God who delights in laughter and jubilant chaos will sit with you in the still of night when social exhaustion overwhelms. God is not threatened by the dark. There is room for all of it during the Advent season, and what better proof than the Messiah himself arriving to live as we live, hurt as we hurt, cry as we cry, and laugh as we laugh? Perhaps this journal will help you embrace that truth as you enter into the coming weeks. The 4-week journal centers on four themes: Hope, Faith, Joy, and Peace. Each theme features a liturgy from the Every Moment Holy series and writing prompts that invite reflection and response. As a pairing to the journal, Doug McKelvey has crafted a Liturgy Writing Guide for the Advent season which can be used as a supplement to the journal or on its own. The journal begins with “A Liturgy to Mark the Start of the Christmas Season”, and we offer it to you here as we welcome the holiday season: A Liturgy to Mark the Start of the Christmas Season LEADER:  As we prepare our house for the coming Christmas season, we would also prepare our hearts for the returning Christ. PEOPLE: You came once for your people, O Lord, and you will come for us again. Though there was no room at the inn to receive you upon your first arrival,  We would prepare you room here in our hearts and here in our home, Lord Christ. As we decorate and celebrate, we do so to mark the memory of your redemptive movement into our broken world, O God. Our glittering ornaments and Christmas trees, Our festive carols, our sumptuous feasts— By these small tokens we affirm that something amazing has happened in time and space— that God, on a particular night, in a particular place, so many years ago, was born to us, an infant King, our Prince of Peace. Our wreaths and ribbons and colored lights, our giving of gifts, our parties with friends— these have never been ends in themselves.  They are but small ways in which we repeat that sounding joy first proclaimed by angels in the skies near Bethlehem. In view of such great tidings of love announced to us, and to all people, how can we not be moved to praise and celebration in this Christmas season?  As we decorate our tree, and as we feast and laugh and sing together,a we are rehearsing our coming joy! We are making ready to receive the one who has already, with open arms, received us! We would prepare you room here in our hearts and here in our home, Lord Christ. Now we celebrate your first coming, Immanuel, even as we long for your return. O Prince of Peace, our elder brother, return soon. We miss you so! Amen. Find the Every Moment Holy Advent Journal and liturgy writing guide at everymomentholy.com/advent .

by Carly Marlys I was at a friend’s house a couple of months ago, and we were sitting around a dinner table talking together when I started to feel sick. I’m allergic to most things, so for a while, I thought the problem was just too much dust or cat hair, but then I started to sweat and my brain clouded over. I couldn’t see straight. I couldn’t hear what the others were saying. My stomach swelled and then my liver and kidneys overloaded; it was all I could do not to double over in pain. I knew what was happening. It had happened many times before. I made my best excuses and got out of the house as fast as I could. Then I just sat in my car, swallowed a handful of pills, and cried. I knew I couldn’t go back to that house, at least not for a long, long time.  I have mold poisoning, which means that I was exposed to mold in houses and apartments over and over until my natural defenses wore away. Black mold toxins entered my bloodstream and settled in my cells. They wormed into my muscles, clogged up my brain, and collected behind my eyes. I’m not sure when it all started, but I do know that there are so many toxins in my body that I can’t be exposed to anymore without my organs and my brain sounding the alarm bells. If there is any type of mold in someone’s house, my body will scream at me until I’m out in the open air again, and I will feel the effects for days or weeks afterward. Over the last five months, I’ve been barred from concerts, game nights, seminars, movie nights, hangouts, and dinners. I’ve taken hundreds of pills and gone to a handful of doctors and tried everything I could think of. I’ve sat in my room, trying to get rest, as my body fights battles and loses them and fights battles and wins them and then fights and loses again. Someday it will get better, but the timeline is uncertain. I hate it. It was hard when it started, the first time my stomach swelled and my head pounded and my body cooked up a fever that never seemed to end. Months later, it’s still just as hard as it was when this whole journey began, except now I’m even more tired. But contrary to how it may seem, this post is not just a lament. It is also a letter of gratitude. About two months ago, my health got significantly worse. It came out of nowhere. I had been doing my best to stay on my feet, to not ask for help, to not need anybody. I was still working full-time and tearing up in bathrooms and behind closed doors where no one could see me. And then, my ability to pretend to be okay ran out. One Sunday morning, I couldn’t get up. I couldn’t take care of myself. It wasn’t safe for me to drive. I sent a voice message to a group of my friends. I didn’t even know what to ask for. I just said I needed help; within hours, they arrived in force. They made me hot tea, cooked me dinner, watched movies with me on the couch, and held me when I started to cry. They were kind and understanding and I had no choice but to lean on them. They got me through that week and I went back to work. I was feverish and fragile but I was making it, until a few nights later when I went to watch a friend play piano. The moment I walked into the building, I could tell that I wasn’t supposed to be there. The air was thick and close. The walls were tattered and tired and oozing mold. I tried to stand near a window, stay away from the walls and the air conditioning units, anything to allow me to stay there. Instead, within 20 minutes, I could feel my organs betraying me and I had to leave. That little bit of mold was the last straw. I called my parents the next day. I was too sick to live on my own. I bought a plane ticket, packed a bag, and then sat on the floor of my bathroom and cried. I went to tell my friends and cried some more. I told them I was angry, that I was tired of this thing running my life. I told them I had stopped praying because asking God to fix it just made me angry. Every time I asked for healing, he told me no. They prayed with me and held me, and when I went home they sent me letters and called me to make sure I was okay. When I returned to Nashville, they were here to welcome me back. My friends and my family gave me hope. I’ve lost hope again since then. I lose hope about once a week now, and every time when I run out of energy and I can’t face it by myself, my family and friends are there. Although there are rooms I can’t walk into and times I am frustrated and exhausted, they have loved me, and it has helped me hold together. More than that, it has made me realize that while I am not yet healed from mold poisoning, I may be healing from the need to do everything on my own. If I were perfectly well and capable, if I could cook for myself, if I could keep my heart calm and hope for healing in a vacuum, maybe I wouldn’t recognize my need for community. But I’ve found healing through the presence and prayers of those around me. Because I was struggling, I was forced to reach for help, and when I did, some hands reached back.  I’m not grateful for all of it. Maybe someday I will be, but right now, I can’t see the ending. There isn’t an easy path forward, at least one I can see, and that’s okay. I’m telling a hard and beautiful story, one in which I’m still in the middle. I’m not going to say that I am grateful for the pain and the exhaustion. Nor am I going to say how I’ve learned how to need people and recognize my limits and that I’m glad that this physical evidence of darkness found its way into my body. If I’m honest, I am still angry. I’m angry at the time I’ve lost and have yet to lose. Yet at the same time, I have never felt more loved in my life. Evil is not meant to be fought alone. Darkness cannot be pushed back with a fragile pair of hands. I thought I was strong enough to keep trudging along on my own, but I’m not and that is a blessed realization. If I had never run out of my own prayers, I would’ve never asked others to pray for me. If I had never run out of energy and willpower, I would’ve never asked others to walk beside me. I have been told all my life that I am not meant to walk through life on my own strength. I have been told to lean on God and others, yet I have always smiled and nodded and tried to forge on alone. That is until I couldn’t, until I was forced to recognize my limits and forced to let those who love me fill in the gaps. And in between the tears and the pills and the wondering, I am thankful.

by Caitlin Coats This Thanksgiving we are reminded that the past two years have robbed us of many feasts with friends. With so much lost, it reminds us anew of the importance of gathering together. Wherever you find yourself this year, we invite you to remember with us that “nothing good and true and right will be lost forever. All good things will be restored.” To that end, we offer you this liturgy from Every Moment Holy . A Liturgy for Feasting with Friends Leader: To gather joyfully is indeed a serious affair, for feasting and all enjoyments gratefully taken are, at their heart, acts of war. People: In celebrating this feast we declare that evil and death, suffering and loss, sorrow and tears, will not have the final word. But the joy of fellowship, and the welcome and comfort of friends new and old, and the celebration of these blessings of food and drink and conversation and laughter are the true evidences of things eternal, and are the first fruits of that great glad joy that is to come and that will be unending. So let our feast this day be joined to those sure victories secured by Christ. Let it be to us now a delight, and a glad foretaste of his eternal kingdom. Bless us, O Lord, in this feast. Bless us, O Lord, as we linger over our cups, And over tables laden with good things, as we relish the delights of varied texture and flavor, Of aromas and savory spices, Of dishes prepared as acts of love and blessing, Of sweet delights made sweeter by the communion of saints. May this shared meal, and our pleasure in it, bear witness against the artifice and deceptions of the prince of the darkness that would blind this world to hope. May it strike at the root of the lie that would drain life of meaning, and the world of joy, and suffering of redemption. May this our feast fall like a great hammer blow against that brittle night, Shattering the gloom, reawakening our hearts, stirring our imaginations, focusing our vision On the kingdom of heaven that is to come On the kingdom that is promised On the kingdom that is already, indeed, among us, For the resurrection of all good things has already joyfully begun. May this feast be an echo of that great supper of the Lamb, and a foreshadowing of the great celebration that awaits the children of God. Where two or more of us are gathered, O Lord, there you have promised to be And here we are And so, here are you. Take joy, O King, in this our feast. Take joy, O King! Leader: All will be well! Participants then take up the cry: All will be well! Nothing good and right and true will be lost forever. All good things will be restored. Feast and be reminded! Take joy, little flock. Take joy! Let battle be joined! Let battle be joined! Now you who are loved by the Father, prepare your hearts and give yourselves wholly to this celebration of joy, to the glad company of saints, to the comforting fellowship of the Spirit, and to the abiding presence of Christ who is seated among us both as our host and as our honored guest, and still yet as our conquering king. Amen. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, take seat, take feast, take delight!

by April Pickle I was no artist. Even when I was little, I didn’t paint pictures, I painted lines. I have laughed to cover my shame about it for most of my life. I was four years old when I stood at an easel and painted a page full of green in nursery school. I didn’t paint the sun or a tree or a rainbow. I painted green. Green lines. All green lines. Green line after green line until the page was full. Of course, I was thinking about art and artists in the days leading up to Hutchmoot. I was retelling my soul that it’s okay to go, even if I’m not an artist. And yes, I know that “Everybody’s a Creative” . But let’s face it: some folks, like Monet, paint The Poppy Field, Near Argenteuil, while others, like me, paint boring green lines. So back in October, when I was mulling over which childhood memory I could write about for Jonathan Rogers ’ Pre-Hutchmoot writing class, I couldn’t think of anything to write about, at first. But after typing “I can’t think of a memory to write about,” and staring for a while out the window at the hackberry trees, still green in October, I remembered again those green lines in nursery school. But this time, instead of making fun of myself for being embarrassingly uncreative, I let the memory sit down and talk to me. This time, I paid attention. This time, I listened. This time, I focused on that four-year-old girl, standing at the easel. I watched her, and she surprised me. She smiled as she painted. She wasn’t the least bit ashamed that she was painting green lines instead of an animal or a flower or a tree. She took joy in lifting and lowering, lifting and lowering a brush full of green. She was downright proud of those lines she was making. She loved her painting. I probed my memory for more explanation. I typed questions: Who was this four-year-old girl? Where did she come from? How did she end up at the nursery school in the first place? A year and a half before, her father (my father), had relocated our family from Texas to a little town in Tennessee called Dickson. This move was traumatic. It tore my older sister and me away from our grandparents—Mom and Pop, who, since our births, had cared for us while our parents were at work. Mom and Pop were farmers. My sister says that she rode on a tractor with Mom. She says I rode on a tractor with Pop. I don’t remember the tractors, but I’ve always been particularly fond of my Pop. I typed more questions. “What did the tractor look like? What about the land?” I pictured an old rusty tractor. I pictured a hard metal seat. I pictured little towheaded me, in front of my grandfather, underneath a big Texas sky. Then I remembered the peanuts. When I was little, my grandparents farmed peanuts. I remember the smell. I remember piles of peanuts stacked in burlap sacks on the back side of their house, in an area they called the breezeway. Surely, I would have ridden the tractor when Mom and Pop were harvesting peanuts. From that seat in front of Pop, I would have been looking out at a field full of peanut plants, growing in the sun. I stopped typing questions. I summoned Google, typed “peanuts growing in a field,” and clicked on the Images tab. My jaw dropped. My eyes teared up. The field was green. Green, green, green. Rows and rows of green. No wonder I painted green lines with such pride. I painted rows of green because I loved rows of green. I painted rows of green because I loved riding on the tractor with my grandfather. I had seen that field, not from a side road or from a television show, but from the middle of the Texas prairie, from the top of the tractor, next to my grandfather. I had been an eyewitness. How much I must have missed my grandfather. But with an easel in front of me and a paintbrush in my hand, I had found a way to feel closer to him. I had found a way to feel closer to the peanut farm. I had painted with creativity. I had painted with imagination. I had been an artist. I am not ashamed of that painting anymore. April Pickle lives in North Texas with five other human Pickles and two Pickle dogs.

by Elly Anderson Defining the Rabbit Room is not the shortest or simplest of endeavors. I’ve learned this over the past year and a half when catching up with loved ones and sharing about my life here in Nashville. Though I know many dread giving the “work update” to friends and family during the holiday season, it’s a delight for me. I start by telling them about the Eagle and Child pub in Oxford, how writers like Tolkien and Lewis used to delight in creative collaboration and community in one of the rooms in the back called the Rabbit Room. I watch as the wheels start turning in their heads, laboring in part confusion but also intrigue. I then venture into a long-winded description of all the things we get to do here—Local Shows and podcasts, Fika and Hutchmoot, book releases, and theatrical premieres—and I watch as their facial expressions reflect pure joy. Something I love about the Rabbit Room is that it cannot be simply tied together with a red bow. There is no easy sentence that sums up all the goodness we get to be a part of or the feeling of seeing it take root in the world. It’s not just a place, a conference, a podcast hub, a bookstore, or a community. Instead, it’s many things wrapped in ribbons of red, blue, yellow, orange, turquoise, and perhaps periwinkle—things that are created and to celebrate the one true Creator himself. Whether you’ve been a long-time lover of the Rabbit Room or you’re reading the blog for the first time, I ask you to take a step in learning more about what it means to become a Rabbit Room member. Whether it’s a lecture night here at the Manor, a new press title, a blog post, a play like The Hiding Place , or staff support, membership deeply impacts our everyday needs as an organization and breathes life into our works and events. By making a recurring monthly donation of $25/month or more, you’re joining a community that speaks into the work of this place and nourishes Christ-centered communities for the life of the world. As a thank you, our Rabbit Room members receive various updates, opportunities, and gifts like the Hutchmoot Archives and the Member mug. If this speaks to you, I encourage you to join the team and partner in this mission with us. And if you’re already on board, we’re glad you’re here!

by Chris Slaten Providence, which has ordered all things and is deeply interested in our life, has set in most perfect order by giving us [Caesar] Augustus, whom she filled with virtue that he might benefit humankind, sending him as a savior, both for us and for our descendants, that he might end war and arrange all things […] The birthday of the god Augustus was the beginning of the good tidings for the world that came by reason of him. [9 BC] The text above is from a stone inscription celebrating the birthday of Caesar Augustus, though the language is eerily familiar to modern churchgoers heading into the Christmas season. The good tidings of a savior, one who ends war and arranges all things, presents the gospel of an emperor who is no longer thought of in quite this light. So much of that has to do with the way each of these phrases is defined. How is this good news for countries of his conquest? For his political enemies? Caesar’s peace, Pax Romana, will come by sword. This is especially true of the name Augustus, which can be translated as something like “The Great One,” a name he took on as he rose to power which had far more inspirational appeal than his given name, Octavian, number eight. According to the verbs summarizing his life in Wikipedia , Augustus was, by most definitions, pretty great. After a reign of expanding, reforming, establishing, conquering, developing, restoring, and making it so that we say his name the eighth month of every year, he died at 75 of natural causes and was declared a Roman god. Boom. Well done. Cover art for “The Great One” by Josh Green. As part of the advertising of the time, his chosen name was ubiquitous on the sculptures, coins, and tablets of his domain with an intent to inspire and unite his people. It is in this context that Jesus holds up a coin that likely says something like “The Great One: Son of God” and says, “Render to Caesar what is Caesar’s.” He doesn’t have to correct it, because his definition of those phrases is entirely different. He will redefine Messiah in a way that does not require an army to overthrow the government, and what it means to be truly great will be forever inverted. Several years ago Travis Hutchinson, the chaplain of the school where I teach, preached on that fascinating juxtaposition between the language that surrounded Augustus and Christ, and the song that I am sharing today was my way of working out those ideas in the weeks that followed. I’ve shared it at house shows and churches (and Hutchmoot!) for years with just my guitar, but I am especially excited today to share a fuller version of it. “The Great One” is out today on all music platforms. P.S. Special thanks to Andy Crouch for sharing the Priene Calendar Inscription with me over a Hutchmoot meal back in 2018. You can listen to Son of Laughter’s newest song, “The Great One,” below on YouTube. You can add it to your Christmas playlists here on Spotify or on Apple Music . The Great One He was just another number, Octavian, number eight, but the emperor inside him knew his name was not his fate. So he changed it to Augustus, The Great One, The Highest, so that Caesar, Son of God, would be the star that burned the brightest. He would be… The Great One! The Great One! His people would proclaim his name above all names: The Great One. He spoke chaos into order by edict and decree. He fortified new borders and preserved prosperity. Then he made of marble what had been made of clay, so his hand would span the centuries and even to today. All people who opposed him were crushed or put to flight, and the Peace of Rome filled every home by military might. He was… The Great One! The Great Ons! A man above all men with a kingdom without end. The Great One! The Great One! His people would proclaim his name above all names: The Great One. So when he counted up his people like money on the table two nobodies from nowhere looked for shelter in a stable, and the homeless hearts within them burned for a better day, while the brightest star was burning for their baby down in the hay. He would be… The Weak One. The Poor One. The Suffering One. The Scorned One. The Guilty One. The Foolish One. The Forsaken One. The Slain One. The Blameless One. The Faithful One. The Loved One. The True One. The Mighty One. The Merciful One. The Risen One. The New One. The Highest King who came to take upon our shame. A Man above all men with a Kingdom without end. His people would proclaim His Name above all names: The Great One! The Great One! The Great One! #semifeature Singer-songwriter Chris Slaten releases music under the name Son of Laughter. His most recent recording, No Story Is Over, was made possible by the generosity of listeners who hosted and attended his house and church shows across the country. He’s currently working on a musical about the life of Jacob, though he spends most of his time teaching high school literature in Chattanooga, TN, where he lives with his wife, Lyndsay, and their two delightful children.

by Pete Peterson I’ve been watching The Wingfeather Saga come together since the beginning and I’m so glad that today the public finally gets to see what the animation team has been up to. Tonight, episode one will be available to everyone everywhere via the Angel Studios app. [ Apple Store | Android ] Fangs? Maggotloaf? Igibys? Dragons? Songs? Books? Crannies? It’s all here, and over the next few weeks we’re getting three episodes, followed by the final three episodes of season one this February. Andrew and the team have taken a long road to get here and they are joined by a crazy-talented cast and crew that make up a who’s-who list of movies and animation. After seeing what they’ve done with these first few episodes, those who have read the books will be chomping at the bit to see what the team can do once the series gets into the epic territory that comes later. Fork factory? Ice Prairies? Green Hollows? Throg? Anniera? Yes, please. If you enjoy the show and want to support it and help seasons 2-7 happen, use the app to pay it forward (just like many of you have done with The Chosen ) and check out the merch store at the link below. Merch is one of the biggest ways you can support the show in a long-term way and they’ve got some really cool stuff available . Huge congrats to Andrew and the team. This is an enormous accomplishment—and it’s just the beginning. #semifeature

by Pete Peterson Wayne Garvey is a retired Methodist pastor, a neighbor, and a dear friend who leads the Rabbit Room team in prayer each Monday morning. I’m not sure exactly when he started showing up, but over the last few years he’s become a fixture around North Wind Manor and things don’t seem complete without him anymore. We’ve even adopted him as the unofficial Rabbit Room chaplain and have dubbed him the “Grandrabbit.” Wayne is always a delight to have in the room, but I especially appreciate the care he takes in writing a unique prayer for us as we start each week. He’s a wonderful writer and his kindness, care, and love for all of us (and all of you) come through loud and clear in his words. So this year, we asked him to turn his talents to writing these five prayers for Rabbit Room readers around the world. The first is a prayer for those who are lonely during the holiday season. The second and third are for the wrapping and opening of gifts, with the latter meant to be read around the tree on Christmas morning. And the final two are for the end of an old year and the beginning of a new one. We hope these prayers of Wayne’s lead you into and out of the Christmas season with hope and joy. Merry Christmas from all of us to all of you. A Prayer for One Sitting in Loneliness A Prayer for the Wrapping of Christmas Gifts A Prayer Before the Giving of Christmas Gifts A Prayer for the Ending of a Year A Prayer for the Beginning of a Year Pete Peterson is the author of the Revolutionary War adventure The Fiddler’s Gun and its sequel Fiddler’s Green. Among the many strange things he’s been in life are the following: U.S Marine air traffic controller, television editor, art teacher and boatwright at the Florida Sheriffs Boys Ranch, and progenitor of the mysterious Budge-Nuzzard. He lives in Nashville with his wife, Jennifer, where he's the Executive Director of the Rabbit Room and Managing Editor of Rabbit Room Press.

by Joe Sutphin I’ve never considered intelligence to be the defining factor in the acts and processes of making art. I’ve never once thought to myself, “Human artists could finally be supplanted if there were just something else out there with enough intelligence.” Humans are intelligent, and there is a high level of intelligence required in order to process artistic concepts and overcome the various challenges presented by any artistic medium. But to me, art has always been an extension of the person making it—the result, in part, of their personality and individuality, their hopes, fears, love, brokenness, spiritual nature, sense of longing, joy, passions. Intelligence is certainly a key factor in being able to process these inner feelings and senses, and then employ them in the act of making art. But intelligence alone does not produce art. Art is built upon the whole of the human experience. If you aren’t aware, AI art has become a very complicated and contested topic within the visual arts community. Not too many months ago, Artificial Intelligence image generators became available to the public. These generators allow any user to type descriptors into them, describing any form of image they would like to see created. The generator, loaded full of countless images found throughout the internet, essentially follows the specifics of the text prompt and then contrives several variations of an image. As users start to learn the quirks and better descriptors, they can refine their prompt vocabulary to get even better results. Then by tactfully refining result options down, over and over, users can come to some very striking imagery. But the generator/software is not able to come up with images from a blank slate no matter how intelligent its artificial intelligence seems. The machine has no “life experience”. AI possesses no memories of a life lived. Instead, the entirety of mankind’s digital record of visual art is fed into the AI generator, which then fuels this new virtual technology, and all done without the consent of millions of human creators, deceased or living. And the person typing the prompts into these generators does not need to have any artistic ability whatsoever. The results are impressive. AI image generation is still growing and is the equivalent of a rampant, unruly toddler who is about to transition into a fully functioning facsimile of an adult. But when I look into its eyes, I find it has no soul. Yet if there’s no soul, why do I care so much? Why does this concern me? It’s concerning because the technology is actually producing very impressive results, and it’s only just now getting its legs under it. The results, in some cases, are so impressive that, when used effectively, it can pass as true artwork made by human hands. Untrained eyes will be convinced of what they see in many cases. And as technology advances, the lines between AI and true art will begin to visibly blur together until they are indistinguishable. We start to enter a world of art inundated with imagery, yet devoid of humanity. Are we entering an era where the artist is no longer a central component in the creation of new art? Joe Sutphin As AI generators were first heavily explored earlier this year, the imagery being generated and shared was oftentimes outlandish in nature. Some of the trends being explored leaned into an otherworldly vision of sci-fi and fantasy that felt garish and preposterous. Envision, if you can, an endless plethora of Baroque-informed, sprawling dreamscapes of lattice-weave mountains, seemingly composed of crystalized spider silk, jutting from a formless darkness and jarringly interrupted by ominous, vaguely familiar yet somehow ambiguous shapes and forms of cloaked figures, birthed out of the chiaroscuro of undefined fire and fog—all as if it were painted by some ghostly, spectral amalgam of Rembrandt, Casper David Friedrich, Christopher Nolan, and Alan Lee. But as the months have passed, the growing community of AI image generator users has continued to fine-tune the terminology being used, and the results are sometimes frighteningly deceptive. It’s imperceptible to the majority of the public at the moment, but AI imagery is already being dropped into articles, and used in visual development. Somewhere, someone is being paid some amount of money to input pertinent verbiage into an AI generator in order to quickly create attractive images to aid text or inspire creative development for larger projects. At some small rate, there are definitely freelance art jobs that are no longer available to artists at beginner and intermediate levels in publishing. I believe that will become a trend in periodical publishing, and in some publishing for print. In the film industry, set, environment, costume, and character designers will have new competition for freelance jobs now that comparable images can be generated in a fraction of the time, and not at the cost of a team of traditional artists. Given enough time, Google image searches for specific artists could easily become a swamp of visual misinformation, making it a daunting task to truly know which results are actually the work of the artist being searched for, or simply part of the myriad of mashed-up or emulated AI forgeries. Today, everyday people are regularly generating incredible images through AI generators such as Dall-E 2, Stable Diffusion, and Midjourney among the most popular. Anyone with access to the correct artistic terminology, descriptors, and metadata can type a sequence of these words into a text field, click a button, and the image generator begins cutting years off of your road to an original work of art. With enough experience and savvy, the right person entering those words can cut that artistic journey—not in half, but by generations. With no natural talent or practical artistic skill at all, one can prompt an AI generator to create unique combinations of artistic components that our eyes instantly recognize as fine art. As viewers, we’re taken aback by this image that feels so familiar and effective, and that person never had to learn or attempt anything other than to type in the correct words. However impressive AI art is to take part in and to look at, many who are working in visual arts are desperately speaking out against AI imagery generators that are beginning to threaten their livelihood and their artistic identity. I’ve personally come across artists who have discovered AI imagery that was made by pulling from their own portfolio of work, creating images that mimic that artist’s style, aesthetic, medium, and subject matter but with none of the personal sacrifice and hard work. All across social media, working artists are echoing a sentiment that AI generators are now stealing from entire generations of artistic individuals. For ages, artists have taken pains in solving complex artistic processes in order to express their unique inner artistic concepts. The first human who conceived of creating an image for the purpose of instruction, record-keeping, or enjoyment, had to contemplate how to utilize the tools and materials readily available to them. Each subsequent creator of artistic imagery then worked their powerful minds and hands to refine those raw materials into tools and processes. They then experimented with new materials in order to devise new tools and processes. This slow and meaningful game of artistic leapfrog has continued throughout mankind’s chain of artistic growth. Figuratively speaking, while one artist is bent over their work, pouring their blood, sweat, and tears onto the page, the next artist gleans insight while peering over their shoulder. That artist then leaps forward, making something new from a mixture of their own personal experience and creativity and the inspiration and information they drew from those who came before them. There have always been measurable leaps in visual art, but Immeasurable risks were taken, countless failures endured, and lessons learned and passed forward through instruction, admiration, and inspiration. A price was paid. Art was earned. The sacrifice of an artist standing over their work, exposing their inner selves, trading away days, months, and years of life in order to bring something new into the world and connect with another living being is a true factor in why art has always held a sacred place in society. Are we entering an era where the artist is no longer a central component in the creation of new art? Is art at large still enjoyable if it all was generated by artificial intelligence? Personally, as I look at new art, I inevitably ponder who must have made it and what they were reaching for. What is their story? The artists themselves matter to me. At times, I have scrolled through the Midjourney hashtag on Instagram scrolling through post after post of truly impressive AI baroque/chiaroscuro/sci-fi/high fantasy imagery. Now and then I’ll visit the account of the person who made a particular AI post and then scroll back through that user’s account. More than a few times, I’ve scrolled through months worth of AI images, posted at a seemingly frantic rate of inspiration. Post after post of various iterations on the same types of heavy fantasy-driven images, and then suddenly, as if the account had been hacked by another user altogether, I’ll hit an abrupt moment where they posted their last honest attempt at making traditional art. Oftentimes, it was a post showing a genuine effort to figure out some process in acrylic or watercolor, with plenty of apparent struggle but plenty of effort to try and figure their way through their limitations. Then they came across an AI generator like Midjourney, and like some dark magic, artistic imagery beyond what they could reach just yet became attainable in minutes. End of artistic process. End of their personal artistic growth, mid-journey . How horribly ironic. There’s something truly unholy about it all in my eyes. By “unholy” I don’t mean to imply demonic . If you take a moment to contemplate what makes art a sacred and holy thing, then consider AI prompt-generated imagery and its purpose and uses, it’s unnatural, unholy. Part of what makes making art holy is that it’s real work by real people, contemplating and solving and overcoming limitations to create an image that didn’t exist before, and now does because a portion of life was traded away in order to bring the art to life. But there is no true reward in art making without the risk of failure. Artists that endure failure learn from it in order to grow, and then they try again with new insight. Joe Sutphin My heart behind writing this is that readers will become aware of what is taking place, and continue to lift up, celebrate and draw attention to real art made by real humans. I’m passionate about this topic because making art is emotionally, mentally, and physically hard work. We call it artwork . We take time out of our lives to visit museums and gaze at works of art. We describe the painstaking details in works of art. That very word describes hard work: painstaking, taking pains. Art-making is a true struggle. It requires strenuous effort, demands we make sacrifices, and dares us to take risks in order to receive the rewards. But there is no true reward in art making without the risk of failure. Artists that endure failure learn from it in order to grow, and then they try again with new insight. Making artwork is working and striving to make something new and beautiful because it’s good. And it honors God when we work hard and become disciplined in a craft in order to make something good. My prayer is that humans will continue to desire to risk ruining their clothes with paint splatter, risk cutting their thumbs with a spoon gouge, risk spending too much money to find just the right quality of paper, risking the loss of sleep on a work night because they’re on the verge of an artistic breakthrough because it’s good. Because it’s a life lived well. Because the process contains and the product conveys the stories of the ones behind the work. Genesis 2:15 says that God put the man he made into the garden to “ work” and to keep it. I’ve learned that the Hebrew term used in that verse, avad , has multiple meanings and uses. It does mean to work and to labor , but it can also frequently mean to perform acts of worship. The very first directive God gave the man he created was to physically work in order to tend the earth. This act also honored God as an act of worship. Making art can certainly be an act of worship. One of the ways in which we humans can bring glory to our Creator is by using the gifts He gave us in order to create new things, to make something good to uplift and be enjoyed by others. God is honored by it. But If mankind can manage to completely remove the work from artwork, what is left? If our own hands no longer skillfully manipulate brushes loaded with paint, press and mold clay into thoughtful forms, or scratch a pen nib around the pages of a sketchbook, what was gained by the shortcut? If the process involved in the creation of artistic imagery no longer costs anything, wasn’t something still of value still traded away? If art will simply exist because we tell it to, in the end, who or what was worshiped? Who or what was honored?

by Jamin Still If someone were to ask me, “What is it you’re trying to do with your creative work?” I think I would say, “I want to give hope, but acknowledge hardship.” Growing up in the church, I hated the pat answers to life’s complicated questions. (Think, “Everything happens for a reason,” or “One day it’ll all make sense.”) These answers weren’t necessarily wrong, but they were often accompanied by a failure to acknowledge or engage real bewilderment or doubt being experienced in the present. Answers like these were meant to give hope, but at the same time they dismissed real pain. Or worse, these kinds of answers communicated that to acknowledge struggle somehow revealed that you were rejecting hope. If our hardship isn’t acknowledged, hope is a disconnected thing that means little to us. Jamin Still That never seemed right to me and I know now that it  wasn’t  right. Jesus offered hope, yes, but only after he waded into pain. If our hardship isn’t acknowledged, hope is a disconnected thing that means little to us. And so that’s what I try to do in my creative work: give hope, but also acknowledge hardship. In my narrative paintings I’ll often paint an individual (usually a child) going on a difficult quest, but carrying a lantern or going toward the light in the distance. These images are meant to meet the viewers where they are, to say to them, “Yes, this is hard, but it’s worth doing. It might be the hardest thing in the world, and it might not make sense, but there is something to walk toward.” Here’s a piece I’m working on now: Five children hunting a creature in the forest. It’s an adventure, yes, but there’s fear there, there’s doubt, there’s danger. The children, though, are together, and in the distance there is daylight. Hope and hardship are twined together. Two years ago I put out a collection of short stories . Those 12 stories feature characters who are dealing with some heavy things: grief, loneliness, self-doubt. While writing the stories I resisted the urge to fix those characters. I wanted to very much. One boy had lost his parents to a plague and I wanted to bring in someone to tell him, “Everything’s going to be all right.” But I couldn’t, because to do that would be dishonest, or at the very least, it wouldn’t acknowledge his pain. So I brought in a character who offered hope, but who also sat with him in his pain and said something to the effect of, “This is going to take a while. And even then it will never be the same.  You  will never be the same. But there is a way forward.” He offered hope, but didn’t dismiss the boy’s hardship. I’m wrapping up a novel this winter, a follow-up to that collection. Some of the characters are fleshed out more in this story. As the story has advanced, I’ve continued to wrestle with how to write honestly about the difficult experiences of my characters. It’s not easy, but I’d rather do it poorly than not at all. I think about the kids out there who are like I was, who cling to hope, but also want their struggles to be acknowledged for what they are: hard and sometimes impossible to understand. I write for them, hoping that they will feel seen and that in being seen, their hope will be that much richer. Stories have kindled Jamin Still ’s imagination since he was small. As a child he drew and painted and dreamed, and the power of those things in his life never diminished. He went on to study painting in college and now he paints and writes for a living. Jamin works and lives in a little stone house with his wife and three young children in Wichita, Kansas.

by Matt Conner On 18–21 May 2023, the Rabbit Room will convene the third Hutchmoot UK at The Hayes Conference Centre, Swanwick, Derbyshire. You’re invited to come and enjoy a weekend of live music, delicious food and conversation, and a series of discussions centred on art, faith, and the telling of great stories across a range of mediums. New this year is that our tickets are all-inclusive , covering the conference plus FULL-BOARD ACCOMMODATION (all meals and a bed) . Please see The Hayes’ website for a look at the lovely venue. This has the huge benefit that, once you’ve bought a ticket, you won’t need to worry about finding accommodation or paying for breakfast and lunch extra, or travel to and from the venue, like we did in Oxford. Your ticket covers everything you’ll need. Note that we are unable to offer refunds under any circumstances, but you can transfer your ticket to someone else if you later find you cannot attend. BURSARY PLACES – We have a very limited number of bursary places available to those in significant financial need. For more information on bursary places, please email info.hmuk@gmail.com . There will be a short form to fill out, and we will get back to you as soon as possible with an answer. * Please note – you do not need to book a ticket if you are applying for a bursary place – we have reserved some spaces. If your application is not successful for a bursary, we will ensure you can still purchase a ticket through the usual website if you wish to do so.  Click here to purchase your tickets! Matt Conner is a former pastor and church planter turned writer and editor. He’s the founder of Analogue Media and lives in Indianapolis.

by the Rabbit Room Staff Welcome to Favorites Week here at the Rabbit Room. For the next few days, we will be detailing some of our favorite finds of the last calendar year in the form of Recommended Reading, Recommended Listening, and Recommended Viewing. This year, we thought we’d separate things a bit to allow each category to shine on its own, and we polled some of the Rabbit Room staff and contributors for their answers. Check back later in the week for some of our favorite albums, podcasts, TV shows, and movies. For now, however, here is our Recommended Reading, a list of books that captivated and challenged us in 2022. Read on and let us know your own recommendations in the comments! Elly Anderson Liturgy of the Ordinary: Sacred Practices in Everyday Life by Tish Harrison Warren is a beautifully written reminder to see God in all moments and cherish the simple rituals of our faith. The Inheritance Games (Book #1 of The Inheritance Games) by Jennifer Lynn Barnes is engaging on every account. This YA novel checked all the boxes. If you loved the film Knives Out and consider yourself a fan of love triangles, you’ll devour this book! On the Edge of the Dark Sea of Darkness (Book #1 of The Wingfeather Saga) on Audiobook is too good not to mention. The audiobook is particularly enjoyable because I get to hear Andrew bring the book to life! So fun. Cynthia Bennett My oldest son hiked 400 miles of the Camino de Santiago last year by himself, and my husband joined him for the last 100 miles. Since I couldn’t participate in person, I looked for books to read and videos to watch about this pilgrimage. I stumbled upon the book, I’ll Push You . It’s an amazing story of friendship and perseverance as one friend literally pushes another friend with disabilities on the entire 500-mile journey. You also get to see how strangers will rally around when there is a need, as this goal could not have been accomplished without the help of strangers on the same journey. Ron Block The Poldark Series by Winston Graham. I’m currently in book five of this sweeping story set in Cornwall on the southern coast of England in the late 1700s. Ross Poldark is often heroic, but his passionate nature can sometimes have him impulsive, quick-tempered, and selfish. He creates many of his own problems. Main themes are sin, loss, redemption, and grace, and of course, there are mature themes/immoral actions by some of the characters (you know, yeah, kind of like real life). Fiction should open our empathy, show us the beauty of good and the ugliness of evil (complicated though it all may be), and give us food for thought. “In reading I become a thousand men and yet remain myself,” says C.S. Lewis. Poldark delivers. Sarah Bramblett I found myself giving away Emily Oster’s data-driven books ( Cribsheet and Expecting Better ) about as often as I give away Every Moment Holy . Oster’s newsletter and Instagram offer refreshing relief that value a parent’s ability to gather information and make decisions. Sticking with the social media thread, for a charming Christmas treat, I recommend Humans of New York’s recent interview with Santa . Leslie Bustard Although I really do love words, books, and reading, this year I found it hard to finish most books I started—even if I was enjoying them. But there were a few that I did stick with. The Soul of Desire: Discovering the Neuroscience of Longing, Beauty, and Community by Curt Thompson, MD helped me make even more sense of my life as I have been talking with God about it over the past few years with cancer. I loved how Curt discussed beauty in our lives and that God not only desires to create beauty in our lives but also with us out in the world. His conversation about shame, our longing to be seen, secure, safe, and soothed, as well as the role of imagination (in our ability to hope for good in our future) has been really illuminating and helpful — for me and also for how I seek to care for my loved ones, knowing they too struggle and need the light of hope to overcome the shadows they face. I really loved reading You Bring the Distance Near by Mitali Perkins and Luci Shaw’s new book of poetry Angels Everywhere . Ned Bustard Obviously, The Lost Tales of Sir Galahad was the best book of 2022. If anyone suggests any book besides that one, they are ill-informed and have no taste in books at all. Other books I enjoyed this year include Wild Things and Castles in the Sky: A Guide to Choosing the Best Books for Children, The City for God: Essays Honoring the Work of Timothy Keller , and 33: Reflections on the Gospel of Saint John . But if I have to choose books in which I had no part in their creation, I would highly recommend Russ Ramsey’s Rembrandt Is in the Wind : Learning to Love Art through the Eyes of Faith , A Journey of Sea and Stone by Tracy Balzer, and Richard Osman’s The Thursday Murder Club (and its sequel, too—it might even be better than the first book). Finally, (and I know this may seem like illegal insider trading, but…) looking ahead to 2023 I can tell you that you are going to LOVE Ordinary Saints: Living Everyday Life to the Glory of God and Why We Create: Reflections on the Creator, the Creation, and Creating . John Cal From a conversation with a stranger on the street, I found out about the book Facing The Mountain by Daniel James Brown (best-selling author of The Boys in the Boat ) which chronicles Japanese-American internment and patriotism during WWII. Growing up in Hawaii, now living in the Pacific Northwest, and attending college in the midwest much of the geography and communities Brown describes are familiar and within living memory of my parents and grandparents. It was a compelling and difficult read, and helped me to examine the questions “Am I American enough?” and “How do we decide who does and who does not belong?” Kevan Chandler Jack Zulu and the Waylanders Key has been blowing my mind lately! I’m thoroughly enjoying it. S.D. Smith and his son Josiah (J.C.) knock it out of the park with their first collaborative project. Their understanding of friendship and adventure is on par with that of The Princess Bride , The Sandlot , and Stranger Things . Can’t recommend it enough! Caitlin Coats Gentle and Lowly: The Heart of Christ for Sinners and Sufferers voiced so many thoughts and doubts that I often believe and melted them away one by one with God’s gentle words of love. Mark Geil Russ Ramsey’s Rembrandt is in the Wind is such a gift. Foremost, the book is a knowledgeable companion that helps you understand and appreciate the work of a diverse set of artists. But more than that, it lifts a veil and allows you to understand the humanity and soul of each one. I loved the book so much that I spent two months teaching through it. Jason Gray I’ve been trying to include books that differ from my perspective—y’know, to try to see the world through different sets of eyes and escape my own prejudices and assumptions. That can mean reading someone more conservative or progressive than me. It was good for me to read Do I Stay Christian? (Brian McLaren) and The Book That Made Your World (David McRaney) back to back. Both seemed pretty dedicated to their preconceived ideas in their own ways but were still enlightening. The Holy Longing (Ronald Rohlheiser) was one of the most religiously formative books I’ve ever read 20 years ago and had a similar effect on me when I reread it this year. This Is Real And You Are Completely Unprepared (Rabbi Alan Lew) was a book I picked up after Father Thomas McKenzie posted about it two years ago. I’ve read it three times now and love it more each time. I started and ended the year with books about two of my favorite artists: Paul Simon and Bono. Surrender (Bono) was the most fun I’ve had reading in a long time. Who knew Bono could do impressions? John Michael Heard Who knew that the art of violinmaking could yield so many lessons about the Christian life? Martin Schleske’s book The Sound of Life’s Unspeakable Beauty is a masterpiece; reading it was a highlight of my year. Jonny Jimison Lightfall: Shadow of the Bird (Tim Probert, 2022) has locked in Lightfall as one of my favorite comic series of all time. Volume one premiered in 2020 with gorgeous art, brilliant fantasy world-building, and well-defined, relatable characters. Volume two, Shadow of the Bird , is even better, with a story that digs deeper into lore, character motivation, and the history of a broken world aching to be mended. Heidi Johnston Like many in the Rabbit Room, I’ve been enjoying the poetry of Malcolm Guite for a few years now. This past year I discovered the beauty of David’s Crown , his masterpiece on the Psalms. With one poem on each Psalm, woven together into a corona, it’s profoundly beautiful and a wonderful companion on a journey through Psalms itself. Dawn Morrow The Measure by Nikki Erlick and In the Unwalled City by Robert Cording. My favorite books of the year were both focused on how finite life is and what we choose to do with our days. At the beginning of The Measure , every adult in the world receives a box inscribed with the words “The measure of your life lies within,” and what follows is an exploration of how the world responds, told through eight narrators which begged the question of what I would do if I woke to found a similar box at my door and what I would change in how I live. Similarly, Cording’s book drove me to reflect on how I connect to the people I love. The book is a reflection on the loss of his adult son, Daniel, told in essays and poetry. It is lovely and sad and hopeful and a reminder that the people we’ve lost are still somehow a part of us. Eric Peters I’ve chased myriad subjects and titles, anything from a history of the Volkswagen ( Small Wonder ), to the Father Brown mysteries (GK Chesterton), history ( The Golden Isthmus, The Pursuit of a Dream, Wall of Empire: The English Channel, The Capture of New Orleans 1862, Arthur: Roman Britain’s Last Champion ), books on books, Horatio Hornblower , The Plague, and survival stories ( The Raft, Rogue Male ). I’ve allowed myself the freedom to quit a book if it’s too dense or too much for my brain to handle, or it simply doesn’t grab my attention. I’ve started and stopped several books as a result, which has been a nice mental shift for me to not waste my time. Andrew Peterson Borderland, by Roger Lloyd. Published in 1960, it’s an exploration of the borderland between theology and literature. Lloyd, an Anglican priest, makes a case for the importance of artists in the translation of theology into ideas and expressions the non-theologian/non-academic can understand—which is to say that artists need theology, and theologians need art. He praises those writers who straddle the two, including C. S. Lewis, Chesterton, Sayers, and others we tend to read here in the Rabbit Room. It’s not an earth-shattering book, but I’m so glad I read it. Faith, Hope, and Carnage , by Nick Cave and Sean O’Hagan. I first heard Nick Cave on the About Time soundtrack (which is one of the best out there), singing the line “I don’t believe in an interventionist God” in his song “Into My Arms.” Nick Cave does believe in God, as a matter of fact—it’s the adjective “interventionist” that he’s distancing himself from in the song. It’s an old song, and his views on God have deepened drastically in the meantime. The most obvious cause for that deepening of faith was the tragic death of Cave’s son, Arthur. That’s what the book is largely about. O’Hagan is a journalist friend of Cave’s, and they had the idea to make the book a conversation between the two—one an atheist, the other a believer. They cover the music business, touring, songwriting, grief, doubt, faith—all of it. Cave’s journey has been a rough one, so be prepared for that, but his faith is beautiful and real and utterly fascinating to read about. I don’t know that I’ve ever read an interview with so many underlineable sentences. Cave’s waters run terribly deep, and his ability to articulate difficult and mysterious things is astonishing. Pete Peterson I don’t know that I’ve loved a book like Susanna Clarke’s Piranesi since, well, Susanna Clarke’s Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell . The best thing I can liken it to is Lewis’s space trilogy, even though it’s not about space and it’s not a trilogy. But it plays with ideas and images in similar ways and creates a strange world pregnant with meaning, wonder, and mystery. Our world doesn’t have enough books like this. Give us more, Mrs. Clarke. We needs it. #semifeature

by the Rabbit Room Staff Welcome back to Favorites Week here at the Rabbit Room. This week, we will be detailing some of our favorite finds of the last calendar year in the form of Recommended Reading , Recommended Listening, and Recommended Viewing. This year, we thought we’d separate things a bit to allow each category to shine on its own, and we polled some of the Rabbit Room staff and contributors for their answers. Today, we’re looking at the TV shows and movies that pulled us in and refused to let go. Read on and let us know your own recommended viewing from the last year in the comments! Elly Anderson Beautifully shot and hauntingly hilarious, The Menu encapsulates the perfect mixture of mystery and absolute absurdity. If you enjoy cooking shows, dark humor, and living in a state of fearful anticipation for an hour and a half, you will enjoy this! Also Top Gun: Maverick . I feel silly mentioning this blockbuster hit, but I can’t seem to leave it off of my list. A concrete reminder that Tom Cruise will forever reign supreme over all action movies and can make anything an instant classic. John Barber My favorite film of the year is Martin McDonagh’s The Banshees of Inisherin . This is a film about what lasts. Is it art? Is it music? Or is it a life of kindness? When two best friends, played by the amazing Colin Farrell and Brendan Gleeson, suddenly find themselves as enemies, what follows is a treatise on what it means to love someone and the viciousness that comes when that love is gone. Cynthia Bennett I imagine this has already been submitted, but I’ve thoroughly enjoyed each season of The Crown. It has influenced me to want to learn more about the royal family and led me to watch Victoria on PBS which I also thoroughly enjoyed. Ron Block Of course, The Wingfeather Saga . I watched Episode 2 last night. It’s such a delight to see Andrew Peterson’s characters appear on screen. Animation, acting, and music all have just the right feel for the story, which of course is brilliant. Also Andor , in the Star Wars universe. So well-done, believable, and not frenetic with constant action scenes like some of the Marvel movies. There’s time to get to know and enjoy the characters. I watched this episodically as they came out, but I want to go back and binge-watch over the course of several nights. Sarah Bramblett My 2022 television interests revealed I might be an anglophile. The Crown , The Great Pottery Throw Down , and The Great British Bake Off were on repeat after the Queen’s funeral coverage left me engaging with recent world history. I’d also recommend Andor and Rings of Power for the moments of poetry sprinkled within the entertainment. Both prompted exclamations of “what a wonderful cinematic time to be alive!” Leslie Bustard My two favorite movies this year were Mrs. Harris Goes to Paris (a delightful, feel-good movie) and Belfast (so many emotions about this one). I was very glad that another season of Shetland was out; I am not sure what I will do when that series is all done. The Last Kingdom kept my attention (except when I did cover my eyes at specific parts). I loved the characters and most of the storylines. One of my daughters introduced me to K-dramas. Crash Landing on You was the first one (and really good), but I loved The Silent Sea , a science fiction-mystery-thriller. After it finished, I said to Ned I did not think I would ever enjoy any television viewing again; it was very satisfying. Ned Bustard I’ve been faithfully collecting Marvel comic books since the mid-’70s so for me, any Marvel flick is always recommended viewing. That being said, the studio had a few more duds this year than I am comfortable admitting to. For example, if you haven’t seen it already, I would suggest skipping this year’s Doctor Strange and under NO circumstance at all watching Ms. Marvel (even fast-forwarding it made me cringe). But all was not lost. I did enjoy Wakanda Forever and She-Hulk (I know some folks didn’t like She-Hulk, but having collected her comic since it first came out in 1980, and being there for the whole John Byrne breaking-the-fourth-wall run in 1989, it made me extremely happy). John Cal tick, tick… BOOM! by Steven Levenson, directed by Lin-Manuel Maranda is the biographical musical comedy/drama about the life of Jonathan Larson composer, lyricist, and playwright of the Tony Award-winning musical Rent. What compels us to create? What inspires us to create? Andrew Garfield as Larson helps you walk the thin line between hope, failure, and the reality of the life of an artist. Kevan Chandler I had a ball with Welcome to Collinwood , a charming little heist movie from the Russo Brothers, long before they assembled Avengers or study groups at Greendale. Starring Sam Rockwell, William H. Macy, and George Clooney, there’s a sort of sweetness about this gang of scoundrels with their odd exploits and rocky friendships that gives it a lot of heart. It feels like what would happen if the Lost Boys grew up and tried to rob a bank. Caitlin Coats Princess Mononoke is a beauty to watch and adeptly navigates the nuances in our—oftentimes conflicting—responsibilities to care for the earth and for one another. The soundtrack is also breathtaking. Mark Geil Black Panther: Wakanda Forever had a heavy lift. It had to work as a sequel without its title star, but it also had to properly mourn that star’s untimely passing. Ryan Coogler has achieved both, handling funereal grief and high-paced action at equal turns, without either feeling out of place. (And Angela Bassett is brilliant.) John Michael Heard I have BJ Novak’s Vengeance (2022) to thank for several rich discussions over the last few months. While I found the film’s ending problematic, overall, the writing is excellent—its critique of our modern, media-saturated culture is at times funny, astute, and self-aware. Jonny Jimison Belle (2021, Mamoru Hosoda) is a beautifully animated film that reframes the story of Beauty and the Beast in an internet-based virtual reality. There are so many ways that the premise could have settled for a one-dimensional fable, but the film digs deeper, using its online world as an entry point for a devastating and beautiful meditation on trauma, loneliness, and connection. Dawn Morrow The Woman King . Viola Davis was fantastic in this film. Davis plays the leader of 19th-century female warriors who protect their kingdom in Africa. The story is engrossing and Davis is fierce. I knew nothing about this one going in and I left completely satisfied. Plus, it gets bonus points for passing the Bechdel test with flying colors. Eric Peters I love Friday Night Dinner (Netflix), and I suspect some of you in this realm would enjoy its dark humor, thoroughly ridiculous situations, and general irreverence, but it’s probably not for most of the folks here. But if absurdity and British humor are your thing, this show (it ran from 2011-2020) has brought me much laughter. Aside from that, I return to The Simpsons over and over again. I don’t know if it still is, but it was the smartest (and funniest) show on television. Call it escapism or avoidance, but I continue to go to The Simpsons to laugh. And it never fails me, no matter how many times I’ve seen Homer’s late-night free public advertisement jingle, “Mr. Plow, that’s my name. That name again is Mr. Plow.” In a world of idiotic reality (oddly enough, phony) TV, and gimmicky attempts to find something that “sticks,” The Simpsons —the early seasons especially—are onion-like layers of insight, fun-poking at EVERYONE, and witty humor. I still find myself discovering new moments or quotes that I’ve missed in earlier viewings. Andrew Peterson Better Call Saul. It’s no secret that I loved Breaking Bad (minus a couple of skipper scenes, thanks to VidAngel!), and I was doubtful that BCS could come close. It’s an apples-to-oranges thing, so there’s no use really comparing them. The acting, the writing, the filmmaking were all as good as it gets. And Rhea Seehorn’s performance of Kim Wexler’s final scene on the bus made the whole thing worth it. Pete Peterson When I saw the announcement for this movie, I thought, “Oh, how cute, that’ll be terrible.” I could not have been more wrong (though it’s certainly cute). Marcel the Shell with Shoes On , completely captivated me. What began as a series of YouTube videos matures in feature-film length to a beautiful meditation on loss, grief, longing, community, and belonging. I wish I could make everyone watch it. It makes the world a better place just by existing. Leslie Thompson I watch Encanto 6+ times per week with my toddler, and so far I don’t mind because the story is so rich with gospel truth about the way God has made us individually and as members of a larger community. Each viewing provides nuance I hadn’t picked up before and the new Live from the Hollywood Bowl released in December is equally delightful. #semifeature

by the Rabbit Room Staff We’re at the end of Favorites Week here at the Rabbit Room. Throughout the last few days, we’ve been detailing some of our favorite finds from the last calendar year in the form of Recommended Reading , Recommended Listening, and Recommended Viewing . This year, we thought we’d separate things a bit to allow each category to shine on its own, and we polled some of the Rabbit Room staff and contributors for their answers. For today, we have our Recommended Listening lists from 2022. Read on and let us know your own recommendations in the comments! Elly Anderson Expert in a Dying Field by The Beths. With a twang as compelling as Dolores O’Riordan, Elizabeth Stokes of The Beths has captured my indie rock heart. The New Zealand band reminisces on the shameful failings of past relationships and the passive denial of love gone cold. With the perfect combination of slow jams, punk anthems, and chant-worthy choruses, Expert in a Dying Field has all the components of a perfect album. Favorite Tracks: “Best Left”, “Expert in a Dying Field”, “When You Know You Know” Cynthia Bennett If you are a fan of The Office you will enjoy Kevin Malone’s podcast titled, An Oral History of The Office . It’s a fascinating behind-the-scenes look at how the show evolved. Lots of the characters and creators of the show are part of the podcast too. It’s so much fun! Ron Block Ali Hutton and Ross Ainslie, Symbiosis I and Symbiosis II . I played with Ali last July and quickly realized he’s a musical powerhouse on guitar and pipes. Ross is equally amazing on pipes. Top-level Scottish-trad instrumental music. Kinnaris Quintet’s Free One and This Too . KQ is a Scottish all-female instrumental group with a variety of influences from trad Celtic to bluegrass and lots of other music. I stood with Andrew and Jamie Peterson watching KQ’s set at Underneath the Stars Festival in Yorkshire last summer and we were amazed by their skill and tunes – such musical joy. Sarah Bramblett As a mom of a toddler, most of my 2022 music listening has been influenced by a tiny human. Drew and Ellie Holcomb’s “Hey Rivers” was my anthem and JJ Heller provided perfect background music for the year (I fully recommend both 2022 I Dream of You albums, “Joy” and “Christmas,” and singles “Neighbor” and “Wild and Precious Life”). Revisiting a favorite from my own childhood, I listened to the delightful banter of the Slugs and Bugs classic “Tractor Tractor” about 327 times. Leslie Bustard I really looked for more places of quiet and ways to add silence to my day. So usually when I would play music—walking the dogs, driving, or cooking— I kept things quiet. However, listening to a CD of the poet Seamus Heaney reading his poetry was my go-to if I did need to listen to something while driving in the car. I love his poetry, and listening to him read his own words makes them come alive for me. This year at Hutchmoot, I really loved Matthew Clark singing and talking about his album Only the Lover Sings (what wonderful words!) as well as Taylor Leonhardt’s Friday evening concert. Her song “Poetry” is just perfect. Ned Bustard I have three 20-something daughters, so it was impossible for me to have not listened to the recent Harry Styles record many, many, many times. And to be honest, there are several “good bops” (as the kids say) on it. By choice, I listened to Tears for Fears’ The Tipping Point and Direction of the Heart by Simple Minds. I didn’t love every tune, but I liked enough of both to feel relieved that my old favorites could still rock—and Simple Minds’ inclusion of a cool cover of “The Walls Came Down” by The Call was too scrumptious for words. But the most important release of the year for me (without question) was geranium lake —a collection of live performances, demos, and unreleased songs that lead up to making the innocence mission’s classic 1995 album, glow . If collections like that don’t float your boat and you are looking for a more polished record, try the aforementioned glow or the innocence mission’s recent see you tomorrow. John Cal Carly Rae Jepsen’s 2022 release The Loneliest Time is a reminder that pop music is awesome, feel good songs are awesome, and Canadians are awesome. The title track “The Loneliest Time” features Rufus Wainwright and gives heartbreak disco vibes with hints of ’80s electronica. This is exactly the album that middle school me would have wanted to play on his yellow Sony Walkman while doing homework stashed in his Lisa Frank Trapper Keeper. Caitlin Coats Anaïs Mitchell, “Watershed”. This song gave me words to mourn what I lost during the pandemic and simultaneously celebrate newfound hope. Mark Geil It’s uneven, over-produced, and sometimes self-indulgent. But for all its faults, Midnights by Taylor Swift is (alongside releases from Bad Bunny and Beyoncé) a record that defined 2022. Maybe I feel extra-invested because I spent so many hours battling Ticketmaster to get concert tickets, but the album is loaded with Swift’s characteristic ability to capture snapshots of everyday life (well, her everyday life) and imbue them with emotion and meaning. Jonny Jimison Singer-songwriter Sarah Jarosz is definitely not a newcomer to the music scene, but she was a new discovery for me this year. Blue Heron Suite (Sarah Jarosz, 2021) is a deeply considered, beautifully executed musical journey, and its gently-flowing folk melodies have been a friendly, meditative companion to my ears while going about my day. Dawn Morrow The Brilliance. I discovered The Brilliance at a retreat at Laity Lodge. The guitar/piano duo, David Gungor and John Arndt, joined by cellist Dave Campbell, create complex textured music layered with rich vocals. Their Advent Collection was on high rotation for me this year. Eric Peters Zen podcast, The Samples, Kodaline, The Killers, Joseph, Switchfoot, The War on Drugs, Bruce Hornsby & the Range, and I’ve been listening to my new songs as they’re being recorded for the forthcoming project. Andrew Peterson Ghosteen, by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds. In keeping with Faith, Hope, and Carnage , this record is all about the death of Cave’s son. I’ve never heard an album like it. It’s not something you’re going to want to put on unless you’re ready to really engage with it. I suggest going on a long walk and listening to it in its entirety, knowing that it was written in the studio by a rockstar poet who spent years in and out of rehab, who is now a follower of Jesus, and who is suffering from the grief of losing his son. Don’t listen to try to understand, not at first, but to experience. It’s weird. And it’s beautiful. And somehow there’s a bright hope that overpowers the grief. After you’ve given it one listen, try it again and read the lyrics as they go by. It’s definitely not for everybody, and to be honest I didn’t get it the first time I heard it. About six months later it came up on shuffle and stopped me in my tracks. Pete Peterson Rachel Matar, North Wind Manor’s head of hospitality, turned me onto Anais Mitchell and my mission in life is to do the same favor for you. Her self-titled album (new this year, though she has several previous albums), is a collection of perfect songs that are lyrically mesmerizing and exactly the musical mood I love to fall into most days after work. I can’t say enough good things about the record. And surprise, it turns out she’s also the writer of Hadestown , having written the concept album about a decade ago. #semifeature

by the Rabbit Room Staff Our friends over at Sky Turtle Press have labored for years to open up the fantastical world of Edmund Spenser’s The Faerie Queene to a wider audience and now their project is ready to come into the light. A new Kickstarter campaign launches today to bring the text-faithful, line-by-line prose rendering of Spenser’s epic poem to market and it’s also loaded with several exciting incentives and stretch goals! Many have attempted to read Spenser’s original work, only to be discouraged by his diction. This struggle is understandable, as Spenser often used language more archaic than the time in which he wrote. To help readers overcome this struggle, classical educator Rebecca K. Reynolds worked with Elizabethan scholars to produce an annotated rendering which moves from heavy assistance in Book One toward more of Spenser’s language in Book Six. (And let’s not forget Justin Gerard’s amazing illustrations!) There’s so much to discover here, not only for readers of Spenser’s work but also within the Kickstarter campaign itself. You can check out the new campaign here and watch the video below.

by Hannah Hubin After production for All the Wrecked Light wrapped up in the spring, I took an excurses of sorts from writing projects of my own to take on graduate studies in Biblical languages. I’ve spent enough time in Koine Greek already that moving through the New Testament feels familiar, though I still certainly have a distance to go. But Hebrew is an entirely different matter. For those of you who have studied Hebrew, you know as well as I’m learning that Hebrew doesn’t move the way English (or Greek or Latin or any of the western Romance languages) moves. And I don’t just mean reading from right to left. I mean navigating the Masoretic vowel overlay beneath the original consonants. I mean how immaculately condensed the language is – how a single word can operate as a full sentence, complete with modifiers, with suffixes and prefixes stacking parts of speech like an Ancient Near Eastern sub sandwich. I mean how idiomatic adjectives and possessive constructs sound to the English ear—not to mention how the spoken syllables themselves sound in my English throat. For the first time in my educational journey, I feel as though I’m carving out completely new pathways through my brain. It feels like the newest, strangest, most “from-scratch” thing I’ve ever done. Since preschool, I’ve been navigating the world through a Western sense, and Latin and Greek served to broaden already paved and lamplit streets. Often what seemed foreign at first brush is the same old concept under a different name – like Kroger taking the name King Soopers when you drive west. But the last few months have left me working my way through a jungle, chopping down vines and clearing millennia-thick undergrowth with the hope that there are sidewalks down there somewhere. And you know what? I know there must be because entire cultures have walked them before. Hebrew has been and still is a native tongue. And thousands of other English speakers have walked those paths too. So how do I clear down to the pavement? Like any jungle explorer, I need a machete. (I’ve always wanted to write a sentence like that.) I need the right tools. And so it is that this semester has become just as much an exercise in finding the tools as it has been in learning Hebrew itself. I’ve been learning anew – and better than ever before – how to study, to come to know a difficult concept, to memorize and translate and analyze and reflect. I’m learning the points at which I reach my cognitive load, and how to not waste time trying to push past it. I’m learning when caffeine helps my brain run hyper-efficiently – locomotive style – and when it just causes me to blow smoke. I’m learning that I memorize paradigms best in the early morning and vocabulary best at night. I’m color-coding everything, summarizing every lesson onto a single page, and taking breaks to run and lift weights and eat protein when I need it. I’m learning to work smarter. And you know what? Slowly but surely, I’m learning Hebrew along the way. The idea that this whole Hebrew business is the newest, strangest, most from-scratch thing I’ve ever done is not quite true. There’s one other thing I can think of that rivals the foreignness of Hebrew, and that is faith. What are our tools, then? How do we practice those things, day in and day out, that lead us machete-style down the path of faith? Hannah Hubin Faith isn’t a natural thing for, well, I daresay any of us broken folk. This whole believing-in-what-I-can’t-see thing runs against the grain of how I go about life. But, like learning Hebrew, I know it’s possible. That’s not in the sense of self-help, performance psychology, but in the sense of Moses’s words, a mere four chapters before his death: “For this commandment that I command you today is not too hard for you, neither is it far off. It is not in heaven, that you should say, ‘Who will ascend to heaven for us and bring it to us, that we may hear it and do it?’ Neither is it beyond the sea, that you should say, ‘Who will go over the sea for us and bring it to us, that we may hear it and do it?’ But the word is very near you. It is in your mouth and in your heart, so that you can do it.” What a great and precious promise. What are our tools, then? How do we practice those things, day in and day out, that lead us machete-style down the path of faith? My philosophy professor from my undergraduate days, Brandon Spun, recently wrote what has become one of the best treasures of this past year for me: a little companion guide, with short, categorized topics on wide-margined pages: On the Spiritual Disciplines: An Introduction to Christian Practice . And that is exactly what it is. The book is a combination of explanation and application. Spun opens with a discussion on the spiritual life and the human life, one and the same. He explains all spiritual disciplines as a form of prayer and all prayer as “the raising up of our minds to sonship.” He goes on to put flesh on these conceptual bones, with suggestions for ways of meditating on Scripture, collections of prayer and liturgies useful for different times and dispositions, and discussions on everything from the liturgical calendar and the examen to sleep, fasting, and acts of service. The book is part anthology of Scripture and tradition, part commentary, and part instruction manual—all written in a humble, helpful tone. All throughout, Spun transcends the stickier denominational divisions and sticks close to orthodox Christianity and Scripture. As I read, I found myself matching the tools with the tasks, finding which practices suit me best in this season and which I will keep at hand for obstacles further down the road. And, perhaps most importantly, I found myself excited to be so equipped by the Lord’s kindness. Just as promised, Christ did not leave us without a Helper. The book wasn’t written as a dissertation, a daily devotional, or a lengthy theological tome carefully crafted for running in a best seller’s list, although I think it deserves it. In truth, Spun wrote it as a help to his children, and he’s given us the privilege of reading along. Whatever other jungles you’re facing as you look into 2023, clearing a little further down the path of faith is going to be one of them. I encourage you to go forward with tools—good ones, sharp ones, used in the proper places and moments. And when you reach an impasse, remember that there are folks around, like Spun, who can help us remember the tools we’ve forgotten we have. [ Note: Brandon Spun’s On the Spiritual Disciplines: An Introduction to Christian Practice is available here .]

by Leslie Bustard Twenty-five years ago, my husband Ned and I agreed to be a part of Square Halo Books. When this venture started, we were just entering our thirties. We had a home, a church, a young daughter, and another little one on the way—our life moved in a sweet, ordinary rhythm. Through books by C.S. Lewis, Madeleine L’Engle, and Francis and Edith Schaeffer, we were learning that all of life–even our everyday life–could bring glory to God. It was around this time that our friends and mentors, Alan and Diana Bauer, were interested in starting a publishing company. They hoped to get Alan’s book The End: A Reader’s Guide to Revelation (which had been rejected by larger publishing houses) out into the world and maybe even publish other writers whose books needed publishing. Ned and I were not too sure about this idea but decided yes in the end. Ned named the company Square Halo and became its creative director. The End was released followed by It Was Good: Making Art to the Glory of God , a collection of essays about art-making that Ned dreamed up, two years later. From there, more books and friendships, dinner meetings and unexpected adventures added beyond-imagined goodness into our lives. All the goodness and creativity of Square Halo Books have not only been an ongoing blessing for our families, but they have also given us many opportunities to do God’s work of culture care —caring for the soul of our culture. Makoto Fujimura (one of the first to sign on and contribute to It Was Good ) shared his vision for how to live a life that offers health to the soul of a culture in a booklet titled On Becoming Generative: An Introduction to Culture Care (later republished as part of Culture Care: Reconnecting with Beauty for Our Common Life ) . I pored over his words and even obtained other copies to give to friends. I wanted them to be as encouraged and revitalized in their creative work as I had been. His words articulated a vision for why I wanted to produce theater, encourage my husband in his gallery, and also publish books with Square Halo. Being generative—that is, being fruitful and productive by making and providing opportunities so that others can also make—is foundational to the creative work of culture care. Fujimura writes, “We can say that Culture Care is applied generative thinking. Culture Care ultimately results in a generative cultural environment: open to questions of meaning, reaching beyond mere survival, inspiring people to meaningful action, and leading toward wholeness and harmony. It produces thriving, cross-generational community.” ( On Becoming Generative, page 27) What are the ingredients to being generative and how can ordinary people do this work of caring for culture by being generative? Fujimura suggested three pieces: offering genesis moments , being generous , and thinking generationally . I remember those genesis moments sitting at the kitchen table brainstorming ideas with friends which led to newly published books, backyard Shakespearean troupes, hosting gatherings of visual artists and musicians, and even organized conferences. These moments—gifts to other people—came from hearts seeking to be generous. Our time, our imagination, our affection, our listening ears, and our talents are offered to others, as we all work on creating good for the people God has given us. I resonated with and am inspired by Mako’s words: “Generative thinking is fueled by generosity because it so often must work against a mindset that has survival and futility in the foreground. In a culture like that, generosity has an unexpectedness that can set the context for the renewal of our hearts. An encounter with generosity can remind us that life always overflows our attempts to reduce it to a commodity or a transaction – because it is a gift. Life and beauty are gratuitous in the best senses of that word.” On Becoming Generative, 13 Lastly, culture care includes thinking generationally. When we dialogue with past artists, writers, thinkers, and musicians, when we root our work in what is lasting, we have the opportunity to influence makers and hopefully care for the soul of future culture. These are things that my partners and I at Square Halo Books —and the folks of Rabbit Room—have been doing. When we dialogue with past artists, writers, thinkers, and musicians, when we root our work in what is lasting, we have the opportunity to influence makers and hopefully care for the soul of future culture. Leslie Bustard Inspired by my experience at Hutchmoot, I created a conference last year focused on the Inklings, with many Rabbit Room folks presenting and attending. That event was so well received that we are doing it again. This year’s conference is titled Ordinary Saints: Creativity, Collaboration, and Community . Reflecting on Square Halo’s tagline: “Extraordinary Books for Ordinary Saints,” we are focusing on ordinary people and ordinary life, all lived out to the glory of God. I hope this event will stir our attendees’ imaginations and refresh them in their callings. And I hope everyone will find their own genesis moments while soaking in the generosity of those hosting, speaking, and volunteering. We are thrilled to have poet Malcolm Guite as our keynote speaker this year. Many Rabbit Room folks know his poetry, his speaking, as well as his Square Halo book Lifting the Veil: Imagination and the Kingdom of God (found in 2021’s Hutchmoot Homebound Mystery Moot Kit). Recently he has been popping up in new places—from Carnegie Hall with the Gettys to The New York Times to Christianity Today . We are confident his words will be a source of encouragement to your heart and mind, and we’re excited he is joining us! All the speakers at this anniversary gathering have written for Square Halo at some point over the past twenty-five years. Each talk will focus on some aspect of “ordinary life to the glory of God.” The topics include children’s books, friendships, dealing with conflict, justice and writing, and online communities. ( Check out the complete list of presenters, their topics, and the schedule here .) Our conference, like its Hutchmoot cousin, will have interactive sessions, too—story time and songs during pub night, a roundtable reading of Babette’s Feast , tea and poetry, a podcast recording, and a pop-up printing workshop (just like what happened the past few years at Hutchmoot). The Square Halo Gallery will display a wide variety of art featuring squares and ordinariness. Many people sent in work to be part of this invitational—including several Rabbit Room Artists & artists. Some local actors are staging a dramatic reading of a classic piece of literature. And lastly, to top it all off, The Arcadian Wild will be performing Saturday night. We are glad and grateful for the folks at the Rabbit Room. This wonderfully creative and generative group in Nashville has been generous towards Square Halo, just as Square Halo has sought to be in other people’s lives. I know we have all been doing God’s work of caring for culture through our creative endeavors, collaborations, and community life. As Fujimura writes, “Culture Care restores beauty as a seed of invigoration into the ecosystem of culture. Such soul care is generative: a well-nurtured culture becomes an environment in which people and creativity thrive.” ( On Becoming Generative, page 22) To learn more about Square Halo and the conference, check us out at SquareHaloBooks.com . If you have been hanging around the Rabbit Room even a little bit, you will see some familiar folks who have written for us. And hopefully, we will see some of you at our Ordinary Saints: Creativity, Collaboration, and Community conference in Lancaster, PA, this February 17 & 18, 2023. Leslie Anne Bustard writes for Cultivating, Black Barn Online, Anselm Society, Story Warren, and Calla Press. Her poetry book The Goodness of the Lord in the Land of the Living, published through Square Halo Books, comes out winter 2023. Wild Things and Castles in the Sky: A Guide to Choosing the Best Books for Children, co-edited with Carey Bustard and Théa Rosenburg, was published in spring 2022. You can read more of her ruminations at  Poetic Underpinnings and listen to her podcast at Square Halo Books.

by Houston Coley Sometime recently, I was bubbling over with praise once again for the new Star Wars series, Andor , and my wife said something that struck me. “It sounds like you like this show for the same reasons we’ve liked The Chosen .” In the conversation at hand, I was talking about one thing that has really appealed to me about Andor : the grounded, tangible feeling of its filmmaking. Andor was made without the use of recent technology like ILM Stagecraft and has been very restrained in its use of other VFX, focusing on practical set-pieces, costumes, and a very earthy aesthetic throughout much of its runtime. Ironically, these are many of the things that are also praiseworthy about Dallas Jenkins’ and Angel Studios’ smash-hit series The Chosen . The idea that The Chosen portrays a story of Jesus’ ministry that “feels real” has been a key part of its huge appeal, going so far as to show Jesus doing ordinary things like brushing his teeth, carving wooden toys, and struggling to get a campfire started. If some Bible adaptations have portrayed Jesus and His disciples as stone statues without much emotion or humanity, The Chosen swings hard toward depicting Jesus as someone you could really hug or share a joke with. Over the years, the Star Wars saga has also shared a struggle with heroes who feel like stone statues from time to time. One of the common critiques of the Prequel Trilogy was that the Jedi characters felt like cold Shakespearean monks, whose resistance to emotional attachment made them cease to be relatable or believable as ordinary human beings. Star Wars , spare for the remarkable exception of The Last Jedi , has often been focused on characters with “royal” lineage, less concerned with ordinary folk who have no connection to a grand divinely-willed destiny. The Chosen and Andor both make great strides toward a depiction of their subject matter that feels real. They both take a world of grand, near-mythic figures and bring them down to something relatable and specific. In The Chosen , Simon Peter is a poor fisherman with a hot temper, sarcastic sense of humor, and lots of money in debts. Matthew is a meticulous (and solitary) tax collector with a hint of autism. Mary is a former prostitute who is called out of her old life by Jesus in the first episode, but she still struggles with depression, traumatic memories, and destructive habits. Likewise, in Andor , there are no Jedi or Emperors or Sith Lords to be found. The main characters do things like sell scrap metal, work in factories and mines, and try not to call too much attention to themselves in a world dominated by The Empire. We’ve become so accustomed to Star Wars showing us who we should care about by giving that person a lightsaber or a connection to a mystical Skywalker bloodline that it’s almost surprising to see a story where the characters are just ordinary people, plain and simple. But the similarities between the shows, and their shared appeal, go much deeper than their groundedness. Andor is no direct allegory for The Gospels, mind you, but it does share some surprising resemblances and even stronger spiritual subtext. And, to put it simply: it’s just really excellent television. Andor is no direct allegory for The Gospels, mind you, but it does share some surprising resemblances and even stronger spiritual subtext. Houston Coley Andor is many things: elegant, empathetic, subversive, thoughtful, and perhaps the first piece of Star Wars media to elicit tears of both righteous anger and emotional catharsis. It’s also a beautiful demonstration of the ordinariness of rebellion, the strength of community, and the importance of making a choice to fight evil. It’s easy to praise the show using broad umbrella comparisons like, “it’s the best Disney+ series yet!” or “it’s the best Star Wars since The Empire Strikes Back !” Although both of these statements might be true, they still don’t do any real justice to the rich storytelling on display in showrunner Tony Gilroy’s 12-episode masterpiece, which goes far beyond simply being “good Star Wars ” or “good streaming content.” I’ll come out and say it: the show starts off as a decently slow burn. That’s not remotely a bad thing, but it does require some focused grown-up attention to be paid to an entirely new cast of seemingly unexceptional characters in a completely new place. Gilroy described it this way: “Do you really think that you will be able to appreciate what happened in Episodes Eight, Nine, and Ten as much without knowing what happened back in Episodes One, Two, and Three?…You’re absolutely enriched by it…If you really wanna feel something, if you have something that lives with you, the requirement for that is that you really care. You need that investment that you [make] in the early episodes.” For some, the perceived slowness early on could come from the way this take on Star Wars totally differs in its priorities from other entries in the saga. The automatic assumption the audience makes when we’re introduced to Cassian Andor’s home-planet, Ferrix, is that this setting will be abandoned quickly as the show moves along to the real adventure—which might lead to feelings of stalled confusion when we’re deliberately introduced to each of Cassian’s neighbors, his childhood friends, his aging and stuttering droid, his adopted mother, and the many people to whom he owes debts. Ferrix is, to really play up the comparison, a sort-of Nazareth of the Star Wars Galaxy. We do eventually leave Ferrix, but the place and characters introduced there matter greatly to the story being told and eventually return in the end—which is a little subversive for Star Wars, a franchise where the heroes usually leave their dreary homes behind and never look back. Characters like Cassian and his immediate community are so nondescript that they don’t immediately feel like they’ll be important to the plot. They’re essentially fishermen and tax collectors. But that’s where Andor is different from all other Star Wars , and The Gospels are different from all other religious narratives. When I revisited the original Star Wars movies recently, one thing struck me: growing up, I guess I always believed the various footsoldiers and X-Wing pilots and generals who helped to stop The Empire were just “professional Rebels” trained and raised since childhood to fight evil. The Rebel Alliance in the Original Trilogy feels like it’s been running like a well-oiled machine as long as there’s been an Empire to oppose. What Andor dares to ask is, “who are these people, anyway? Where do they come from? What have they lost? Do they have families? What would catalyze someone to join an organized group of perceived extremists?” One of the chief strengths of the show is that it works well as a standalone story even if you know very little about Star Wars , but I’d argue that statement has one crucial caveat: the audience must know about the character of Cassian Andor from Rogue One: A Star Wars Story . Cassian, in Rogue One , is a committed rebel spy willing to sacrifice his life to stop The Empire; the Cassian we meet at the start of his own series is the opposite of someone who would ever “join a cause.” The dramatic question at the heart of Andor is “what would cause a previously disengaged person to give up their life for a revolution?” The internal transformation of the character from a greasy, impoverished loner to a sacrificial freedom fighter is the main draw. Andor , then, is a story about radicalization. It’s about characters who were previously disengaged learning to care about something and make a stand for it, even risking loss of life. Ironically, The Chosen is about the same thing. Granted, the revolution Jesus’ disciples are being radicalized into is one of profound nonviolence and humility, but it is radical nonetheless and complete with, as Jesus puts it in the show, a “manifesto” known as the Sermon On The Mount. The Chosen frequently depicts just how subversive Jesus’ words and commands really were, especially at the start of Season 3, when the disciples gawk and dismay at the instruction to take no money, cloak, or weapons with them on their journey. This suggestion would be radical even within the worlsd of Andor , where the bestowment of a blaster gun is an oft-repeated symbol of trust and empowerment. Andor, then, is a story about radicalization. It’s about characters who were previously disengaged learning to care about something and make a stand for it, even risking loss of life. Houston Coley It’s fitting that although Cassian Andor is the hinge piece of his show—the one puzzle piece everyone seems to be pursuing. It’s ultimately an ensemble story, communicating the depth and breadth of subtle rebellion running through every avenue of the galaxy by showing the variety of people participating in different ways. It’s a body of resistance, to use a church metaphor. As soon as we find out that Mon Mothma, a wealthy senator and a future leader in the rebellion, is secretly funneling funds to the rebels, familiar alarm bells might go off for Bible nerds. The Gospels share a very similar character: Joanna, an early financial contributor to the church, who was married to King Herod’s household manager. She appears in the premiere episode of the third season of The Chosen. Luke 14:25 records Jesus saying, “if you come to me but will not leave your family, you cannot be my follower. You must love me more than your father, mother, wife, children, brothers, and sisters—even more than your own life!” It’s a passage that has provoked much controversy over the past 2000 years, but it certainly feels akin to the radical commitment Mon Mothma ultimately makes to the rebellion at the end of Andor , and a bit reminiscent of rebel organizer Luthen Rael’s now-iconic quote: “I burn my life to make a sunrise that I know I’ll never see.” Cassian comes to embody this quote by the time the credits roll on Rogue One , where he ultimately sacrifices himself to aid in destroying the Death Star. If Andor’s dramatic tension lies in the transformation of a character from a loner to a martyr, The Chosen grapples with the same transformation among the many disciples of Jesus. Almost all of them will eventually give up their lives for the faith, which begs an even greater question of how a person could ever arrive at that point of sheer commitment. It’s not entirely grounded in scripture, of course, but the traditional narrative that Simon Peter is eventually crucified upside down for his faith in Jesus has stuck with me whenever I’m watching the character onscreen in The Chosen , thinking about the drastic internal transformation that would lead to this radical “all-in” sacrifice. Radicalization is a word often loaded with an inherently violent subtext, and indeed, Andor depicts the grim realities of violent revolution in overthrowing oppressors, whether it’s escaping a prison or pulling a heist. I mean, this is all leading to a deeply destructive act of blowing up The Death Star, right? But I think the radicalization depicted in Andor , while violent, also goes beyond being simply about extreme retaliation. Radicalization in Andor is about each character searching their hearts and deciding where their allegiances lie—the choice to either fight for their own self-preservation, resign themselves to the status quo, or double down on an ideology that opposes it. Spoiler alert: almost every main character in the show ends up doubling down further, going “all-in” on the cause they come to fight for. We see radicalization in the arcs of characters like Syril Karn and Dedro Meero, who go from corporate/Imperial pencil-pushers to deeply devoted antagonists as they encounter opposition. But we also see radicalization toward the rebellion in characters like Cassian, his mother Maarva, his entire community on Ferrix, and the prisoners on Narkina 5, who all get fed up with the way things are and decide to commit to opposing it, even if it means facing their own death. The show does not depict the mere act of radicalization as uniformly “good” or “bad”, but it does lift up the heroes who decide to fight for something outside of their own well-being. The most sinister characters in Andor are the ones who are only using the “Star Wars” to free or further themselves. Dedra Meero, the initially-unassuming ISB officer tasked with investigating Cassian’s crimes, slowly morphs into one of the most evil characters in the series as she seeks to elevate her own status in the Imperial hierarchy above all else. Even Cassian begins his involvement with “the cause” by thinking that he can join just to improve his own circumstances. One seemingly-committed rebel Cassian meets along the way, Skeen, reveals that his investment is entirely self-serving: he says, “Oh, I’m a rebel. It’s just me against everybody else.” Characters like Dedra and Skeen do not meet happy ends in Andor . In Skeen’s case, it’s probably because he’s fallen for the very agenda he sought to oppose. The Empire aims to divide and isolate and create a zero sum game, but their downfall (both on Ferrix and in the later prison arc) comes when people bravely care for each other rather than fighting solely for their own self-interest. You can’t fight a revolution just for yourself, and by the end of the series, none of the citizens of Ferrix are making decisions to protect their own self-interest either. They’re making a covenantal stand for love of neighbor. The Chosen and Andor both feature an oppressive Empire looming over their ordinary characters, and indeed, The Empire in Star Wars takes lots of influence from Rome. Of course, The Chosen and Andor come to wildly different conclusions about what opposing their Empires might look like. Maarva Andor, Cassian’s mother, tells a crowd on Ferrix toward the end of the season that they’ve been “asleep” for too long; she says “there is a wound at the center of the galaxy that won’t heal” and motivates the community to wake up and “fight the Empire.” For many people today, the church (in the ancient world and the modern one) might feel like the epitome of a community that is “asleep” in the face of evil. After all, the early church did not participate in any violent revolution against the Roman Empire or take many political stands; their determined nonviolence might even be viewed by some as complacency with the status quo. For many people today, the church (in the ancient world and the modern one) might feel like the epitome of a community that is “asleep” in the face of evil. Houston Coley But the early church was a revolution. Glen Scrivener talks about it in his recent book, The Air We Breathe: How We All Came to Believe in Freedom, Kindness, Progress, and Equality . He says: “To claim—as Christians do—that the man on the cross was God is the most revolutionary notion the world has ever entertained.” The early church completely disrupted the hierarchy of the Roman Empire (and the ancient world at large) by suggesting that the last would be first, and by radically humanizing and caring for women, slaves, widows, prisoners, and orphans. The beyond-subversive values that the early church stood for helped form the basis for our understanding of human rights today – and although they didn’t use weapons, they did take a stand for something and died for it. If there’s any worthy non-violent stand-in for the early church in Andor beyond the rebellion, it might just be the group called The Daughters of Ferrix. The Daughters of Ferrix are described briefly as a “social club” in the community, but it’s clear that they’re much more than that; when Cassian’s mother Maarva is ill, they do everything they can to help her, and even offer to care for her aging droid, who feels much closer to a small child. They’re the people responsible for looking after the community, and when the revolution begins, several of the Daughters of Ferrix help to ferry rebel fugitives off-planet to escape imprisonment. It’s a touching picture of what real, covenantal love within community can look like. Jesus came to liberate the captives and rescue the oppressed, and while Andor obviously doesn’t have a literal Jesus stand-in character, it definitely depicts the tangible manifestation of this liberation, awakening our prophetic imaginations toward what true freedom might look like. When I first watched the “One Way Out” sequence toward the middle of the season, where Andy Serkis’ character inspires a group of prisoners to break free, the resulting catharsis when the prisoners once again breathed fresh air almost felt like worship. In The Chosen , a character like Simon Peter goes from a disinterested gambler (and a traitor to his friends) to a devoted follower of Christ chiefly because he experiences a miracle and is literally saved from imprisonment by the Romans. Cassian’s journey in Andor similarly depicts the necessity of being “saved” from capture and prison in his journey, but it more clearly depicts the sheer evil and brokenness of the world that causes Cassian to realize he needs freedom in the first place. It causes us, as the audience, to grapple with the present brokenness that will someday be vanquished, too. The irony of Cassian Andor’s character is that despite his nondescript and often unheroic profile, the ripple effects of his tiny acts of bravery and resistance in the first few episodes of the show are felt all the way throughout the rest of the season, even more than he could possibly know or understand. If there was one other mainstream comparison I’d level with Andor , I think the closest thing might be Les Misérables , partially because it’s about characters entrenched in systems of oppression and revolution, but also because it depicts the way ordinary acts of dying-to-self can change the world. In a way that closely mirrors Inspector Javert’s zealous decades-long pursuit of Jean Valjean, the Imperial forces who failed to catch Cassian near the start of the season are obsessed with finding and capturing him all the way till the end, even when he’s almost entirely ignorant of their pursuit. Like Javert, the Pre-Mor officer Syril Karn sees Cassian as an unworthy hero who doesn’t deserve grace or mercy – and after his first defeat, Syril devotes all his efforts to exacting punishment on Cass and proving himself as a man of “order.” Side note: Tony Gilroy has hinted that the moral allegiance of Syril Karn might still be up for grabs in Season 2, and if so, it’s not hard to imagine Karn going through an arc that resembles The Apostle Paul, transforming from executer to evangelist. The poetic and tragic ironies often present in Les Misérables are similarly explicit in Andor ; after participating in a daring rebel heist with the Imperial forces right on his tail and barely making it out alive, Cassian ends up being randomly arrested for something as trivial as loitering near a petty crime and sent to prison under an alias without a trial. Irony upon ironies: in prison, Cassian is forced to construct mechanical parts for purposes which he is completely unaware, but at the end of the season, we find out that the prisoners have been helping to build The Death Star, the very thing that Cassian will sacrifice his life to help destroy in Rogue One . Prison, however, turns out to be the best possible place for Cassian at that moment; as the ISB intelligence is searching high and low for him across the galaxy, he’s right under The Empire’s nose but completely out of their sight. He ultimately meets several people who will later become key players in the Rebellion in the process. All of these ironies pinpoint the way that just as the hubris of evil often overlooks the very thing capable of destroying it, the meagerness of the humble can be incapable of knowing just how much their small acts of bravery and selflessness will impact the whole world. Much like the story of Les Misérables ripples out from the initially self-serving actions of Jean Valjean, far beyond Valjean’s knowledge of his impact, the story of Andor hinges on the fallout of Cassian’s bravest choice, even when he would have never considered himself acting heroically. The ordinariness of Ferrix, the tight-knit community caring for each other, their unique culture in the face of the machine and the self-sacrificial courage of the rebellion are all tied to their eventual freedom. The Chosen is not quite as focused on a revolution against the Roman Empire as Andor is focused on fighting its Galactic Empire – and this is probably because the Gospels aren’t entirely preoccupied with opposing the Roman Empire either. Jesus acknowledged the struggle of living under oppression, but also proposed counter-cultural solutions that were drastically different than any heard before. The Chosen , The Bible, and Andor all do share one crucial thesis in common, though: it’s the people who seem ordinary and lowly that may have the biggest part to play in true liberation. Houston Coley and his wife Debora are missional documentary filmmakers currently living between Atlanta and Czech Republic. Houston is a YouTube video essayist, self-described 'theme park theologian', and the artistic director of a nonprofit called Art Within.

by Mark Geil An album that opens with a polka imagining what might happen if the “elephant in the room” is literally an elephant in a room and closes with an emotional journey through family life that plays a bit like the flashback scene in “Up,” punctuated by Paganini, indicates the extraordinary range of Nashville duo Zach and Maggie . The Elephant in the Room is a remarkable collection of songs that might make you laugh and cry in equal turns, and might send you to Google to look up references like “Lancelot Link.” The sometimes off-kilter storytelling creates vivid images of people I’d like to meet, which I count as a great accomplishment in a story-song. Melancholy nostalgia and tender vocals flavor songs like “Last Living Memory,” which ponders, like the Pixar film Coco , what sadness there might be when there is no one left to tell our story. Playing against the melancholy, bright world beats create the happiest song you’ll ever hear about the Cuban missile crisis, the space race, and the Bay of Pigs invasion. An image of a tireless robin soaking up the sky so it can color her eggs is a paean to the unseen “least of these” who color our worlds. And a wry commentary on gentrification uses subtle observations about, say, the perceived value of graffiti to make a less-than-subtle point about the value of humankind. And goodness, let’s spare a thought for the instrumentals. These romps are as clever as the rest of the album, inhabiting an accessible sweet spot in the middle of bluegrass, folk, and pop music. Zach and Maggie’s first full-length album is a delight. It’s an overused phrase to say that a record will take you on a “musical journey,” but it is so appropriate here. There is plenty of whimsy for laughing and dancing, and enough thoughtful reflection to make you think about life in new ways. This is a gifted pair in fine form. VISIT: Zach & Maggie

by Livi Goodgame If you have already begun the adventure of watching and discussing the Amazon Prime show titled The Rings of Power , hello fellow traveler! Isn’t this exciting? If you are on the fence, having second thoughts, or even not giving it any second thoughts, keep reading. It is my mission to nudge you out the door, down the road, and get you swept up into Middle-Earth in the Second Age.  Those of you who picked up the Gandalf reference above have probably already seen the major motion pictures of J.R.R. Tolkien’s world. The challenges of creating a show like this come firstly from the existence of those movies and, secondly, from all the lore that Tolkien provides in books that aren’t The Lord of the Rings trilogy or The Hobbit . Not only that, but the Tolkien fandom is massive and well-educated, and it will be quick to point out errors, inconsistencies, and any un-Tolkienish elements. Knowing this, let us all take a deep breath. The Rings of Power is not a book report. Those of us who are purists must expand our imaginations and tolerance to let in the inevitable creative liberties that will be present in this TV series. Nostalgia is also a powerful filter through which we view media, new or old. When my college friends learned that I had never seen the Disney Channel movie Camp Rock , they were flabbergasted and proceeded to help me right this wrong immediately. I watched the whole thing, which was more than fair because it was terrible. But they loved and were loyal to it because it held a special place in their childhood. It would be easy to let nostalgia be the driving force of our arguments when comparing The Rings of Power to The Lord of the Rings films (not so much the Hobbit films, I think we all concur). I admit that I am guilty of all of the above. I was cynical and skeptical of the show ever since I was aware of its inception. I thought, “They’re going to mess it all up: they’re not going to do their research, it’s going to be too flashy and modern, and it will never compare to the movies!” From the first announcement to the trailers’ release, I never relented in my opinion that I would disapprove. Friends, I am far more than pleasantly surprised. My original surmisings were, in part, the fault of the trailers, which were so different from the actual show. The trailers and previews are indeed flashy, modern, and totally misleading. Throw out any opinions you have of the show based on them; they are not reliable sources. I recommend that you first dive into the primary source and then form your opinions accordingly. Until then, allow me to give you a taste of what’s to come if you choose to take the plunge. My first impression was of the sets. We’ve come so far with CGI, and here it shows, but in the best way possible. Sure, some scenes seem a little too dreamlike, but the shots of the forest of Lindon, the Dwarven city of Khazad-dûm, and the fabled Númenór are nothing short of visual nectar. The beauty of New Zealand combined with the digital talents of those behind the scenes have created masterpieces. It is especially moving for those who have only seen Khazad-dûm in ruins and the fading city of Gondor that is only a tired shadow of Númenór. Seeing how alive these places were at one time put the setting of The Lord of the Rings in perspective—a land in danger of being overcome by the growing evil in Mordor. Compared to that, Middle-Earth in The Rings of Power is young and glorious, despite the evil that will soon appear. My second impression was of the script. It is by no means perfect, but they manage to keep a Tolkienish essence that feels as familiar, intentional, and powerful as even the original film trilogy. Of course, anything with a Tolkien flair is going to be flowery, dense, and dramatic at times. But that’s the point. Additionally, I can confirm that the writers did in fact do their research. For those who don’t know, the show takes place between the events of The Silmarillion and The Hobbit . While I have not read the appendices from which The Rings of Power content comes, I have read and studied The Silmarillion . Let me tell you, I became so excited when I saw the Two Trees of Valinor that, by the second episode, I had laid out all my notes, maps, and Elven family trees on the floor while watching to see how many Silmarillion references I could catch. There are quite a few. There are some familiar characters in this story, which is always a risk. Galadriel and Elrond are large shoes to fill, but if you ask me, Morfyyd Clark and Robert Aramayo fit them well. One thing both actors really accomplish is preserving the characters’ personalities in such a way that you can see their potential to eventually mature into who they are in The Lord of the Rings films. I don’t know where they found Morfyyd Clark, but she gets young Galadriel right on the money. Other than those two, we have a host of new faces who are fast becoming near and dear to my heart. At the top of the list is Nori Brandyfoot, a curious Harfoot who is convinced that simply helping someone in need is an important role to play in a story much bigger than her. Closely followed by her are Durin IV, heir to the throne of Khazad-dûm, and his wife Disa, whose singing is as powerful as her words are sharp. Their friendship with Elrond has been my favorite relationship to see unfold, providing many laughs and many more sweet moments. One more underlying detail I noticed about the show is in the soundtrack. There are clear themes and styles of music that change depending on the setting: the natural percussion and rhythms of the Harfoots; the ethereal voices of the Elves; the low, resonant choir in Khazad-dûm; the somber Celtic strings of the Southlands; and the epic harmonies and progressions of Númenór. After going back and watching season one a second time (it’s that good), I even noticed some musical easter eggs that give hints to future revelations in the story. Yet another exhibition of the clear intentionality and care that the creators have put into this show. Every facet has been delicately planned and thought out, which shows that, if anything, these people know their audience. For all of you purists whose minds are still not swayed, I do empathize with you. However, my empathy is not without pity. It’s a shame to think that we let our standards, set by the great artists of the past, hinder us from experiencing the great art of today because we don’t think it will measure up. To sit stubbornly in our chairs saying, “All of the great adventures have been claimed and collected. No point in going out there to find a new one when the best stories already rest on my bookshelves.” Perhaps you are content reading your old faithfuls by the fire, safe in your home without risk. Yet there is another adventure out there to be had, and a large party has already left to have it. If you have any inkling to join us, it’s not too late! Grab your coat and walking stick, forget your handkerchiefs stitched with familiar patterns, and catch up! We’ve still got a long way ahead, and the more, the merrier. Livi Goodgame is a native Nashvillian, a fiddle player, and an aspiring poet who teaches line dancing on the side. She is currently studying English and French at MTSU.

by Bethany J. Menton I remember Frank as an old man, always kneeling in some corner to measure or drill, quietly with trembly hands. I remember staring at the nub where I’d heard he’d lost a finger to a chop saw, and wondering if it was still lying in his shop somewhere. Frank would have been nearly 80 the summer he built our shed, when he showed up every morning in a white V-neck that matched his nest of hair, opening the hatch of his minivan to a cloud of sawdust. He let my brothers do most of the building, guiding the circular saw over their shoulders. That summer was the most I’d ever heard Frank say anything, and that shed happened to be the last thing he built for us before he died. Frank built our picnic table, too, and tiled the foyer floor, and carved the oak cabinets that span our kitchen wall. They’re the first things folks notice when they step through our front door. And when we all sit down to dinner, Mom will ask me to serve cookies or grab a pitcher from Frank’s Cabinets, and neither of us will realize we’ve given that corner his name. In most places, Frank went nameless. At church, he sat in the back row, and at five-foot-four, he was usually missed altogether. He ducked in and out of service each week, but it was only to return to the carpentry shop in his garage, where he’d make cuts and work at his lathe. He’d come back with measured pieces that slid right into place. Anyone passing the secretary’s office would have seen the tiered desk and row of cabinets Frank had built. Yesterday was Sunday, and I stepped into the office to see worship music and prayer sheets scattered across that desk, and I thought about the service it’s seen. The front office is the first place homeless folks go for help. It’s where kids stop for mints. It’s where Mrs. Mindi worked for 20 years, meeting people at the door and welcoming them into the Lord’s house. Frank wasn’t the minister, and he didn’t lead the prayer meeting. He simply did what his knobby hands knew to do, and so provided a place for ministry and prayer to happen. Years after he died, the folks at First Baptist still enjoy the work of his hands, even if they don’t remember the worker— and I find that a common theme in God’s story. It’s the quiet laborers whose work spans generations. Frank might have been shorter than even me, but as Francis Shaeffer would argue, there are “no little people” in God’s kingdom. That’s the thing about consecrated work: long after the worker is gone, it keeps serving the Living God. Bethany J. Melton I think of Bezalel, who built the tabernacle, whom the Lord filled with “knowledge and all craftsmanship, to devise artistic designs,” and especially “in carving wood” (Ex. 31:4-5). We never hear where Bezalel was buried, or if they etched on his stone, The Man Who Built The Lord’s House. But we do know God came to dwell in the house he built and stood glorified there for 400 years. That’s the thing about consecrated work: long after the worker is gone, it keeps serving the Living God. We sometimes laugh about the longevity of Frank’s work, because when he built our family’s picnic table, he soldered it to a steel frame. It’s a bear to move. I have a feeling if a Midwestern storm blew through and took our home, that picnic table and wall of cabinets would be left standing, like altars among the wreckage. When I told Frank’s sister about that, she laughed and said they have a family joke: If it isn’t heavy, Frank didn’t build it. In a church culture that often tries to hit folks with an immediate, radical impact, I can’t help but hope for more holy work that’s sturdy enough to serve the next generation. Frank’s Cabinets stand the wear and tear of six kids and five grandkids— the meals, grocery hauls, and holidays when we pack the counter with pies. They stand there quietly, the way Frank did, and serve us. And the shed? It’s there, too, crouched at the woodline. The spring of ‘16, my little brother spent his school lunch breaks helping Frank build it—or rather, building what Frank let him. My brother is 18 now and eyeing a degree in Construction Management. He spent the last year building a 2,800-square-foot home in our neighborhood, using a circular saw and sander the way Frank taught him. That home will belong to a family from our church, who will bring God’s Spirit into it— and so, in a way, it will be the Lord’s house. I never heard where they buried Frank, and I doubt his tombstone remembers him as The Man Who Built The Lord’s House. He didn’t leave behind an engraved name, but he did leave our church members with sturdy tables and tractor sheds. He didn’t reach the unreached, but he did extend his carpenter’s hands as far as they could reach— right into the heart of Jesus’s local body. Bethany J. Melton writes true stories from her home on Edgewood Road, where she hopes to depict the places and people she’s known in a way that tells a truer Story. You can read more at her blog .

by Andrew Stanton-Henry My first job was working as a landscaper. It was demanding work, demanding because it was hard work in the hot sun, all day long. It also required attention to the smallest detail without losing sight of the landscape in which you were working.  It required knowledge about plants and soil, skills for cultivating them, and a willingness to get to know the particular piece of ground with its set of limitations and possibilities. Day after day, the crew would grab our tools and get to work at our site—weeding, trimming, installing beds, planting shrubs, grinding stumps, spreading mulch. Together, we created some beautiful spaces for folks to inhabit. I have had many jobs since then, but I’m still landscaping. When I write or preach or garden, I’m naming and shaping landscapes. I like to think of my mission statement as “providing language and landscape for the spiritual life.” Ministry and creative work (however you define either of those terms) are works of what Wendell Berry called “imagination in place.” They require being rooted in a particular place among particular people, paying attention, forming relationships, and dreaming with God about its possibilities. Like outdoor landscaping, it requires both careful attention to detail and awareness of the wider context. This takes training because our imaginations are not as free as we think; they are captive to powers like consumerism and colonialism. Thankfully, I’ve had some good teachers over the years. One of my favorite teachers was the late musician Rich Mullins. In my own Quaker faith, we don’t talk much about specific rituals that serve as “sacraments.” Instead, we talk about the “sacramental universe” we all occupy. Anyone and anything can be a means of grace. While Rich valued the Lord’s Supper and other historic Christian ordinances, he also had a sense that we live in a “sacramental universe.” Maybe he was shaped by that same Quaker tradition; he attended a Quaker meeting in Indiana as a kid. “Everywhere I go I see you” is something Rich and I can both sing in this sacramental universe. It’s a beautiful truth and an alluring invitation. Wherever we go we can expect to experience divine presence, not only in exotic and exciting new places but also “here in America” where the Holy King of Israel loves us, even here “in the land of [our] sojourn.” We don’t always feel like God is near or always hear God speaking, but most of the time we can assume it’s because we have more to learn about seeing and hearing. Learning is the central task for all spiritual and creative work. “Everywhere I go I see you” is preceded by “everywhere I go, I’m looking.” Rich was always looking. He found beauty in the ordinary. But he also kept looking when he saw things that were broken and painful. He looked without looking away.  Anyone and anything can be a means of grace. Andrew Stanton-Henry I moved from Ohio to Kansas to attend college when I was a young adult. I didn’t go to Friends University like Rich but attended another small Quaker college in western Kansas. Like Rich, I was captivated by the landscapes of the Great Plains. The wide-open expansiveness can be overwhelming at first, yet eventually, I fell in love with it and began to experience what Belden Lane called “the solace of fierce landscapes.” Rich’s music, which I had loved for as long as I could remember listening to music, helped me appreciate that landscape. He gave me words to sing and pray and contemplate while inhabiting that specific region. I learned to listen to the prairies “calling out [God’s] name.” Every time I saw a pheasant while driving down a dirt road, I thought of the “fury in a pheasant’s wings.” I also came to understand why Rich wrote so much about the “winds of heaven.” In Kansas, the wind is a wild force. It can’t be ignored and can barely be resisted. Kansans know why wind is such a common metaphor for God in the Bible—and sometimes it’s more than a metaphor. When you are facing the great winds on the plains, you can see why the Psalmist said God “makes the wind his messengers” (Ps. 104:4). If we listen to those divine messengers, just maybe “the howling will take [us] home.” Those winds of heaven intersect with the stuff of earth and “shake us forward and shake us free.” It’s scary sometimes but also liberating because we are set free to “run wild with this hope.” These days, I talk and write about the importance of place and community and rootedness and landscape. In college, those things weren’t particularly important to me, but I think leaving my hometown (and later returning) changed that. It wasn’t only the process of leaving and making a life “on my own” that shaped me. It was witnessing a very different natural and cultural landscape and learning about what Kathleen Norris called “a spiritual geography.” Between Norris’ book Dakota and Rich Mullins’ songs, I learned to love my place and live in it faithfully. I’ve come to believe that ministers and musicians are landscapers, not only because they plant new life and shape landscapes but also because, at their best, they help us learn the spirituality of a place—its history, its landscapes, its inhabitants. They help us see God’s presence and activity in places we previously thought were boring or even barren. They help us practice “imagination in place.” Maybe the metric for good music and good ministry should be this: we finish the song or the sermon or the book and say “Surely the Lord is in this place, and I was not aware of it.” (Gen. 28:16). Andy is a writer, Quaker minister, chicken-keeper, and distraught Reds fan. He carries a special concern for rural leaders, leading to his recently published book Recovering Abundance: Twelve Practices for Small-Town Leaders. A native Buckeye, Andy now lives in East Tennessee with his spouse, Ashlyn, their blue heeler Cassie, and their laying hens.