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The Habit Podcast is a series of conversations with writers about writing, hosted by Jonathan Rogers. In today’s episode, Jonathan Rogers interviews James K. A. Smith, author of the Desiring the Kingdom series. James K. A. (Jamie) Smith is a philosophy professor at Calvin College and the author of many important books, including Desiring the Kingdom, You Are What You Love, How (Not) To Be Secular, and (most recently) On the Road with Saint Augustine. In this episode, Jonathan and Jamie discuss Augustine’s account of human desire and its implications for fiction-writing; the ever-elusive mystery of the self; and the drama of redemption as the re-directing of our deepest loves. Click here to listen to Episode 19 of The Habit Podcast. Special thanks to our Rabbit Room members for making these podcasts possible! If you’re interested in becoming a member, visit RabbitRoom.com/Donate.

[Editor’s note: Recently, the Rabbit Room staff has been struck by the sheer amount of awesome new stuff being released during the month of October. So this month’s blog content will be punctuated by posts that spotlight each of these exciting new works of art. We will begin with Rabbit Room Press’s reprinting of The Light Princess, complete with illustrations by Ned Bustard (of Every Moment Holy). What follows is the foreword included in the book, written by Jennifer Trafton. Enjoy!] Something magical happens when the wind blows through a wind chime. A moment before the arrival of that invisible wisp of breath, all is still. The wind chime is motionless and silent. No one would guess that its pendulous form contains the possibility of music. And then, a breeze. A dance. A sudden flurry of notes, as if the wind chime has been surprised into speech and, to its own utter delight and the delight of those listening, begins to sing. Put two wind chimes side by side, and the magic deepens. For the wind is the same, and yet the way it curls around each of them, the slight differences in their shape, the way the chimes respond to the movement of the air—all result in a unique song for each. Same breath, different music. For the writer of this fairy tale you now hold in your hands, each of us is a wind chime. Each of us, he believed, possesses depths of song none could guess, not even ourselves. And that potential inside us—that hidden music waiting to be awakened by the invisible breath of a story, a symbol, a beautiful image, a flicker of truth—is our God-given gift of imagination. . . . Like many others, you may have first encountered George MacDonald through the writings of C. S. Lewis—in Surprised by Joy, perhaps, as the author of the book (Phantastes) that “baptized” Lewis’s imagination and showed him the beauty of holiness, or in The Great Divorce as the narrator’s gentle Scottish guide through heaven. “I have never concealed the fact that I regarded him as my master,” Lewis said; “indeed I fancy I have never written a book in which I did not quote from him.” The more you read of both authors, the more you will see the truth of Lewis’s statement. But MacDonald’s influence extends far beyond Lewis. Typical of the prolific Victorians, he published over fifty volumes in his lifetime, including realistic novels, fantasies, collections of short stories and fairy tales, poetry, sermons, essays, translations, and literary criticism. A man of wide interests and gifts—preacher; literature teacher; humanitarian; actor; friend of theologians, artists, and orphans; father of eleven children; gentle patriarch of a home famous for its hospitality to literary luminaries and working-class neighbors alike—he was one of the most beloved Christian authors and thinkers of the 19th-century English-speaking world, on both sides of the Atlantic. Queen Victoria enthusiastically dispersed his novel Robert Falconer among her grandsons. Lady Byron, the famous poet’s widow, became one of MacDonald’s most loyal supporters and a lifelong patron. Mark Twain discussed co-authoring a novel with MacDonald and requested a second copy of At the Back of the North Wind because his children had worn out the first one. Lewis Carroll, a regular guest in the MacDonald household, shared his Alice stories with MacDonald’s children, who begged him to publish them. When G. K. Chesterton (who called him “St. Francis of Aberdeen” and claimed The Princess and the Goblin “made a difference to my whole existence”) presided over a centenary celebration of MacDonald’s life and work in 1924, Sir James Barrie (the author of Peter Pan) and the poet William Butler Yeats were among the many distinguished guests. J. R. R. Tolkien, Florence Nightingale, Oswald Chambers, Madeleine L’Engle, and Maurice Sendak have all spoken of their debt to him, and modern fantasy literature owes much of its revived interest and inspiration to his faerie creations. He was a magnet of a man and a writer whose power lay deeper than mere craft. His ability to view the world through the eyes of a child reflected his belief that a childlike approach to life is essential to faith, and his genius for conveying spiritual truths through symbols has few rivals. But he was a Christian who pondered the why of his art as well as the how. For numerous readers and fellow writers then and since, he articulated something about our human identity as imaginers that has fundamentally shaped our view of what it means to write a story, and also to receive one. MacDonald believed, with all his heart, that God’s revelation of himself to his children is a revelation that invites and enriches the imagination rather than suppresses it. God speaks to us through stories and metaphors in Scripture; he came to meet us not as an Idea but as a Child. Revelation is God reaching out to us; imagination is us reaching out to God. It is our own little mirror image of the Creator’s unique power to clothe thought in concrete form, to dream up and make something—in God’s case, out of nothing; in our case, out of the vast and rich universe that God made for us and filled with living poems that show us glimpses of his glory, if only we have the eyes (and the imagination) to see it. The truth stirred by story is the truth that slips into our hearts rather than the truth that marches into our heads. Jennifer Trafton “In very truth,” MacDonald wrote, “a wise imagination, which is the presence of the spirit of God, is the best guide that man or woman can have; for it is not the things we see the most clearly that influence us the most powerfully; undefined, yet vivid visions of something beyond, something which eye has not seen nor ear heard, have far more influence than any logical sequences whereby the same things may be demonstrated to the intellect. . . . We live by faith, and not by sight.” Therefore, the imagination is a gift that should be carefully cultivated in both young and old—baptized by the beauty of nature and art, nourished by stories that point to the Great Story, led further and further on the path to holiness. “It is God who gives thee thy mirror of imagination and if thou keep it clean, it will give thee back no shadow but the truth.” The purest expression of this gift, MacDonald believed, is fantasy, and what sets certain of his stories within the realm of Faerie is not the presence of fairies or even magic (though both may be there) but the quality of enchantment. The world shimmers with spiritual meaning that lies just beneath the surface, winking at us through stone or tree or bird or star. And because artists are not creating things so much as finding them, uncovering the truths God has already planted in His creation, then the writer of a fantasy story and the reader of that story are both, in a sense, on a journey of discovery—through a land where the joys and the sorrows, the longings and the wonders of human experience, are distilled into their simplest and most vivid forms. Such a story, MacDonald said, is not an allegory, not a secret code, but more like a sonata of images—golden keys, spinning-wheels, suns, moons, flowers, shadows, cleansing rose-flames, clumsy goblin shoes, water, wine, and bread—symbols that ring in us like little bells, reminding us of many things, arousing memories and emotions, nudging us to make connections. The truth stirred by story is the truth that slips into our hearts rather than the truth that marches into our heads. The unique power of a fairy tale lies in its ability, not to impart ideas or to teach a message, but to awaken our deepest longings—to cause us to desire the good, the true, and the beautiful that we have encountered during our sojourn in fairy land. It’s an encounter that forever changed C. S. Lewis, and it continues to change lives today. . . . First published in 1864 as one of the stories told to heal a depressed young woman in the novel Adela Cathcart, “The Light Princess” remains one of MacDonald’s most beloved fairy tales. It crackles with wit and wordplay, proving that all the weighty importance he gave to Faerie did not mean that for MacDonald a fairy tale must be overly serious. The double meaning of “gravity,” upon which the plot rests, allows him to spin countless puns and share a hearty laugh with his readers while at the same time gently drawing us toward graver themes, such as the redemptive power of self-sacrificial love and the kind of tears that cleanse and deepen us. Artist Ned Bustard has paid homage to all the multilayered themes and resonances in MacDonald’s writing by threading visual symbols throughout the illustrations, like little Easter eggs for you to discover. Some are images drawn from centuries of Christian iconography—seashell, dolphin, anchor, bread, wine, and more. He’s also hidden objects and elements from some of MacDonald’s other fantasy stories, such as The Princess and the Goblin, The Princess and Curdie, “The Golden Key,” and Lilith. To those of you who’ve read these other stories: look carefully! Do you spot the allusions? A final word before you begin: if the symbolism of “The Light Princess” sets off a symphony of little ringing bells in your imagination, let it. MacDonald steadfastly refused to explain what his stories “meant,” and that in part reflects his humility as a writer. The meaning you find may be better than mine, he says. An author may not know the full truth of what he’s writing, but the Maker of Stories does, and He will blow truth through the reader’s heart far beyond and even apart from the author’s intentions. “If a writer’s aim be logical conviction,” MacDonald wrote, “he must spare no logical pains, not merely to be understood, but to escape being misunderstood; where his object is to move by suggestion, to cause to imagine, then let him assail the soul of his reader as the wind assails an aeolian harp. If there be music in my reader, I would gladly wake it.” And so, the best way to read a story by George MacDonald is to be still and listen. Whether laughing or crying or both, listen. Wait for the wind. The Light Princess is available in the Rabbit Room Store.

We’re so excited for Andrew Peterson’s new book, Adorning the Dark, and we especially appreciate the way he engages with Tolkien’s notion of eucatastrophe as it appears in the creative process—the unrelenting search for a “pinprick of light,” even in the very heart of darkness. Click through to hear Andrew’s thoughts directly in a video interview.

You don’t have to burn books to destroy a culture. Just get people to stop reading them. Ray Bradbury said that in 1994, several years before the proliferation of social media and smartphone use began seriously hijacking our capacity for sustained reading. Now, his warning is more relevant than ever. The truth is, it’s always been a challenge to create the space necessary for the kind of reading that nourishes the heart. But in this current age of distraction, it can feel almost impossible. A couple of years ago, Philip Yancey wrote a piece for the Washington Post titled “The death of reading is threatening the soul.” He noticed that the online world of soundbites and clickbait was contributing to a troubling diminishment in his own reading life, and he resolved to push against the trend. I’ve concluded that a commitment to reading is an ongoing battle, somewhat like the battle against the seduction of Internet pornography. We have to build a fortress with walls strong enough to withstand the temptations of that powerful dopamine rush while also providing shelter for an environment that allows deep reading to flourish. Christians especially need that sheltering space, for quiet meditation is one of the most important spiritual disciplines. We think that Philip is right—that we need a “fortress of habits” to support a reading life. And it’s that conviction that’s making us particularly passionate about this year’s Renovaré Book Club, including and especially the fact that Philip is one of our facilitators this year. We’re convinced that when someone clicks the “Join Book Club” button, what they are really doing is beginning to construct their own reading fortress out of the building blocks of intentionality, encouragement, community, accountability … and really wonderful books! This year we’ll be reading together: Book One: Fearfully and Wonderfully: The Marvel of Bearing God’s Image, written by Philip Yancey and Dr. Paul Brand. This updated release combines two of Yancey and Brand’s modern classics to offer a profound exploration of the wonder of the human body. Philip will be facilitating our journey through this book—his first time in the Club! Book Two: Doors into Prayer, by Emilie Griffin. When William A. Barry says a book “makes prayer enticing,” we pay attention! It helps that Renovaré’s own Emilie Griffin wrote the book in question—a handbook on prayer that is as practical as it is eloquent. Plus, Emilie herself has agreed to facilitate. Book Three: The Interior Castle, by Teresa of Ávila. According to Renovaré Board Member and lifelong pastor Dr. Miriam (Mimi) Dixon, this sixteenth-century classic is “a field guide for any pilgrim in search of a deeper life with God.” Gladly, we have Mimi (who has spent many hours being mentored by Teresa’s writing) to teach us how to access this guide. Book Four: Life Without Lack: Living in the Fullness of Psalm 23, by Dallas Willard. Becky Willard Heatley and Larry Burtoft lovingly crafted Dallas’s recorded teachings into this wise and deeply encouraging treatise on living life without fear. We’re thrilled to have Becky and Larry serve as our facilitators. Photo by Anthony DELANOIX on Unsplash

The Habit Podcast is a series of conversations with writers about writing, hosted by Jonathan Rogers. In today’s episode, Jonathan Rogers interviews Jonny Jimison, graphic novelist and author of the Dragon Lord Saga. In this episode, Jonathan and Jonny discuss visual storytelling, the age-old search for authentic voice, and board games. Click here to listen to Episode 20 of The Habit Podcast. This month, Rabbit Room Press is re-releasing Martin and Marco, Book 1 of Jonny’s Saga, in full-color. Click here to view The Dragon Lord Saga: Martin & Marco in the Rabbit Room Store. Special thanks to our Rabbit Room members for making these podcasts possible! If you’re interested in becoming a member, visit RabbitRoom.com/Donate.

It seems unreal that this is the tenth Hutchmoot (eleventh if you count HM UK!), but here we are. Some days it feels like things are a well-oiled machine and we know what we’re doing. Other days it feels like the first year and we’re sure we don’t have a clue. But if there’s one thing that’s constant, it’s this: we still can’t believe we get to have this much fun. And here’s what I mean: We’ve got a hoot of a show planned for Thursday night (just you wait). We’ve got Carolyn Arends flying in from the Great White North. We’ve got Michael Card coming in from just down the road to talk about Scripture. We’ve got Ruth Naomi Floyd and Mark Meynell reprising their legendary session from HM UK. We’ve got Buddy Greene and Odessa Settles telling tales and singing songs. We’ve got Sara Groves and Eric Peters and Andrew Peterson and Drew Miller and Jonathan Rogers talking it up and playing music in the Friday night show and Ella Mine bringing her Dream War to the masses. We’ve got guitars being built. Songs being written. Poetry being open-miced (no idea how to verb that). Gardens being planned. Ink to moot. Oh, and book releases like Adorning the Dark, The Light Princess, and Martin & Marco (not to mention the card game!). And we’ve got a special surprise for Sunday that we’re keeping hidden. Honestly, there’s so much going on that I’m giddy just thinking about it. One thing that became clear to us this year, though, was the realization that after a decade of Moots, we had grown in our interests and our sessions had stretched to encompass a huge variety of topics. So this year we’re taking things back to basics. We’re reminding ourselves why we started doing this in the first place. It was writers like Tolkien, MacDonald, Berry, O’Connor, Mullins, Saint Paul, and the Gospel-writers that played such a strong role in waking up our imaginations when the Rabbit Room was founded, and this year we’re going back to our roots. So if this is your first time, we hope you feel welcome and we hope you’ll go home with a deeper understanding of why the Rabbit Room exists and what brought it about. Because we are chasers after great mystery, we will never come to the end of our delight in the one who lights us. And if that's true, and this is only year ten, we've got a lot to look forward to. Pete Peterson If you’re returning for the second, forth, seventh, or tenth time, don’t worry, there’s plenty for you too. The great thing about the Gospel is that it’s inexhaustible. I think I heard Steve Guthrie (who is also leading a session this year) say once that when we talk about the “mystery” of God it doesn’t mean that God is a puzzle that we have to uncover and solve like in a detective novel, but rather, God is infinitely knowable. He can be known both intimately—and infinitely. I like to think that Hutchmoot embraces that idea. Because we are chasers after great mystery, we will never come to the end of our delight in the one who lights us. And if that’s true, and this is only year ten, we’ve got to look forward to. Travel safely. John is in the kitchen and it smells wonderful. There will be something warm and delicious waiting for you when you arrive. Let’s do this—again. Convene the Hutchmoot. Poster by Stephen Crotts

For more than twenty years now, my brother, Andrew Peterson, has been baring his soul in his music, and in doing so he’s shined a light into the dark corners of the souls of others, mine included. But he’s no ordinary singer-songwriter, he’s a novelist as well, and his Wingfeather books are beloved far and wide; they’ve lighted up untold numbers of faces and hearts of their own, and in their own ways. But today marks the release of something different. In Adorning the Dark, Andrew wades out into the waters of non-fiction, and the result is something that hews closer to his songwriting than to the wild imagination of his novels. Here he’s opening himself up to the world and showing us the dark reaches inside of himself. If you’ve paid attention to the Burning Edge of Dawn album, you’ll recognize some of the landscape of Adorning the Dark. The book covers a lot of territory, from the creativce process, to the difficulties of discernment, to discipline, to the importance of community, and Andrew does it all with the same keenness of language he employs to craft his songs. If you’ve read his writing here on the Rabbit Room, or if you’ve been to his sessions at Hutchmoot, or if you’ve heard him speak elsewhere, you won’t be surprised to find that his ability to tell a good story and winnow it down to an essential truth serves him as well in book form as it does elsewhere. What’s always made Andrew such a good writer is that he’s not afraid to plumb the depths and shine light on what he finds. Thankfully, he looks long and hard and what he finds is good. And this is a book filled with good, good things—trinkets and treasures in the form of insights and revelations mined during the hard work of thinking critically, and living faithfully, and loving well. I’m proud of him, and I’m proud of this book. He’s spent a lifetime adorning not merely the darkness but the people around him and the world itself—dressing us in light. That good and faithful work has taught him a lot, and I’m glad he’s taken on the task of sharing his experiences with those who will listen. I’m not too proud to admit that I have a lot to learn, even from my younger brother. I hope this book does you the same kind of good it did me. I hope you find an openness in it that brightens some dark place inside you. I hope it shines a light on the path in front of you. I hope it helps you find a light of your own to shine for others. Today is release day. Congratulations, Andrew. Now everyone else go find a copy and enjoy the journey. [Adorning the Dark is available in the Rabbit Room Store and wherever great books are sold.]

“‘No. You’re forgetting,’ said the Spirit. ‘That was not how you began. Light itself was your first love: you loved paint only as a means of telling about the light.’” —C. S. Lewis, The Great Divorce Hello, dear fellow Hutchmooter. You are now experiencing reentry. Please keep your arms and legs inside the car at all times, and wait until the car comes to a complete stop. Reentry is not pleasant for anyone. It’s a strange mix of feeling full, of having so much to talk about, to share, to process—and maybe you don’t have anyone to do that with. Maybe you have to hit the ground running with small children the moment you enter the door. Maybe you have an unforgiving boss who doesn’t care about your weekend. And you—you’ve been altered, you’ve been fed. You feel different and you wish you could put it into words. Maybe this was your first time at Hutchmoot, and you were astonished at the restful space that was given to you. You were unhurried in your heartfelt conversations with people who were once strangers, but now are dear friends. You lingered over your coffee, made with care and love and handed to you with a smile. You’re overwhelmed with the joy of a creative space like Hutchmoot, but you’re also exhausted and your brain and spirit feel full to the brim. While you don’t want to leave, you feel that if you had one more session to sit through and think through, you might slump over onto the floor out of sheer overload. Maybe Hutchmoot was a returning time for you. You knew the faces to expect, the hugs to anticipate, and the jokes to be told. You might have opened up on a new level and shed some tears with kindred spirits. You felt, as you have many years before, that this was a home-going of sorts. Yet every year is different, and there are new things to think about and sort through. Your heart feels uplifted and filled. You lingered in the parking lot and didn’t want to leave yet again. If I may, I’d like to remind you of one very hard thing: Hutchmoot isn’t a staying place; it’s a sending place. Wherever in the world you’re returning to, you’re sent there. You’ve been placed there by design. You aren’t there by accident. At least for now, and for most of us, Nashville isn’t where we belong. You, artist/creative type/appreciator, serve a purpose in the kingdom of God in your actual, local, geographic location. You are a part of the body, unlike any other part of the body where you are. You aren’t meant to be like everybody else. Part of the glory of Hutchmoot is that you feel like people “get” you. You ask them if they’ve read that book, and they have! And they loved it, too! Remember Lewis’ quote about how friendship is born the moment someone says, “What, you too?! I thought I was the only one!” Hutchmoot is full of those moments, and they are delightful and soul-nourishing. But back at home, you are a bit more unique. Not everyone thinks the way that you do. This, also, is by design. If everyone thought like I did, the budgets would never be balanced and the times tables would never be learned. But that’s because I serve a different function than someone else who excels at those things. Hutchmoot isn't a staying place; it's a sending place. Kelly Keller It’s easy to interact in that “you too” manner at Hutchmoot because some of the work has already been done for us. We know that when we make a Narnia reference, almost everyone will perk up. We know that people will want to talk thoughtfully about films and not cast them aside out of hand. There are relatively safe conversational spaces to occupy and know you will be welcomed. But that’s because the Proprietor, the Hutchmaster, and the staff have worked very hard to establish grooves for us to run in. The way has been paved, the example has been set, and the space has been made. At home, this is probably not true. May I suggest that you do some hard work to find those “you too” moments with the members of your local place? Not everyone there is easy for you to love. You’re not easy for some of them to love, either. Recall Paul’s teaching to the Corinthian church about the parts of the body. You might be an eye who has nothing in common with an ankle or a hand. Remember, you have the most important thing in common: you have Jesus! The body of which you’re a part is the very thing you have in common. Because you’re good at imagining, let’s imagine for a moment a group of eyes talking to each other. “What a night I had!” one says, “The Body left the contact lenses in overnight and it was a battle all night long.” The other eyes nod in agreement—they’ve experienced that as well. Another pipes up, “I saw the most beautiful meal the other night, but Stomach was a real downer and said we could only have a few bites.” Someone replies, “Yes, my Stomach is that way too. Why don’t they understand what we see? How beautiful it is?” It might take more effort for an eye to have conversations with stomachs, ankles and hands than with other eyes. But they are still part of the same Body, and they can’t do without each other. I have long felt, as many of you do, that The Rabbit Room is a unique place worth preserving. It’s different, it’s new to some of us, and it’s a haven. Anytime there is a sniff of controversy, we have the difficult conversation or we just do the hard work of lovingly pressing through and forgiving a difference. There is special care taken to major on the majors and allow kind disagreement on the minors, because we can’t let conflict destroy this special place we’ve got. But this is what the church ought to be to us, as well. Perhaps familiarity with the institution of the local church, and the way it has become lazily enfolded into cultural Christianity, has made us careless in striving for the preservation of it. If the past decade in America is any indication, there is a shift happening in American culture. We are, slowly but surely, moving from a “Christian nation” (may I say, we were never this—and that’s another post) to a post-Christian one. Though the changes are uncomfortable, the church is being refined. It’s becoming increasingly uncomfortable for people to hang onto churches for the social capital. This is a good thing. As this shift continues, the need increases for you, Rabbit. Your local body needs your voice of hope. Your vivid descriptions of Heaven. Your songs in the night. They won’t all understand it at first, and some of them will never “get it” at all—at least, not at the level your idealistic heart wants them to. But for those who do, you may function as a life preserver. Russell Moore has made it a habit of saying that the church is moving from moral majority to prophetic minority. As this happens, the songs and stories will grow all the brighter. The church needs its artists and its poets, striving with their musical hearts towards peace in the church and for the hope of Heaven. So don’t stay in Nashville, Hutchmooter. Go sing to your people at home. Maybe we’ll see you next year. We’ll hug you when you get here. This post originally appeared on Kelly Keller’s blog. [Editor’s note: This is the part of the post where we ask you to comment with a note about your experience of Hutchmoot this year. What themes did you notice emerging in sessions, songs, and conversations in the hallway? Are there any particular meaningful moments you’d like to share? Funny stories or new friends? You’re invited to tell about it here.]

The Habit Podcast is a series of conversations with writers about writing, hosted by Jonathan Rogers. In today’s episode, Jonathan Rogers interviews Drew Miller, singer/songwriter and content developer for the Rabbit Room. Drew Miller is a Nashville singer-songwriter, content developer for the Rabbit Room, and the producer of this podcast. This fall and winter he is releasing two EPs, Desolation and Consolation. In this episode, Jonathan and Drew discuss the interdependence of desolation and consolation, how to evoke genuine emotion in listeners, and the importance of truth-telling in a world full of false consolations. Writers who make Drew Miller want to write: Madison Cunningham (Who Are You Now?) Sara Groves (Floodplain) Click here to listen to Episode 21 of The Habit Podcast. Special thanks to our Rabbit Room members for making these podcasts possible! If you’re interested in becoming a member, visit RabbitRoom.com/Donate.

I didn’t want to go there. Sitting in stunned silence as Ella Mine performed her Dream War show, I battled emotions that took me by complete surprise. She is twenty-two. Twenty-two. I didn’t like the demons that haunt her. I didn’t like how her pain made me feel. I didn’t like that redemption seemed far off, that her suffering was still present and all too real right now. I hate that a seventeen year old girl suffered as she has and now, at twenty-two, she is still clawing her way out of the grave that she did not dig, wresting with demons that she did not invite to play. I felt the weight of her suffering, suffering that felt scarily familiar even in its great difference from my own. My heart raced and my breathing became labored as her voice raged and the pace of the music waxed and waned. Suffering and pain, anguish and drowning. Down, down, down. No part of me was comfortable. I furtively glanced around, noting the door all the way across the room. I wanted to leave. I could use the excuse of needing to go to the bathroom, then just stay in the hallway, out of sight, with a wall between me and her pain. Between her pain and mine. But I stayed. I wondered what my friends were thinking. I struggled to understand. I begged for relief, for release, for hope. Where was the hope? I scanned the pages of lyrics, looking ahead, wanting to see the happy ending tied up in a bow. But it wasn’t there. A slight up-tick? I guess you could call it that. My friend described it profoundly: Ella Mine scraped the bottom with her music. Yes, that’s right. She scraped it clean and didn’t promise we would rise from it. Not today. Isn’t that right, though? Isn’t that the truth with which we are cursed, caught between the now and not yet? I listened to Ruth Naomi Floyd singing the songs of her great-great grandmother’s generation. A woman whose legacy lives on in her great-great granddaughter’s strong and courageous voice. Then we heard the stories told by Odessa Settles and Buddy Greene, products of a similar era with vastly different experiences, two lives merged into a friendship wrought by music and the work of the Holy Spirit. Story after story of brokenness, of darkness, and of the light which darkness has not overcome. Finally, we experienced the reading of The Hiding Place, adapted by A. S. Peterson. This play is a work of sheer brilliance. Though I knew the story, this time I felt it. Viscerally, painfully. Corrie raged against the God she could not see while Betsy determined to love him despite their suffering. Forgiveness. The scandal of true forgiveness. Redemption. Hope. At the end the people stood, one by one, to tell what this weekend had meant to them. My heart burned to speak out but allergies had stolen my voice and I didn’t want to croak, detracting from the sacred atmosphere in the room, so I work it out here in silence as children’s voices waft from a bedroom down the hall and my daughter converses softly with her dad. We plan to light the first hearth-fire of the season tonight and I am glad. Glad for the light and, oddly, glad for the darkness. For without darkness how would we recognize the light? Without pain, how would we know the relief of healing? Without the root of suffering, how would we appreciate the fruit of deliverance? My brother used to scare us. An incredible artist, he would fill page upon page with images of demonic battles, dark creatures, blood and gore. He went to a counselor once who reassured his wife that this was, in fact, healthy. “This is how he deals with his emotions,” she said. “This is healthier than beating someone.” My brother knew what I have not wanted to face. It is better to sit in the grief and brokenness, to let it do its hard heart work, and not rush through it. We all like the happy ending. I certainly do. But I’m learning I cannot rush redemption. I must sit in the hard places and not run away. I must sit with those who suffer and mourn with those who mourn. Silence may be the balm they need instead of trite answers. In Matthew 10:27-31 Jesus tells us to speak into the light what we have learned in the darkness. What I tell you in the dark, speak in the light. What you hear in a whisper, proclaim on the housetops. Don’t fear those who kill the body but are not able to kill the soul; rather, fear Him who is able to destroy both soul and body in hell. Aren’t two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them falls to the ground without your Father’s consent. But even the hairs of your head have all been counted. So don’t be afraid therefore; you are worth more than many sparrows. Until then we must do the hard work of grief, dying one Paschal death after another, wrestling with God and coming out with a limp. Jeanine Joyner We are precious to him. He does not ask us to walk lightly or quickly through suffering. He has much to teach us in those dark places but we must exercise great patience and faith in order to learn, for learning is not a quick process. It is a product of time and discipline, of focus and intention. In order to discern what God is teaching me in the darkness I have to spend the necessary time there, gathering and gleaning what he is teaching me in order to bring it out with me into the light that is surely waiting, even when I cannot see the first glow of dawn. The dawn is promised. Light will surely pierce the darkness. One day we will dance in the fullness of joy before our Father, bathed in the light of his presence, the tears of grief long left behind. One day. But until then we must do the hard work of grief, dying one Paschal death after another, wrestling with God and coming out with a limp. At Hutchmoot, many were limping and as the unintended theme revealed itself over the weekend I realized I was, too. Isn’t that the beauty of a community like this? That we can come with our struggles, insecurities and scars and not be expected to have figured it all out? That it’s OK to sing a little off-key or miss a chord on the guitar as long as you keep pushing forward, refuse to stop creating, pound out one more paragraph of that book in your heart in direct rebellion to the sinister voices that whisper to stop? We have all been wounded. At some point we have all had to learn to walk again. Some have rediscovered how to dance, but many have not. Like the beautiful Ruth Naomi Floyd said, “Someday I will dance, but not yet.” Despite our scars, though, we are walking forward, getting stronger every day, side by side, armed with weapons of light, color, story and song. We will face the darkness. We will fight despair. We will grieve with those who grieve and not rush the process. We will exercise patience with our brothers and sisters who struggle to believe the dawn is coming. We will await the first light of morning together. Then we will dance. Photo by Luiz Felipe on Unsplash

Being a writer doesn’t just mean writing. It means finishing. I’ve heard it said that a song is never finished, only abandoned. That’s not true for me. To the contrary, I can’t wait to be done with the thing, because only once it’s finished can I raise my hand at the back of the class and say something that will be considered, not ignored, something that might be a blessing to someone. Only then do I begin to take on some flesh and stop haunting the room. Walt Wangerin Jr. said once that art isn’t art until it’s experienced by another. Praise God, I was reckless enough to try this thing—not because my songs matter all that much, but because I would have possibly gone mad—a madness of self-hatred, self-disdain, self-flagellation. A madness of Self. “Take thy thoughts captive,” I imagine God saying. “Put them to music. Then aim them away from you. Love your neighbor as yourself.” I confess, a mighty fear of irrelevance drove me to this vocation, a pressing anxiety that unless you looked back at me with a smile and a nod and said, “Oh, I see you. You exist. You are real to me and to this world and we’re glad you showed up,” I might just wither away and die. That’s not exactly a noble reason to fling your creations into the world, but it’s a decent place to start. After that, the Lord can redeem your impulse for self-preservation by easing you toward love, which is never about self. But if you’re scared, there’s no rush. First you have to do something. You have to climb out from under the bushel and share your light with those around you. You have to believe that you’re precious to the King of Creation, and not just a waste of space. You and I are anything but irrelevant. Don’t let the Enemy tell you any different. We holy fools all bear God’s image. We’re walking temples of the Spirit, the bashful bride of Christ, living stones in what is going to be a grand house, as holy and precious as anything else in the universe, if not more so. God is making us into a kingdom, a lovely, peaceful one, lit by his love for us flowing toward one another. That’s the best gift you have to give. *** A few miles from my house there’s an intersection that used to make me happy. It’s since been developed beyond recognition, and I regret to report that the magic is gone. If you ever want to go there, it’s a four-way stop at the intersection of Old Franklin Road and Cane Ridge Road. It wasn’t terribly interesting. It wasn’t a scenic overlook. The houses weren’t gigantic. But it was, for me, a strangely pleasant place. I don’t know why, but I felt rightness every time I pulled up to that intersection. I’d always look around as if I were on the verge of solving some bright mystery—until the driver behind me honked and I was forced to putter up the hill. I mentioned it to Jamie and the kids, and they agreed. It was a nice spot. To them, it was probably just that. But I would always wonder what made me feel that way. Was it the lie of the land? Was it the fact that the stop sign forced me to pause for a moment and consider my surroundings? Did it remind me of some lovely childhood drive? I can’t put my finger on it. Psalm 16:6 says, “The lines have fallen for me in pleasant places; indeed, I have a beautiful inheritance.” I know the psalmist wasn’t thinking of country roads when he wrote this, but I always thought of this verse when I sat at that intersection. “This, surely, is a pleasant place,” I would say to myself. And in some ways, a pleasant place is better than a breathtaking one, isn’t it? I love the Grand Canyon and have hiked into it a handful of times over the years, but I wouldn’t want to live there. Now, I realize of course that if Wendell Berry is right—that there are no unsacred places, only sacred places and desecrated places—then that intersection was just as sacred as the grass on your front lawn. But isn’t it true that some places feel right, just as surely as other places feel wrong? It isn't that we're fighting a battle in which we must win ground from the forces of evil; the ground is already won. Andrew Peterson I have been to desecrated places, and have sensed a brooding darkness without knowing why. I have, at times, had to speak aloud what I believe to be true about God’s presence in and around me in order to silence the voices of fear that clamored in my head—I have, in other words, been spooked. I have whistled in the dark. I don’t know how all this works. I only know that we’ve all probably been in houses that felt dark and disquieting, and by contrast there’s a sense of peace that seeps out of the walls of others. I want my house to be a house of peace. I want people to sense God’s presence when they roll up our gravel driveway. But how? It’s a matter of dedicating to God the world within our reach. Jamie and I are blessed with two wonderful neighbors, Tommy and Becky. When they built their home, sweet Becky wrote scripture verses on every 2 x 4 she could find. You can’t see them anymore now that the house is finished, and of course they don’t work as charms or anything weird like that; Bible verses on the studs don’t do anything magical. Still, every sacred word that Becky wrote on every sacred plank of wood was a reminder to her that it was not her house, but God’s. The Christian’s calling, in part, is to proclaim God’s dominion in every corner of the world—in every corner of our hearts, too. It isn’t that we’re fighting a battle in which we must win ground from the forces of evil; the ground is already won. Satan is just an outlaw. And we have the pleasure of declaring God’s kingdom with love, service, and peace in our homes and communities. When you pray, dedicate your home, your yard, your bonus room and dishwasher and bicycle and garden to the King. As surely as you dedicate your heart to him, dedicate your front porch. Daily pledge every cell of every tool at your disposal to his good pleasure. It’s all sacred anyway if old Wendell is right (and I think he is). I wonder if the Holy Spirit is rambling around in the temple of my heart, scribbling promises on every exposed bit of lumber, declaring my sacred-ness so that I will remember that I belong to him. And maybe when I’m old and I cross paths with some weary traveler, they’ll sense a rightness, a pleasantness of place, and will experience a peace that they cannot understand or explain. Stop a moment and look around. This is our Father’s world. We are sacred, you and I. Click here to buy Adorning the Dark at the Rabbit Room Store.

Our family has long enjoyed Randall Goodgame’s Slugs & Bugs albums, and even though my older kids have outgrown asking for them, you might still overhear my 14-year old singing “Tractor Tractor” on occasion. What makes those albums so appealing is Goodgame’s ability to draw kids in with his just-right balance of silliness and sincerity, laughter and lesson. Goodgame’s heart for children shines through whenever he talks about Slugs & Bugs. On a recent episode of The Habit Podcast with Jonathan Rogers, Goodgame spoke about writing for children, saying, “Children just want to know the truth. . .whether you are being silly or being serious, they just want you to be simple and be sincere.” Simplicity and sincerity is just what you’ll find in Goodgame’s two new picture books, Who Will Play With Me? and Are We Still Friends? illustrated by Cory Jones. The books embody simple, Biblical truths that apply to kids’ every-day relationships with gentle humor and heart-tug moments. In Who Will Play With Me? Doug the Slug finds a wagon and wants a ride. But when there’s no one to give him one, he decides to offer a ride instead. Doug, and later Sparky the lightning bug, learn that being a friend means treating others the way you want to be treated. In Are We Still Friends? Doug accidentally eats all of Sparky’s chips. And, because one wrong often leads to another, he lies about it. When he finally confesses, he wonders if Sparky will still be his friend. They learn about the power of forgiveness and telling the truth. A story that meets children where they are, with honesty and humor, is truly a gift. Carolyn Leiloglou Now, just because I can tell you the moral of each story, it doesn’t mean that Goodgame has spoon-fed these lessons to the reader. On the contrary, Goodgame’s respect for his child-reader is obvious, no where more clearly than in his omission of a “moral” at the end of his stories. It takes trust in your reader not to explain the moral but rather let the story work upon their heart. Especially when your audience is children. What is a story’s work? Children’s author Sally Lloyd Jones says it this way in her article “What Stories Do:” The power of the story isn’t in summing it up, drilling it down, or reducing it to an abstract idea. The power of the story isn’t in the lesson. The power of the story is the story. While Goodgame includes a scripture verse—which makes a great mediation alongside of the story—on the final page of each book, he allows his readers to discern the lesson on their own, in the way they are ready for, and, as such, his readers are more free to connect the story to their own lives. The cartoon-style illustrations—reminiscent of Veggie Tales—rhyming text, and simple storylines suit these books best for younger children, ages 3-6. Jesus’ command in Matthew 19 to let the children come to him reminds us that writing for children isn’t lesser or secondary work; it is valuable kingdom work. And a story that meets children where they are, with honesty and humor, is truly a gift. Click here to view Who Will Play With Me? in the Rabbit Room Store, and here for Are We Still Friends?

Last year at Hutchmoot, I was perusing Eric Peters’s delightful used bookshop when I stumbled on a work called The Silence of God: Creative Response to the Films of Ingmar Bergman. I had heard of Swedish filmmaker Ingmar Bergman, but I couldn’t think of a single film of his that I had actually seen. I often lament that although I love film and work full-time in video production, I never went to film school. I missed out on learning about French New Wave, German Expressionism, and Italian Neorealism. I missed all the classics that everyone in film school has to sit through and summarize in papers. Like a book that you don’t necessarily want to read, but know you would be a better person for having read it, I thought it was about time I dip my toes into the land of Bergman. I definitely didn’t come back out of the water the same. The Silence of God: Creative Response to the Films of Ingmar Bergman was written by the Canadian theologian Arthur Gibson. This is not a normal “Christian take on a secular artist” kind of book. What makes it different is that it’s obvious that Gibson is obsessed with Bergman. His love for these films is higher than any motive to show Christ in them. Each chapter is about one film; the book covers seven films in all and each chapter builds on the theme of the silence of God and ends with (what the author calls) the penultimate film on that subject: Persona. I reached out to a few friends who I thought might be interested in doing a film study together. Two showed up consistently (shoutout to Dave Mankin and Hitoshi Yamaguchi). They bought the book and read each chapter as we watched the correlated film. It took about six months total, but we got through all seven films, reading and discussing each as we went. It ended up being one of my favorite things I did this year. Arthur Gibson himself is fascinating. A researcher at Cambridge University in the Department of Pure Mathematics And Mathematical Statistics, his other titles include God and the Universe, Metaphysics and Transcendence, and Biblical Semantic Logic: A Preliminary Analysis. Reading what he sees in Bergman—what he pulls from the narrative, the imagery, the scenes, and the dialogue—is both difficult and enlightening. And then to actually watch the film exponentially surpasses reading about it. Film is meant to be viewed, after all. Gibson says in the first chapter of his book: Bergman certainly did not intend his films to be received entirely passively; the sensitized utterly passive filmstrip is a mere storage and communication device. On either side of it stand human beings, calling to one another as deep to deep. This book is the answer of one such human being, preoccupied with the problem and the phenomenon of modern atheism, to that other human being who exposed on film his own inner vision. Throughout this series of seven films, Gibson sees the silence of God as a thread woven throughout. He says: But God is operative and communicative throughout these films. Their theme is truly the silence of God, not merely the silence that proves there is no God there. When finally encountered head-on, this God is dramatically exposed to his own creature who can reject him. Indeed the dynamic of these seven films begins with man and ends with God. . .The radically simplified problematic of the entire series, regarded as a solitary unity, might be stated thus. The initial questioning demands: Is God there? And the terminal answer retorts: No, now he is here! I know Bergman probably didn’t intend everything Gibson is finding in his films, but it doesn’t matter. Gibson, in his own way, is seeing Bergman through his own fascinating lens of Christianity—and not just any Christianity, but a raw and free Christianity that I rarely glimpse. This is because of who Gibson is and his own unique experience of life and God. As I read Gibson and then watch Bergman, I can take both at face value. I can appreciate and take whatever I want from what Gibson sees in Bergman, and I can also take whatever else I want from watching Bergman myself. This is one of my favorite things about art: it is like a bottomless well of water, offering a drink to the thirsty, however they would drink it, from whatever cup they choose. You see something good here? Then take it. Drink it. You don’t have to ask permission. It’s yours. Bergman isn’t going to stand up from his grave and shake his fist, “I didn’t intend for you to take that from my film!” No, Bergman is a true artist, and true artists are humble enough to understand that their art is bigger than their own limited intentions. Gibson even says in his introduction, “Any question of the ‘adequacy’ of this interpretation here offered to the ‘original’ Bergman is patently irrelevant. I am neither trying to wrest Bergman to my own aims and ends nor attempting to offer an exclusive key. Rather this book is offered as a testimony to the thought patterns and above all the picture kaleidoscope activated in me by the experience of these films.” I found Bergman’s films to be beautiful, thought-provoking, disturbing, spiritual, crude, alive, real. They shook me awake and left me dizzy for days. (By the way, if you decide to go on a Bergman journey, then please swim at your own risk—his work can be disturbing at times.) This is one of my favorite things about art: it is like a bottomless well of water, offering a drink to the thirsty, however they would drink it, from whatever cup they choose. Hetty White Persona (1966) stayed with me the longest and keeps coming back to mind, especially when I’m alone in a quiet, empty house. The story is one of a sweet, perky nurse charged to look after an actress who has completely stopped speaking. The two of them travel to a seaside estate and spend many days there. The nurse (Alma) tries to cheer up the actress (Elizabeth) and chatters on to her even as she continues in her silence. Over time, Alma becomes so agitated that she eventually begs Elizabeth to speak. Elizabeth visits Alma in the night and they have a strange, dream-like encounter in which Elizabeth tells her “You can do with me what you will…I exist only for your sake.” But the next day, Alma barely remembers the encounter. At the climax of the film, Alma begins losing track of who she is apart from Elizabeth. In a disturbing scene where Alma gives a monologue about Elizabeth’s past, the camera focuses solely on Alma; and then the camera moves to Elizabeth as Alma speaks the exact same monologue for a second time over. The viewer (along with Alma) loses track of who is talking and also loses track of who is Alma and who is Elizabeth. Alma cries out a denouncement of her union with Elizabeth: “I am not you,” she says. The film ends with Alma “on her way back to the town she loves so well and has missed so much during her enforced retreat in the solitary and secluded place, alone with God.” Gibson sees Persona as the climax of the film series, wrapping up the progression of the silence of God theme. “The thrust of the film series we have reviewed is the clarification of an initial silence apparently indicative of absence into a terminal silence terribly indicative of presence. . . It is no small achievement to turn the fulcrum of modern atheism through a 180-degree angle, so that what initially seemed a silence indicative of total anterior absence of God from the realm of reality emerges terminally as a silence wrought by man’s deicidal hands throttling that God into definitive quiet.” If I took one thing away from this whole experience of reading Gibson and watching Bergman, it is that when I sense the silence of God, it is a presence, not an absence; and it’s also an invitation. Whether or not you read this particular book or watch this film series, I hope this essay provokes you to start your own movie club, dig into some of the films that don’t pop up on your Netflix feed, and watch something that makes you feel a little bit uncomfortable. As the famous film critic Robert Ebert once said: “It won’t be easy but it might just change you.” (The same thing might be said about Eric Peters’s bookshop.) I think it appropriate to end with a quote from Bergman himself from a 1964 interview with Playboy Magazine. He was asked, “Well, your films have been unfavorably reviewed for, among other reasons, the private meanings and obscurity of many of their episodes and much of their symbolism. Do you think these accusations may have some validity?” Bergman answered: Possibly, but I hope not—because I think that making a film comprehensible to the audience is the most important duty of any moviemaker. It’s also the most difficult. Private films are relatively easy to make; but I don’t feel a director should make easy films. He should try to lead his audience a little further in each succeeding film. It’s good for the public to work a little. But the director should never forget who it is he’s making his film for. In any case, it’s not as important that a person who sees one of my films understands it here, in the head, as it is that he understands it here, in the heart. This is what matters.

The Habit Podcast is a series of conversations with writers about writing, hosted by Jonathan Rogers. In today’s episode, Jonathan Rogers interviews Maryrose Wood, author of the Incorrigible Children of Ashton Place series. In today’s episode, Jonathan and Maryrose discuss the way that stage acting has impacted Maryrose’s writing, the implications of improv for overcoming writer’s block, and how to get comfortable with uncertainty in the writing process. Click here to listen to Episode 22 of The Habit Podcast. Special thanks to our Rabbit Room members for making these podcasts possible! If you’re interested in becoming a member, visit RabbitRoom.com/Donate.

At Hutchmoot this year I was able to sit down for lunch with Jonny Jimison, the creator of The Dragon Lord Saga: Martin & Marco—the new, full-color edition from Rabbit Room Press. We didn’t discuss his new book, because he was busy teaching Douglas McKelvey how to play the card game that is a spin off from the book. That was fine, because I had already told him what I hated about his book—it was “Volume 1.” That’s right. Hated. What, hated a Rabbit Room book? Well, sort of. Spoiler alert: this graphic novel ends with a cliff hanger. I’m not sure how I missed that when I started reading it. It might have been the high-quality printing or the gorgeous handling of color or the immediate laughter that the book gave me. Regardless, I was halfway through it before I got that sinking feeling that the action and adventure was just getting started, and I was running out of pages. I was originally introduced to Jimison’s work through the Rabbit Room cartoons he posted. My favorite was the Every Moment Holy/Rick Astley one, of course. Those strips have been loads of fun, mining the peculiarities of the people and obsessions in the Rabbit Room community. But they did not prepare me for The Dragon Lord Saga. The book is described as part of a five-volume graphic novel series which combines the fantasy adventure of The Lord of the Rings with the cartoon humor of Calvin and Hobbes. As I have admitted, I only read the first volume of the series, so I can’t speak to the veracity of that representation. In that there are dragons in it, and it is set in a Dark Ages-sort of world, I can see the Lord of the Rings angle. And as it is extremely funny and features a young boy, I can appreciate the Calvin and Hobbes reference. But if you ask me (and since you are reading this post, you are asking me), I think of it more as if it was Pogo plays Dungeons & Dragons. It is rare to find a comic book that feels so classic and so contemporary. It is scrumptious to look at and a blast to read. Ned Bustard The illustration style is so classic and warm that I can’t help but see a visual connection with Walt Kelly’s famous comic strip. Walt Kelly was a Disney animator (Pinocchio, Dumbo, Fantasia) who created Pogo, a possum who lived in a swamp with a wide range of neighbors including Albert Alligator, a turtle named Churchy LaFemme, a skunk named Cousin Downwind, and more. The strip ran from 1948–1973. The Pogo strips are funny and insightful, plumbing the depths of human souls through anthropomorphic substitutes. The drawings of the characters and the settings are beautiful and animated. Not surprising since they come from the pen of a former Disney artist. The Dragon Lord Saga characters and settings have the feel of a classic Disney film. The artwork sucks you in. You can tell it was colored with cool software, but it never feels cold. This alone is a huge accomplishment in my mind. And reading through the graphic novel, I had a hard time dismissing the expectation that the horse was going to break into a song. He didn’t (at least not in Volume 1), but he did talk. Oops! Another spoiler! Sorry about that. I spent many Saturday afternoons in my college years playing Dungeons & Dragons. I even played it during some study halls at school. But I made sure not to be overt about such activities, since I was in a Christian school! These games were always filled with laughter, outrageous monsters, unexpected surprises, and allusions to Middle Earth. The Dragon Lord Saga captures all those feelings for me. That is why I balk a bit at pitching this graphic novel to readers as being like The Lord of the Rings. I love Tolkien’s classic work, but let’s be honest—hilarious sight gags and talking horses are not what ole J. R. R. is known for. In contrast to the epic adventures of Bilbo & Co., this graphic novel has all the laughter, outrageous monsters, unexpected surprises, and allusions to Middle Earth that I remember from my gaming days, and so much more. I can’t imagine a graphic novel that is more Rabbit Room-ish than this. Buy it for your kids. Buy it for yourself. It is rare to find a comic book that feels so classic and so contemporary. It is scrumptious to look at and a blast to read. Click here to purchase The Dragon Lord Saga: Martin & Marco in the Rabbit Room Store. Ned Bustard is the designer and illustrator for Every Moment Holy and The Light Princess. He is also a graphic designer, kids’ book illustrator, art gallery director, and various other things.

Years ago I was helping out in a Sunday School class, and the teacher asked the boys and girls what I thought was an unfortunate question. The Scripture passage that morning was from Joshua 3, when the priests carry the Ark of the Covenant into the Jordan and the river stops flowing so God’s people can slip into Canaan. The text actually says the waters stood “in a heap.” The people cross on dry land, according to God’s promise and Joshua’s prophecy. I remember standing there in the back of the classroom listening through the children’s ears to a story I’d heard dozens of times, when I found myself gobsmacked by craziness of it, by all those little details that make Scripture so compelling, so uncategorizable. The kids were paying close attention. The room was pregnant with awe. Then the teacher closed his Bible and asked, “Now, children, what are some rivers you have had to cross? How have you had to trust God like the Israelites did?” All at once, the spell was broken. I had to hold my tongue, because I wanted to wave my hands and say, “Wait, wait! Can we just take a second and think about the fact that God dried up a river? That its waters stood in a heap? Isn’t that amazing? What does a heap of water look like, anyway?” Can’t the story, in other words, do its own work on us before we start applying it like good boys and girls? Of course there’s nothing wrong with application. But there is something wrong with turning a miracle into an object lesson before you’ve had a chance to consider the gobsmacking wonder of it. The same is true of the best fairy tales. I don’t mean to say that they’re factual in the way Joshua 3 is factual. After all, part of the power of that story is that it actually happened. But when a child hears a fairy tale, they take it as seriously as fact. The first time I read from my own books at an elementary school I was unprepared for the earnestness of the kids’ questions, the way their brains seemed to crackle when I told them about the weird creatures and mysterious magic, the way their faces scrunched up when they detected some apparent inconsistency because I had left out a crucial detail. None of my grownup friends were half as inquisitive or shrewd about the world, about the characters, about the bad guys. Kids know how to read a story. They believe it—or at least they instinctively suspend their disbelief. Grownups have to try twice as hard to open themselves to a story because the soul-muscle of wonder has atrophied. We read to know, not to experience. We apply. And in doing so, we protect ourselves from being gobsmacked—or enchanted, or frightened, or awed, or moved to tears without knowing why. Kids know how to read a story. They believe it—or at least they instinctively suspend their disbelief. Andrew Peterson As important as it is to remain childlike when reading a fairy tale, it’s just as important when you’re writing one. When Madeline L’Engle talks about “serving the work,” she means allowing the story to grow into what it wants to be. We aren’t meant to lord our will over a story, but to nurse it into being, then to let it loose to play in the woods of imagination. Only then can it surprise us with that zing of delight and discovery that reminds the author that making is mystery. George MacDonald demonstrates that as well as anybody. His tales are as wild as the Scottish Highlands, as untame as his bushy beard, and though it can be a little disorienting to a modern reader, MacDonald’s fatherly voice is ever present, full of kindness and wisdom. It doesn’t always feel like he knows where he’s going, but you do get the sense that he’s being led. C. S. Lewis said that hardly any other writer “seems to be closer, or more continuously close, to the Spirit of Christ Himself.” If that’s true it explains a lot, because the Spirit of Christ is untame, too. Jesus said in John 3:8, “The wind blows wherever it pleases. You hear its sound, but you can’t tell where it comes from or where it’s going. So it is with everyone born of the Spirit.” Old George believed God loved him, and wanted you to know that God loves you, too. Love is the wind that blows through these stories, and love doesn’t always make sense to us. It goes where it pleases. The Light Princess reminds us that the world is an unsettling place, and mystery clouds the corners of our days. That means strange and terrible things are bound to happen, whooshing in from the dark periphery without warning—like a witch’s curse, or one of the White Snakes of Darkness. But mystery also means that grace and light can come whooshing in, too, so you might as well keep an eye out. You might as well hope for a prince to wander in, fall in love with you, and lay down his life to make you whole, even though you don’t deserve it. Well, that’s an unfortunate turn. I accidentally applied the story, didn’t I? Maybe so. But I was gobsmacked first. Click here to purchase The Light Princess in the Rabbit Room Store.

This Christmas season marks twenty years of Andrew Peterson’s Behold the Lamb of God. Wow. What can I say about an album so beloved by so many people? Some of you were there in 1999 when AP first took his show on the road. I was four. My first Behold the Lamb experience didn’t come until just last year, and I feel like that negates anything I have to say about this record. Then again, if AP held that attitude twenty years ago, we wouldn’t even be talking about this album. Because what can anyone really say about a tale, a “true tall tale,” so beloved by so many people across 2,000 years? Yet, Andrew tackled the story anyway. He took the CCM artists’ Obligatory Christmas Album (two or three in some cases) and dared to offer something unique—something that reminds us of both the gravity and joy of the Christmas season, the necessity of rehearsing our stories, and the power of music to fill our hearts with longing. I could geek out for quite a while about the musical elements of Behold the Lamb, but I’ll try not to bore those less interested in the technical side of music. Just let it be known that AP and producer Ben Shive approach the task of creating a cohesive, conceptual album with excellence, filling the smallest musical crevices with motifs and reminders of the album’s journey from overture to finale. Note: In particular, listen for the repetitions of the “Deliver Us” melody throughout the record, sometimes switched from minor to major. OK, I’m done geeking out. But what a journey this album is. So often our Christmas stories begin with the angel appearing to Mary or perhaps the birth of John the Baptist. But Behold the Lamb, like the Gospel of John, reminds us that those moments were the flickerings of a hopeful light ready to break into a much older, colder story filled with pain, suffering, and darkness. This story begins in captivity. It begins with God’s people crying out in anguish for deliverance from oppressive evil thousands of years before the coming of Christ. But even then, God was foreshadowing what he would ultimately do in Christ: offer salvation through the blood of the Lamb, defeating death and sin with peace and perfect love. The story outlines God’s faithfulness despite Israel’s brokenness from Egypt (“Passover Us”) to the embrace of human kings (“So Long, Moses”) to exile (“Deliver Us”). And despite every failing across humanity’s history, God offered himself without blinking twice at the sacrifice that would have to be made. This is why we sing out with joy: so that no matter when you come into the story, whether it's 1999 or 2019 or 2039, we may proclaim together 'the power of death undone by an infant born of glory.' Chris Thiessen This is the story of Behold the Lamb of God. It may not sound like anything novel, and that’s because it isn’t. It’s all right there in the Bible and has been for a long time. But the power of this story isn’t in its originality; its power is in its reminder that this is our story. Just like the Israelites in Egypt, each one of us feels the pangs of sin, separation, and darkness. For each one of us, God made himself nothing, giving up his pride to come here and die like a man. I wasn’t there when it happened. Neither was Andrew. So for our sakes, we rehearse the story. We participate in the liturgy of the Christmas season to remind ourselves and each other of God’s goodness and unfathomable grace, even when we feel entirely broken. This is our protest against the darkness we encounter daily. This is why we sing out with joy: so that no matter when you come into the story, whether it’s 1999 or 2019 or 2039, we may proclaim together “the power of death undone by an infant born of glory.” Click here to view Behold the Lamb of God in the Rabbit Room Store.

The Habit Podcast is a series of conversations with writers about writing, hosted by Jonathan Rogers. In today’s episode, Jonathan Rogers interviews John Hendrix, author of The Faithful Spy. John Hendrix is a much-decorated author and illustrator and an art professor at Washington University in St. Louis. His work has appeared in Newsweek, Sports Illustrated, Entertainment Weekly, Rolling Stone, The New Yorker, Esquire, The New York Times, and elsewhere. His most recent book, The Faithful Spy, is a graphic novel about Dietrich Bonhoeffer and the plot to kill Adolph Hitler. It won a gold medal from the Society of Illustrators. In today’s episode, Jonathan and John discuss the painstaking process of crafting The Faithful Spy, the interdependence of text and image, and the many motivations for making things. Writer who makes John Hendrix want to write: Annie Dillard (Pilgrim at Tinker Creek) Click here to listen to Episode 23 of The Habit Podcast. Special thanks to our Rabbit Room members for making these podcasts possible! If you’re interested in becoming a member, visit RabbitRoom.com/Donate.

This song began with a dream that my wife, Kelsey, had, in which a group of well-dressed, professional-looking young men filed quietly into our house and proceeded to steal all our belongings, filling cardboard boxes with everything they could find. Kelsey watched them from the couch and asked, “Excuse me—why are you taking all my stuff?” One of them turned around and reassured her, “This is perfectly normal. It happens to everyone. We’ll be out of your way momentarily,” then resumed his polite theft. Within minutes, the intruders were gone, along with everything we had owned. It’s such a striking dream. It seems to be saying something like, “Growing up involves all kinds of inexplicable moments of incremental loss, but provides no ceremony for its accompanying grief.” Somewhere along the way, we pick up the unspoken expectation that we must keep moving forward, unshaken by the layers of skin we’ve shed. “Grace” is my interpretation of Kelsey’s dream, guided in large part by the wisdom of Wendell Berry. And you might just hear Kelsey’s voice in the recording, too (she did an awesome job). Listen on Spotify or Apple Music, and visit Drew’s website.

With great pleasure, we share today a new Rabbit Room Press reprinting of The Light Princess by George MacDonald. The influence of George MacDonald’s imagination is sweeping and inestimable. His approach to the fairy tale, ever-enchanted by the beauty of the gospel, continues to leave an indelible impact on generations of writers and readers—including us, of course! It’s the least we can do to honor this particular tale with new art by Ned Bustard, a foreword by Jennifer Trafton, and an afterword by Andrew Peterson. Click here to view The Light Princess in the Rabbit Room Store.

A few years ago I had lunch with a friend in Chattanooga. His name is Chris Slaten, and he’s an excellent songwriter, performing under the name Son of Laughter. I’m envious of his beard. I asked him how his songwriting was going, and since he’s a schoolteacher I wondered where and when he wrote. Did he have an office? He smiled between bites of tortilla chips and tapped his temple. “I do it up here,” he said. This may come as a surprise to you, that a song could be written in that miraculous space between a human’s ears. It surprises me, even though I’ve done it before. Chris said that the other day he had a doctor’s appointment and he sat in the waiting room with a copy of Hemingway’s For Whom the Bell Tolls. He opened the book for a moment, then shut it and decided instead to work on a song. He stared at a fake plant in the corner for twenty minutes and bent his will to the task. He said he was sure that he looked strange, staring all that time without really moving. But he made progress. He got home, grabbed his guitar, and tested out what he had “written,” then helped his wife with dinner until the next time he had twenty minutes to think—which was, he said, the next morning’s commute to the school. If you wait until the conditions are perfect, you’ll never write a thing. It’s always a matter of the will. The songs won’t create themselves, and neither will the books, the recipes, the blue-prints, or the gardens. One of my favorite poems by one of my favorite poets, Richard Wilbur, is called “The Writer.” Look it up. Seriously. Right now, go find a computer, Google it, and read it twice. Then head over to a bookstore and buy his collected poems. Keep the book on your nightstand and read one of them each night before you sleep. Writing is always a matter of life or death, he says, and finding the right arrangements of words is like being a bird trapped in a house, trying to find its way through the open window. Sometimes you've done all the planting you can do, and it's time to start weeding the garden. Andrew Peterson When I was in college I wrote most of my songs during class. I often sat next to my friend C.J., who was not only my college roommate, but was the guy who taught me to play the guitar ten years earlier at church camp. The first song I ever learned on the guitar was “Patience,” by Guns ‘n Roses, which starts in the key of C with a whistle solo, and I must say that there are much worse first songs a guy could have learned. C.J., who was hard at work learning to write songs even in high school, also happens to be the guy who introduced me to the music of Rich Mullins. I have happy memories of the music we made at C.J’s house during his senior year of high school. We’d pull out the guitars and Belinda, his mom, would belt out “Lovin’, Touchin’, Squeezin’” by Journey. Man, did she have some pipes. The whole family did. Those “na-na-na’s” at the end of the song provided me one of my first opportunities to sing harmony. I was the skinny kid in the background, trying to keep up, trying to learn to sing in tune. When I look back at those days I’m overwhelmed by their kindness. The Fluhartys encouraged me to sing, to play, to write, even though I was sloppy and flat and overeager. When C.J. graduated high school and went to Bible College, I followed suit, partly because I had nothing better to do. So there we sat next to each other in Old Testament survey classes, covertly passing lyrics back and forth. I watched the way he wrote his songs, the way he ordered the words on the page, arranging the stanzas so he could keep track of the meter of each line, the way he anguished over the syncopation of the syllables. I had still not managed to finish a song of my own—nothing worth sharing, anyway—but I felt a burning desire to contribute to our little college band’s body of work. I was a freshman, and fresh out of a pretty intense relationship with a girl. Then along came Jamie. She was beautiful and funny and full of life. She was a junior, and it was impossible to ignore her. We fell in love in a matter of weeks, and I knew without a doubt that if we kept dating we’d be married before you could sing the chorus of “Patience.” That was what scared me. I had just started college, I had dreams of playing music with a band, and was utterly unprepared to marry anybody, even if she was beautiful and wonderful and encouraging beyond measure. There were days when I wished I could retreat to a simpler place where there were no big decisions to be made. These are the lyrics I worked on for those early weeks of college. I take a walk down a dusty road and I Sink my feet in memories of colder days gone by I don’t want to go, but it’s all downhill And it seems so easy, I think I will Go down Could you tell that I’d been crying When you talked to me today? I’d been running from the words inside I never meant to say So come on with me and I’ll walk you around Through the backstreets of this old ghost town Come along and you will see There’s a place where we can be Far away from you and me Way down I’ll spare you the rest. To be honest, reading it now I don’t really know what it means. Something about memories, something melodramatic about wanting to escape all the questions so we could just hang out like the lovebirds we were. Apparently there was some kind of tearful discussion about our future, but I don’t remember it now. I don’t mean to diminish what must have felt at the time like a big deal, but the obscurity of the lyric makes it difficult for me to take it seriously. There are two more verses equally vague and earnest, but at the time I couldn’t find the chorus. One afternoon in apartment 418 my nineteen-year-old self mustered the courage to play my unfinished song for C.J. and ask him what he thought. Where should the chorus go? What should it be about? Was this all terrible? No, he said, it wasn’t a bad start. He liked it in all its “Toad the Wet Sprocket-ripoff” glory. He looked over the lyrics, pointed at the part about the ghost town that ended with “way down” and said, “That’s your chorus. It already has one.” Then he took a bite out of his apple and walked over to the courtyard picnic table with his guitar to work on a song of his own. Sometimes you’ve done all the planting you need to do, and it’s time to start weeding the garden. Click here to buy Adorning the Dark at the Rabbit Room Store.

I’ll begin with something of a confession: While I enjoy lots of music, and there’s an abundance of excellent artists and well-crafted songs these days, and it’s marvelous to behold—very rarely do I hear a song or album that I wholeheartedly love, that speaks to me on a visceral level. For What It’s Worth is that kind of rare album for me. It stopped me dead in my tracks and insisted that I listen a second, third, and fourth time. And J is celebrating the release of this album with a concert this Friday night at The Well on Granny White Pike (click this link for tickets). J Lind’s music comes from a unique place. He says it best: “My songwriting is grounded in true stories and old ideas, few of which are my own.” Many of those true stories emerged from the time he has spent with hospice patients. He studied philosophy at Princeton, where he also served in two civic service groups—Ascend Hospice and Princeton Music Outreach—that aim to forge connections between students and hospice patients. He then kept studying philosophy at Oxford before interning at a home-based palliative care organization in New Delhi, India. All the while, he’s been writing songs that bear witness to the suffering he has encountered. In fact, this album’s aim is to convey some of those stories in song form. And if that makes you feel a bit uneasy, I can understand that. Like, isn’t it kind of audacious to turn the stories of the sick and dying into a piece of art? Can it be done without sounding patronizing, condescending, or self-serving? Can the question of human suffering be engaged so directly without collapsing into truisms and platitudes that ultimately do a disservice to its subjects? It turns out that it can be done exceedingly well, because J Lind has written these songs from a place of honesty and sobriety. This album asks the question of theodicy over and over again from various moments in history, each iteration of the question lending a new dimension of insight. The album begins with “Letter to the Editor,” which approaches the question of human suffering from the relatable perspective of someone stuck in traffic. He muses: That accident on the interstate was so bad that they closed both lanes A man was dying while I complained that the traffic wouldn’t move Soon all the cars will drive themselves Some people think it will really help— Help me complain about something else So grant me the serenity to accept what I can’t change And give me the audacity to look the other way “Letter to the Editor” It’s hard for me to resist quoting the whole song. He moves seamlessly from this portrayal of guilt-laden cynicism to a tone of determined gratitude, clarifying what it could mean to truly love this world: No, I don’t want to love in spite of it Like it’s just some sad mistake No, I would rather love because of it Oh, the contrast that creates All of the colors found in every twist of this kaleidoscopic fate Yes, I’d like to learn to love it anyway “Letter to the Editor” In the second song, J Lind moves from the modern world to a far-off one, singing of a mighty king who asks his servants for an ancient ring (uh-oh—those rings are trouble) that will serve him in “both his misery and joy.” After the servants’ futile striving, a wise man fashions for them a ring with the words carved into it, “This too shall pass.” The rest of the song unfolds the wisdom to be found in this affirmation that all is transitory, as the king’s kingdom endures both wealth and want. Before we have time to catch our breath, we’re launched into space with “The Astronaut (Part II)” for another take on hubris and the human temptation to insist that all problems can be solved with more innovation. After painting a portrait of our extravagant, ill-fated protagonist and effortlessly alluding to “The Second Coming” by W. B. Yeats, J Lind crash-lands us in the middle of an unknown shore for the moral of the story: Behold the astronaut, so far from home He washed up on a shore unknown He’d build a tower out of stone, but all he sees is sand Mistaking confidence for competence He calls himself an optimist And builds until the sand is wet and running through his hands So you build your crystal palace high up in the sky The rivers of Babylon will never leave you dry And what would it take to teach a man that he can’t fly? Though you won’t triumph, you will try “The Astronaut (Part II)” This album asks the question of theodicy over and over again from various moments in history, each iteration of the question lending a new dimension of insight. Drew Miller Next up is the centerpiece and title track of the album—the moment where all these questions find their conceptual and emotional climax. We travel to the wilderness to observe tigers, hyenas, and jungles (hence the album cover). In the first verse of the song, J takes on the question that all Planet Earth viewers have found themselves asking at some point during a violent episode: “Wait! I thought the earth and everything in it was beautiful. So why is it that animals have to kill each other in order to survive? Is this really the way God made the world?” The rest of the song confronts harder and harder questions about the contingency of all death-fated creatures, humans included, until it juxtaposes the suffering of impoverished children with their inexplicable laughter, drawing attention to the absurdity of such a broken universe being laced with joy: And their song is lost to the chaos of the earth But they still lift up holy hands for what it’s worth And the people sing for the day their gods have made As the bishop bows in a foreign land to pray, “Let the Lord rain down his judgment on the earth, But I still love the heart of man, for what it’s worth” “For What It’s Worth” With all the restraint I can muster, I will now cease my rambling so as not to spoil the way this album draws to a close. Suffice it to say that J returns to the beginning of the biblical story with his song “It Is Good” to find a landing place for his searching questions: There’s wisdom in the garden But a serpent in the grass A just reward, a flaming sword, a flood throughout the land Till arcing ‘cross the heavens The rainbow bids you stand A voice commands, “It is good, it is good The colors, the wonders, the consequence of man Yes, it is good, it is good And I would do it all again” “It Is Good” I’ll let that speak for itself. One more thing: I would be remiss not to mention how masterfully these songs were arranged, recorded, produced, and mixed. Lucas Morton strikes again! (If you’re not familiar with his name, Lucas has worked on projects by Jordy Searcy, Jill Andrews, Sandra McCracken, Carly Bannister, and the list goes on and on.) The sonic landscape of this album switches seamlessly according to the setting of each song, shifting from medieval kingdom to outer space to jungle to open sea, never sacrificing a bit of cohesion. View For What It’s Worth in the Rabbit Room Store. Listen to For What It’s Worth on Spotify or Apple Music.

The Habit Podcast is a series of conversations with writers about writing, hosted by Jonathan Rogers. In today’s episode, Jonathan Rogers interviews JJ Heller along with her husband and collaborator, Dave. JJ Heller‘s songs remind people that they are loved. She and her husband Dave have been writing together since before they were married. On the first Friday of every month, they release a new song to the various digital platforms. In this episode, Jonathan talks with JJ and Dave Heller about the quest of finding one’s voice, anxiety, the tension between wanting to be impressive and wanting to make something that lasts, and the liberating gift of collaboration. Click here to listen to Episode 24 of The Habit Podcast. Special thanks to our Rabbit Room members for making these podcasts possible! If you’re interested in becoming a member, visit RabbitRoom.com/Donate.

One day I needed a fondue pot. A fondue pot is not something one wants to buy. I have lived over 18,000 days now, and on exactly ONE of those days have I wished I had a fondue pot. But the day in question was that day. So I went to Facebook and put out an all-call for a fondue pot. Within minutes, my friend Matthew Sullivan had offered to make his fondue pot available. Within a couple of hours, cubes of gruyere cheese were melting in my borrowed fondue pot, and my kids were spearing bread chunks to toast over a Sterno flame. Matthew Sullivan brought great joy to the Rogers house that day because a) he had what we needed, and b) he was willing to offer it. And I’m pretty sure Matthew got some joy too. (I don’t have any data to support this, but I suspect that at least 2/3 of the pleasure of owning a fondue pot derives from letting other people borrow it; after the first couple of months of ownership, nobody has ever eaten enough fondue to justify the storage space for all those accoutrements.) But as much as I loved and appreciated Matthew Sullivan that day, how do you think I felt about those hundreds of Facebook acquaintances who failed to come through for me in my hour of need? I made myself vulnerable. I expressed a need. Ninety-nine percent of my Facebook so-called “friends” were absolutely no help. And yet I wasn’t mad at them at all. My joy at Matthew’s provision was untainted by everyone else’s failure and indifference. Was this saintliness on my part? Perhaps. But also, it would be ludicrous to be mad at people for not having a fondue pot. Especially when I don’t have a fondue pot of my own. This brings us to The Fondue Pot Principle, which I just made up. The Fondue Pot Principle is expressed as a theorem with three corollaries: Theorem: You can only give what you have—but that’s just fine. Corollary A: When what you have to give matches up with what people need, those people feel delight, appreciation, and other good feelings. Corollary B: With very few exceptions, people are not disappointed or angry or upset when what you have to give doesn’t match up with what they need. In fact, with very few exceptions, people have no opinion at all regarding your shortcomings. Corollary C: Unfortunately, the “very few exceptions” mentioned in Corollary B tend to be the people who are closest to you. That Corollary C is a doozie. It’s the main reason Corollary B may seem hard to believe. We will return to it in a minute. But first, some real-world application. I cannot dunk a basketball. I am starting to think it’s never going to happen. (I hope that doesn’t sound defeatist.) While this shortcoming has caused me some disappointment, nobody else feels disappointed or let down. Basketball skills just aren’t what I bring to the world. Even people who love basketball aren’t disappointed in me. They’re too busy enjoying LeBron James. And speaking of LeBron James, nobody watching LeBron James play basketball has ever said, “Too bad that guy’s a mediocre cook.” For the most part, this is how the world works. The world is set up to benefit from your strengths and to pay little attention to your shortcomings. Your friends love you for what you bring to their world. They don’t think much about what you’re not bringing. You’re bad at math? Ok. As long as you’re not trying to pass yourself off as a certified public accountant, the wider world isn’t going to care one way or another about your math skills. You don’t need to be self-conscious (though you may need to find somebody who can help with your personal finances). Your job as a writer is simply to give the reader what you have to give. Jonathan Rogers You’ve probably heard it said that nobody is thinking about you because they’re too busy thinking about themselves. This idea is related to the Fondue Pot Principle, but there’s an important distinction. The Fondue Pot Principle suggests that the wider world cares about what you DO bring a whole lot more than it cares about what you DON’T bring. I don’t mean to suggest that the world is waiting with bated breath to see what you’re going to do next. I mean only to suggest that when you give what you have to give, the potential upside is quite a bit greater than the potential downside. You may find it hard to accept the idea that the overwhelming majority of the people in your world are unaware (and uninterested) when what you bring doesn’t match up with what they need. This brings us back to Corollary C: the people who ARE conscious of your shortcomings and failure are the people who are closest to you, and with whom you spend the most time. If you are a spouse, your spouse needs things from you that only a spouse can give. If you are a parent, your kids need things from you that only a parent can give. You may find it hard to give some of those things. Your spouse or children, who have nowhere else to go, may have feelings about that. Welcome to the postlapsarian world. This built-in difficulty is exacerbated by the fact that we put unrealistic expectations on the people we love the most. When my wife can’t meet my every imagined need, I get angry and surly. My expectations for other people are much more reasonable. When my electrician can’t meet my electrical needs, I call another electrician. No hard feelings. Corollary C touches on complexities of human relationships that I can’t unpack here (actually, I’m not sure I could fully unpack them anywhere). This is a letter about writing, not marriage and family counseling. I mention Corollary C of the Fondue Pot Principle because I think it helps explain why our inner critics are so much harsher than they have to be. Writing problems, as I often say, are rarely just writing problems. Your relationship with your reader isn’t nearly as fraught as your relationship with your parents or siblings or spouse or kids. Your job as a writer is simply to give the reader what you have to give. In this week’s episode of The Habit Podcast, songwriter JJ Heller talks about a line from one of her songs: “I’ll sing the song that only I can sing.” Yes. Exactly. That’s all your reader is expecting from you—to give what you have to give. Nobody is judging you for what you don’t have.

It’s no secret that we’re big fans of Ned Bustard. It was his illustrative touch that brought Every Moment Holy to life in our imaginations, lending beautiful images to the vast variety of subjects like creating, feasting, lamenting, and forgiving. So when we saw this video of Ned describing how he relates to art and creativity—specifically the transformation in how he measures “success”—we were delighted and eager to share. This video was produced by Cursive Films, and you can learn more about Ned and his work at his website, World’s End Images.