What are you looking for?

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.

by Matt Conner “On soft Spring nights I’ll stand in the yard under the stars—Something good will come out of all things yet—And it will be golden and eternal just like that—There’s no need to say another word.” -Jack Kerouac, Big Sur If your house is anything like mine, there’s an ever-heightening anticipation for the coming season. We’ve opened the presents of holidays and birthdays. We’ve made hot cocoa and watched our favorite movies. We’ve slept a little longer, indulged our quieter hobbies, and enjoyed the intimacy of cozy fires. But now we’re ready for spring. One of the most exciting and beautiful aspects of the coming season is found in the potential it represents. Shared activities lead to shared stories and the common language that arises from such experiences is one of the most empowering gifts we can ever receive. It is to that end—toward beauty, toward connection, toward shared stories—that we’re excited to share the spring season of The Local Show. For the next three months, we will be opening up the doors of North Wind Manor to the considerable talents of many friends knowing their shared stories will provide encouragement and hope and perspective for those of us in need of spring’s potential. Check out the details for The Local Show’s Spring ’23 season. March 7, 2023 @ 7:30 p.m. C.T. ( TICKETS ) Andrew Peterson JJ Heller Sandra McCracken Ben Shive April 4, 2023 @ 7:30 p.m. C.T. ( TICKETS ) Andy Gullahorn Jill Phillips Taylor Leonhardt The Arcadian Wild May 9, 2023 @ 7:30 p.m. C.T. ( TICKETS ) Jess Ray The River Indigo Paul Demer Cecily Hennigan #semifeature 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 Judy Kimmel “Hey, I just saw the announcement about no Homebound this year. Wondering if there’s any chance there might be a ‘901 moot’ in the offing?” I sent this message to Eddy Efaw, the only person I knew who was involved with Hutchmoot Homebound in 2020 and 2021. All I wanted to know was whether or not someone was already planning a faith and arts conference for Memphis (the “901”, in local parlance). If so, I definitely wanted to attend. Honestly, I wasn’t suggesting we start something, but seeing my message and knowing that no such event was on the horizon, Eddy responded with enthusiasm. He assumed I was proposing that he and I make this our mission, and he was definitely down for it. Wait, what? Was I hearing him right? Did he actually think we could do this? I liked the idea—I liked it a lot—but had to wonder if we might be taking on more than we could handle. As he and I met in a local coffeehouse and hashed it out, all the “W” questions came at us like a blast from a firehose: What did we know about putting on a conference? What was even involved? What kind of sessions should be offered? Who would present? Who would be a good keynote speaker? Where should we plan to have the conference? When would be the best time of year? How should we even begin? We knew absolutely nothing about how to proceed, but the more we talked, the more the concept captured our hearts and imaginations. This could happen. This life-affirming celebration of faith and the arts could be part of our community’s story. What better way to bring together people who found great joy in co-creating with God? It was mid-March 2022, and we were in.  Over the next months, God placed key persons in our path who directed us as we tackled the daunting tasks of creating an LLC, obtaining a bank account, designing a website, gathering a team of people to manage various aspects of the conference, figuring out QuickBooks, learning how to use Eventbrite, and much, much more. Turns out, the two of us were a pretty good team, Eddy having participated in Hutchmoot in person multiple years, while I had only attended Hutchmoot Homebound; Eddy being well-acquainted with many artists and musicians, both from Hutchmoot friendships and in Memphis, and I with the experience interacting with lawyers and accountants from my time in corporate America. I think we would both agree that it’s been a wild and challenging journey. Lots of hard work, lots of decisions, lots of just feeling our way, lots of prayer. The destination is now drawing near, and our entire team is beyond excited to offer the first ever Memphis Arts Moot , planned for April 13-15, 2023. We have a wonderful lineup of presenters and musicians designed to help us celebrate the beauty of creation through participation in our own creative activities. Attendees will enjoy a “welcome” dinner and concert by Skye Peterson on Thursday evening. Presentations on photography, writing, gardening, visual arts, culinary adventures, and music are planned throughout the day on both Friday and Saturday. Our Friday evening concert features Memphis native Moriah Jackson . Following the example set by Hutchmoot, meals are an integral, essential part of this conference. We purposely included four meals in the full-price tickets in order to encourage ample engagement around a common table. In order to facilitate attendance by Memphians, we also established a Saturday Day Pass which includes all presentations for that day, plus the Keynote address by John Hendrix and the evening concert by “Son of Laughter” Chris Slaten . Saturday Day Passes are not limited to Memphians and may be of particular interest to those from nearby areas who wish to drive in just for the day. There are also a limited number of Student Day Passes available for Saturday, which include the same access. Meals are not included in either of the Saturday Day Passes. Our planning team is working hard to provide a friendly Memphis welcome to all who attend. Memphis is beautiful in the Spring, with warm breezes and vibrant colors furnishing a feast for the senses. The conference venue in east Memphis is a five-minute drive from Dixon Gallery and Gardens , which currently has free admission, and the Memphis Botanic Gardens . A fifteen-minute drive will bring you to Shelby Farms Park , one of the largest urban parks in the country, complete with a lake with multiple walking and biking trails and its own herd of buffalo.  Come join us for a Spring infusion of Memphis passion, faith, and making! It could change your life. Full information and a link to purchase tickets may be found on our website . #semifeature Judy Kimmel retired from the corporate world in 2019 and thoroughly enjoys pursuing a variety of creative endeavors. She is grateful to work alongside Eddy Efaw as co-founder of Memphis Arts Moot.

by Dave Radford One of the most fulfilling musical experiences I’ve had was on stage at the Ryman Auditorium a few years back. It was the first half of Andrew Peterson’s Behold the Lamb of God tour, which was performed “in the round” with a bunch of other artists. After we played our song, “Take This Slowly”, it was time to sit down on stage while the other musicians did their thing. For me, the following 20-30 minutes were magic. Each artist would go up to the microphone and offer their song and craft—something labored over for so long -to an eager audience ready to listen. That audience included me, and I had the best seat in the house. I remember being literally four feet away from Stuart Duncan (a hero of mine and amazing fiddle player for Goat Rodeo and others), Ron Block (legendary banjo player), and Sierra Hull (maybe the best female mandolinist alive) while they played as a trio, performing licks and runs on their instruments that I could never dream of pulling off. Artist after artist would go up to the microphone and offer their song. In that short window of time, I felt a camaraderie I’ll never forget. The evening felt “right”. Somehow, at that moment, it wasn’t anybody’s show. It had become everybody’s show, the audience and artists together. That feeling is something I’ve always wanted more of. Six months ago or so I thought, “What if we did our own tour and brought out our artist friends to play with us in the round like we did on that tour?” Maybe I could get back to that feeling. Maybe the audience could share it too. That’s where the Zion Caravan Tour was born. I can’t wait for this tour. I want it to be special. It’s a grand experiment in a lot of ways and I hope it’s just the 1.0 of future Zion Caravan Tours to come. I’d love for you to come and be a part of the first one—and of course, our fellow artists, John Mark Pantana , Antoine Bradford , and LOVKN , who I can’t wait for you to hear! You can purchase tickets here and use the code CARAVAN for $5 off an adult general admission ticket for a limited time! Check out the full tour dates below: 3/22 – Waco, TX 3/23 – Houston, TX 3/24 – San Antonio, TX 3/25 – Austin, TX 3/26 – Dallas, TX 3/29 – Columbus, OH 3/30 – Grand Rapids, MI 3/31 – Chicago, IL 4/1 – Minneapolis, MN 4/2 – Kansas City, MO 4/11 – Nashville, TN 4/12 – Knoxville, TN 4/13 – Atlanta, GA 4/12 – Knoxville, TN 4/14 – Raleigh, NC #semifeature Dave Radford is the lead singer of The Gray Havens, a narrative-pop-folk band. He lives in Nashville, Tennessee with his wife Licia, and two boys, Simon and Noah.

by Matt Conner Every year on Ash Wednesday, I find myself thinking about my appreciation for and friendship with Father Thomas McKenzie, a dear companion of so many in the Rabbit Room community. Beyond the shared stories and meaningful moments, the most impactful aspect of knowing Thomas was seeing the centrality of Jesus at work in his life. Thomas never shied away from the truth, and it’s what made Church of the Redeemer such a special place during our years in Nashville. Whether you were sharing a meal or listening to a sermon, Thomas had a way of allowing core things to remain at the core (and everything else could fall away). Love is supreme. Christ is victorious. Death is real, but resurrection even more so. For me, Thomas always had a way of bringing the season of Lent into view like no one else. It wasn’t about charisma or theatrics, new ideas or dynamic stories. Instead, it was the authentic and vulnerable ways in which he invited truth in to do its work in his own life and his encouragement for us to allow the same. On this Ash Wednesday, it felt appropriate to post a short sermon from Thomas, who is tragically no longer with us, about the ways in which we participate in a culture of death and a call to allow the Spirit to guide us toward life. You can also listen via Apple Podcasts or Spotify . 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 Houston Coley “I don’t want to be your friend anymore.” Everyone has probably heard some variation of these words at least once in their life – and they feel particularly common between kids on the playground. That’s probably why, when full-grown ColmSonnyLarry offers more or less the same words to his buddy Pádraic Súilleabháin, some folks in the village say, “What is he, twelve?” The words are far from simplistic. The way Colm speaks to Pádraic cuts even harder: “I just don’t like you no more.” Colm says he’s trying to focus on his art, using his time to do something that lasts, and “idle chatting” with someone like Pádraic isn’t helping him with that. It’s hard to deny that rejection as simple as this can get your stomach churning and mind swirling instantly. Why don’t they like me anymore? Is it something I did? Is it something they did? Have I changed? Have they changed? Am I unlikeable? Does anyone like me? The immediate inner turmoil can eventually implode in flame. The Banshees of Inisherin captures that existential implosion with wit and tragedy befitting of Martin McDonagh’s directorial stamp. Ever since Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri , I’ve been fascinated by McDonagh’s view of the world, and finally watching In Bruges this year only deepened that fascination. There’s an intense cynicism and darkness to his stories that some might even go so far as to call nihilism, but unlike some viewers, I can’t say any of them have ever left me fully depressed or hopeless. Amid the rubble of broken relationships and comic absurdity of the pain in McDonagh’s work, there’s always a glimmer of love and relationship among pathetic people that beckons toward a deeper reality and core human longing. The endings are always just open enough to imagine a path to healing and a path to even greater darkness. McDonagh’s relationship to Catholicism is particularly interesting to me, too; he’s clearly disillusioned and jaded with the institution, but nevertheless seems unable to escape the pressing moral implications of the character of Christ. Banshees centers a big chunk of its moral and thematic exploration around the concept of “niceness.” Is niceness the same as goodness? Is it a sin not to be nice? What does niceness ultimately accomplish or leave behind when we’re gone? “Ya know who was remembered for how nice they were in the 17th century? Absolutely no one,” argues Colm, “but I’ll tell you something that lasts: Music lasts. And paintings last. And poetry lasts.” “So does niceness!” Pádraic pleads. It’s one of many moments where Pádraic’s earnest spirit compels the audience to side with him. Pádraic’s perceived niceness, though, isn’t entirely as rock solid as it might seem. When the film opens, Pádraic is literally living in an Irish world of sunshine and rainbows. His meaning comes from the day-in-day-out rituals of farm life, a recurring trip to the pub at precisely 2 o’clock, and the few friends in his tiny town—but he’s content with it that way. Or at least, he likes to tell himself he’s content. If there’s one thing Pádraic is resistant toward, it’s self-reflection: “What’s the matter with everyone?” he mutters, after his sister Siobhan asks if he’s ever felt lonely. When Siobhan mentions that she’s reading a “sad” book, Pádraic says, “You should read something not-sad, Siobhan, else you might get sad.” Until Colm’s firm and undeniable rejection, Pádraic has never been asked to confront his own life or happiness, or the nature of his relationships. Colm’s self-reflective existential crisis brings the whole island into confusion and disorder, primarily because nobody has ever had to do any real reflection on their routine lives, nor had they any reason to face rejection in a direct way. The question of “liking” the other people at the pub has never been a real concern; there aren’t many other social options if you don’t. In a modern individualist landscape where we can find niche social circles and communities (especially online) that perfectly suit our unique interests and preferences, the concept of such bare limitation in possible relationships might seem archaic to us. Yet in a sense, for people like Pádraic especially, it allows the freedom to live without feeling a need to impress or seek out. Some might call it passive; others might call it restful. Colm’s decision to question the value of spending time with his neighbors shakes everything off-balance, ushering in a sense of personal choice and boundaries that feels more akin to the way we allocate our time and curate our relationships in the modern western world. That’s not to glamorize the village life on Inisherin, though. The film frequently depicts the discomfort of living in a place where everyone knows (and talks about) you in a way that can often feel downright dystopian. Everything that transpires in the village is watched by someone, either from behind a bar counter, through a window, or across the pond, and this inescapable tight-knittedness breeds claustrophobic insecurity. After the initial rejection, Pádraic’s early pursuit becomes about “going back to the way things were” and preserving the tentative order of the island life he’s known for decades, even if it means repressing or ignoring any negative emotions stirred up from their hibernation. “Well if he’s depressed, he could at least keep it to himself like. Ya know, push it down like the rest of us,” he says. Interestingly, I’ve witnessed a good amount of older people resonating with Pádraic’s resolute commitment to a simple friendship, and a small-but-reasonable amount of young people defending Colm’s firm resolve to maintain his boundaries of “self-care” and pursue his art. I’m convinced that both characters are in the wrong from the start. Both are blinded by their own ego and insecurities and both misunderstand the nature of human relationships. Colm treats his relationships too transactionally; people are only valuable insofar as they add to your life and contribute in some way to your sense of fulfillment or accomplishment by the end of it. Pádraic, though, has never had to do the existential pondering to decipher what kind of relational transaction could ever be occurring in the first place. He just chats about his donkey’s shite without giving it a second thought. It’s telling that Pádraic’s only other friend on Inisherin is Barry Keoghan’s Dominic, again more by necessity than desire. He’s a character even Pádraic finds boring and annoying to be around, mocking and demeaning behind his back as “the dimmest on the island.” Ironic as it is, Dominic is to Pádraic what Pádraic is to Colm: the slightly simpler friend who mostly distracts from the pressing issue in their mind with petty grievances and trivial conversation topics. It’s not hard to imagine Pádraic saying something along the lines of “I don’t like you anymore” or “I don’t want to spend my days chatting with you” to Dominic, especially if anyone remotely interesting were to come along and take his place. Maybe Pádraic isn’t quite as “nice” as he thinks. It might be an oversimplification, but in a sense, there is one person who was remembered for “being nice”, and his face lurks like a shadow in the background of much of the film: the figure of Christ. His portrait hangs on the wall over Pádraic’s bed and watches over all the loneliness that transpires. His presence looms in the hymnal song which plays on the record player when Colm goes out for a walk. The sign of the cross plays a visual role in almost every crucial scene between the two men in the film. And even Mother Mary, also known for her purity and kindness, stands guard at the fork in the road between Pádraic’s home and Colm’s home. Of course, unlike Pádraic’s niceness, Christ’s niceness goes beyond maintaining the passive status quo and brushing the negativity under the rug. Christ is Love, not niceness, and though love and niceness might sometimes look the same, they stem from different sources. There’s another relationship on display in the film, though: the relationship between brother and sister. Husband and wife create a covenant that must not be broken. Friends have no covenant, but maintain their friendship as long as their similarities prove greater than their differences. Brother and sister are a unique bond, different than the others; they are forever connected but never bound. Siobhan is able to encourage and support her brother while also being honest and sardonic with him in a way that only family can be. Eventually, she leaves him to go to the mainland for a new life and doesn’t look back, but she still offers him a bed and house to sleep in if he would like to come and join her. As such, the bond of sibling kinship is the strongest one in the movie. Maybe in another part of their lives, Pádraic and Colm would’ve called themselves brothers. But the brotherhood is broken. Siobhan is the one truly mature character able to make a decision that is best for her without alienating or pushing away the people she loves; she’s not always “nice,” but she cares for people deeply. Christ is Love, not niceness, and though love and niceness might sometimes look the same, they stem from different sources. Houston Coley Siobhan may seem like the person who most embodies love in the film, but if we look closer, there are many moments when Colm embodies love too, even if it’s not “like.” In a very Good Samaritan turn, Colm helps Pádraic up and onto his feet and takes him home after he’s punched in the face by the police officer. And when the officer later accosts Pádraic after his donkey has died, Colm knocks the officer out cold, choosing sympathy for Pádraic’s grief. Even as Colm is cutting off his own body parts to prove he doesn’t care, his actions suggest that he still does—and maybe that’s a discovery for himself, too. When Colm confesses to the priest that he fears that God really doesn’t care about little donkeys, he’s interacting with an underlying concept of the film: the eternal value of seemingly small and simple things. Colm has become a deist in spirit, fearing that there is a God but all He does is sit back and watch. “I wasn’t trying to be nice, I was trying to be accurate,” says Mrs. McCormack, the strangely prophetic old woman whose watchful gaze and portends of death make her the titular Banshee of the film. Mrs. McCormack probably best represents what Colm fears God might be like: concerned with accuracy rather than love, observing but never helping. Colm’s fear that God does not value small things may be what drives him to want to achieve something “great” before his life is out – but in doing this, he begins to lose the simple things that gave his life meaning in the first place. Watching the film for the first time, I could hear the line from David Lowery’s The Green Knight a couple of years ago: “Why greatness? Is goodness not enough?” Ironically, Colm’s pursuit of his great art leaves him completely unable to make it; by the end of the film, the man with no fingers on one hand is left humming a melody that he’ll never be able to play again. Maybe it wasn’t about the art, after all, but about something deeper and more existential. Maybe it was about finding or feeling something real. Colm forsakes niceness but eventually finds that he cannot help but love his friend even when he is thoroughly annoyed by him. Pádraic forsakes niceness and spirals into a vengeful rage, but the death of his donkey and the loss of his relationships also forces him to encounter grief for the first time and frees the negative emotions he’s refused to engage for so long. In his interviews about the film, McDonagh has said that Pádraic and Siobhan lost both their parents to suicide. Given what we know about Pádraic, it’s easy to imagine that he never really properly grieved this loss; the only time he mentions it in the film is when he’s drunk. Now, although he spirals out of control, he finally feels something real. Pádraic’s literal death threat to Colm, and decision to follow through with burning his house down while he’s sitting inside it, is a catalyst for existential change. Colm has been wrestling with his own morality and despair internally for ages, but the walls going up in flames around him as a result of his own decisions force him to decide whether there’s something to live for. Evidently, he believes there is. In a strange sense, though we never witness any reconciliation between Colm and Pádraic, the conflict brings growth for both of them. When Colm says “I suppose burning my house makes us quits,” there’s almost a sense of gratitude or relief in his demeanor. And when he says “thanks for lookin’ after my dog anyway,” and Pádraic replies “anytime,” with a quivering mixture of forced bitterness and tentative hope, it’s not hard to imagine that they’ll be having drinks again in a few days time with far less passivity in their friendship than before. Maybe they’ll find something closer to love—real, honest, brotherly love. That’s my optimistic interpretation, anyway. There’s another way of viewing it, especially through the lens of the Civil War happening on the mainland, that says this is only the beginning of a long and pointless conflict that will never end. But I’m something of a romantic, and I like to think McDonagh leaves things open for us to hope. 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 Chelsea Barnwell I was recently asked to look through the children’s books in my church’s small library and resource center. We were a few decades past due for a careful evaluation of our book inventory. The library staff wanted to know if there were books that should be discarded and if I had recommendations for new books. I was thrilled to be able to assist and spend a few hours looking through picture books. I used this library as a child, probably more frequently than the public library. It was open before and after each service, Sunday morning, Sunday night, and Wednesday night. It quickly became our family “meeting spot” when my siblings and I were old enough. While others had library numbers like “462” or “1329”, my parents were so excited to join that their library numbers were “2” and “3”! This made it very easy for us as kids to check out our own books. We joked that number “1” must have been the senior pastor, though we never did find out for sure. While I sat on a library stool looking through the pile of possible discards, the process turned into an emotional journey. While some books were easily retired from wear and tear, others made us laugh with such dated artwork or cheesy titles. Then a nostalgic wave from a few special books made me a child again. I reverently handled works that had not only been well-loved but had been well-loved by me . Mine were the little hands that had left the “lift-the-flaps” limp with overuse. I was the one who’d creased soft covers by trying to cram too many books into my bag. I was the one who’d loosened spines by dropping books into the return bin over and over.  I am not sure if this book helped influence those desires or if my developing natural interests made this book a favorite. Perhaps it was a little of both. Chelsea Barnwell One book, in particular, caught my attention. It was a simple story titled Debbie’s Birthday Party. Its copyright was 1969. This book was already decades old before it found its way to this library for me to read. There wasn’t much plot, no problem to solve, or any unexpected turns. Honestly, I didn’t really remember the story. However, as I turned the pages, each illustration perfectly matched an image stored deep in my long-term memory. I hadn’t thought about this book since the last time I checked it out over twenty years prior, but from the feelings it stirred, I must have checked out the book repeatedly and pored over the pages for hours. Since I don’t remember the story or words, but the pictures were instantly recognizable, my guess is that this was a favorite of mine before I could read. It was interesting to note the different activities represented in the pictures: sewing, dancing, and hosting a beautiful party. These are some of my favorite things to do now! I am not sure if this book helped influence those desires or if my developing natural interests made this book a favorite. Perhaps it was a little of both. As I finish the task of winnowing the book collection, I now look forward to the task of recommending new books to fill the empty spots on the shelves. Clear words, a true message, the sweep of an imaginative story, and beautiful language all matter, but I am vividly reminded that the illustrations are just as important. I imagine little children in our church nursery or preschool classes “reading” a book by the pictures dozens, even hundreds, of times more often than their parents or Sunday School teachers are able to read the words to them. The illustrations imprinted in their minds should be beautiful and meaningful, not merely eye-catching. These little ones deserve both good stories and good art, feeding their understanding and imagination. Chelsea Barnwell is a writer, deep thinker, and avid reader. She makes art and writes her blog welcometothecarriagehouse.com in a restored carriage house in the Blue Ridge Mountains.

by Rachel Matar We’ve been hosting Open Hours for about a year now, and it’s become one of my favorite parts of the life of the Rabbit Room. We like having an excuse to get the fire roaring, bake something yummy, light the candles, and set out the mugs, but what we really like is you. So many of you have prayed, donated, and dreamed about this space with us. It’s been special to be able to open the doors and welcome you here. And while we think Open Hours are important because we appreciate you, we think they are fun because we like you. We want North Wind Manor to be hospitable for all of you, but we know that there are many varied definitions of what makes a space “hospitable.” Someone wanting to focus on a project and someone wanting to meet new people likely have different needs from a hospitable space. We’re excited about all of that stuff, so we are expanding Open Hours to better host more of you. Open Hours: Fika Jamie introduced us to the Swedish concept of Fika , which literally means “coffee break” but also carries lovely implications of community, coziness, and intentional pause. That idea was our original inspiration for Open Hours and has been what we’ve tried to cultivate all year. Every Wednesday from 1-4 PM, we open the doors to anyone who wants to visit. Fika feels different every week, but generally, it’s a vibrant hum of conversation, laughter, and music. You’re welcome to bring your laptop or a project, but if you need quiet, be aware that no one is going to tell the kids to stop doing science projects or playing tag. In fact, we might be playing, too. Quiet Hours: Stilla We love the vibrant thing that Fika has become, but we are also excited about the good things that come out of quiet places. New this month, we’re introducing Stilla (Swedish for quiet and peaceful) every Friday morning from 9 to noon. The idea for these quiet hours is to provide a calmer space for deeper focus. Bring your laptop to work remotely, work on a creative project, bring a book, or borrow one of ours. We’ll provide the coffee, and if we can’t help ourselves from playing a game of tag, we’ll make sure we take it outside. Another thing that is true is that many of you will never visit this place. Maybe you live far away, or your schedule is full. God gave you stewardship of a different corner of the world, and you’re faithfully tending that ground. Thank you! We’re so glad you’re “here,” even when you can’t be here. We want this place to be good for you, too, so we are working to expand the ways that we can share North Wind Manor with you. In the coming months, look for more ways to experience some of the special events that happen here, as well as ways to see, taste, and smell some of North Wind Manor’s wonderful ordinariness. You’re leaving this place better than you found it. Thanks so much for stopping by. #semifeature Rachel is a former Emergency Medicine PA, an unofficial yet enthusiastic ambassador for The Peach Truck, and the Head of Events and Hospitality at North Wind Manor.

by Matt Conner It’s no surprise to hear that Andrew Osenga is spinning multiple musical plates these days. That’s how most people know him as a career musician through his own music, his days with The Normals or Caedmon’s Call, or as a producer and label exec. What is surprising is where the music is coming from these days. There was a season, not so long ago, that Osenga says he thought he was finished—at least in any public-facing way. A trip to Laity Lodge followed a season of uncertainty and provided the sort of imagery that opened the doors to a new well for his music—what he calls finding “an honest muse.” A new album is on the way and a new EP arrives on Friday . There’s also a beautiful new hymns project alongside the community of worship leaders and artists that he’s nurturing through his day job. And it finally feels congruent for an artist who is settling into eldership. Just to start, I’d love to have you tell us about the musical plates you’re spinning these days. My day job is being one of the directors of A&R at Integrity Music where I work with artists making worship music and I oversee an imprint there called Running Club Records, which is kinda like my indie rock roster, with artists like Citizens, Mission House, Sarah Kroger, and Leslie Jordan. And then I oversee a couple of community projects: the Faithful Project and Anchor Hymns. As a musician, I’m out this spring with Matt Maher playing guitar. As an artist, I’m in the process of releasing a record called Headwaters over the course of several months. In between those releases, I’m doing a separate project called The Quiet Hours, which is acoustic vocal Fleet Foxes-y hymns with one mic and one guitar. It’s been a while since you’ve had some original music, right? Headwaters is the first album since The Painted Desert ? Yes, and it’s directly related. I made The Painted Desert and then two years ago, I went to Laity Lodge with Sandra [McCracken] and we made a record for her called Light in the Canyon . When I was there, I saw the headwaters of the Frio River. At one point there is nothing, just desert, and then suddenly there’s a big river and everything south of it all the way to the ocean is lush and green. Everything to the north is desert. I thought it was amazing to think that here in this desert, the water is never that far from you. We just aren’t aware of it. I had written The Painted Desert in this season of depression, a dark night of the soul… and I’m not saying everything is better now, but I do know that I’m not there now, and so this season needs a different kind of song. And so these days I’m much more concerned with what I want to communicate to my daughters and so my songwriting follows that thread. What do I want them to know about me and themselves and the gospel? That’s where these songs come from. These days I’m much more concerned with what I want to communicate to my daughters and so my songwriting follows that thread. Andrew Osenga I love that Headwaters picture, so do these songs feel informed by a recognition of that water being close? You said circumstances haven’t necessarily changed, but are the songs marked by at least recognition of the life that’s there? Yeah, the way you said that’s really wonderful. I’ve been going to this Anglican Church for a long time now and you say these liturgies over and over again and often you’re not paying attention to them. Then one day, you wake up and realize, ‘Oh that is deep in my bones.’ This is definitely the most gospel-forward project I’ve done personally. I’m usually more story-songs and slice-of-life poetry kind of songs, so this was a big change for me. Our church already sings a couple of these songs a lot, too, which has been really encouraging. Writing even slightly corporate songs is a lot different for me, but I’ve found myself in this community of people who are serving the Church with songs like this in my job and I’ve been inspired by it. As my kids are growing up in it, I love the thought of them encountering my songs from a place of “we sing these songs at church with all these people that I love and trust and who care about me, and all of them are standing and singing and agreeing with this thing my dad wrote.” That’s better than “I went to this thing and dad was sad again.” Which is what it was like for a while there. [Laughs] Did you notice when that turned for you—when songwriting went from a way for you to emote and process that sadness into something else— It was a very conscious decision. I actually thought I was done after The Painted Desert . The cards in my life have mostly been played, you know? I know what I’m dealing with. I felt like those are the best versions of the songs I’d been writing for a long time, so I didn’t think I needed to write them again. Until something else came along that made me feel like I need to process it. I’ve processed my own melancholy enough for one life! Ha. I realized I’d never processed the way that a community of believers had really profoundly shaped my life. I wanted to contribute to that in a different way. And it really was thinking about my daughters, but I want to be careful there. I don’t want to use them as a marketing tool. It was just the heart impetus of what I was doing for them. After a while, I found out I just really enjoyed it. Some people might not like it, but it feels like it’s an honest muse. I can say that. This feels like such a first half of life and second half of life difference. Yes, 100 percent. A Richard Rohr-ian— Yes, you’re dead on. You made it sound like you were glad to turn that corner away from the sadness or that phase, but was there a grief in being done with that in general? Even as a musical or career turn? Honestly, here’s the thing. I played a few shows this weekend and I have this song called “The Year of the Locust” on that Painted Desert record. It’s one of my favorite songs I’ve ever written and every night, the conversations about that song are something really special. That song impacts people in a deep way and I’m so grateful for it. Yet at the same time, I already have that song, y’know? We have this little photo printer that will print in three colors. It spits out the blue and then goes back in and spits out the red and then it spits out the green. After those three, the whole picture emerges. I feel like I’ve been communicating in mostly one color for a long time and I don’t think it’s been the full story. This is the part of the story that I don’t think is as cool or artsy, but it’s also a really, really true part of my story. Because of my own cynicism or ego or whatever, I’ve just not wanted to go there, but now I’m old enough to let some of that go. I’m also old enough to think maybe I have the tools to do it in a way that feels honest without just trying to regurgitate what others have done. It’s all too common to find art created from that first half of life. So much of pop culture is juvenile and it’s hard to make a career in the arts to even reach that longevity. Is there a part of what you’re doing now that feels important because it’s harder to find points of reference in a way? That’s a good question and I lament that. That’s why I love Paul Simon so much. In his seventies, he’s making records about being in his seventies and not doing greatest hits compilations, whereas U2 is doing their residency and playing their 40 biggest songs. I love U2 but that’s been my criticism: that they won’t grow up and accept that they’re old. That’s what I really want to hear from them, whereas Paul Simon has always been willing to go there. I feel like I’ve been communicating in mostly one color for a long time and I don’t think it’s been the full story. Andrew Osenga Can you tell us about The Quiet Hours? Where does that come from? I had this interesting realization that I grew up in this fundamentalist church where I learned from a lot of really wonderful people a lot of things about Jesus, but I don’t really agree with a lot of that theology now. Yet we sang the same songs then that I sing now in my church here in Nashville. I think there’s something about some of those songs that were true in a way that superseded each church’s theology and maybe even superseded the lyric of the song—more like the essence of the song? There’s some sort of intangible, sacred truth in these songs that we’ve passed down to each generation. I’m just so into that. I’m also sitting at the helm of this project at work called Anchor Hymns, where I’m the producer and director of it, whatever that means. But I’m shaping this community by trying to put new songs like that into the world. So in the midst of all of that, I was in England last year in May and I had the night off in this Airbnb in Brighton on the south coast. It was this super cool building and my bedroom was above this little cafe. I had a microphone in my bag and I set it up and started recording these intimate versions of a few old hymns. I loved it so much. So I decided when I travel, if I have some downtime, instead of watching a movie on Netflix, I’ll keep my mic in the bag so I can grab my guitar and record a couple of hymns in the way I’d play them if I wanted to sing the girls to sleep. And how are you releasing music there? As The Quiet Hours, I did a Christmas EP that came out in November. Then that one I recorded in May will be called Above A Cafe in Brighton and it will come out on March 24. I’m really happy with it. Between my solo Headwaters album, The Quiet Hours, and the Anchor Hymns community projects, I have something coming out every two or three weeks for the rest of the year. It’s fun to have been doing this for 25 years and be more excited about creating and releasing music than ever. You can check out more of Andrew Osenga’s music, tour dates, creative projects and more here . #semifeature 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 Pete Peterson We’re delighted to announce that our keynote speaker for Hutchmoot 2023 is beloved author Katherine Paterson. Katherine Paterson is the author of more than 40 books, including 18 novels for children and young people. She has twice won the Newbery Medal, for Bridge to Terabithia in 1978 and Jacob Have I Loved in 1981. The Master Puppeteer won the National Book Award in 1977 and The Great Gilly Hopkins won the National Book Award in 1979 and was also a Newbery Honor Book. Her most recent book is Stories of My Life , published by Westminster John Knox Press. For the body of her work she received the Hans Christian Andersen Award in 1998, the Astrid Lindgren Memorial Award in 2006, and in 2000 was named a Living Legend by the Library of Congress. She is a vice-president of the National Children’s Book and Literacy Alliance and is a member of the board of trustees for Vermont College of Fine Arts. She is also an honorary lifetime member of the International Board of Books for Young People and an Alida Cutts lifetime member of the US section, USBBY. She was the 2010-2011 National Ambassador for Young People’s Literature. Her books have been a transformative force in the Rabbit Room community since its inception and we’re honored to be able to welcome her to the table for Hutchmoot 2023 this October. Tickets will be released during two windows with half becoming available on Wednesday, March 15th @ 10am Central, and the remainder going on sale Friday, March 17th @ 7pm Central. More speakers, artists, and musicians will be announced in the coming weeks and months. We look forward to seeing you in October. #semifeature

by Houston Coley It’s a recent storytelling trend, but the concept might be relevant to reality right now: sometimes, it can feel like we’re all living in alternate universes. We are currently suffering from a starvation of shared rituals, but most people don’t know they’re hungry. It’s no surprise that our moment feels divided and difficult to reconcile; the freedom to choose our own narrative and stream of information brings about an increasingly isolated series of bubble-colonies in an infinite “multiverse” of experience and choice. The West has always been a culture built on the bedrock of individual choice, but an increasingly interconnected world has made the number of individual choices (and possible “universes”) practically limitless. Private schools, curated dating apps, church shopping, overtly one-sided news stations – they’ve all got “individual choice” in common, catering to our own pre-conceived worldviews and moral imaginations. None of these options are sins, but collectively, they can destabilize reality. Many children no longer have an immediate community within walking distance, which pushes them further toward finding algorithmic connections online. Choosing a romantic partner now feels more overwhelming and loaded than ever, despite the limitless access to endless options via dating apps. The local parish church is mostly a thing of the past, which leads to geographically sprawling church communities (much like private schools) built more around shared preferences than shared day-to-day experience or companionship. And we don’t even need to elaborate on the destructive capabilities of our increasingly isolated news/information bubbles. But what if I told you that movie theaters might play a part in beckoning us back to a better world? The Death of a Theatergoing Culture I grew up going to midnight movie premieres. Ya know, when a movie was releasing on a Friday and everyone would line up on Thursday night to see it at exactly 12:00am? Big movies still open on Thursdays today, but they usually have dozens of showtime options starting anywhere from 3 pm to 8 pm to 2 am. Growing up, though, I loved the ritual of midnight movies. Sometimes, my friends and I would take a nap around 7 pm, sleep until 11, and then head to the theater to line up down the block. Other times, we’d just stay up counting down the hours and minutes until the big event movie would be released. If it was something nerdy enough, people at the theater would often be wearing costumes and taking photos and coming ready to cheer and applaud together. Looking back, the last few midnight premieres I went to— Harry Potter and The Deathly Hallows Part 2 was the last one, I think—feel almost like remnants of an era where nerdy fans would use internet forums primarily as a staging ground for real, in-person gatherings like book-launches, conventions, fan-musicals, and yes: movie premieres. Today, the relationship is flipped: conventions and fan gatherings still happen, but they feel almost like networking events to further a continued digital/social media existence. That might be a tangent, but the point is this: with the increased options for showtimes – and even the ability to stream some new-release movies near the day they hit theaters – the ritual of midnight fan premieres has declined significantly. And on a bigger scale: movie theaters, in general, have seen a significant drop in attendance in the last few years, sometimes for understandable reasons. Ticket prices, babysitting, and the ease-of-access of streaming platforms have all led to an increased hesitancy to leave the house to experience a movie. Oh, and uh: that whole pandemic thing probably played a part, too. When people do go to theaters, it’s usually for what Martin Scorsese would call “theme park movies”—spectacle-centric blockbusters that feel like they demand a big screen to be experienced properly. Anything below that bar—from romantic comedies to Oscar dramas to A24 indies and mid-budget thrillers—tends to find its primary existence on streaming, in the comfort of the viewer’s home. It’s hard to believe that mid-budget non-sequel films like Juno, Forrest Gump, The Sixth Sense, Saving Private Ryan, Twist, Home Alone, My Big Fat Greek Wedding, Napoleon Dynamite, American Beauty, or Fahrenheit 9/11 were once massive box offices successes that drew millions of people out of their homes and out to theaters to just see them together. Half of those movies would flop today; the other half would go straight to Netflix or HBO Max, joining the hordes of “content” options that leave couples swiping through Netflix every night, debating what to watch until they give up and scroll through Twitter. In a world of infinite options on our TVs, the 10-or-so movies playing in a given cinema at a time almost feel a welcome refinement of the potential palette. Even when it comes to watching things at home, the concept of watching a TV program at the same time as everyone else—like the nightly news at 11 or the latest episode of LOST or American Idol at 8 pm—feels almost alien in a landscape where we call the shots on what (and when) we want to binge. The shared ritual, the shared “universe” we once inhabited has been consumed by the limitless curation of our reality through ease of access. Theater marquees become the ever-growing “My List” on Netflix. Radio stations become Spotify playlists. Convenient things are gained, but foundational things are lost. In a world where everything is just  another piece of content  to consume at your own pace and leisure…ritual dies. Worship dies. Reverence for art dies. And reality fractures. But movie theaters are still just as magical—indeed, just as transcendent —as they’ve ever been. Sure, there are rude guests every once in a while—though I’d argue that the recent prevalence of reserved seating has limited the capacity for spontaneous rowdiness. And sure, tickets are still expensive—though if you get AMC Stubs A-List, Regal Unlimited, or the newly-resurrected MoviePass, seeing one or two movies per month will make the subscription fee pay for itself. But I’m firmly and vehemently planting my feet in the camp that despite all of the hurdles, theatrical experiences are still far more than a novelty. The Culture-Healing Power of The Cinema I believe there are three things that make movie theaters miraculous, even today, and they might sound something like artistic reverence, submission, and worship, and shared reality through ritual. Artistic reverence  is easy to describe but increasingly hard to embody; the rise of streaming and at-home viewing has led to a rise in “armchair criticism” and “CinemaSinning” where we watch movies on our laptops and phones—or, God forbid, on our motion-smoothed TVs—pausing to grab snacks and go to the bathroom and check social media and pick out plot holes and Google “ending explained” videos without giving the artistic work a fair shot to be viewed reverently in the way that the artist intended it. Even Wanda Sykes joked about this when she co-hosted The Oscars in 2022, saying  “I watched  The Power of The Dog  three times and I’m halfway through it.”  The camera cuts to the film’s director, Jane Campion, chuckling at the jab, but I can only imagine that the suggestion that viewers have been too distracted to even  finish  your excellent movie must sting a little bit. We’re living in an increasingly cinematically-illiterate landscape, but everyone also thinks they’re much smarter than the artist who made whatever they’re watching. I’d argue that the limitations placed on us during the theatrical experience are healthy, humanizing ones. It offers us the rare, sacred space to give our undivided attention to something that has no practical takeaways or functional utility, but an infinite amount of emotional significance. Houston Coley In an era where the “Hollywood elite” are jabbed constantly, and probably for good reason, it might be heresy to suggest something slightly less cynical, but I will: I think we need to bring back respect for artists as the potential prophets of our era, and that means giving them our attention and concentration in a world where those things have become commodities that every corporation wants to steal. It doesn’t mean we have to  like  every movie, refuse to think critically about what we’re seeing, or trust the artist’s worldview blindly, but it does mean that we should behave as though what we’re watching is something made by a  person  (or rather, thousands of people) with vision and purpose and perhaps even prophetic spiritual meaning. This leads us straight into submission and worship : the action of acknowledging something greater than ourselves and, if only for a brief two hours, submitting to where it will take us with awe and wonder. Filmmaker Jean Luc Godard famously summed up the difference between movie theaters and TV this way: “When you go to the cinema, you look up. When you watch television, you look down.” One conveys respect, the other conveys control. Film critic Jim Emerson elaborates on Godard’s quote by saying : “For a movie-lover, the theater is a sort of temple, and the experience touched with religiosity. You look up in hushed awe at the screen…and the darkness dispatches all distraction, leaving only the light and sound emanating from the screen. And then there’s the enveloping scale of the image…Most of all, you relinquish control over the movie by submitting to its (unbroken and continuous) terms, accepting its rules of temporality.” One of the most powerful cinematic experiences of my life was watching Terrence Malick’s A Hidden Life in theaters back at the end of 2019. I remember moments toward the ending thinking, “I can’t believe this is still going.” I remember wondering how long we had left. I remember squirming in my seat and longing to see an end to the suffering of a Christian martyr. The movie is lengthy and slow, but that discomfort is also part of immersing yourself in a story of a man stuck in prison for his faith. If I had watched A Hidden Life at home, I doubt I would have been able to get through it without checking my phone or pausing for a break. But the unyielding pace of the cinema screen meant that this story marched on in front of me, whether I liked it or not. And I was edified by the experience. For modern audiences, the loss of individual control upon entering a movie theater is often a point of annoyance; movie theaters don’t have a pause button or a fast-forward option – and we don’t always control who sits next to us, either. But I’d argue that the limitations placed on us during the theatrical experience are healthy, humanizing ones. It offers us the rare, sacred space to give our undivided attention to something that has no practical takeaways or functional utility, but an infinite amount of emotional significance. For someone with ADHD like myself, this forced concentration is unbelievably helpful…but beyond that, the submission and ‘worship’ of a movie theater allow us to exercise the muscles in our soul that long to connect with something greater than ourselves. Snowballed throughout years of moviegoing, this experience breeds humility, curiosity, and childlike wonder. And that brings us, finally, to shared reality through ritual. Philosopher Byung-Chul Han’s recent book The Disappearance of Ritual delves deep into the ways that the fabric of society has been affected by the lack of sacred rhythms shared with one another. In a description that bears striking resemblance to the movie theater, he says “ The Sabbath demands silence; the mouth must be closed. Silent listening unites a people and creates a community without communication . . . The divine commands silence . . . Today’s compulsion of communication means that we can close neither our eyes nor our mouths. It desecrates life. ” He goes on to say, “Rituals are symbolic acts. They represent, and pass on, the values and orders on which a community is based. They bring forth a community without communication; today, however, communication without community prevails.” While face-to-face community is sacred, another facet of existence may have been lost in the kerfuffle: side-by-side community.. Houston Coley The idea that movie theaters are a type of community might seem like a silly one at first; we don’t often get to know the strangers sitting around us, and they might seem like an annoyance impinging on our personal freedom to enjoy things with our individual preferences as priority. But even if the worst theatrical experiences—the ones you tell your friends about when you say you don’t want to go back to the theater—might be because of other people harming the moment, the best theatrical experiences are often because of other people elevating the moment. Watching a comedy at home alone just isn’t as funny as watching it for the first time in a crowded cinema with other strangers just as surprised by the punchlines as yourself. Even Martin Scorsese’s bemoaned “theme park movies” are titled as such because for better or worse; they demand a big screen and excite an audience…and the theater’s reaction when Captain America lifted Thor’s hammer in Avengers: Endgame is proof of it. Recently, Avatar: The Way of Water was the same way; Cameron’s 3D HFR vision was one that could not be properly experienced at home, like watching a Broadway show recorded instead of seeing it in person with others. But the necessity of the communal theatrical experience goes beyond riotous laughter and excitement or the football-stadium applause of superhero event cinema. I still remember the first time I saw Bong Joon-Ho’s Parasite in theaters, during the scene when a basement-dwelling character slowly peers his head above a staircase at midnight and makes eye contact with the audience. The collective chill that rushed through the theater was palpable and communal. And when the movie ended and everyone compulsively clapped, moved by the tragic ending and the journey we’d completed, it seemed like we were all a little closer and maybe the world wasn’t quite as divided as it was two hours before. Certainly, if I wanted to start a conversation with any of the people around me, I now had common ground to do so. That’s what shared movie experiences create. Steven Spielberg discusses this ritualistic community much better than me: “I’ve always devoted myself to our movie-going community — movie-going, as in leaving our homes to go to a theatre, and community, meaning a feeling of fellowship with others who have left their homes and are seated with us. In a movie theatre, you watch movies with the significant others in your life, but also in the company of strangers. That’s the magic we experience when we go out to see a movie or a play or a concert or a comedy act. We don’t know who all these people are sitting around us, but when the experience makes us laugh or cry or cheer or contemplate, and then when the lights come up and we leave our seats, the people with whom we head out into the real world don’t feel like complete strangers anymore. We’ve become a community, alike in heart and spirit, or at any rate alike in having shared for a couple of hours a powerful experience. That brief interval in a theatre doesn’t erase the many things that divide us: race or class or belief or gender or politics. But our country and our world feel less divided, less fractured, after a congregation of strangers have laughed, cried, jumped out their seats together, all at the same time. Art asks us to be aware of the particular and the universal, both at once. And that’s why, of all the things that have the potential to unite us, none is more powerful than the communal experience of the arts.” We might be tempted to believe that community and connection are only present when we are looking another person in the eyes and engaging face-to-face. That’s certainly what we tried to emulate when we connected with friends and colleagues over Zoom calls during the pandemic. But while face-to-face community is sacred, another facet of existence may have been lost in the kerfuffle:  side-by-side  community. Side-by-side community gives us something to engage beyond ourselves, outside our control. It takes relationship and makes it about more than just the exchange of individual experience and already-held opinions. As we sit shoulder-to-shoulder with others beholding something greater together, we are given the gift of a  shared reality.  And suddenly, after so much disconnection, we’re inhabiting the same universe again. 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 On March 2-3, 2020, a devastating tornado outbreak tore through western and central Tennessee, destroying businesses and homes and killing 25 people. One of the 15 confirmed tornadoes, an EF3, crossed the Cumberland River and struck East Nashville, damaging or destroying scores of structures. Among those was the home of Eric Peters and his family. But this description is too detached and impersonal. It cannot convey the fear—mortal fear—and shock; the wounds, visible and invisible; the profound loss, both of possessions and their deep meaning; and the shattered sense of safety. It cannot convey the terror of a father reaching his son’s room just in time, diving in to shelter him before the room is destroyed. It cannot describe how three years on, wounds have healed yet scars remain.  It took every bit of those three years for Peters to write his 13th studio album, EP . This collection of six songs revisits that terrifying night, shines a brave light into the mines of depression and addiction, and seeks to understand—or at least name—some of the grace that keeps us holding on. “Run Away” opens the EP with an empathetic ear for the frightened hearts who have a tendency to shut people out. The song is a gentle admonition that is earned by a single line: “But you should know, when I run away, I feel the same way too.” EP is in many ways a redemption. It is acute anguish, emotions processed with some passing of time, and testimony of the longer and slower process of healing, all redeemed in songs that can sit alongside you while you grieve. Mark Geil “Same Four Walls” follows with a “last gasp prayer” from the depths. The song feels almost manic-depressive, with deeply personal and plaintive lyrics set to a surprising high-tempo synth beat. Peters calls this “approachable levity,” and it works as a disarming entry into a heart that “got crushed when the walls came down.” A refrain matches the paradoxical nature of the music, and speaks to the complexity of depression: “All I want is to be alone, but promise me you’ll never leave me alone.” “Disappointing Song” is a dear song of understanding from father to son. The tender lyric puts its arm around you and echoes “It’s gonna be alright.” “The Sea is Never Full” finds a tight groove in exploring the truth of fulfillment in Ecclesiastes. “That’s What the Loss Is” feels a few years removed from the tornado. When I hear about natural disasters, I try to pray for the people affected, whether I know them or not. What I too often fail to do is spare a thought for them during the long, long path of recovery. This song is a reminder of that process, full of trauma and full of grace. The standout track on EP is “The Bread,” one of Eric Peters’ greatest songs. Lyrically, it plants us in the terror of the storm: I was there in the moment of silence I was there with you just before Every room in the house exploded And I dragged you to the floor. Musically, the song feels more like the morning after. The neighborhood is devastated. The reality of what has just happened still feels impossible. And people come, and people help each other. There is gentle defiance in Peters’ voice as he invokes “Come, Ye Disconsolate” from his Hymns album: “Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot heal.” That community, that “communion in the streets” is one of the shining lights on EP. It’s fitting, then, that the album was formed out of devastation but among friends. Taylor Leonhardt guests on “Run Away,” as does Lori Chaffer on “Same Four Walls” and “Disappointing Song.” Gabe Scott is a powerful addition to “The Sea is Never Full.” Asher Peterson’s production takes some risks while always maintaining awareness of the expressive gift of Peters’ voice. One of the platitudes offered to console those who have suffered tragedy or loss is some form of, “Now you will be able to minister to those who go through similar difficulties.” In the moment, this is often unhelpful, but it is nonetheless well-intentioned. We do hope that the God who promises to work things out for good can somehow redeem our suffering as a gift to others. And He does. Sometimes, it’s enough for someone who knows some taste of your pain to just come and sit alongside you while you grieve. EP is in many ways a redemption. It is acute anguish, emotions processed with some passing of time, and testimony of the longer and slower process of healing, all redeemed in songs that can sit alongside you while you grieve. Eric Peters’ EP is available for download and on all streaming services on March 17. You can pre-order your copy here .

by Jenna Herrington A few years ago, I overheard a friend of mine ask a man from Nigeria what he thought was the strangest part of American culture. Without missing a beat, he answered, “Camping.” He thought it was ridiculous that people who live in nice houses with all the modern luxuries would go sleep outdoors for fun. Why would anyone subject themselves to that? At the time, I had never been camping and had no desire to try it. So in my mind, his question was its own answer. Why subject yourself to that, indeed? But a few weeks ago, my sister and brother-in-law (both avid campers) invited me to go camping with them in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. Suddenly that question, “Why go camping?” was no longer rhetorical, and, surprisingly, the answers were compelling—a beautiful place to explore, good company, a new experience. So I agreed to go. My main concern was whether February was really the best time to see how I liked sleeping in a tent. But my sister assured me that they had the right gear and that I would be warm enough. To be fair, if the forecast had been accurate, she probably would have been right, but the low that first night was 14°F, a full ten degrees colder than expected. None of us were warm enough. During the long hours in which I lay awake, shivering, that question returned with full force: Why did I think this was a good idea? The next day, we planned to do a fairly strenuous eight-mile hike. Somehow (we’re still not exactly sure what happened), when we were six miles in, we discovered that we still had four miles left to go. I was really feeling the lack of sleep at that point, and with no hot shower or a warm bed to look forward to, I briefly lost the will to trudge on. But trudging on was the only option. Perhaps fasting, like camping, is an opportunity to see things we don’t normally see—beauties off the beaten path. Jenna Harrington And yet, in the midst of the difficulties and discomfort, we also enjoyed moments of beauty and wonder. Majestic bucks strolled, relatively unconcerned, through the campground. The first night, as we were setting up our tents, a small hog tore past our campsite, squealing in panic, chased by two coyotes. The next day on our hike, a bald eagle circled overhead as we ate lunch. On Sunday afternoon, we watched an otter fish in the river. All weekend, we basked in the peacefulness of a beautiful place and in the glorious views we encountered while hiking. By the end of the trip, I was beginning to understand. Those moments are why you go camping. That’s why you sleep on the cold, hard ground; why you go without electricity and hot showers for a few days; why you hike eight (or ten) miles on just a few hours of sleep. The uncomfortable parts of the trip, I found, were worth it because of the beauty I was able to experience. Even the discomfort itself brought a certain kind of satisfaction, as I grew in my ability to endure difficulty. Here at the beginning of Lent, I have found myself thinking of this season of fasting as a kind of spiritual equivalent to camping. Lent is modeled after Jesus’ forty days (and the Israelites’ forty years) in the wilderness, so it seems natural to understand it as a kind of wilderness journey. And it can certainly sound as crazy as going camping in February. Why in the world would you give something up for six weeks? Especially if you believe that it doesn’t gain you any favor with God. Perhaps fasting, like camping, is an opportunity to see things we don’t normally see—beauties off the beaten path. Of course, just like anything that involves giving up our normal routines, this will involve discomfort. But we twenty-first-century Americans are so unused to discomfort that we are more afraid of it than we ought to be. We often don’t consider that there might be good things that we can only find by first giving up and going without. Maybe there are spiritual equivalents of the coyotes and the otter—things we will never see unless we go out into the wilderness. Maybe there is freedom in relinquishing comfort and ease for a time. Maybe there is joy in enduring difficulty and, as a result, gaining experience and wisdom we didn’t have before. Maybe there is renewed gratitude on the other side of deprivation. The point isn’t to wallow in misery or gloat in suffering as if it makes us more holy. Jesus endured the cross for the joy that was set before him. He tells us to lose our lives because that’s the only way to keep them. Paul wanted to know the fellowship of Christ’s sufferings because what he really wanted was to experience the resurrection from the dead. In the Bible, the wilderness is not usually a pleasant place to be. For the Israelites, it was a place of deprivation, testing, and judgment—a place of bitter water and fiery serpents. For Jesus, it was a place of hunger and temptation. But the wilderness was also where the Israelites were led by the pillar of cloud and fire and where they ate manna from heaven every day. The wilderness was where angels came and ministered to Jesus. Lent is a comparatively mild wilderness journey, but through this season perhaps we too can, in the midst of our discomfort, encounter God. Jenna Herrington lives in the mountains of North Carolina, where she writes as a way of paying better attention to the world around her. You can read more of her work at pilgrimatbrasstowncreek.substack.com .

by J Lind Because, really, I don’t think the two can be pulled apart. I have a new song out today, one that I wrote the morning after my wedding. Throughout our engagement, I’d had plenty of rational fears about the commitment of marriage, but one of my less rational (and more menacing) fears was that the “tragic artist” part of me, which I’d thrown so much of my identity into, would starve or go into hiding. I worried that I’d be too involved with Torrey to keep making art, or that the healing balm of writing would sublimate into conversations over dinner, or wasteful ruminations, or something like that. But this whole song arrived in about 30 minutes, and Torrey actually helped me finish the title and refrain. When responsibility and freedom each come with their own cost, where do I turn for rest? J Lind I think it arrived so fleshed out because it was an idea that I’d been chewing on for years: the tension between responsibility and freedom. Committing to one vocation, or to one person, requires sacrifice—every “yes” is the tip of an iceberg of “no”s, just as going through one door means not going through any number of others. So I tailspin.  But in seasons of freedom, of unadulterated choice, I find myself spinning for a different reason. The ocean of possibility, of potential mes stretching out in so many different directions, makes me anxious, and perhaps rightly so. If you aim your arrow just a bit more to the left, it could end up a quarter-mile from where it would otherwise have landed. I sometimes ruminate on how some decision here in my twenties might impact my 60-year-old self—which is helpful in small doses, but soul-sucking in its extremes. So, when responsibility and freedom each come with their own cost, where do I turn for rest? “The Potter and the Clay” is about the complicated dance of freedom and fate that adds so many colors to life. It’s a gift, and a burden, and another example of how the finding falls short of the seeking. You can listen to “The Potter and the Clay” here .

by John Micheal Heard “Holy, holy, holy!” With these words, the four living creatures gathered around the throne of God cry out at the sight of the slain lamb in Revelation. Not just “Holy!” But “Holy, holy, holy!” As if speaking it once could not capture the scope of what they were trying to communicate. “Repetition is holy,” my poetry teacher used to say. She taught me to treat repetition like one might handle a sword: it is sharp; it will cut. Use it with discretion and never with haste. Repeat yourself and those words will burn into the minds of your readers. Repeat only those words which you love most. The danger of repetition used without discretion is that it will dull the sword. “Holy” has unfortunately become one of those terms that has lost its luster in many Christian circles. It’s a word we casually use to connote God’s magnificence without doing the work to demonstrate it in detail or mean it with depth. It is easy to sing “holy” in our worship songs, to say he is “holy” from the pulpit. But how is he holy? Is he holy in our hearts? Holy in our minds? Holy in our relationships? The word “holy” means set apart, otherworldly, sacred. Jesus teaches us to pray, “Hallowed by thy name.” That is, “Let your name, O God, be unlike any other name.” Holiness is a central characteristic of God. There is no one like him. Nothing can match his beauty, goodness, and love. The word “holy” becoming trite is tragic because it is antithetical to the meaning of the word and thereby contradicts the intention of Jesus’ prayer — that God’s name should forever be exalted. The danger of repetition used without discretion is that it will dull the sword. “Holy” has unfortunately become one of those terms that has lost its luster in many Christian circles. John Michael Heard Good writers are characterized by their precision and intentionality with language. They say what they mean and mean what they say. Even the nuances of their sentences are carefully placed, leaving room for their readers to roam. A bad writer can write a book and say nothing; a good writer can fit entire worlds into a single word. God is no exception. “In the beginning was the Word,” the Gospel of John begins. When God speaks, all creation listens because his words are significant. The same should also be true of his people. I think this is what Jesus is getting at when he discusses the problem with oaths in the Sermon on the Mount. Jesus urges his disciples to be men and women of their word. “Simply let your ‘Yes’ be ‘Yes,’” he says, “and your ‘No,’ ‘No;’ anything beyond this comes from the evil one.” Herein lies a crucial characteristic of our enemy: the devil does not merely want to deceive us into sin; he wants to make our words mean nothing. If he manages this, then our worship becomes hollow and, eventually, our lives as well. Writers are wordsmiths. We can dissect words or fill them. We can parade them around or ignore them. We can even make them up if we like! As such, writers often carry a special awareness of the state of our vocabularies. The meanings of our words change all the time, for better or for worse. The task of the writer, then, is to fill our words with purpose so that they can stand firm in the ever-shifting tides of meaning. And, in some cases, this means bringing back to life those sacred words that may have been buried with time. Do you think those gathered around the throne of God were merely reciting, “Holy,” as though reading it from a book? Certainly not. They were trying to give expression to what they could hardly fathom. Was “holy” sufficient? No. But it was the best that they could muster. When confronted by the glory of God, our words will always and inevitably fall short—if they could do him justice, then our God would be too small. Even so, we still speak because his creative and divine brilliance compels us to offer up the best of what we have to offer: words. Writers, when you look at God, what do you see? Are there words enough to capture it? No? Then for now let one word suffice: “Holy, holy, holy!” John Michael Heard grew up in Almaty, Kazakhstan. He recently completed his film degree at Asbury University and is now studying Spiritual Formation at Asbury Theological Seminary. His passion is storytelling through screenwriting, poetry, and fiction. His most recent short story “Faster” was published in Issue 16 of Cagibi literary journal.

by Bailey McGee Leslie Bustard is one of those people who is just easy to love. That much became evident when the idea for this video project was suggested as a way to encourage Leslie during her ongoing battle with cancer. People rallied together to create the video you are about to see, and even in writing this introduction, it was hard to decide what to leave out from the tributes written for our dear friend. But here are a few thoughts from those involved: Karen Smith writes: “If you know Leslie then you have undoubtedly been blessed by the warm smile and peaceful aura that seem to follow her everywhere she goes. Infused by the Spirit, she brings an instant calm that makes you want to take a deep breath, pour a cup of tea, and listen to her words of encouragement and wisdom. Through the years we have messaged, hugged at Hutchmoot, and shared prayers and mutual concerns over abnormal test results. When mine came back benign, hers did not. Cancer is a thief.” Elizabeth Harwell says: “In Leslie’s poem, ‘Thursday,’ she describes the day she was told about more tumors in her body. In response to the news, she says with beautiful honesty: ‘I thought of other people praying.’ I loved that line from the moment I read it. I understood what it meant to collapse upon the thought of other people doing the work of prayer for you. It’s courageous to trust others to bear what you cannot. It’s vulnerable to climb onto a mat and be lowered down through a roof. Do your friends have the resilience to not let up? Do they have enough faith to walk through dark valleys?” Leslie’s poetry, like just about everything about her, is vibrant even in the shadow of darkness. By acknowledging what is true for all, and in considering her death and what it must mean, she is giving us the gift of truly appreciating life. So when the idea was suggested of giving back to Leslie by reading her poems aloud, it seemed fitting. She has given so much to us, how wonderful to embody the words she has written. This project, then, is a labor of love for someone who has inspired us all in many ways. I hope that as you see and hear Leslie’s poetry come to life, you get a sense of her heart, a sense of wonder at the goodness around us, beautiful in its frailty. I hope you feel invited into this community that loves each other and lifts one another up, even if just for long enough to enjoy a poem of Leslie’s. For this hour, and hopefully many afterward, may you know the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. Featured artwork by Bruce Herman.

by Matt Conner Much has been said about the stages of Holy Week, reflecting upon the final days of Jesus’s ministry and life, but few writers have handled the subject so beautifully as Frederick Buechner. There are reasons we turn to Buechner’s thoughtful work again and again, and it felt right to allow his words to reflect on the very real goodness of Good Friday. From his book The Faces of Jesus: A Life Story , Buechner describes why the word “good” was used to “describe the day of his death”: “God so loved the world” John writes, “that he gave his only son, that whoever believes in him should not perish but have eternal life.” That is to say that God so loved the world that he gave his only son even to this obscene horror; so loved the world that in some ultimately indescribable way and at some ultimately immeasurable cost he gave the world himself. Out of this terrible death, John says, came eternal life not just in the sense of resurrection to life after death but in the sense of life so precious even this side of death that to live it is to stand with one foot already in eternity. To participate in the sacrificial life and death of Jesus Christ is to live already in his kingdom. This is the essence of the Christian message, the heart of the Good News, and it is why the cross has become the chief Christian symbol. A cross of all things—a guillotine, a gallows—but the cross at the same time as the crossroads of eternity and time, as the place where such a mighty heart was broken that the healing power of God himself could flow through it into a sick and broken world. It was for this reason that of all the possible words they could have used to describe the day of his death, the word they settled on was “good.”  Good  Friday. The Faces of Jesus: A Life Story, 1974. 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 RR Staff Our friend W. David O. Taylor should be no stranger to anyone here. He’s served as the keynote speaker at Hutchmoot, written for the blog, and appeared on podcasts, and we’ve always appreciated his sharp mind, his strong faith, and his generous spirit. David’s latest book, A Body of Praise: Understanding the Role of Our Physical Bodies in Worship , released earlier this year, is an insightful work on the human body and the importance of embodiment. In order to whet your appetite for the book, we have an exclusive excerpt to share with Rabbit Room readers! The Spirit Who Plays Jazz A final aspect of a theology of spontaneity is captured in the language of the Spirit as jazz player. While this particular metaphor is widely used in theological writings about the Holy Spirit, it remains useful for our purposes here too. Jeremy Begbie helpfully unpacks the meaning of the metaphor as it relates to the context of corporate worship. Over against the presumption that only order and disorder might characterize our experience of worship, Begbie proposes a third mode, non-order, and uses laughter as an example. “It is not order (predictably patterned),” he writes, “but nor is it disorder (destructive).” It is instead what might be called non-order or the jazz-factor. Begbie explains at length: Note: You can order A Body of Praise from the Rabbit Room Store here . W. David O. Taylor (ThD, Duke Divinity School) is associate professor of theology and culture at Fuller Theological Seminary. An Anglican priest, he has lectured widely on the arts, from Thailand to South Africa. Taylor has written for the Washington Post, Image Journal, and Religion News Service, among others. He is the author of several books, including Glimpses of the New Creation: Worship and the Formative Power of the Arts and Open and Unafraid: The Psalms as a Guide to Life. In 2016, he produced a short film on the psalms with Bono and Eugene Peterson. He lives in Austin, Texas.

by Justin McRoberts Have you ever dealt with a bad case of jet lag? Yeah, same. It can be really disorienting and even a bit frustrating; getting where you’ve worked to get and then feeling so unwell that you barely feel there at all. A few years ago, I hatched what I thought was a brilliant plan to deal with jet lag on an upcoming international flight. I would stay up all night before my flight, sleep the entire 11 hours from SFO to Frankfurt and when I arrived, I’d feel refreshed and focused. It almost worked, this “brilliant” plan. I did, in fact, sleep the entire flight and wake up when the plane touched down. I also felt refreshed, mentally, having slept. But I’d spent that sleep balled up and crooked in my window seat, so when I stood up and grabbed my bag, I threw my back out and spent the next three days in pain, struggling to get out of chairs much less get out of bed. My host (who was an Army chaplain) was patient and kind with my slowness as well as all the noises I was making. Eventually, he said “We need to get you checked out. I’ll call the chiropractor.” Thing is, the chiropractor he referred me to was working on the army base in Heidelberg and seeing an army doctor wasn’t the most comforting thought. I was imagining myself doing jumping jacks while being barked at by Gunnery Sergeant Hartman from Full Metal Jacket : “You want me to adjust that back, son? Adjust that attitude first! It wasn’t that way at all. The chiropractor was a soft-spoken Canadian named Sara who got me straightened out over an hour-long session, during which she said “Wow, you really slept wrong.” I found that such a strange sentence and idea. That I could “sleep wrong.” Turns out, there are quite a few ways I have tried to rest that are actually harmful. We rest so we can get back to work. We rest as a reward for work We rest infrequently That’s naming just a few. I’ve certainly found other ways to rest poorly. The heart of the matter in all of it is that I’ve too often treated rest like a simple tool to fix my tired, distracted soul. But true rest is a practice. In fact, rest is a life-long practice in and through which I learn myself, over and over, so that I can be more whole (not only more rested). Rest is a loving and curious conversation between my conscious mind, my soul, and The One Who Holds My Life together. On my way to Germany, I had “rested” in a way that, quite literally, distorted me. I think that happens more often than we figure. The best example I can recall is the way I might become “vacation dependent.” I’m not anti-vacation, but I do think vacations or leisure trips can be more restorative (and more enjoyable) in the context of a life in which rest is a regular practice. Consider how many people you know come back from a long-awaited vacation and immediately wish they had a few days of vacation to recover from their vacation! Too many of us return from an escapist vacation adventure to our regular patterns of work and home with a deeper resentment for daily life. Justin McRoberts More problematic than that, a reliance on vacations can distort my relationship with my everyday life. Maybe you’ve heard people talk about how badly they wished they lived in Hawaii or Tahiti or Tahoe or wherever it is they “get away.” As much as I understand that sentiment, it’s also a dismissal of the goodness available right where we live. “Home” becomes a “boring” place where things get done, while “fun,” “happiness,” and “the good life” are on a beach a thousand miles away. That’s a terrible way to live. A dependency on vacation can also mal-form my relationship with work. I can end up thinking of “work” as a thing I have to do but something I am happier getting away from. Work becomes a necessary evil, while “vacation” becomes the antidote. Too many of us return from an escapist vacation adventure to our regular patterns of work and home with a deeper resentment for daily life. All of that is to the detriment of the loved ones and projects and organizations we’d joyfully given ourselves to at some earlier point. I’d hope a departure from our normal patterns can lead to a renewed love and joy for the life we get to live. Too often, in the absence of a regular pattern of rest, “vacations” steal that everyday joy. So here’s what I’ve learned: A regular Sabbath practice gives me the opportunity to stop in the middle of the good life I’m already living and appreciate it so that I am not resting from the life I’m living; I’m resting in it. The proximity of a Sabbath practice (in that it happens in regular, direct relationship to my every day relationships and circumstances) helps to clear my vision to see what I have more completely and lovingly. A regular Sabbath practice isn’t just about “recovering from work” or even “getting rest.” In a regular Sabbath practice… I learn what “rest” looks like for me in this season of life. I have room to pay attention to my own soul so I can re-learn what rest looks like when the season of my life changes (because it will). I have room to stop and see (and remember) I have a good life, given to me by the same Good God who is also inviting me to rest. I re-remember the goodness of my life when I forget. As it turns out, one of the reasons jet lag knocks people out so hard is that our bodies and minds are already so tired that we don’t have the ability to recover quickly from the disorientation. Which is to say, part of what I learned in Germany was that it probably didn’t matter how I went about addressing my need and desire to show up “rested” for that trip. I needed to learn what my soul even meant by “rest.” That knowledge has only come by way of practicing. You can read more of Justin’s work on Sabbath in his latest book Sacred Strides: The Journey to Belovedness in Work and Rest available on May 30 from Thomas Nelson Publishers. Justin McRoberts lives in Martinez, California, with his wife and their kids, Asa and Katelyn. He coaches artists, ministers, and entrepreneurs. He also travels regularly to lead retreats, teach, and perform. Justin really likes peanut butter (both chunky and smooth) and loves wrestling with his two kiddos. He lets them win. He is the author of six books including Sacred Strides: The Journey To Belovedness In Work and Rest.

by Timothy Willard C.S. Lewis was a Christian mystic but not in the pagan sense, in the Tozer sense: he experienced his faith deep in his sentient being, always aware of God’s presence in his own nature and the world around him. Lewis’s friend George Sayer said Lewis’s life experiences were not literary but “mystical experiences of the presence of God.” As a young boy, Lewis’s aesthetic experiences were mediated through nature. This affinity for the beauty of nature persisted in his life. Before breakfast, recalls Sayer, Lewis would walk the garden to drink in “the beauty of the morning, thanking God for the weather, the roses, the song of the birds, and anything else he could find to enjoy.” When Lewis and his brother Warren reminisced about their childhood, Jack “lamented the lost simplicity of country pleasures: the empty sky, the unspoilt hills, the white silent roads on which you could hear the rattle of a farm cart half a mile away.” In Lewis’s final work of fiction, Till We Have Faces , when Psyche admits to Orual that the sweetest thing in all her life is to go to the mountain to find where all the beauty came from, we hear Jack’s voice pining for the One Thing behind the thing. In Lewis’s mysticism, we find hidden instructions for chasing beauty in our everyday callings and in our art. Lewis would have us be reachers and builders . Consider the painting of a child. We’ll call her Phoebe. Phoebe’s mother invites her to paint the sunset. So, Phoebe sits with her paper, looks at the melting colors in the sky, and smears wonder marks, filling her makeshift canvas. Think about Phoebe’s act. She sees. She listens. She thinks. She paints. With her senses afire, she rebuilds the awe-full sky before her. She uses the materials given to her to paint what she sees. What does her painting show us? Is it mere mimesis? Or is it something more profound? Phoebe reaches for the awe trapped in the colors that dazzle her sense of sight. Her innocence gives her purity of voice. She paints unaffected by forces telling her how to represent what she sees. In her act of sky-building, she paints from her truest self.  Lewis, however, points to the fact that only God truly creates; he alone brings something from nothing, and he alone brings forth existence itself. Timothy Willard The vision of the sunset elevates her mind. Though her strokes to an adult appear raw, a rhythm of joy flows across the page—felt more than seen. The great translator of Homer, W.H.D. Rouse, said the hallmark of all great poets is plain, unaffected language. Perhaps this is why a child’s painting can be simple yet possess unexpected beauty. Now, what does her act of painting achieve? Phoebe’s smears reach to seize what the wonderful scene whispers. That there is thought— Logos —somewhere there. Of course, she does not call it Logos . She doesn’t even call it beauty. She calls it something more elemental and uses pure description as only a child can. Perhaps she calls the sunset a rainbow or a dance. Maybe she calls it a color song. This Logos touches all living things in creation. I love meditating on the truth that God thought of creation before it, or I, existed. And it is my existence that recognizes this mysterious and supreme Logos-Existence in everything and reaches to hold it. I’m reminded of how the French philosopher Pierre-Marie Emonet described the radiant thrust ( phys ) within a flower that reaches toward the light so that it may acquire its flower characteristics or flowerness. Phoebe, like the flower, possesses this radiance of being, the echoes of which are smeared in paint strokes on the page. Reaching to hold. As Psyche reached toward the mountains. Why? On June 26, 1954, Lewis wrote to a young admirer named Joan, who had sent Lewis a sample of her writing. She’d described a very special night in her letter and asked Lewis about the art of writing. Lewis replied: “ … you describe the place & the people and the night and the feeling of it all, very well—and not the thing itself—the setting but not the jewel. And no wonder! Wordsworth often does just the same. His Prelude is full of moments in which everything except the thing itself is described.” Then Lewis discloses his own creative journey to Joan. “If you become a writer,” he says, “you’ll be trying to describe the thing all your life: and lucky if, out of dozens of books, one or two sentences, just for a moment, come near to getting it across.” Joan and Phoebe’s–and even Lewis’s–creative paths are similar. Each experienced something special in the event of beauty—the blazing sunset and the memorable evening. Each used what Lewis might call their raw materials to build something to document their encounter. Joan used words, syntax, intuition, and imagination. Phoebe used her imagination, paper, paint, brushes, and fingers. The reaching ignites building. We never create, wrote Lewis in Letters to Malcolm , “We only build.” And that might dent our modern sensibilities. We create, we express , or so we like to say. Lewis, however, points to the fact that only God truly creates; he alone brings something from nothing, and he alone brings forth existence itself. We shouldn’t bristle at Lewis’s distinction between the verbs create and build. With the rise of the autonomous self and the art world’s emphasis on self-expression and transgression as the goal of art, our culture could use a dose of creative humility and a guiding hand away from a more Promethean approach to the creative process.  Lewis himself never believed he’d captured beauty once and for all. It was the hunt—the reaching—he loved. Timothy Willard The late Oxford philosopher and writer Sir Roger Scruton believed we live in a time of desecration. Our society values the profane over the sacred. The goal of art before the Enlightenment, says Scruton, was beauty–something beyond the self, transcendent. Now the artist’s goal bends inward. This bent-in notion emerges in Lewis’s Cosmic Trilogy, manifesting in the Bent One ( Out of the Silent Planet ), the Uman ( Perelandra ), and the insidious political agency N.I.C.E. ( That Hideous Strength ). All embody the theological concept of incurvatus in se or “curved in on oneself.” Sin takes root, and beauty is banished, replaced by the profane, often disguised as progress. Let’s follow the trajectory of Phoebe’s gaze. She looks toward the image of beauty, reaching beyond herself to capture the dazzle of heaven within it. Jane also gazes outward. She describes a brim-full experience with words too feeble to capture the moment’s weight. Both offer a public work ( liturgy ) expressing private adoration of Beauty itself. They build cathedrals of imagination and wonder. A kind of artisan workmanship is attached to Lewis’s thought of “building.” Even a humility that understands the beautiful moment, tends to it, and works with tools and imagination to free the angel in the marble. You and I are reachers. Artists, writers, educators, bankers, ministers, gardeners, it matters not. Our “building” occurs in the pursuit of our callings. Some of us follow Phoebe and Joan’s path, rushing daily to build out our view of beauty on a canvas, in verse, a photograph, in song, in clay. The reaching and the building forge us into people of “gentle hearts.” Lewis himself never believed he’d captured beauty once and for all. It was the hunt—the reaching—he loved. His raw materials? Inkwell, nib, loose leaf paper, and an imagination baptized by Beauty itself. “Yes, you are always everywhere. But I, Hunting in such immeasurable forests, Could never bring the noble Hart to bay.” —C.S. Lewis, “No Beauty We Could Desire.” Timothy Willard is a writer and independent scholar. He studied beauty and northern aesthetics in the works of C.S. Lewis for his Ph.D. under the supervision of Alister McGrath. He is the author of four books, including his most recent, The Beauty Chasers: Recapturing the Wonder of the Divine (2022). He lives in Waxhaw, North Carolina. Follow Tim’s writing on Substack: Further Up .

by RR Staff In the past few years, I’ve grown increasingly attached, first to the development of Rabbit Room Press, which is constantly growing into new and exciting areas, and more recently, to Rabbit Room Theatre, which has exciting things coming up in the near future. At the same time, the organization has grown by leaps and bounds since I was appointed Executive Director in 2016. Over the course of the last couple of years, I’ve consistently asked the Rabbit Room Board to allow me to focus more intentionally on the Press and Theatre, and now we’ve collectively agreed that the time make that shift has come. As of today, we are officially searching for a new Executive Director, and I’m directing all of my efforts toward the continued health and growth of the Press and Theatre programs. I could not be more excited about this opportunity to lean wholly into my creative gifts. And I’m equally excited to discover the person who will fill my previous role and usher the organization into its bright future.  –Pete Peterson At its heart, the Rabbit Room aims to cultivate a joyful working environment in which each member of the team is empowered to think creatively, to strive for excellence, and to faithfully, generously, and humbly pour out their unique gifts in order to reveal the beauty of Christ to the world. As our Executive Director, you will manage and oversee the implementation of directives set forth by the Rabbit Room Board of Directors. You will get to develop strategic plans for driving the mission of the organization and will play a key part in shaping the public’s experience of the Rabbit Room and its programs. You will get to collaborate with team members and senior leadership to develop new processes and gain insight into current ones. To be successful, you will need to be a self-motivated professional with proven experience and an outstanding track record in leadership, critical thinking, business relationships, communications, and team collaboration. You will need the skills to lead a creative team as they engage with a global audience through a variety of media and will need to show a creative approach to problem-solving while embodying a spirit of generosity. Most importantly, you will use your skills and experience to help the Rabbit Room in its mission to cultivate and curate stories, music, and art to nourish Christ-centered communities for the life of the world. What You’ll Be Doing Acting as a liaison between the Board of Directors and the Rabbit Room staff Leading and encouraging a collaborative, productive, and healthy culture among the Rabbit Room staff Developing strategic relationships with supporters and organizations Overseeing business management as well as tracking progress toward financial goals and budgetary plans throughout the year Analyzing and managing operational processes and performance, recommending solutions for improvement when necessary Ensuring that Rabbit Room communications adhere to the voice, ethos, and orthodoxy of the organization Executing contracts and liaising with general counsel on legal and strategic matters Ensuring insurance compliance Acting as a Rabbit Room representative at conferences, conventions, etc. Conducting regular staff meetings Conducting quarterly employee evaluations for program heads What We Are Looking For At least a bachelor’s degree in organizational development, business, communications, public relations, or related fields A desire to make and maintain personal connections within a broad community of creators, artists, organizations, and supporters Five years of experience in related fields Proven gifting in leadership, emotional intelligence, collaboration, and communication Strong analytical and quantitative skills; ability to use hard data and metrics to back up assumptions and drive good choices Ability to work collaboratively across departments Strength in creative problem-solving, attention to detail, and the ability to work in a deadline-driven work environment Other Information Location : Nashville, Tennessee (Cane Ridge). This is an in-person role. Beginning : Spring/Summer 2023 Reporting to : Board of Directors Compensation & Benefits: Minimum starting salary is $90,000/year (plus healthcare package) 4 Weeks paid time off annually + 15 days off for holidays Paid parental leave Paid learning stipend Flexible schedule You get to work in the beautiful North Wind Manor and staff office. Access to Rabbit Room events year-round, including international conferences Opportunity to work in a creative environment in a growing organization About the Rabbit Room The Rabbit Room was conceived as an experiment in creative community. After author/singer/songwriter Andrew Peterson’s first visit to the Oxford home of C. S. Lewis, he returned to Nashville with a renewed conviction that community nourishes good and lasting artistic work. The Rabbit Room, the name of the back room of the pub where the Oxford Inklings (including Lewis, Tolkien, and Charles Williams, among others) shared their stories, began as an online store for books and music and a blog with contributors who are authors, songwriters, artists, and pastors. Over the years, it has grown to include a publishing house, podcast network, an annual arts conference called Hutchmoot, a theater program, a beautiful community and event space called North Wind Manor, and a vibrant community of artists and creators. To Apply Email andy@rabbitroom.com with your resume and a cover letter to apply.

by Matt Conner The last few years have found Jess Ray wrestling on several fronts—with her calling, her music, her spirituality. She’s not the only one. A global pandemic shook the trees for a lot of us, a forced reconsideration of most aspects of life as routines were interrupted and institutions were weakened. What has made Jess’s music so compelling is how her lays bare such struggles and questions in ways that invite us in. She gives us permission to wonder (or wander) and makes us feel less alone on the journey. It’s found in the beauty of albums like Born Again or even her work with Taylor Leonhardt in Mission House. We recently asked Jess to update us on what she’s doing musically these days and what to expect at this week’s special edition of The Local Show . I’d love to start with a musical update from you on all fronts, just to keep readers informed as to what you’re doing. Well, I put out a record called Born Again last year. It came out like September or October and I worked all year long on that. I just loved making that album. I loved every bit of it. In some ways, I’m a little sad it’s over, I think, because I’d started a podcast related to it and was hosting conversation around what I was getting at with that album. It was all different themes that will probably be relatable to a lot of people, everything from deconstruction and the reconstruction of my faith to being at a mega church at the beginning of the pandemic and then left that. I really went through about a year-and-a-half of sabbatical and the time of healing after that was just a challenging season. So that album is full of songs that were related to a lot of things going on personally in my life and in the world over the past few years. Getting to share the songs and then the podcast and the conversation around that has been a really meaningful thing to do the past year or so. I think I want to keep doing that. I’m sure anyone else who’s creating music these days feels the same, but it just seems really consumable. People on Friday will kind of check out your song or album or whatever, and by the next week, they’re kind of moved on to the next thing. So there’s some frustration, I think, being an artist these days. I think we want our music to last longer. We want people to care about full albums and stuff like that, but the systems don’t really lend toward that. So I would say, I am probably going to finish up the podcast. I don’t know that I’m going to do a second season, but I’m leaning more towards that than not at this point. And then I’ll just continue to release songs related to a lot of the same content that should feel really compatible with my album born again. That is probably what I’ll do for the next year. I want to continue to host conversation both in song form and podcast form, specifically aimed at people who find themselves in an interesting spot given this moment of crisis we feel both in our nation and in church. So I’m trying to continue to offer resources and companionship for people who find themselves in that spot. How does all of this fit with Mission House ? Because you have this whole other project we’ve not even mentioned, right? Yeah. With Mission House, Taylor [Leonhardt] and I writing worship songs for the church. It started in 2018 or 2019 after we had realized we had kind of this pile of worship music, and then we got signed to Integrity [Music]. Then a pandemic happened as we were starting a band. So I would say there are numerous things that really knocked the wind out of us as a band. We were literally writing songs for church gatherings, and then everyone stopped gathering for church. I believe if God means to continue to work through Mission House, I’m sure he will, but yeah, it’s been a bumpy road keeping the thing going. At the same time, we didn’t go looking for it, it wasn’t something that Taylor and I wanted to do. Doors were just opening and it was something we felt more called towards than necessarily something we’d dreamed of. So it’s been a really good and meaningful couple of years, even with the challenges. But we’ve just turned a corner. This year, I have an even clearer vision of what we’re going to do, at least for about a year or two, for Mission House. We are hosting these live recordings where we’ll pick locations in the U.S. We’ve sent out practice tracks for people to actually learn alto, tenor and soprano parts for the songs. So we’re actually turning our crowd into a choir, and they can really feel involved in a special way. Our hope is that we write good songs that are easy for people to sing. We were literally writing songs for church gatherings, and then everyone stopped gathering for church. Jess Ray We just did one in Dallas, and it was beautiful. It was so fun. We know we’re going to do three of those potentially this year. If they go well, that is probably what we’ll do for now with Mission House—a mix of a touring experience and recording albums at the same time. It would just be a running list of what we’re calling family nights, with these albums that come from those recordings. With how it went so well in Dallas, I can’t help but imagine us doing this kind of for the next couple of years. And then, yes, I’m still trying to produce produce my own music, and I produce a lot of Mission House stuff and then trying to have at least an artist or two each year that I’m working with to produce their music as well. It’s mainly those three things that go around. You said people were responding to Born Again , but is there one song in particular that you hear about again and again? It’s not one. I have little stories from a number of them, but one would be “Place to Land”. I’ve gotten a lot of feedback on that. I think the number of people who just feel the frenzy of the days we’re living in… this era is just forcing us to live an inhuman pace of life. It shows our desperate need for Sabbath and rest and to disconnect from things. So I get a lot of feedback about that song. “At Your Mercy” is another one that people talk about. I call that song “my trust fall back into God.” I wasn’t ever fully walking away from God, but this past season has brought me to rededicate my life to Christ, to come face-to-face with the stuff that are hang-ups for me and work through those. It’s not that they’re all completely sorted at this point, but it’s me coming to that decision again saying, ‘Into your hands, I commit my spirit. I can’t understand this. But I am giving myself completely to this again.’ And I think there are so many of listeners who have been in that same moment, coming kind of to the end of themselves and then giving themselves again to God. I love to hear that! You’ll get to play some of these songs at The Local Show coming up. Any special plans there? Oh, they’ve let me pick all the people which was so cool. My friends, The River Indigo , a husband and wife, will be there. Cecily Hennigan , an incredible singer-songwriter, has the coolest voice ever and will be there. And then Paul Demer writes beautiful acoustic folk and has a wonderful voice. I’m so excited because I haven’t really collaborated with any of them before, but I like all of them. So that’s gonna be really cool. And in that kind of setting, it’s cool because it makes you strip back all of your songs to just a guitar or piano. That’ll be really fun, especially these new songs that are so pop-driven. It’s fun to get to kind of present those in a very stripped back way, but it’s also a little bit vulnerable. Because the songs have so much built up on the tracks, it’s a fun challenge to say, ‘All right, is this a good song? When you just play piano or guitar, does it still work?’ I love The Local Show. I mean, I credit it for numerous opportunities that I’ve received since the first time I did that. So I’m very grateful for it and I’m excited to be back. 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 JJ Heller Graduation season is almost upon us! Five years ago I wrote letter to my high school self, and I just released a song inspired by some of these thoughts. Here’s some of what it said… Dear JJ, Congrats on making it into vocal ensemble! You won’t get very many solos, but don’t let this discourage you. God has something amazing in store for your future. I would tell you about it, but you wouldn’t believe me. Don’t beat yourself up too much for missing that potentially game-winning shot sophomore year. You worked hard in practice and gave it your all. You can rest in that. Life is more than wins and losses. When you have a house of your own someday, you won’t have a single trophy on display. You’re not going to find the love of your life in high school, so don’t take things too seriously. Just use this time to learn about relationships. Now listen up, because this is important. When your senior-year boyfriend tells you that he doesn’t care for brown eyes, tell him that you don’t care for his insensitivity. Someday soon you’ll marry a man named Dave who will love your brown eyes. The two of you will have a daughter named Lucy whose dark brown eyes will melt your hearts. And then you’ll have a daughter named Nora who will have your husband’s gray/green/blue eyes that will look just like the ocean. Make sure to thank your freshman English teacher for telling you that you have a talent for creative writing. Her suggestion to move you up to honors English will be one of the best decisions of your life. You’ll fall in love with the power and beauty of words in that class. Give your sister a compliment now and then and look for ways to connect. Make sure to tell her you love her. High school is hard on everybody. Thank Mom for not just coming to every single volleyball match, softball and basketball game, but for being the most enthusiastic one there. No one could deny the love in her voice. She will always be your cheerleader. Thank Dad for taking you to “the little gym” every Sunday night so you can practice your shot. You will shoot thousands of times over the next few years, and with every rebound, Dad is saying, “I love you.” The popular kids will disappear from view as soon as you pack up your graduation gown, so spend time with the people who love you. Invest in your family. They will be in your life when high school is just a memory. In some ways, life will surpass your wildest expectations, but it will also bring darker times than you ever imagined. It may take a while to learn, but you’re stronger than you give yourself credit for. You will make mistakes, but you are loved. Don’t try to grow up too fast. Love, Your future self Make sure to visit JJ Heller’s official site for more music and updates!

by Caroline Cobb I started dreaming about the theme of my next album just before 2020, and found myself drawn toward the Psalms. So in my personal devotion time, I began studying and meditating on a new Psalm each day, praying them back to God and letting these ancient prayers shape my own. Little did I know how difficult the next few years would turn out to be, or how the Psalms would end up giving me words to pray through a worldwide pandemic, my own ministry burnout, and the unexpected death of my dad after heart surgery. Psalms: The Poetry of Prayer is the fruit of those years praying the Psalter, its songs giving voice to trust, joy, confession, thanksgiving, lament, and more. The tracklist is ordered intentionally, loosely patterned after the A.C.T.S. model of prayer or the flow of a church service. I also attempted a quasi-chiasmus structure, with the first and last song being about God’s Word and the center song being the only one that names Jesus explicitly. My hope is that these songs will give listeners the language to sing, pray, and converse with God through all kinds of emotions and circumstances. 01 – “Like A Tree (Psalm 1)” Psalm 1 serves as an introduction to the Psalter, so it felt right to have this song kick off the album and set the table for the rest of the tracklist. As I pray/sing in the chorus, I want to be like a tree planted by God’s river and rooted in his nourishing Word and presence… even when the sun gets hot and the winds pick up. Musically, producer Paul Demer and I had a lot of fun with this one – the echoing gang vocal was his idea – and I love the rootsy (get it? A rootsy tree song?!) sound we captured: part Americana foot-stomper, part spiritual. 02 – “No Place Better (Psalm 84),” co-written with Wendell Kimbrough This was one of the last songs added to the tracklist and, to be perfectly honest, I only started writing it because I felt the album needed another upbeat moment. But now it’s one of my favorite songs on the record. This one is super-visual for me: the drum rolls, hand claps, and trumpets conjure up the image of a marching band on parade, pilgrims joyfully making their way through the wilderness, all the way home to Zion. 03 – “Better Than Life (Psalm 63)” I hope this song serves as a worshipful prayer for those longing for God; but I also hope it gives words to the person who doesn’t feel much desire for God, yet wants to want him even still. David wrote this Psalm in the wilderness, where he allowed his physical thirst for a sip of water to point him to that deeper, more fundamentally human thirst for God Himself, the only one who can truly satisfy. I have a clear memory of writing this one: it came almost all at once while I was on a solo hike in Chattanooga before a concert. 04 – “Have Mercy (Psalm 51)” Psalm 51 seems to be the penultimate prayer of confession in scripture, so I knew I wanted to write a song from it for this project. I love that David acknowledges both the dark severity of sin and the bright hope of forgiveness in this Psalm, knowing his appeal for mercy is being heard by a God who has revealed himself as “rich in mercy,” a God who will not turn away a broken, contrite heart but runs out to meet the prodigal. I’m hopeful this song is congregational enough to find a home in Sunday morning worship, and the male vocal singing an octave down is a nod to the idea that we can confess both individually and corporately. 05 – “Like A Child With Its Mother (Psalm 131),” featuring Jess Ray I wrote this song in a season of melancholy and worry, when a complex, lose-lose situation in our community left me feeling disoriented, misunderstood, and questioning how God could possibly make things right. As I’ve struggled with bouts of anxiety over a number of things in recent years, this image of a weaned child calmed and quieted in her mother’s arms has been one I have returned to again and again. This song is both a prayer and a heart posture. My self-sufficient pride, anxious wrestling, and emotional upheaval are all regulated by God’s loving presence and sovereignty over all things. Musically, Paul Demer’s production and Jess Ray’s beautiful voice invoke these same themes: peace, rest, and quiet trust. This is another favorite on the record. My self-sufficient pride, anxious wrestling, and emotional upheaval are all regulated by God’s loving presence and sovereignty over all things. Caroline Cobb 06 – “Shepherd, Walk Beside Me (Psalm 23)” The only track that explicitly mentions Jesus by name, I intentionally placed this one at the very center of the album: a chiastic nod to the idea that Jesus is central to the story of scripture and to our ability to access God in prayer. Hundreds of songs have been written from this Psalm, but I hoped to take a unique angle by addressing the Shepherd directly and then pointing to Jesus as the Good Shepherd (John 10) by the third verse. To me, even the music feels “pastoral” (in the agrarian sense), with its three-part harmonies (Paul & Trisha Demer) and the pedal steel from Aaron Fabbrini rising and falling like the hills in the countryside. I’ve loved singing this one as a corporate worship song. 07 – “Good To Give Thanks (Psalm 92),” co-written and feat. Wendell Kimbrough Wendell, Paul, and I had a ton of fun with this one. We were able to “paint” with a lot of different sounds throughout: stomps, claps, trumpet solos, and a call-and-response vocal in the outro. A worship song with major kid-song energy, this track reminds us that it’s good, right, and life-giving to give thanks to the Lord using all musical instruments we can find. It made sense to me to put this song right after the song about what Jesus has done for us, and my hope is that it will help listeners dance and laugh like kids again—for “he has made us glad!” 08 – “My Refuge, My Fortress (Psalm 91),” featuring Paul Demer During the pandemic of 2020, two separate Kickstarter supporters commissioned a Psalm 91 song. I struggled with the theological tensions this psalm contained: it says “He will deliver you from the deadly pestilence…it will not come near you,” and yet we know God does not always physically protect us from pestilence like COVID, from suffering, or even from death itself. In writing this song, I tried to hold this seeming contradiction together even as Jesus did when he prayed both “take this cup from me” and “thy will be done.” I hope this song becomes a simple hymn for the suffering, a prayer of trust on hard days. 09 – “Don’t Hide Your Face (Psalm 102),” co-written by Rachel Wilhelm Old Testament scholars estimate that laments make up two-thirds of the Psalter. And yet, as I neared the start of production for this Psalms album, I realized the working tracklist did not yet include a true lament. A few months before, our close neighborhood friends had lost their young daughter Lily. My friend Kathy, Lily’s mom, had posted online about how Psalm 102 had given her words in her grief. So, with their story heavy on my heart, I sat at the piano and started writing. My friend Rachel Wilhelm – a songwriter known for her work in lament – helped me finish it, adding even more ache and really unique chord choices. 10 – “I Love Your Word (Psalm 119),” co-written with Anne-Claire Cummings As I sat down to put the tracks in order, I intentionally chose to bookend the album with songs about God’s Word. In writing this track, my hope was to condense the famously-long Psalm 119 down to its core message: we love and desire God’s Word because we love and desire God. My prayer is that this is a song someone could use both in their alone time with God—say, at the outset of a “quiet time” in the early morning—and in a corporate setting—say, the song a congregation sings just before a Sunday sermon. I really, really love this one and I’m grateful my friend Anne-Claire would help me take it across the finish line. 11 – “Selah” We had recorded a long instrumental at the end of Psalm 119, but decided late in the game to make it a solo track. There were several reasons behind this choice, but one was to make sure Psalm 23, the Jesus song, sat at the center of the record. My friend and fellow singer-songwriter Graham Jones had the idea to call it “Selah,” an idea I loved right away. The word “selah” occurs 71 times in the Psalms. Though its exact meaning is difficult to nail down, many believe it’s a musical term directing us to pause and praise God for whatever was just prayed or sung in the previous verse. On this album, this song offers a moment of rest, a moment to pause and praise God after all we have covered in tracks 1-10. It feels like a perfect ending to a Psalms record. You can listen to Caroline’s new album, Psalms: The Poetry of Prayer here.

by David Mitchel This Friday last, pastor, teacher, and author Tim Keller took one final drag on the air of old creation, then breathed his first breath of the unadulterated rest of Christ, in which rest he now awaits the further glory to be revealed at the Resurrection. For Tim, this transposition is great gain, though it is a hard loss for many left behind: thousands whom Tim pastored and mentored; hundreds of thousands whom he taught through his incomparable sermons, lectures, and writings; many personal friends; and, of course, for Kathy, Tim’s wife of nearly fifty years, and their three children. It would of course be too much to say that Tim’s voice was the stability of our times. But everything about Tim’s faithful discharge of his vocation – in pulpits, at lecterns, and in his many books and articles – exuded the reassuring stability of a man firmly rooted in the grace of God in Christ. In the midst of interesting times, his voice remained clear and steady, his rhetoric measured, his mind nimble and curious, and his heart warm and hospitable. These were gifts of God to Tim, and gifts to us through Tim. We will miss them. There were too many notable features of Tim’s life and teaching to do many of them justice in a brief remembrance such as this. But for a community committed to story and beauty, two may be particularly salient: his robust application of common grace, both in his teaching and, evidently, his life; and his emphasis on working from rest. First, regarding common grace. During his public career Tim did not, so far as I know, change his mind about any significant point of doctrine or morality. He remained committed to the doctrinal distinctives of the Protestant reformation, particularly as touching matters of sin and the doctrines of grace. Yet even a cursory glance at his engagements and the content of his output show that this doctrinal and moral constancy did not hold for the reasons usually given by the suspicious – reactionary fear and anger, financial or power interest, the Dunning-Kruger effect. He was plainly a marvelously curious and open man. This essential openness I ascribe to his robust view of common grace: he knew God could plant startling goodness and beauty anywhere, in anyone, any painting, or song, or novel, or stageplay. He could be open to the veins of beauty in anyone’s story. His doctrinal consistency over time, then, owes much to the fact that his robust view of common grace made all his other doctrinal and moral commitments uncommonly supple: his theological and philosophical wineskins retained enough newness, enough give, to take in good vintages old and new, retaining their form while holding the wines. Second, regarding working from rest – specifically, from rest in Christ. Tim spoke and wrote often about functional saviors and self-justification projects. These could relate to family or other relationships, financial status, or success in one’s vocation. Self-justification by vocational success can be particularly vexing for artists, for success in painting, creative writing, or composing is hard to measure. Even good efforts remain subject to reproach, especially the artist’s self-reproach. This is one of the many places where Tim’s broad application of the grace of God in Christ shows its quality: for those whose ultimate validation and identity are found in Jesus, vocational success need not be a cripplingly stern master. To Tim: If messages go from blogs to the Church Triumphant, thank you. Thank you for leaving us a substantial body of work from which we may yet learn and grow. Enjoy your well-earned rest in the peace of God. 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.