It is a real thrill to announce that Steve Turner will deliver the keynote address for the first ever Hutchmoot UK in July 2019. Steve has a wealth of experience to share and the chance pick his brain over a few summer days in Oxford is incentive enough to come along for the fun. But who is Steve Turner? John & Yoko. Eric. Ray. Bruce. T-Bone. Bono. Judy. Jarvis. Beck. Jay. The list goes on. Steve has interviewed and profiled them all. He’s written acclaimed biographies of Marvin Gaye, Van Morrison, Johnny Cash, Jack Kerouac, Cliff Richard, and even the eight musicians that went down playing with the Titanic. He co-wrote the official book accompanying U2’s Rattle and Hum. But he’s been prolific on The Beatles, most recently with his excellent Beatles ‘66 about the watershed year in the band’s development. He would hate to be reminded of this, but Steve Turner has been writing intelligently about music for over five decades. But this wasn’t how I first encountered his writing. That came about through his poetry, which a number of us were really into while at university in the early 90s. His verse was punchy and provocative, with a witty immediacy that evokes the Liverpool poets like Roger McGough or Brian Patten. Perhaps that’s not so surprising, as these guys were at the heart of the scene that gave birth to The Beatles in the first place. But none of that would have grabbed me at the time. Bună casă de pariuri, cele mai bune pariuri sportive pin up ставки. It was the fact that Steve’s poems were provocatively theological. I could wax lyrical, but for now, I recommend hunting these down: Creed Lord, Lord If Jesus Was Born Today Tonight We Will Fake Love Extensions Dial-A-Poem Is Temporarily Out Of Order Old Soldier (Joseph Martin, 1883-1978) In the Interests of National Security And I’ve not even mentioned his books of poetry for children! Bono was absolutely right when he wrote that “his verse is sharp and in focus; as vital as newspaper print and just as difficult to get off your hands.” But there is a greater reason why many Christians involved in the arts feel so indebted to Steve. Many—too many—have been part of church environments that ignore or even actively despise the arts. And Steve’s book Imagine: A Vision for Christians in the Arts was a godsend for thousands when it came out nearly twenty years ago. I devoured it and have returned to it many times since. In many ways, Steve does in print what Francis Schaeffer’s L’Abri fellowships have been doing for many of us for decades: namely helping us to grow in discipleship integrity with the God-given gifts and passions we each have. It was from L’Abri, and then Steve, that I first learned to reject the unhelpful distinctions between high and low art, focusing instead on trying to distinguish between good and bad art (regardless of its medium or form). He put this into practice in his follow-up Popcultured: Thinking Christianly About Style, Media and Entertainment. I had no idea before moving back to England to start working for a central London church that it would in fact be the same fellowship that Steve and his wife belonged to. It meant, however, that we were able to chat from time to time about all this stuff and he was a great encouragement. But quite apart from encouraging Rabbit Room readers to get into his writing (if you haven’t already), it will be great for all of us at Hutchmoot UK in Oxford this summer to have the chance to hang out with him.

Last fall, Jared Malament began the ingenious practice of compiling Spotify playlists after each Local Show, making the featured songs publicly available for all to listen. With his help, we are continuing this tradition for the spring season of the Local Show, accompanied by Jared’s description of the evening and what made it memorable. “The Local Show kicked off this year with old favorites like Cindy Morgan, Ron Block, Jeff Taylor, and the proprietor himself, Andrew Peterson. However, the surprise highlight of the evening was Jeff Taylor’s guest, Dennis Parker, who’s recently played with Ricky Skaggs. If you closed your eyes during Parker’s cover of “Frozen Man” by James Taylor (no relation to Jeff) you might just have thought you were listening to the man himself. The rest of the night was filled with songs and stories of parenting and Alzheimer’s, of air conditioning units and Kentucky weddings. It was a delightful start to a new season of shows.” —Jared Malament Click here to listen to the playlist from our first Local Show of the season on Spotify.

After thirteen Dove Awards and two GRAMMY nominations, Cindy Morgan’s latest batch of albums have been made as an independent artist outside the spotlight of the CCM industry—they’re likely the most artistically rich work of her career. Audiences for the 2015 Behold The Lamb of God tour will remember Cindy for her soaring voice and Americana sensibilities. On March 8th 2019, Cindy will be releasing a new EP called Autumn & Eve, which she says is “about a merging of Old Testament struggles and modern heartache.” From today until March 7th, you can pre-order a signed physical copy of Autumn & Eve and receive three exclusive bonus tracks. She has invited Rabbit Room readers to be the first to hear her new song, “West of Nod.” Scroll down to read the lyrics and story behind the song. Lyrics: We use to dance under the stars Bask in the warmth of his love But our skin got cold and dancing got old We needed more to dream of Over your shoulder I saw something there So hard to resist so we both thought we’d dare Remember when we had it good Walking where the angels trod Now all we talk about’s moving on East of Eden and west of Nod Lovely and red swirled in my head You said that you’d taste it too Why did we stay Why not walk away Nobody likes to be used How I remember, wish I could forget With toil and with tears We live with regret I want to track All my steps back They say it won’t work anyway The boys fight fight I’m tired at night So much regret For just one bite “There is no greater feeling of loss than recognizing the value of something you’ve been given—just after losing it. Many people lament the loss of a loved one they were never able to express their true feelings towards. Adam and Eve had it perfect, but perfect wasn’t enough. And so they were turned out of the garden to wander, east of Eden and west of Nod.” —Cindy Morgan Click here to pre-order Autumn & Eve at Cindy’s online store.

The Wind in the Willows by Kenneth Grahame is perhaps my favorite book, or at least in my top ten. I rarely re-read books, but this one is an annual read for me, and only recently did I think to explore why I have loved and continue to love this story so much. Over the years since I discovered it, I’ve grown to love the characters, the settings, the language, and the respectful grace Grahame imbues into his story. But the thing that brings me back time and again to this book is not just the characters but the longings they experience—longings that resonate within me more profoundly on each read. The twin longings for adventure and for home draw me in and create the central joys and tensions of the book, but a third longing soon takes their place. Mole is our entry-point, from the very moment he departs his home at the summons of the upper world. Through his eyes we encounter not just the wild excitement of new environs, but the great gift of camaraderie to be had with those who are rooted in the land—the poetic Water Rat, the curmudgeonly Badger, and yes, even the flagrantly conceited Toad—and ultimately the power of home and adventure upon embodied creatures. In “Dolce Domum,” Mole is completely mastered by the smell of his old home, a longing so potent in supposed opposition to his friendship with Rat that Mole breaks down and weeps. He has “lost what he could hardly be said to have found.” Here the grace of Rat is revealed—that he would affirm Mole’s home in such a way that Mole himself is brought to realization and acceptance of the grace of going home. They tidy, they feast, they welcome others in, and then they rest. In the end, it is not the quality of the place that makes it meaningful, but the familiarity of it. [Mole] saw clearly how plain and simple—how narrow, even—it all was; but clearly, too, how much it all meant to him, and the special value of some such anchorage in one’s existence. He did not at all want to abandon the new life and its splendid spaces, to turn his back on sun and air and all they offered him and creep home and stay there; the upper world was all too strong, it called to him still, even down there, and he knew he must return to the larger stage. But it was good to think he had this to come back to; this place which was all his own, these things which were so glad to see him again and could always be counted upon for the same simple welcome. Rat, however, is assailed by an opposing longing. From the start, Rat is the sensible (if sentimental) one. He is Mole’s fast friend and guide. It is the tactful Rat who introduces Mole to the river, to Toad and Badger, to the basic layout of all that he needs to know and understand of this new world—up to a certain point. When Mole asks about the Wide World, Rat immediately shuts it down. “That’s something that doesn’t matter, either to you or me. I’ve never been there, and I’m never going, nor you either, if you’ve got any sense at all. Don’t ever refer to it again, please.” But then, in “Wayfarers All,” Rat is seized by a nearly impenetrable desire to migrate out into the Wider World. The migratory tendencies of little creatures are not denigrated here, but there is a sense in which it would be against all natural reason for Rat specifically to answer that call, regardless of its peculiar persuasion and beauty. Here Mole extends grace to Rat, speaking of the beauty and delights of home, and leaves Rat, pen in hand, to turn his poetry to the hearth instead of the pathway. These twin longings are for all of us. The longing to go, the longing to stay—they war within us as only they can, within those who live in the tension between pilgrimage and home. We are set in a place designed to be our home, but marred by our willfulness. And we are journeying ever nearer to the distant shores of Heaven itself—that which our home, this earth, could have been. In equal measure, we see the attractions of home and adventure in Badger and Toad. Mole’s first encounter with the Wild Wood emphasizes its fearsome nature, but even here, there is shelter to be had: Badger’s simple, rustic home. It is a haven for all those lost in the snow, a den very similar to its owner in its rough-about-the-edges practicality. Badger is philosophical about the origins of his home. “People come—they stay for a while, they flourish, they build—and they go. It is their way. But we remain. There were badgers here, I’ve been told, long before that same city ever came to be. And now there are badgers here again. We are an enduring lot, and we may move out for a time, but we wait, and are patient, and back we come. And so it will ever be.” Badger is a practical creature, and his home is exactly what and where it should be. The allure of it comes not from its trimmings or tidiness, but from its enduring nature. A true home is loyal. It is a place we can come back to and know it will be the same. These twin longings are for all of us. The longing to go, the longing to stay—they war within us as only they can, within those who live in the tension between pilgrimage and home. Chris Wheeler For his part, Toad is the antithesis of enduring. Each new obsession of his involves motion, from taking his home on the road in a canary-colored cart to his disastrous motor vehicle escapades. We are carried along with him (like his long-suffering friends) on adventure after adventure, willing to put up with him because he makes life so darn interesting. When in the depths of despair, however, it is the smell of home that lifts him from his stupor and breathes new life into a singular purpose: to return to Toad Hall. The smell of that buttered toast simply talked to Toad, and with no uncertain voice; talked of warm kitchens, of breakfasts on bright frosty mornings, of cosy parlour firesides on winter evenings, when one’s ramble was over, and slippered feet were propped on the fender; of the purring of contented cats, and the twitter of sleepy canaries. Say what you will about Toad (and there is plenty to be said), but his motivations begin and end with longing—the longing for adventure and the longing to return home after said adventures. Upon his sodden return to find Toad Hall invaded by ruffians, it is not solely Toad that takes it back but his company of loyal friends, all of whom are utterly convinced of the necessity of reclaiming their home. Each character may reveal new aspects of these twin longings, but it is in the central chapter, “The Piper at the Gates of Dawn,” that we discover a third longing, one which generates and eclipses the others. The call of this third longing can be found throughout the book, a through-line from the very first chapter: “With his ear to the reed-stems he caught, at intervals, something of what the wind went whispering so constantly among them.” In “The Piper,” we discover the source of this whisper. Rat and Mole are out searching for a lost otter cub when the call comes to them. Rat, who was in the stern of the boat, while Mole sculled, sat up suddenly and listened with a passionate intentness. Mole, who with gentle strokes was just keeping the boat moving while he scanned the banks with care, looked at him with curiosity. “It’s gone!” sighed the Rat, sinking back in his seat again. “So beautiful and strange and new! Since it was to end so soon, I almost wish I had never heard it. For it has roused a longing in me that is pain, and nothing seems worthwhile but just to hear that sound once more and go on listening to it forever…” Grahame unfolds for us here a sense of Someone beyond these animals who not only sustains and protects them, but creates unimaginable beauty to draw them to himself. This Someone’s parting gift to them is the grace of forgetfulness—that rather than remember the fullest longing they have yet received and pine away for heavenly reality, the fullness of it would pass from their minds and linger only in whispers in the reeds. We too, encounter this longing. We who are in great need of a Savior have a Savior who comes to us and reveals himself, and grants that we would ever be longing for full communion with him, and ever experiencing it only in part. We long to journey to him, and we long to rest in him, our final home, because in him is perfection. Only in him are we truly satisfied. For now, we only have glimpses that create in us a thirst for more. So we sense him in the company of saints, in the Word that nourishes us, in fresh and recurring displays of his creative glory, in our own creative passions, along the path and beside the hearth. We are Mole and Rat and Badger and Toad—forever sniffing out the source of longing, often errant in our passion or conceit, fiercely protective of those places which carry the burden of that longing. We are always drawn to him. We are always seeking him. And in this longing we find hope to face our days. This is the gift of story, and the gift of The Wind in the Willows—to stir up that longing within us and to let it slip away again, leaving us breathless on the edge of wild adventure, sending us home into our familiar places, full of faith that someday, someday soon, he will return again and longing will be overshadowed by reality.

As part of Lent, my congregation always studies a particular topic that touches on Lenten themes, such as suffering, spiritual disciplines, and repentance. And as the pastor, I can present to the parish whatever I think is best, so if I’m smart, I’ll teach on something I already know a lot about—less preparation makes life easier. But last year, I did something stupid: I told everyone I would teach on the Desert Fathers. As it turns out, I didn’t know as much about the Desert Fathers as I thought. You may not be familiar with them, either; most Christians aren’t. A thousand years ago they were the rock stars of the Church, but unfortunately, they’ve largely disappeared from our thoughts today. The Desert Fathers lived in the 2nd—4th centuries A.D. They first dwelt in the deserts of Egypt, but later they could be found in modern-day Israel, Jordan, and Syria. Essentially, they were men and women who wanted to know God more fully, and they were willing to do anything for that to happen. So they left everything behind and moved, alone or in small groups, into the desert. In preparation to teach, I read many stories of their lives and adventures. Some narratives were truly inspiring, others totally bizarre, and still others were both. Besides these stories, they also left us a great deposit of wisdom teachings found in the form of short sayings or anecdotes called “words.” Reading these stories and words, I was amazed by the Fathers’ simplicity, insight, and passion. I found them to be far more helpful to my Christian walk than 95% of the stuff I typically read for my job. I ended up getting a great deal out of these teachings and immediately wanted to find a way to share some of this with others. I considered a number of projects, but ended up writing a Lenten devotional guide based on forty-seven of the Fathers’ words. Each day of Lent includes a word, then my reflection on that word. I think the book is quite simple, though spiritually challenging. Lent is best kept with some kind of devotional guide. It certainly doesn’t need to be the one I wrote. I’m quite sure there are many better books. But I do suggest that everyone uses something. Otherwise, Lent kind of boils down to not eating chocolate, plus whatever happens at your church. And, if your church doesn’t practice Lent, then all you’re left with is chocolate cravings until Easter. Who wants that? Seriously, Lent is awesome. It’s a wonderful way to make space for the Holy Spirit’s work in your life. Especially if Lent is new to you, get yourself a guide. Prayerfully commit to a spiritual practice and do your part to follow through. Will Lent get you more points with God? No. Do you need to practice Lent to pay for your sins? Not at all; that’s what the Cross is for. Lent is a gift from the Church to you. I encourage you to make use of it. Lent begins this year on Ash Wednesday, March 5th. It ends early in the morning, just as the sun is coming up, on Easter Sunday, April 21st. Click here to check out Thomas’s new book on Amazon.

Two new episodes of The Membership podcast are now available. In these episodes, our hosts Jason Hardy, John Pattison, and Tim Wasem discuss Wendell Berry’s 1968 poetry collection, Findings, as well as his short story, “Pray Without Ceasing.” The goal of The Membership is to curate great conversations that contribute to the health of the land and the health of our communities. Throughout this new podcast, hosts Jason Hardy, John Pattison, and Tim Wasem plan to discuss Berry’s life and writings. They will also interview other folks—farmers and makers, writers and artists, and community practitioners of all kinds—who are responding to Wendell Berry’s writings in their own places. Check out the new episodes here. And you can learn more about The Membership at its official website here. Click here for more information about The Rabbit Room Podcast Network and to check out other great podcasts.

When I was a kid, practically every story that danced across the screen hinged on a character who was running down a dream. A big dream. I just ate that stuff up, because I was completely certain that dreams had to be these colossal, magnificent feats worthy of being chased down, maybe even worth dying for. And planted deep in my young heart, I was already tending one of my own. Not counting a brief third grade fascination with becoming an auto mechanic, all I ever wanted to do “when I grow up” was to write songs and sing them for people, preferably for many people from a very large stage. But I was a derelict dreamer at best, highly undisciplined when it came to lame things like taking lessons and practicing and mapping out exactly how to accomplish such a pie-in-the-sky goal. I guess it just made more teenage sense to kick back with my Metal Edge magazine and wait for Mr. Big to show up in his limo with my six-album deal. The movies made it sound so doable. But years later, the mirror found me fixed on the back side of thirty with three small children, a husband in the ministry, and a pile of songs (in my head) that had never come to be. The pace and space of life had quietly put my dream to bed, and I could hear it snoring all the way down the hall. Plus, my newly redeemed imagination was desperately longing to create something true and life-giving, but most everything I had known of faith-fueled music sounded a lot like my mom’s LPs of the Statler Brothers. Hard pass. Sleep on, sweet dream o’ mine. Then the day after my thirty-second birthday, a very insistent friend dragged me to a concert headlined by Third Day and David Crowder in Tyler, Texas. It was a small, dilapidated venue where a ceiling tile fell on the drummer’s head during the last song. I mean really—he came out for the encore wearing a bicycle helmet just in case. Gritty, sort of. I was interested. The opening act was a band called Hyper Static Union. And, wow. HSU’s front man shredded lead like a beast, all the while belting out stratospheric melodies. I was dumbfounded at what I was hearing because this guy was seriously rocking, all while singing about Jesus. I had no idea that was even a thing one could do. Clearly, I had not done my research. So, bias dispelled. And like an alarm clock slicing through the silence, I was in. Not sure exactly how, but I wanted in. I returned home that night chewing on a sweet suspicion that it might be time for the old childhood dream to wake up and play out. I stared sternly at my husband in the dingy yellow glow of the kitchen countertop light and declared, “We are going to make an album!” And, bless him, he did what that sweet man always does when my manic side comes home with a ludicrous idea. He just smiled and asked, “What do you need me to do?” Now, a seriously rusty mom of three in her thirties has pretty much zero ranking on the new artist marketability scale. I knew that. And with our thread-bare shoestring budget and the little whipper-snappers nipping at my heels all day long, the idea of some full studio production and international world tour was probably (definitely) not on the table. No delusions of grandeur allowed. But what kept spinning in my head after that show was this: Something had awakened. And I could either continue to do nothing with that passion and let sleeping dreams lie, or I could do whatever little something I could do. Hey, even the “one-talent servant” was expected to somehow invest what the Master had invested in him. A dream's slumber is needed at times, that it may sabbath, or that it may give birth to different dreams. Jennifer Hildebrand So that very week, in true rock star fashion, while the children screamed destruction throughout our little house, we untangled crusty cables, restrung dusty guitars, unearthed our 8-track digital recorder that had been gifted to us by my still hopeful in-laws several years prior, and we got down to business. I wrote fresh songs, resurrected and tweaked old songs, and studied up with whatever free online recording tutorials I could find. I also continued to rock babies, read Little Golden Books, cook meals and wipe noses, but then I’d sneak off to our fancy “studio” in our not-even-the-slightest-bit-soundproofed garage every time someone took a fifteen minute nap. We were all the band we had. We played and sang everything on the record and got really cozy with our cheap, elderly drum machine. I decided that, sure, I could play a little lead guitar (I could not). We mixed like mad men, in real time with sliders and knobs and actual human fingers over and over and over again until it was somewhere in the vicinity of listenable. It was a crazy few months, and the fury of it all fed my soul like manna. It was a sweet time of growth and naïve discoveries. The dream had slept in a little later than I’d wanted and was sporting a good deal more bedhead than expected, but she was finally up and at ‘em. Was the album awesome? Meh. It was okay. Was the production off-the-charts spectacular? Well, of course not. But it did happen, by golly. God roused a little dream, humbled it, made it less sparkly but more real, and did it all right in the middle of the day-to-day chaos of life. The couple dozen people who heard the album seemed to like it and resonate with the songs, and they let us know that it was worth the effort. They heard God’s goodness somewhere in that messy, simple recording. In the end, it felt like we had built a wonky, hodgepodge cathedral from the ground up with bare hands, and all we could do then was pray for God’s praises to inhabit the humble, unsteady structure. Please be pleased, Lord. Since then, we’ve undertaken that same adventure two other times. Each time, a few more people were kind enough to lend a hand. Each time, I felt exhausted, exhilarated, completely ill-equipped for the task, and yet those same words kept pushing: I can either do nothing at all, or (wake up, little dream!) I can do the little something I can do. Maybe it’s just one talent, but it’s got to be all in, baby. That’s every believer’s call to answer. A simple song, a courageous painting, an earnest poem, a cup of water in Jesus’ name. Our Lord himself praised one woman’s quiet, costly offering saying, “She has done what she could.” (Mark 14:8) And it was to be remembered. Situated firmly in my forties now, I have no idea if I’ll ever get to feel that kind of awakening again. Sometimes chapters close nicely and don’t need to be revisited, and the older I get, the more comfortable I am with that reality. A dream’s slumber is needed at times, that it may sabbath, or that it may give birth to different dreams. It’s a beautiful cycle. Because with each bleary-eyed dream yawning into life, every effort exerted to find beauty in the broken, every attempt to overcome pride and ego and let the Light be all that’s left to shine, we get wrapped again in the reminder that our God is still in the business of bringing new things into being. In his mercy, may he call them good.

Shortly after having completed his newest record Gather, at a time when his creative energy was depleted, Christopher Williams was asked by his friend Jaco Hamman to make another album to accompany his latest book. Jaco’s book, The Millennial Narrative, enters into a conversation about the distinct experience of the millennial generation by way of the commonly overlooked book of Joel—he wanted a corporate worship album to bring it to life. Christopher needed help, so he turned to his friends and fellow songwriters to construct a musical journey through the book of Joel. The result is a deeply collaborative record called We Will Remember that gives song to grief with the collective voice of community. Read on to listen to a few songs and learn more about Joel, what the locusts can mean for us today, and the healing power of singing together. Christopher: Starting where the book of Joel starts…oh man. Drew: It’s just devastation, right? Christopher: Oh yeah. I think it’s verse three when the locusts hit. And you’re like, “All right, here we go.” Drew: You were saying you met with Osenga earlier today—he’s really made those locusts his own with his “Year of the Locust” song. Christopher: Jaco, the author of the book that instigated my record, makes very clear that he wants people to know all the different kinds of locusts and use the word purposefully. And there were a few spots throughout the record where I removed that word, just because it was too much. But I think the word “locust” still shows up five times. I mean the whole book of Joel is about that, so you have to talk about it. But how do you talk about it in a corporate worship setting without it sounding abrasive and strange? Drew: It’s not really what we suffer these days. Christopher: Not literal locusts, at least. I think that’s why this book is so universally accessible, though. The locusts. Drew: Yeah, just tell me about Joel. I want to read it now. Christopher: It’ll take ten minutes to read. Drew: And remind me your relationship to Jaco? Christopher: He and I have done some conferences together. He’s a very loyal guy, and he told me, “As long as I’m doing this specific conference, you’ll be doing music.” And I said, “Yes, I will.” So we’ve spent lots of time together. He has taught the book of Joel all over the world to different generations, and he’s convinced that it’s the one book anyone could jump into, regardless of where they are in knowing God or not knowing God—especially for millennials. Drew: Wow! So what does he say about that? Christopher: Well, we all experience loss. Especially in our culture right now. And the millennial generation knows loss more intimately than any other generation—in the sense of growing up in the shadow of 9/11, school shootings, the financial meltdown—this generation knows that something isn’t working. Jaco’s argument is that the millennial generation is doing quite a lot in terms of social justice and is incredibly good at gathering. He lists all these organizations coming up around the country, begun by millennials, that are meeting the need that churches used to meet for previous generations. So he would say that as a church, we need to adjust the way we do things to come alongside millennials instead of expecting them to step into existing systems. Does that make sense? Drew: That makes lots of sense. And I appreciate it. Christopher: One example Jaco mentions is a thing called Supper Club: dinners in people’s homes, but for people who are mourning or grieving a loss. It started in one small community, but is now popping up in cities all over the place. So he and I have known each other through these conferences and he lives in Nashville. We’ve both done a lot of work with Young Life. He brought up this topic with me because he has always wanted to write this book, and he’s a huge lover of all kinds of music. His collection is vast! He’s passionate, wise, and unique. Because of his love for music, he wanted to have a collection of songs that could accompany his book. So the lyrics are taken largely out of the book of Joel as well as Jaco’s book, which is called The Millennial Narrative: Sharing the Good Life with the Next Generation. Drew: So how did you experience what Joel has to offer as you read it for the purpose of absorbing and singing it? Christopher: I’ve never spent the amount of time as I did for Joel in one body of scripture. Months and months and months. Which was epic. And really, at the beginning, I didn’t get it. I couldn’t see the depth. But Jaco sent me his book as he was writing it, and through his eyes and teaching, Joel came alive for me. Having experienced loss in my life—losing my dad, especially—it made it come alive in a different way. And there was a beauty to the Gather record before that, because one of the main themes of the book of Joel is to gather as a community—so I felt like I had already written these songs in some way. I went into the writing process pretty dry, which was where I needed to be. That’s the whole point of the book of Joel: I’ve got nothing. And the deadline was really fast, too. So I wrote the first few songs, and then there was a dry period in the summer, and then I had two and a half months to write eight songs. Totally stressful. Drew: I think my heart rate just went up sympathetically, imagining that. Christopher: Yeah! But the beauty of the journey for me was inviting other people in. Drew: There were a few songs where I noticed it would start with just you, then one or two other voices would come in, then by the end it was this chorus of people. Even though what is being sung is sad, you’re all singing it together and it conveys this encouraging sense of solidarity around loss. Christopher: That was the hope. The book of Joel calls us to mourn and grieve together: call the elders, call the children, come together and grieve. It was important for me to invite my community into the process of both writing and singing. The dryness of it, too—this came closely enough after Gather that the writing well was dry, and the only way I could make this record happen would be if some folks came alongside me. That’s a beautiful picture of the gospel, and a great way for me to practice surrender. And the process for it was amazing. Most of the folks had never read Jaco’s book, and maybe they had read Joel, but I went into each writing session with the Joel passage and a few pages of notes I took on each chapter of Jaco’s book. We would just sit down with that and throw out ideas. And I already had an outline of the order for the album, which I had never done before. So it was less about each song individually and more about crafting a cohesive story that matched both the book of Joel and Jaco’s book. And we truly wrote one at a time, from start to finish. So I would make decisions song-by-song based on their order in a way that I hadn’t before. One of those decisions was simply to let the album start very quiet and sad, then slowly lift into a greater sense of energy and life. Drew: Well I noticed that! And by the time I got to “The River”—man, what a beautiful song. It felt like the apex of jamming, just as a group of people who love each other. Christopher: One of the calls of Jaco’s book is for the church not to get distracted trying to create “new” things for millennials to step into, but to join in what’s already happening and what God is already doing. Modern churches always feel like they need to do something new and hip and reinvent the wheel—no! See where the Lord is working. Step into it. So the idea for “The River”—I wrote that mostly on a drive from Idaho to Portland and back in twenty-four hours. I was driving along the eastern Oregon desert. No one would think of Oregon as dry desert, but when you come along the Columbia River Gorge, it’s desert that all of a sudden turns green. Drew: That’s an epic journey. Christopher: There’s so much river imagery in scripture. Especially in the book of Joel, it begins with desolation and ends with mountains flowing with new wine. Very Revelation-esque. Drew: So good. All those images are timeless. Christopher: It’s super fun to sing live, too. And that was another great criteria for this project: Jaco wanted these songs to feel very congregational in nature, which is not something that I usually do. There’s a south African phrase, ubuntu, which means “I am because you are.” I think that phrase really sums up that congregational spirit. Drew: I love how succinct that is. Christopher: Jaco’s South African—he and his wife taught me that phrase. As soon as I heard it, I knew I wanted to write a song around that phrase for congregations to be able to sing. And that specific song, “Because You Are,” is very repetitive, it’s almost hypnotic to hear a whole group of people singing together. It never really resolves, either, so it’s fun to sing over and over. I got to lead that song for about a thousand folks at Young Life recently and it just knocked me over to hear that many people singing something like that. There’s something so powerful about singing God’s words together, and creating new music with those words. There’s so much more power to it. I’ve done it in little chunks, but I’ve never done a whole album’s worth. I want to sit down with Sandra sometime and talk about it. Drew: The thousand-year old songs. I also felt like the record has such a purposefully-chosen sonic palette that was very fitting. The sparseness—especially toward the beginning—the space and silences were so well-chosen. I’ve never read Joel purposefully, but I could hear what it was about. I could feel the exile and desolation, the devastation and bareness moving back toward fullness. I could sense what Jaco was saying: the songs felt very inviting, but inviting out of a space of loss as something we all know. I got swept in pretty easily for that reason. Christopher: The first song we wrote was “Cry Out To You,” and I loved the way it made me feel, but I quickly realized that the album needed another song to come before that one. You can’t start with “Cry Out To You”—you need a sort of call to worship to get everyone on the same page first. And then I looked in Joel and realized he had already done just that! And I had skipped over it. So the first song became “Hear This,” taken straight from the first words of Joel. It essentially says, “Have any of you experienced loss? If so, tell your children, and let your children tell their children,” and so on. Drew: That is so important. When you mention Jaco talking about how important the narrative of loss is—if there’s anything we are in need of right now, I think it’s preserving the stories of loss and grief that we’ve attempted to push past and shove aside. Our instinct is to keep going, but we need to remember and exercise that storytelling. Christopher: Loss is so important to talk and sing about, and especially in our Christian culture right now, we have such a severe lack of songs that speak into this in an inviting sort of way. One of my favorite lines from the album is from that first song: “Receive what sorrow gives.” Drew: For me, entering into this record happened through that entry point. I mean, that’s a rhetorical question: have you experienced loss? Of course you have! Christopher: There’s a beauty in that—when we can recognize and step into it, we are bound together. Jaco says, “It’s not if the locusts come, but when.” If they haven’t come already, they’ll come. Even in the last seventy-two hours of my life, there’s been a memorial service, I’ve been notified of two unexpected deaths, and a heart attack within my circle of friends. It brings an awareness to me that I want to share these songs out of the sheer need to bring comfort. That’s all. Drew: I’m struck by the language in the very beginning of Joel, the way he speaks of the locusts. He introduces them wave by wave, and says what the first wave doesn’t eat, the second one will, and what the second one doesn’t eat, the third one will, and so on. So there’s this understanding that there’s a relentlessness to the forces of devastation and death, and if you feel like you’ve been spared, you’re wrong. You won’t ultimately be spared from that. I imagine the proper response is, whatever you do, do together. Mourn together, sing together. That’s something I feel the need to learn—where’s the guidance for it? How do we sustain this loss together? Who will show us? Is that something corporate worship can help with, at least to some degree? Christopher: Yes. It’s all about coming together, gathering. And I didn’t want the book of Joel to just be for church—I want it to be for any kind of setting. Any situation in which you’re present with people. Drew: I love that you cowrote so many of these songs with people, too. Through and through, every part of this album came out of gathering with others. I could feel that that’s where it came from. Christopher: That felt necessary. I had absolutely nothing in terms of writing or ideas. Which is maybe where we’re supposed to begin most of the time. Drew: I love this thought that you can engage in this corporate practice of people being present together, singing, and it doesn’t have to be church. When we did Hymnmoot last winter—that was an Advent hymn event. It was so enriching. I just thought, “Why don’t we do this all the time??” I want it to become more of a rhythm. I was trying to think of how to ask you what your hope is for these songs, but I feel like you’ve already given me your answer: “Just sing these together.” Bring these songs to one another. Christopher: Before we went into the studio, since most of these songs didn’t really have any legs yet, we hosted about twenty folks at our house: I took all the lyrics from this record and wrote them on big pieces of sticky paper, put them all on the wall and sat everyone in a semi-circle facing those notes. We played and sang the whole record together, interspersed with readings from the book of Joel and Jaco’s book. Drew: And that’s where the songs got their legs, right? Christopher: Yeah! Little short ones. It was a good start. My hope is to do more of that. It felt almost like Behold the Lamb of God: really intentional, from start to finish, here’s the journey. Drew: That’s such a great way to develop a record. If you’re wanting the songs to serve a community, begin with a trusted group of people. Sing, talk, and see what surfaces. Christopher: Yeah, and after we did that, we had a conversation about it and the biggest impression everyone had was that of having gone on a journey. And I thought, “Perfect. That was the goal. My job is done.” It’s like liturgy. You enter in one place, you go on a journey, and you’re sent out with a new perspective on the Lord and where we’re going from here. Drew: I’d love for more records to be made that way. Click here to view We Will Remember at the Rabbit Room Store.

Last fall, Jared Malament began the ingenious practice of compiling Spotify playlists after each Local Show, making the featured songs publicly available for all to listen. With his help, we are continuing this tradition for the spring season of the Local Show, accompanied by Jared’s description of the evening and what made it memorable. Click through for our second playlist of the season. “Andrew Peterson began this week’s edition of the Local Show by reminding us that we were at the beginning of the Lenten season with a rendition of his ‘Remember and Proclaim.’ What followed was a wonderful night of songs from Andrew Osenga, Drew Miller (in his solo debut), Tim Timmons, and the husband-and-wife duo Wild Harbors. They also opened up their hearts to us and told of scary dreams and heavy sicknesses and the savior that helps us overcome them. In particular, I’d recommend listening to ‘Battle’ by Wild Harbors for anyone like me who might struggle with depression and anxiety. On the whole, this week’s show was a great way to spend a cold Nashville night.” —Jared Malament Click here to listen to the playlist from our second Local Show of the season on Spotify.

How many of you have specific events that are a yearly marker in the journey towards spring? I have several. My computer currently has a browser open counting down the days, hours, minutes, and seconds until the First Day of Spring. The start of Daylight Savings is marked on my calendar with a picture of the sun, flowers, and butterflies. But the earliest—and always completely unplanned—marker of spring’s coming is the First Annual Seed Sighting. Each year I’m usually wandering through a store, deep in thought, as I shop for some random item. There is usually some degree of winter slump to my shoulders and a frigid funk weaving its way through my mind. Then suddenly and without warning, I turn a corner and come face to face with seeds! I am a firm believer that on occasion, the heavens genuinely do open and angels sing as glistening shafts of light float down from above. The first annual seed sighting seems to be solid proof of this reality. What is it about a seed that brings such awe and wonder? For me, Hebrews 11:1 sums it up: “Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.” How can a tiny seed represent so much? Some seeds are so small that it’s completely unimaginable that they could ever amount to anything. One example of this is the petunia seed. Every year as I scatter these tiny black dots, I’m perplexed at how something smaller than a fleck of pepper can turn into a plant. Not only will this little dot sprout and grow roots, but it will have a stem and leaves with veins, and produce beautiful flowers. I particularly love the Wave Petunia variety. Given the right environment, the plant will vine and spread out several feet in diameter and generate hundreds of blossoms during the growing season. Wave Petunia To examine at a more complex level the faith and hope that comes in a seed, consider this Wave Petunia variety that I love so dearly. For a Petunia to be considered a true Wave variety, it must come from patented Wave Petunia seeds. As a home grower, you can purchase these seeds at a premium price compared to regular petunia seeds or buy live plants that are certified as a Wave variety. I usually choose to buy a few live plants—this is mostly because I’m impatient and the plants will provide me with earlier blossoms while I’m waiting on last year’s seeds to mature enough to bloom. As a gardener, I can never escape how significantly gardening mimics life. It is a wonderful parallel that fills me with awe and reverence. Gina Sutphin Then every year in the fall, at the end of the growing season, I make the choice to let my purchased plants go to seed. The following year, the seeds that sprout from last year’s plants exhibit a new level of complexity. Now, a Wave Petunia is a genetically engineered plant, developed to give a specific result. It comes in many options: solid colors, star patterns, brilliant hues or pale palettes. (My personal favorite is the Plum Vein. Its petals are a lovely medium plum shade, but the center of the blossom and all of the veins are a deeper shade of purple.) However, when you make the choice to let hybrid vegetation go to seed, you will not get a plant that matches its parent. In this scenario, plants become more like people. The offspring do resemble their parents in certain ways, but are not identical copies. Seeds from the Plum Vein usually result in plants offering an assortment of blossoms in various shades of purples, neon fuchsia, and pale pinks. Although this particular option creates an unknown result, it still begins with the hope and belief that it would produce something beautiful, even though it’s impossible to know exactly what the outcome will be. As a gardener, I can never escape how significantly gardening mimics life. It is a wonderful parallel that fills me with awe and reverence. Every year, when this glorious first seed sighting happens, it truly feels as if the world stands still for just a moment. No matter what haze was filling my mind a moment earlier, it seems as if a fresh breeze of clarity begins to rattle the cobwebs loose. And as that happens, the truth begins to filter in again, the always reliable truth that no matter how cold and dark the winter feels, there is always hope. Spring will always come, the snow will always melt, and new beginnings will poke their tiny heads up through the mud no matter how deep it’s become. So for a moment each year I stand still, taking in the glory of this hope, this potential. Then, standing a little taller, with a bit of the icy burden melted away, I continue on my journey and make my way to the cash register. This marker of spring cannot be added to the calendar or anticipated with a countdown. Nonetheless, it always seems to find me at just the right time, exactly when it was needed, and without warning. Where there is a seed, there is potential. And where there is faith in that potential, there is hope.

“Writing poetry is too hard.” This is the offense I hear my high school students protest frequently. I get it, but I don’t think it’s entirely true. A year or so ago, Lyndsay and I took our kids for a walk to a nearby overlook we call Devotional Rock, a clearing that offers a front row seat to one corner of the Nantahala National Forest. When I threw out the idea that we should write a poem about our hike as a family, our kids—ages five and seven—jumped on it and immediately started throwing out lines like “When I look at the flowers and the bees it makes me happy” or “the trees sneeze drops of water.” Kids don’t care if something sounds poetic or if writing a poem might make them a “poet” with all the glory or pretension or lameness that might be associated with the title. They are free to take a shot at what they see with the best words they have. Occasionally I would tease out some lines when I noticed them stopping in amazement at some small phenomenon. How would you describe that? “The leaves are washing their hands.” “It’s a dragon.” “I always think those cocoons are little leaves.” We didn’t write any of the lines down during the hike, but instead let our memories be our first editors. When we got home I asked them to tell all the lines they remembered. We wrote them all out. Then I asked them to categorize the lines as I read them out loud. “Those are about flowers…that one is about butterflies.” Lyndsay and I each threw in a line, and then I stitched it together with their categories. They loved hearing all of our words put together in fresh, playful ways…just as any human does before all of our other social, egotistical, and educational messes get attached to the word “poetry.” While I clearly hope this exercise will in some small way prepare my children to deal with all of the complex baggage to come for poetry in high school, I am the one most in need of this training, the one quickest to forget just how easy playing with poetry can be. Plus, it’s fun. We’ve done this a few times since then. It works well in car rides home after other family adventures like playground dates, movies, or birthday parties. You should try it. Hiking to Devotional Rock By Sally Ann, Shepard, Chris and Lyndsay Slaten As we go on our walk I soon see Hundreds and hundreds Of wildflowers – firework weeds, ferns, and fairy wands. They sneeze drops of water For the handwashing of leaves And the swimming of ants. Butterflies and sweat bees gather nectar, While we steal blackberries. It all makes me happy And I look to the sky – The mountains and clouds Gather for a meeting Because they are friends. When the trees wave I always think of you. When I look at the split trees I think they’re interesting. When the mossy boulder peaks out from the trees it looks like a dragon. On the road back while we walk on sparkling trails of mica Like constellations scattered in dirt, We see an endangered caterpillar And rescue it to go make the kind of cocoon I always think are tiny leaves. What’s orange with black spots? A butterfly, of course! Do you think Devotional Rock is beautiful or ugly? Beautiful.

She opened up about her suffering and we drew our collective breath. A dozen voices hummed musically when she confessed that perhaps she had been blind. She had poured herself into an effort for years, only to miss problems that had scorched the ground she had cultivated. Handing it off to others in a turbulent ending to her season of investment, she now grieved what had been lost. Time. Opportunity. The struggle to bring forth good only to find herself in a desert partly of her own making. We inhaled her pain, we exhaled reassurance. The room rippled with the murmur of compassionate people at a party, scrambling to make amends. “Hardship makes us more sympathetic.” “None of us is perfect.” “God is definitely going to use this in your life.” At one point a friend re-summarized her experience and ended with, “But now you’re good.” In an instant, I heard all the crevices getting smoothed over, the fissures of suffering flattened in the reflexive urge to rectify another’s pain. I drove home and doubts rumbled. Certainly we pounced with good intent, but was this the best we could offer? Too bad about the past, but hey, at least now you know better? We squirm when our friend suggests that her own lack of perspective furthered her pain. We scurry to connect the dots, to offer a solution. Noah's wait was reshaping the continents. Candace Bright And while I drove, my own past flickered to life—images of a woman who used to wake at night to cry for hours. Who sat in the parking lot minute after minute because she lacked the emotional energy to leave the car. I had realized something about the world back then. Until then, I’d always thought that people who crawled into therapists’ offices, crushed and suicidal, were the worst ones off. Now I’d realized that they already had a string of successes to their day: they’d made it out of their beds, out of the house, out of the car. I sometimes think of reaching back to tell that former self, so oblivious to the forces afflicting her soul, what I know now. I long to send her to the right doctor, the right counselor, accelerate her recovery, make amends. But the past is inaccessible to me, every detail frozen in a timeline I cannot touch. What do we do with these scorched places? With the knowledge that our own blindness, our lack of awareness, kept us circling in the desert? And that’s when I start to think about Noah. In many ways, it’s a tale of secondhand catastrophe. Surrounded by wickedness, Noah’s life was unhinged by proxy. Building a massive boat on dry ground, filling an oversized coffin with a zoo—these eccentricities were inflicted on him not by his own sin but by the lives of others. And then, when those others drowned and creation itself unraveled, Noah was ushered into a season not of consummate deliverance, but of waiting—weeks turning into months aboard the ark. What did Noah do while his own desert stretched around him, liquid and deadly? Did he bob on the waves in trust or did he fester with uncertainty? What was the point of all this waiting? We aren’t sure what he could see from the ark but this much seems certain: there were changes going on in the geological realms below him, and to these Noah was blind. Did he wonder if there was something he was supposed to do to speed up this process? Our hindsight does not whitewash Noah’s experience, but it does reveal purposes that are staggering in their import. Tectonic things were happening under Noah’s feet, no knowledge required. No one said to Noah, years later at a cocktail party, “This experience has made you a much more interesting person.” And no one had to. Not only was a speck of humanity being saved from which would come all future generations, but the very ground upon which we walk was being reforged under those monotonous gray waves. Noah’s wait was reshaping the continents. Where do our platitudes fall short? We come at others—I come at myself—with answers focused on solutions when some of the greatest anchors are found in God’s character. What was God’s capstone on the months (years? century?) of traumatic upheaval in Noah’s life? A rainbow. A rainbow? But do not miss where the comfort of this sign is placed. God offers Noah no handy platitudes to neatly tie up every aspect of his suffering. He removes the threat of repeating disaster, establishes new order in the world, then ends with this: “When the bow is in the clouds, I will see it and remember the everlasting covenant between God and every living creature of all flesh that is on the earth” (Gen 9:16 ESV, emphasis mine). Noah is left with the marvel of a God who binds himself to see, remember, and sustain. It is his covenant nature that has the final word. Our ransom lies not in our ability to put tidy epithets on our suffering, but in the character of God himself; he makes the narrative read right. For Noah, for my friend, for me, there is a reality more radical and penetrating than any of us could imagine. Beyond the floodwaters is a God who is taking desolation and making something new. The scorched places will become watered gardens. The blind ones will finally see. And the desert will blossom like the rose. Candace Bright is a writer and essayist living in Indiana. She writes at www.candacebright.com. Artwork Credit: “Desert Wind” by Joshua Smith

Great news! Today is Release Day for husband and wife duo Wild Harbors. Their debut record Monument, produced by Andrew Osenga, is now available everywhere, including the Rabbit Room Store. Click through to stream a song from their record and purchase your copy. Monument is a lyrical, melody-driven album, full of momentum and dynamic highs and lows. It narrates the story of taking risks to pursue what matters to us—the story that began Chris and Jenna Badeker’s journey to becoming Wild Harbors. We at the Rabbit Room are fans of the deep cuts, so we’ve chosen to share the seventh track from Monument, a song entitled “Water.” It’s an anthemic slow-burn of a song, lending honest wisdom paired with reassurance: “You can hide, but suffering will find you just the same / If you try, you can learn a lot from your deepest pain before you send it on its way.” Click here to purchase Monument at the Rabbit Room Store. And here to visit Wild Harbors’ website.

The longing for community is a deep and personal one. Each of us comes to the subject bearing the burden of our own experiences and the weight of our own wounds. If there’s a way to encapsulate all that complexity with tact, grace, and truth, I’d love to find it, but for now, I’d simply like to have a conversation. So, let’s talk about “the Inner Ring.” There’s a scene in A. S. “Pete” Peterson’s play Frankenstein in which The Monster lives in the shadows outside a simple, country home. He hovers just beyond the ring of warmth and love that emanates from the family within, longing to join them. He laments the depth of his loneliness and yearns to belong. This was the point where the play had me hooked. Thankfully, I’ve never been run out of town by an angry mob (though there’s still time). I have, however, known the silent ache of isolation. Who among us doesn’t yearn for belonging? Who hasn’t at some point felt like an outsider, trapped in the cold while that warmth glows far off—or worse, perpetually just beyond our fingertips? Frankenstein reminded me that I’m not alone in longing for a sense of community and connection that I fear I may never find. In a lecture to the students of Kings College, C. S. Lewis refers to this desire as “the quest of the Inner Ring” and calls it “one of the great permanent mainsprings of human action.” I’m not surprised, then, to have found it in Frankenstein’s Monster, just as I’ve found it in myself, and I’m not surprised to find it circling through conversations around the Rabbit Room. It’s written in emails, spoken at shows, and pasted across social media. Sometimes it hides in statements like, “if only I lived closer to Nashville” or “I wish I could just be best friends with such-and-such an artist.” It can lurk in the laments of those leaving Hutchmoot or of those who couldn’t attend. I even hear it whispered in my own heart. There is a sense of some secret, special group of Rabbit Room insiders out there sitting by fires, strumming guitars, (perhaps even smoking pipes—the miscreants) and having deep, meaningful conversations—without us. And if only we were in just the right place or knew just the right people, we could also be part of it and at last be contented. This is the illusion of the Inner Ring. We believe there’s a sanctum from which we’re excluded, and in which we might find the connection and validation we crave. The problem is, it isn’t real. Like Tantalus beneath the fruit tree, the quest for the Inner Ring leaves us forever straining and never fulfilled. Lewis points out that, even in gaining the access we desire, we would find ourselves disappointed. Inside every perceived Inner Ring, we discover only the flawed, ordinary (and extraordinary) people who already surround us. We’re faced with our same, imperfect selves, called and validated by God. There’s power in recognizing an illusion for what it is. It leaves us open to discover something more real and lasting, and this is where the Rabbit Room wants to come in. How have you found success in intentionally nurturing community where you are? How can the Rabbit Room better provide opportunities and resources to build your communities? Shigé Clark The Rabbit Room’s mission is to foster Christ-centered community and spiritual formation through music, story, and art. If you’re anything like me, you may get so focused on the “music, story, and art” portion that the other half can fade to a buzz in the background, but the two sides are complementary. The practice of making and appreciating great art draws people into community, and within such a community, creativity thrives. The Rabbit Room is not here to exclude, but to unite: to help kingdom-minded people come together around the common goal of creation. We want to debunk the myth that there is some ethereal “Rabbit Room Community” out there that only a select few get to be a part of, or that the Rabbit Room can be found in, or constrained to, an online space. Rather, as the mission states, we want to foster Rabbit Room communities, wherever people love God, music, art, and story. Recently, it seems more conversations have cropped up that are geared toward intentional engagement in personal community. Groups are gathering to sing hymns, reaching out to find fellow Rabbits in their areas, getting together to study classic theologians, inviting others to join for a personal meet-up at a cafe. Mini-Moots abound! What a beautiful and encouraging trend to see. This, after all, is what the Rabbit Room is about. So, here’s where this becomes a conversation rather than a soliloquy. We want to hear from you. How have you found success in intentionally nurturing community where you are? How can the Rabbit Room better provide opportunities and resources to build your communities? I’ll leave you with a final thought from Lewis’s Inner Ring lecture (which you should absolutely check out, by the way—it’s a wondrous read): And if in your spare time you consort simply with the people you like, you will again find that you have come unawares to a real inside: that you are indeed snug and safe at the centre of something which, seen from without, would look exactly like an Inner Ring. But the difference is that the secrecy is accidental, and its exclusiveness a by-product, and no one was led thither by the lure of the esoteric: for it is only four or five people who like one another meeting to do things that they like. This is friendship. Aristotle placed it among the virtues. It causes perhaps half of all the happiness in the world, and no Inner Ring can ever have it. Inner Rings may be illusory, but community is real, and community can be difficult. Let’s figure out how we can work together to develop and support Rabbit Room communities wherever they appear and wherever they are needed. Artwork Credit: Sky Fire by Georgiana Romanovna

Two new episodes of The Membership podcast are now available. In these episodes, our hosts Jason Hardy, John Pattison, and Tim Wasem discuss Wendell Berry’s 1968 poetry collection, Openings. The goal of The Membership is to curate great conversations that contribute to the health of the land and the health of our communities. Throughout this new podcast, hosts Jason Hardy, John Pattison, and Tim Wasem discuss Berry’s life and writings. They also interview other folks—farmers and makers, writers and artists, and community practitioners of all kinds—who are responding to Wendell Berry’s writings in their own places. Check out the new episodes here. And you can learn more about The Membership at its official website here. Click here for more information about The Rabbit Room Podcast Network and to check out other great podcasts.

[Editor's Note: For the past few years, Lanier Ivester and Jennifer Trafton have been chipping away at something remarkable, something that has the potential to deepen and gladden your experience of Advent and Christmas—and to do it with beauty, humor, wit, heart, theological depth, and good, good food...so much food. Glad & Golden Hours is headed to a bookstore near you next fall--but you can have an appetizer today (see download link for cookies and more).] I love a good origin story, particularly if it contains all the elements I love in a regular story: serendipity, friendship, history and happenstance. I want a story to be lit with a lamp of joy, and burnished to a rich glow under the pressure of some holy sorrow. Above all, I require a goodly dose—or at least a glimpse—of real redemption. I don’t want to see sadness tied up with a bow; that would be an insult to both sorrow and redemption, not to mention to my own battle-scarred heart. I just want to be assured that sadness is not meaningless, and that the ordinary matter of my ordinary life actually matters—for something and to Someone. I like to think that the story behind Glad & Golden Hours: A Companion for Advent and Christmastide contains all of these elements for it is, in fact, a deep slice of my story. And, like every story of which God is the author, it has seen some plot twists and taken some unexpected turns. When I sat down to write this book in January of 2021, after the strangest and loneliest Christmas that many of our generation had ever known, I thought I knew exactly what it was about. This was the book I had been dreaming about for over a decade, squirreling away notes and ideas in a folder on my laptop. A Christmas book, yes, but not exactly like any of the ones that already crowded the shelves of my home library. This was an invitation to revel in the light of Christ, contemplatively and experientially, and a defiant flame of joy against the gloom of the world. More than a cookbook, far from a traditional devotional, what I had seen growing in my imagination all these years was a collection of essays and reflections threaded with practical suggestions for celebrating the Incarnation in tangible ways. Like a Christmas memoir, I told myself. With recipes. “If I write it, will you illustrate it?” I had asked my dear friend Jennifer Trafton over breakfast one morning. We had been talking about how fraught this time of year could be and how easy it was in our consumer-driven culture to become jaded with the whole show. We had also been talking about how much I love it, from the first ruby tinge on the holly berries in late October to the last guttering candle of Epiphany, and how, rightly considered, the trappings and trimmings of the season could be translated into sincere offerings of devotion and grateful love. I had mentioned, rather wistfully, how I’d love to gather all of my zeal and experience into a book—a book, of course, thronged with beautiful pictures, for as long as a book remains in the dream stage the sky is the limit. Even so, it was a half-playful proposal, almost a dare to my own reticence. Like the best kind of friend and kindred spirit, however, Jennifer took me quite seriously. “Yes!” she said, almost before the question was out of my mouth. “Absolutely.” From that moment we proceeded to plan and scheme in an absolute downpour of creative energy. It was just the project we both needed, an outlet for her artwork and my ardor, and we leapt to work with an enthusiasm I had not felt in years. The more I mapped the outline, the more I wanted to write and share, for this book was not merely about celebrating Christmas so much as about celebrating God’s faithful and unwavering presence in our lives, even in the face of great sorrow and loss. I found myself mining griefs I’d once thought too personal to share, remembering that grief is a road we’re all acquainted with, and that joy is always its intended destination. And I realized how important it was to acknowledge the stumbling blocks that had, over the years, hindered my shaping—and receiving—of a Christ-centered holiday. I began, in short, to let down my defenses and to try and write this book, to the best of my ability, as an act of hospitality. I’ll confess, it was a challenge to conjure Christmas in the broiling heat of a Georgia July, and more than once I resorted to drawing the curtains, lighting a few red tapers, and brewing a pot of ginger-laced chai just to fool my subconscious into feeding me glimpses, memories, tastes, and sensations of December’s enchantments. But every time Jennifer sent one of her illustrations—whimsical borders, recipe-card depictions of treasured holiday dishes, full-page spreads—my excitement was kindled afresh. She not only understood what I was trying to say, she had expounded upon it in glorious, delightful color. And then my mother died. I was no stranger to archetypical loss—I had lost my father seven years previous and nearly lost my home to a fire shortly thereafter, both of which had unmade and remade me in the mercy of God. And there were other losses and heartaches threaded among these towering ones, some seen, some unseen. But none of these had prepared me for the loss of my mother. It was like a subterranean cavern roiling with a torrent of rushing water, and it carried me along for a while, insensible to anything but its inexorable course. And then it was an iron door, clamped firm between all that had come before and all that was yet to be. I stood on this side of it like a lost child, bewildered, bedraggled. Homesick. I don’t know how I made it through 2022. The book was shelved, first for the funeral and its aftermath and then for the heartrending process of dismantling and selling my childhood home. Every day for months I walked into that house whispering, Lord, show me what to do next, and, Help me to do it. He did. And he did something far more than that. In sifting through the accumulations of the story of our family, I realized that God had given me back that story in a profound and meaningful way. What’s more, he had given me my mother as I had not had her before. I had always known what a wonderful hostess she was, and how much joy she took in making a home for my father, my siblings, and me that was truly a refuge from the turbulence and darkness of the world. But I had never fully realized, as obvious as it may seem, just how much she had gone into the making of me, or how deeply my ideals of family, home, and hospitality had been shaped by her sacrificial efforts over the years. Sifting through everything that had been hers had thrown her values into stark, sweet, simple relief. Mama cared about one thing and one thing only: relationships—with her people and with her God. By January of this year, I was back at my desk with a new target in sight. But also with a new inspiration. For I realized, with a stab and a smile, that Mama was already all over the pages I had written, even where I had not mentioned her, and that the rest of this book and its subsequent drafts would be shaped, not so much by her loss, as by the extraordinary gift that had been given to me in being her daughter. My mother was the kind of woman who delighted in sharing her home and her table with everyone God brought into her life. Now, in the mercy of God, I could share her with everyone who happened to read this book. And we would all be the better for it. Keeping company with these impressions and ideas has carried me along this year, more forcibly even than the river of grief. For while grief can be one of the most clarifying forces in the world, it’s the love that remains when the storm has cleared. I keep telling people that this book is not the book it would have been had my mother not died while I was writing it, and this is absolutely true. It is also true that I am not the woman I would have been had not grief chiseled such caverns in my heart over which God’s unseen—often unfelt—presence broods with such ineffable tenderness. Nothing is wasted, those hollowed chambers have echoed, again and again. And no good thing, as our friend, Doug McKelvey reminds us in Every Moment Holy, will be lost forever. This book is still about Christmas, of course, and the crafting of a holiday which articulates our joy in Christ’s coming. But the candle of a bright sadness burns in its windows and its rooms are crowded with the communion of saints. There have been times over the past year that I have sat down to write and have wept instead for all those I have loved and lost over the past several years. If, however, this manuscript was spattered with tears, it is also laced with a love that is as strong as death. We’re in the home stretch now. The book is nearly complete. And this Christmas season, I’m excited to offer this first look, or sneak peek, at what’s coming in full from Rabbit Room Press next year. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I have treasured writing it. Lanier Ivester is a homemaker and writer in the beautiful state of Georgia, where she maintains a small farm with her husband, Philip, and an ever-expanding menagerie of cats, dogs, sheep, goats, chickens, ducks, and peacocks. She studied English Literature at the University of Oxford, and her special area of interest is the sacramental nature of everyday life. For over a decade she has kept a web journal at lanierivester.com, and her work has also been featured on The Rabbit Room, Art House America, The Gospel Coalition, and The Cultivating Project, among others. She has lectured across the country on topics ranging from the meaning of home to the integration of faith and reason, and in both her writing and her speaking she seeks to honor the holy longings of a homesick world. 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Now when Job’s three friends heard of all this adversity that had come upon him, they came each one from his own place, Eliphaz the Temanite, Bildad the Shuhite and Zophar the Naamathite; and they made an appointment together to come to sympathize with him and comfort him. When they lifted up their eyes at a distance and did not recognize him, they raised their voices and wept. And each of them tore his robe and they threw dust over their heads toward the sky. Then they sat down on the ground with him for seven days and seven nights with no one speaking a word to him, for they saw that his pain was very great. (Job 2:11-13)\ Back in the 90s, my church decided to produce a book of Advent devotions. The lady putting it together thought I was “artsy,” so she asked me to design the cover. I came up with something I thought was pretty cool. I submitted a simple black and white picture of a pregnant woman’s torso in profile. This sparked all kinds of hand-wringing at the church which culminated in my pastor/boss telling me the design was in poor taste (the woman was clothed, by the way). The publisher lady replaced my sort-of artsy design with a clip-art drawing of the Three Wisemen, who of course have nothing to do with Advent. Pregnancy is a wonderful image of Advent. It works on so many levels. Mary was obviously pregnant with Jesus. Moreover, time itself was, in a sense, pregnant with the Son of God (Galatians 4:4-5). Today we might say that the cosmos is again pregnant, waiting eagerly for the children of God to come forth (Romans 8:19) when Christ returns. Advent, like pregnancy, is a waiting for something marvelous. There is a young couple whom I love; they live in another city. A few years ago, I guided them through their premarital counseling and officiated at their wedding. Just last week the woman gave birth to twin sons. They were quite premature and both passed away not long after being delivered. Their parents got to hold them for just a few precious minutes before they were gone—gone until the Resurrection at the Last Day. According to the American Pregnancy Association, there are six million pregnancies every year in the United States. Of these, approximately one-third end in pregnancy loss. More than half of those are due to abortion, but 800,000 are the result of miscarriage and similar issues. Everyone knows someone who has lost a child in pregnancy, and you might well be one of them. What happens when excitement and expectation ends in disappointment and calamity? What do you do when your Advent ends not in Christmas but in Good Friday? Expectations are not always fulfilled, hope is sometimes dashed. Sometimes this results in loss of life, as happened to my friends. Sometimes the loss is not as tragic, but no less real. Relationships end poorly, jobs fall through, dreams are not realized. When someone is in the middle of their suffering, it is easy for an outsider to say “God is still with them.” That is true, and it is the message of Advent. Christ is with the suffering, the broken, the mourning. He knows what it means to endure horrific evil, and so he is the ultimate source of comfort and healing to the hurting. At the same time, suffering does not always move quickly to hope. Sometimes hope is put on hold and mourning drags on. For those who are in the middle of their pain, God must be mediated in the silent affection of other human beings. Christ is incarnate in the tender compassion of the friend who says “I don’t understand it either” as he bursts into tears. The Christian who can set aside her need to control, her desire to “make it better,” and can sit in the awful pain of her friend becomes Jesus to that friend. For those of you who are suffering right now, let me say a couple of things. Your pain is real and it has meaning. I encourage you to feel what you feel, to be as angry and sad and overwhelmed as you are. In the middle of your pain, please know that there is still hope for you because of Christ. I pray you will reveal your suffering to other people who can sit with you in the midst of it. I hope you will find some hope in this Advent, and in the Christ who has not given up on you.

Every year I hope for this season to be full of life-transforming meaning, and every year, I feel like I barely grasp hold of some fleeting thoughts about the season before we’re suddenly unwrapping presents, shouting Happy New Year, and back to work. What I’m hoping for, what I feel like I miss year after year, is an Advent and Christmas season which is “eye-opening.” St. John said Jesus’ coming into the world “enlightens everyone.” Jesus himself said that our eye is the lamp of the body; a good eye results in a body filled with light. In other words, we have a vision problem. We don’t see God, ourselves, or the world rightly. The Pharisees didn’t see it rightly. Herod didn’t see it rightly. We don’t either. Philip Doddridge recognized the need for a transformed vision when he penned his Advent hymn, “Hark the Glad Sound, the Savior Comes”: He comes from thickest films of vice To clear the mental ray, And on the eyes oppressed with night To pour celestial day. Advent is remembering the darkness that preceded the light, the oppressive night that preceded the celestial day. It’s about the gaining of a transformed vision – the kind of thing that turns upside down the way we look at the world and the way we live in it. I’m praying this is not another Advent that goes by in a blur, for blurred vision is all that will result. Though as usual, I have to catch myself in my tendency toward “doing.” There’s not a thing I can do to clear my own vision. That transformative work is done by God and God alone. It’s work that is done to us and in us. We’re not simply passive, for it’s our own imaginations that are being exercised. And we choose whether or not to place ourselves in the imaginative spaces in which the mental ray can be cleared to see rightly. But nothing blurs the vision worse than believing I can fix my own eyesight. To all this I’d add one final thought. The best stories produce a transformed vision. S. T. Coleridge, to whom all our beloved fantasy authors should be traced, believed that great stories are icons of reality, that the imaginative work done in the stories is a way of knowing and understanding the world. Of course, all of the best stories are echoes of the best story, the one that starts with Advent. We’re at the beginning, once again, of the story of Christ, the story of us all. My prayer for myself and all the Rabbit Roomers is that the eyes of our hearts are open, so that as we move through this story once again over the coming year, we see Christ and are transformed by Him.

Who is the coolest Star Wars character? I’m sure you know the answer. I imagine one could argue it’s Lando (because he’s played by Billy Dee Williams) or Boba Fett (because he’s so mysterious and owns a rocket backpack). But the obvious answer is Han Solo. The bad Good Guy, or good Bad Guy, of the galaxy. The scoundrel, the pirate, the bad boy who ultimately wins the heart of the princess. When I was a child my favorite Star Wars character was Luke Skywalker. That’s embarrassing to admit, but it’s true. Why Luke and not Han? Because Luke was a good boy. I wanted to be a good boy. I was the first born, the mature one, the moral one who didn’t give mom and dad any trouble. At least until I became a teenager and repented. Luke was the incarnation of good-boy-ness. Now that I’ve owned my good boy status, I hope it will not be insulting to say that Danny Bryant was a good boy, too. He and I both grew up desiring to be good, moral, and right. We both grew up in moralistic religions. Different religions, but legalistic nonetheless. While the rules were quite different we both sought to obey them. It is no wonder then that we both grew up to be pastors. The pastorate is filled with grown up good boys and girls. It is no wonder that Wednesday night Danny was ordained a deacon (he will be ordained priest in a few months). A deacon is someone called to serve others in the Church, especially the poor. What better job for a moral person than to be the servant of all? It’s somewhat surprising then to read the Gospel passage the bishop chose for the ordination service. Here’s part of it. Jesus said “Be dressed in readiness, and keep your lamps lit. Be like men who are waiting for their master when he returns from the wedding feast, so that they may immediately open the door to him when he comes and knocks. Blessed are those slaves whom the master will find on the alert when he comes; truly I say to you, that he will gird himself to serve, and have them recline at the table, and will come up and wait on them.” (Luke 12:35-37, NASB) Do you see what happened there? It is easy to miss if you read it quickly. Jesus is telling us to be ready for his coming. He is the master, we are the slaves. We don’t know when he is coming. What happens when the master comes? He knocks on the door and finds the servants alert. Then the master girds himself and serves the servants. The slaves recline at the table while the Lord waits on them. The world and the Church don’t need good boys. They don’t need Luke Skywalkers. They don’t need Han Solos either. What the world and the Church need are sinners who will allow the Lord Jesus Christ to serve them. Danny is not good enough to be a deacon. I am not good enough to be a priest. None of us are good enough to be Christians, the children of God, members of the new covenant community of the Church. Rather we are mere slaves who one day opened the door to find the Son of God standing there. It was he who came to us, who served us from the manger to the cross to the empty tomb. In his ascension, his sending of the Holy Spirit, and in his promise to return he serves us still. The best Danny can hope to be is a sinner who, served by Christ and graced by the Spirit, might some days find the strength to serve others in Jesus’ name. That’s all any of us can hope for. To be moved by the vast love of Jesus and perhaps to love someone else for his sake.

Families, bible study groups, home fellowships and churches can easily make advent a part of their corporate celebration of Christmas. The following is a template you can follow in order to adapt the meditations in this book for use in a group setting with an Advent Wreath. Advent wreaths are a great way to build anticipation for your celebration of Christmas. They are very simple in their design—often made from the trimmings from a Christmas tree or evergreen clippings wound together as a wreath.  Like a wedding ring, the circular shape of the wreath reminds us of the unending nature of God—that He has no beginning and no end. The wreath is adorned with five candles—four around the perimeter and one in the middle.  Three of the four perimeter candles are usually purple, the color associated with royalty to remind you of the Kingship of Christ.  The other perimeter candle is usually pink, representing the joy of His coming. The perimeter candles are lit on the Sundays leading up to Christmas as a way of counting down the weeks until Christmas Eve or Christmas Day when the center candle, the Christ candle, is lit.  The Christ candle is white, representing Christ and His birth, and it is in the middle of the wreath to remind us that Christ is the center of all things.  “All authority in heaven and on earth has been given” to Him. (Mt 28:18) Beyond these basic appointments, the wreath can be decorated in any way you wish.  As the weeks go on, the light from the wreath glows brighter and brighter in intensity.  This is a wonderfully appropriate aesthetic reminding us of three very important truths. First, we are reminded that “the true light, which enlightens everyone, was coming into the world.” (Jn 1:9) Second, as the light intensifies and the darkness is pushed back, we are reminded of why Christ came—to overcome the darkness and power of sin in our lives.  As Jesus said, “I am the light of the world.  Whoever follows me will not walk in darkness, but will have the light of life.” (Jn 8:12) Third, we are reminded of the call Jesus gives His followers to be light in this world: “A city set on a hill cannot be hidden.  Nor do people light a lamp and put it under a basket, but on a stand, and it gives light to all in the house.  So also, let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and praise your Father Who is in heaven.” (Mt 5:14-16)   As the light of the wreath intensifies, we remember who Jesus is and what He has done, and we anticipate His purpose and intent to use our lives to bear witness to Him. The four perimeter candles of the wreath are usually assigned particular themes which help unfold the story of Christmas.  There is a lot of latitude in the themes you can assign to the candles because the Advent Wreath exists to serve the worshipper, not the other way around.

In an interview, Robert Farrar Capon said: You know what’s fun? When you watch a movie, try to identify the Christ figure. I mean the figure who makes the plot work. Now, this can become an exercise where Christians are trying to force some meaning on a film that isn’t there just to force an evangelistic message. But on the other hand, it’s often a little picture of Advent. When we create a story and find a Christ figure, or when we watch a film or read a book and find one, it’s because we all know we need one, and we all realize we’ve been looking for one. It’s a little picture of history’s bigger painting: Advent is looking for Christ. And we find him in the strangest of places.

Welcome to the Rabbit Room Virtual Advent Wreath.  Over the course of the next several weeks leading up to Christmas, we will be posting a series of meditations focused on the story of Jesus’ birth from the Gospels.  For more on what Advent means and why many Christains observe it, here’s a short introduction.  If you’d like to make a wreath of your own for your family or study group, here’s how.  The text for this week’s reflection comes from Luke 1:8-80. 8 While Zechariah was serving as priest before God… there appeared to him an angel of the Lord standing on the right side of the altar of incense saying,  “Do not be afraid, Zechariah, for your prayer has been heard, and your wife Elizabeth will bear you a son, and you shall call his name John… He will turn many of the children of Israel to the Lord their God, 17and he will go before him in the spirit and power of Elijah… to make ready for the Lord a people prepared.” 18 And Zechariah said to the angel, “How shall I know this? For I am an old man, and my wife is advanced in years.”   19And the angel answered him, “I am Gabriel, who stands in the presence of God, and I was sent to speak to you and to bring you this good news. 20And behold, you will be silent and unable to speak until the day that these things take place, because you did not believe my words…”  22And when he came out, he was unable to speak…  And he kept making signs to the people and remained mute. 57Now the time came for Elizabeth to give birth, and she bore a son… And on the eighth day they came to circumcise the child. And they would have called him Zechariah after his father, 60but his mother answered, “No; he shall be called John.” 61And they said to her, “None of your relatives is called by this name.” 62And they made signs to his father, inquiring what he wanted him to be called. 63And he asked for a writing tablet and wrote, “His name is John.” And they all wondered. 64And immediately his mouth was opened and his tongue loosed, and he spoke, blessing God.    –Luke 1:8-80 (ESV) Children have inquisitive minds.  They want to make sense of the world they inhabit. There were men among the twelve tribes of Israel who must have held a mysterious presence in the imaginations of the kids who grew up in those towns—men who forever smelled like smoke and iron and were always splattered with blood.  When these men would pass by on the street, the children would stare as their parents would explain that that man’s work was bloody because it was holy. These men were the priests, and the blood they wore was the residue of the sacrifices they offered on the behalf of the people. That river of blood flowed as far back as any of them could recall, all the way back to their slave days in Egypt when the Lord delivered them from Pharaoh’s tyrannical rule, but not before sending the devastating plague which took all the first born sons in the land.  The only families who survived that catastrophe were those who had sacrificed a lamb and smeared its blood over the doorposts of their homes. God’s people grew up in a culture of sacrifice and spoke the language of sacrifice. Without the shedding of blood there was no forgiveness of sins, they would say.  So the priesthood carried over from one generation to the next, along with their bloody work, all the way to the time of an old cleric named Zechariah. One day, while Zechariah was working in the temple, the angel Gabriel appeared to tell him God was going to give him a son. Zechariah and his wife Elizabeth were old and had been barren their entire marriage.  So Zechariah wanted proof. Gabriel replied with some indignation, “I AM GABRIEL, who stands in the presence of God.”  Wasn’t Gabriel’s presence sign enough?  If not, another could be arranged.  Zechariah’s proof was that he was struck mute (and probably deaf too, since others had to communicate with him using signs) until the birth of this promised child.  No speaking to the baby in Elizabeth’s growing belly.  No telling his neighbors about this son he has waited his entire life for.  Only silence—nine months of it. Though bittersweet, this silence was a gift.  Zechariah was given time to think, time to remember the words and the frame of the Guardian of Heaven whose apparition, for some reason, was easier to accept than the words he spoke. To worship God is to dwell on who He is; to consider His handiwork. (Job 37:14) How can this occur without stillness?  Stillness is a discipline God gives to cultivate minds that can hold and turn over complicated thoughts without losing them.  Silence is a gift God gives to Zechariah, and the old man puts it to use. He had more than enough time to rebuke himself for his doubt and plenty left over to really contemplate what God was doing.  He thought of his need for salvation and God’s promise of it.  He thought of the priesthood and of God’s displeasure with His people’s rebellion against Him.  He thought of the ocean of blood his own hands had spilled, and how if he were to spill all the blood of all the priests of every generation, it still wouldn’t come close to being enough to atone for the sins of Israel or, for that matter, the sins of Zechariah.  He thought of Scripture and of history.  He thought of the angel’s words and his own role in God’s redemption. And he thought of his son’s role. From Elizabeth’s first bout with nausea to that day nine months later when they, along with their astonished kinsfolk, laid their tired eyes on this brand new baby boy, Zechariah held his peace. God used this silence to persuade the old minister that God was sending His salvation to His people and that this miracle baby, his son, was brought into this world to herald the Messiah’s coming. A son was his father’s honor.  It was tradition to give a boy his father’s name. When the boy turned eight days old, they’d circumcise him and announce that name—the name he would go by all his days as a member of the covenant family of God.  When Zechariah and Elizabeth’s son was circumcised on the eighth day, his aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces and nephews waited for his parents to announce little Zechariah’s name. Elizabeth gave her mute husband a penetrating look.  His eyes told her what she needed to say on his behalf. “We are going to call him John.” “John?  Why?  There is no one in your family who goes by this name.” For a moment there it was Elizabeth against the world.  Her kin looked to Zechariah, as if his wife might have somehow been taking advantage of his silence.  “Are you going to allow this?” His eyes were deep pools of unsearchable gravity.  He moved between his wife and her detractors, and pinching his forefinger to his thumb, he motioned for something he could write on.  The note he scribbled was short and resolute.  On the tablet were four words in Zechariah’s own hand: “His name is John.” And that was that.  This baby was John. “John.”  The kinsfolk tried it out, speaking the name to the child as if to see if he might respond.  As they cooed and sang the name over him, an old  familiar voice rose from the corner of the room from a murmur to a crescendo. “His name is John.  His name is John!”  The old man wept as the words flowed from his lips like a symphony of awe and joy. Within minutes, everything that had been on his heart those past nine months came flowing out. To the amazement of everyone, he had little to say about his encounter with the angel or his doubts concerning Elizabeth’s ability to conceive. Instead, Zechariah wanted to talk about the salvation of the Lord.  All God’s promises to Abraham and David were going to be fulfilled in the coming God’s Messiah.  History was converging on this moment, and Zechariah understood that he and Elizabeth had been given a son because the world was being given her Savior.  And their son John was born to prepare the way for the Messiah’s coming. Then Zechariah got down nose to nose with his little boy, “You, son, will proclaim the salvation of the people of God and the forgiveness of their sins.  You live to proclaim His mercy, just as your very life is God’s mercy to us.  A new light is dawning, and this message is the reason God gave you to us.” These were the words of a man who had time to think. Zechariah understood that though his life’s work as a priest was insufficient and thus unending, if God were to preside as the priest over His people, and if He were to select the atoning sacrifice His people needed, it would be perfect.  And the river of blood would cease to flow from the heart of the Holy Place where God’s presence dwells. The old priest began to sense that he would be among the last of his kind. When the Lord loosed Zechariah’s tongue, everyone sensed the weight of John’s divine purpose, saying, “What then will this child be?” If the Messiah is coming and we are called to bear witness to Him, what then will our lives be?  What will our sons’ lives be?  What will our daughters’ lives be?  Zechariah’s benediction over John gives an answer.  They will be God’s.

I have always thought it a happy coincidence that in my country Thanksgiving Day occurs the fourth Thursday in November. That same Thursday happens usually to be the last Thursday in Trinity Season, at the end of what the Church sometimes calls Ordinary Time. That makes it the last Thursday before the season of Advent, the first Sunday of which is the Church calendar’s New Year’s Day. As such, the American Thanksgiving Day is an ideal occasion to reflect upon blessings given us in Ordinary Time before proceeding into Advent and the New Year. This summing up of Ordinary Time in Thanksgiving, by another happy coincidence, falls somewhere between November 22 and 29—a week I sometimes call “C. S. Lewis Week.” The earliest day on which Thanksgiving Day may fall is November 22, the anniversary of Lewis’s death; the last day on which Thanksgiving may fall is November 28, the eve Lewis’s birthday. So just as the approach of Thanksgiving Day reminds me that a resetting of the Church calendar is just around the corner, it also reminds me that I may be overdue for some extended meditation on some essay or story by Lewis. I give thanks for Lewis every time I read him, which is often. I give thanks for him because he has taught me much of what I know about how to give thanks, and to Whom I give thanks. Take, for example, this passage from Letters to Malcolm: Gratitude exclaims, very properly, “How good of God to give me this.” Adoration says, “What must the quality of that Being whose far-off and momentary coruscations are like this!” One’s mind runs back up the sunbeam to the sun . . . If this is Hedonism, it is also a somewhat arduous discipline. But it is worth some labour.[1] Perhaps more than anyone else, I owe Lewis thanks for showing me the connection between thanksgiving, adoration, and joy with arduous discipline and labor. It takes work to see the extraordinary things in “ordinary” time: to see a sunbeam shining through a cracked door into a dusty shed as a parable for the modern world; to see praise as “inner health made audible”; to see a world in a wardrobe. Lewis never shirked the hard labor of looking at things with his eye lighted by imagination, and his imagination disciplined by sense, with sense and imagination both tethered to love. There is more, though. Just as Ordinary Time gives way to Advent, at some point the term ends and the holidays begin. We perceive that day by hope and faith, not yet by sight. And here I find that Lewis trains my appetite to desire every bit as well as he trains my eye to gratitude and adoration: If there lurks in most modern minds the notion that to desire our own good and earnestly to hope for the enjoyment of it is a bad thing, I submit that this notion has crept in from Kant and the Stoics and is no part of the Christian faith. Indeed, if we consider the unblushing promises of reward and the staggering nature of the rewards promised in the Gospels, it would seem that our Lord finds our desires, not too strong, but too weak. We are half-hearted creatures, fooling about with drink and sex and ambition when infinite joy is offered us, like an ignorant child who wants to go on making mud pies in a slum because he cannot imagine what is meant by the offer of a holiday at the sea. We are far too easily pleased.[2] “Far too easily pleased.” And yet the “displeasure” into which Lewis would train me is a thousand miles from that of the malcontent or crank. To an age whose solons and sages called discontent the mother of progress and Christian hope the opiate of the masses, Lewis spoke a word both sweeter and truer: as discipline produces gratitude and adoration, so gratitude and adoration whet, and do not quench, desire. [1] C. S. Lewis, Letters to Malcolm: Chiefly on Prayer 90-91 (Harcourt 1992)(1963). [2] Lewis, The Weight of Glory 26 (HarperOne 2009)(1949).

We are so pleased to share with you a brand new podcast series led by Dr. Steve Guthrie, board member at the Rabbit Room and professor of Religion & the Arts at Belmont University. In a series of interviews with various artists in our community, Steve draws on the tenets of the Nicene Creed to develop a rich vision of the relationship between the voice of God and the voice of the artist—constructing an “artist’s creed” of sorts. Guests on this podcast include Dr. Kirstin Jeffrey Johnson (George MacDonald expert), Helena Sorensen (author of the Shiloh series), A. S. Peterson (writer of The Battle of Franklin and Frankenstein), Sandra McCracken, and more. Click here to listen.

The day is yours, and yours also the night… —Psalm 74:16 Sometimes when I cannot sleep, I wander through the house, looking at all the other people who are sleeping. There’s a satisfaction in knowing that all my loved ones are contentedly asleep, with their blankets cozily snuggled under their chins. I feel a flash of jealousy, too, sometimes, a sense of martyrdom: “Well, at least someone is getting some sleep around here.” Cue the dramatic sigh. Much as I enjoy sleeping, especially now that there are so many people depending on me to be energetic and productive each day, there is a little magic to being up at night while all the world is sleeping. A few extra hours awake at night can seem sweetly stolen—silence reigns and I am free to read or write or eat the last of the cookies without sharing. A good book to finish makes that awake time seem more purposeful, but, more often than not, I am just awake. A bad dream that has left me anxious, too much coffee after dinner that has left me flitting around the kitchen, impending visitors that have me reviewing menus and grocery lists and cooking times. Along with the growing number of sleepyheads under my roof comes a growing number of concerns—all those well-worn adult worries, so cliché, but with reason—mouths to feed, bodies to clothe, and little heads to organize and train up in the way they should go. For the first several years of my marriage, I suffered from frequent bouts of insomnia. I would read until my eyes burned and watered, but I could not go to sleep. I remember feeling cheated while up in the wee hours reading the Psalms one night—“He gives to his beloved sleep?! Sleep?!” What had I done wrong? Why would God not grant me sleep? I cannot answer that question now, so many years removed from those nights of restless mental wandering, but I have learned to appreciate the sleepless nights when they happen. Thanks to the mercy of God and the tiring days of caring for three wild boys, I have fewer wakeful nights. Occasionally, though, I am awakened by something—a sick child, a vivid dream, or the ole can’t-drink-as-much-coffee-as-I-used-to, and then I’m just up. If there’s a good book on my bedside table, I’ll curl up on the little couch in the kitchen and try to finish it. But sometimes the worries steal even the pleasure of a good tale, and I know that my awake time must be spent in prayer. I retained the childhood fear of the dark well into my adulthood, and being alone and awake after the sun had set seemed to me like a living nightmare. I still believed that something would get me if my feet touched the ground after midnight and before sunrise. And as I look back, I see a young woman who doubted God’s goodness in the dark. I needed the assurance of light and a busy humanity to convince me that God was in his heaven and all was right with the world. If God gave sleep to those he loved, then I assumed that I was out of favor with him. Now that I am more mature (I hope) and perhaps a little more resigned to the fact that sometimes it’s just difficult to sleep, I see the wakeful hours in a different light. They can be a gift to someone like me, who spends most of the day as ringmaster of our chaotic little circus. Little feet hit the ground early in the morning, and by breakfast time there are three pairs of feet and all the corresponding noise and activity. A few extra hours awake at night can seem sweetly stolen—silence reigns and I am free to read or write or eat the last of the cookies without sharing. Julie Spencer When I find I cannot sleep, I am better able to enjoy the time awake. While lying down with a restless baby, I am able to “take captive every thought” and pray over it. When worrying over the various problems within our church family, I can slowly pray for each individual and take time to remember their faces and what I love about each of them. When strange dreams come or fears arise, I am always comforted by the words of the psalmists. There is truly nothing new under the sun, and reading the words of David or Asaph remind me that my fears and doubts are not unusual or outside the scope of God’s wisdom and power. Psalm 74 begins and ends with a plea to God: Remember your people, O Lord, and your promises to them! Don’t you see what is happening, Lord?! But sandwiched between the bitter cries is something delicious, a rich reminder of who God is. The God who promises salvation is the Creator of all, and Lord over his creation. When I feel, along with the psalmist, that enemies are surrounding me, and that God’s name is being mocked, I remind myself of who God has proven himself to be, not just in history, but in my own life. Since the beginning of time the day has belonged to God—and also the night. God doesn’t put up the Closed sign at the end of the day. He is as near and watchful at night as he is on the sunniest day. Yes, sleep is a gift and a blessing from God, but fellowship with God—with the King from long ago—that is the greater gift. So when I am just…awake…I try to imagine that God has woken me up for a purpose—for time with him, time to enjoy the gift of a quiet house, time to think and pray without interruption. And I am quick to say Thanks! any morning I wake up after a full night’s sleep.