There’s a clip from an old Peanuts cartoon where Schroeder is playing his little piano while Lucy leans against it, looking lovingly into his eyes. Snoopy edges his way into the frame, bopping a little to the groove. Before long, he launches into a full-on, joy-filled dance—head thrown back, arms outstretched, eyes closed, lost in the beauty of the song. Lucy turns to Snoopy and just glares. Schroeder stops playing, and he glares too. Snoopy feels the weight of their gaze and slinks away in shame. Whenever I see that clip, I feel sad for Snoopy for two reasons. First, I’m sad that he got mocked. That brave dog took a risk. He let the music wash over him as he got lost in the groove. You could see the joy he took in the song. He turned Schroeder’s performance into a dance. But in doing so, the jaded cynics to his right and left scorned him for doing exactly what that music was composed to do. I’m also sad that Snoopy slunk away in shame under the weight of Schroder’s and Lucy’s glares. Have you ever considered why we’re not a people who experience joy more regularly and express it with freedom? If Scriptures like Ephesians 1 tell us that the story of the Gospel should move us to a place of unfettered joy and praise, what stops us? What would it take to give us the confidence to embrace the joy of what Christ has done—to become people who live in the groove of the lyric and music of the Gospel? What would it look like if you and I were people who fought for the idea that the Gospel isn’t just a composition of data, but is in fact a dance with both music and lyric? Scripture calls us to embrace the idea that the Gospel is a message of both lyric and music. Consider these verses from Ephesians 1:7-10 (ESV): In him we have redemption through his blood, the forgiveness of our trespasses, according to the riches of his grace, which he lavished upon us, in all wisdom and insight making known to us the mystery of his will, according to his purpose, which he set forth in Christ as a plan for the fullness of time, to unite all things in him, things in heaven and things on earth. The lyrics of the gospel are the words, the content, and message of the song—part data, part poetry. Something happened. Something on our behalf—the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus. The music of the Gospel is the life of those lyrics set in motion, telling us that what happened is beautiful. His sacrifice was an act of love. Let’s focus on two key ideas illuminated in Ephesians 1: the lyric of redemption and the music of mystery. The Lyric of Redemption In him we have redemption through his blood, the forgiveness of our trespasses… (Eph 1:7) We use the word “redemption” a lot to speak of freedom, but the word has a pointed meaning we need to understand. To redeem, in the sense it’s used here, refers to delivering something by means of paying a price. The redemption we have in Christ is effective: the price is fully paid so that there remains no outstanding debt. It is also permanent. The absence of outstanding debt guarantees there can be no repossession. We have redemption through the blood of Jesus, who takes away our sin. This is lyric. Data. Content. When Paul tells us that we have redemption, he puts the meat of truth on those bones. Our redemption doesn’t depend on God staying in a good mood or on you making good use of a second chance. Our redemption was a real transaction—a purchasing of deliverance through a price paid. It is not a fragile reality. The lyric of the Gospel is etched in stone. The Music of Mystery …which he lavished upon us, in all wisdom and insight making known to us the mystery of his will, according to his purpose, which he set forth in Christ… (Eph 1:8-9) The mystery of God’s will is made known in the work of Christ, and it’s glorious! God didn’t just do this behind the scenes. He showed us what he’s done by revealing his son and the redemption he paid for us on the cross and secured for us by defeating the power of death for us. Paul’s use of the word “mystery” doesn’t speak to something unknowable. It means: something previously unknown being revealed. Redemption is a mystery made known. And what is made known? God redeems us on purpose, and it is a purpose set forth in Christ, meaning his own Son was always meant to be the means by which we would be reconciled to God. It was a plan to reunite a broken creation to the harmony we were made to know and enjoy as God’s beloved, adopted children. This is so much more than lyric alone—sterile data to file away. This is music. Look at the words Paul uses to surround his praise for redemption: “lavish,” “according to riches of his grace,” “in wisdom…” What would it look like if you and I were people who fought for the idea that the Gospel isn't just a composition of data but is in fact a dance with both music and lyric? Russ Ramsey Our redemption is according to the riches of God’s grace. Do you know any really, really rich people—crazy rich? What if the wealthiest, most powerful person in the world had his philanthropic sights set on you? What if his will was to, as Paul says, lavish you with all his riches not according to anything you have done, not according to your ability to position yourself in the forefront of his memory, but what if his decision to lavish you with all the riches at his disposal was a decision all his own, according to the wisdom of his insight? Would this not be reason to dance in light of the content of the lyric? This is the Gospel: the Maker of the universe, the owner of every corner of creation, redeems his people to lavish us with the fullness of his grace for all eternity. It’s a beautiful symphony. The hope you have in the Gospel is not fragile. It isn’t based on vague precepts or the temperament of a moody god. The lyrics and music of the Gospel tell you something has happened to set you right with God—his son took your guilt upon himself, paid your debt, and bought your eternal freedom. Nothing can shake that. If your faith is in Christ, your position is not fragile. Snoopy slinks away in shame under the weight of Lucy and Schroeder’s glares. But Snoopy was right to dance. The call to rejoice in the lyric and music of being redeemed in Christ is a call to begin now what we will most certainly do for all eternity if we are in Christ, delight in the beauty and content of the song of the Gospel.

The spring season of the Local Show wrapped up last week with a very special edition: Songs We Loved in High School, as performed by Andrew Peterson, Andrew Osenga, Andy Gullahorn, Jill Phillips, Eric Peters, and Sandra McCracken. There were songs by the Indigo Girls, Marc Cohn, Crowded House, R. E. M., James Taylor, DC Talk, and so much more—more than you could have ever hoped for. Today, we share with you the complete set list from that glorious night. And, as long as we’re having fun, we’re sharing a second playlist representing some of our contributors’ favorite songs from high school as well. Suffice it to say that we’ve been greatly enjoying our walk down memory lane. “In this season’s final edition of the Local Show, we had some longtime Rabbit Room favorites share covers of songs they loved in high school. Affectionately known as the ‘Square Pegs,’ they included Andrew Peterson, Sandra McCracken, Eric Peters, Andrew Osenga, Jill Phillips, and Andy Gullahorn. It was an incredibly fun night with everybody from Bruce Hornsby and the Indigo Girls to Marc Cohn and DC Talk. Sadly, the livestream wasn’t working, but if you get the chance, check out @thelocalshow on Instagram for some clips of the show.” —Jared Malament Set List Jill Phillips: “Stay (I Missed You)” by Lisa Loeb Andy Gullahorn: “Everything That Glitters” by Dan Seals Eric Peters: “Look Out Any Window” by Bruce Hornsby Andrew Osenga: “It’s the End of the World As We Know It” (And I Feel Fine) by R.E.M. Andrew Peterson: “Walking in Memphis” by Marc Cohn Andrew Peterson: “Silver Thunderbird” by Marc Cohn Sandra McCracken: “Closer to Fine” by Indigo Girls Group: “Carolina in My Mind” by James Taylor Andy Gullahorn/Jill Phillips, et al: “High Enough” by Damn Yankees Eric Peters: “These Days” by Jackson Browne Andrew Osenga: “Jesus Freak” by DC Talk Jill Phillips: “Summer Solstice” by Susan Ashton Andrew Peterson: “Heart of the Matter” by Don Henley Sandra McCracken: “The Gambler” by Kenny Rogers Andy Gullahorn: “The Living Years” by Mike + The Mechanics Andrew Osenga: “Wonderwall” by Oasis Jill Phillips: “Don’t Dream It’s Over” by Neil Finn/Crowded House You can listen to the full Local Show set list on Spotify and Apple Music. Our Songs We Loved From High School playlist is also available to stream on Spotify and Apple Music.

It’s 7 am in Brooklyn. The Hudson River on my left moves gently, recovering from the night before. Murals of men I don’t know look down on me from the redbrick walls where they sit. People begin emerging from the shadows of doorways, darting towards the welcoming oasis of a coffee shop or eatery whose shutters have just lifted. I heard NYC was the city that never sleeps; perhaps that’s true, but it just doesn’t seem to be fully awake yet. It’s Saturday, the morning after playing the first show on our US tour. Perhaps it’s the jet lag that woke me but I know this feeling from somewhere else. It’s how I felt when I was younger, waking up on Christmas morning, exclaiming to my sisters, “he came!” It’s the feeling that this is a good day. This is a day that has been waited for and to sleep would only waste the experience of it. Some days you want to taste every available minute. I’ve wanted to visit Brooklyn for as long as I can remember. I fell in love with hip hop in my early teens and quickly became obsessed (and yes, that’s the right word) with many artists who grew up in and around these streets. I remember the first time I heard Talib Kweli’s Get By and was mesmerized by a flow that sounded both effortless and technical in a way that only ten thousand hours of practice can achieve. I remember discovering Mos Def and realizing for the first time why people love poetry the way they do. I learned the power of metaphor and the double entendre from Jay-Z during my morning paper round, where I was taught more than I ever was at school. So as I walk through these streets, like a pilgrim without a knapsack, I’m basking in satisfaction and excitement. I remember the words that fell from my lips between songs last night: “If I had truly believed I’d be here, playing my music and sharing poetry when I was fifteen, I wouldn’t have wasted so much time worrying about how it would happen.” In the last year, a lot has happened. I ventured on my first headline tour of the UK, produced and released multiple projects from the label I founded, had the honor of doing a TEDx talk, signed a record deal and released a new EP which has garnered over five hundred thousand streams and downloads. Hear me out: I don’t say this with pride or with the desire to boast about it. I say it because without reflecting upon and celebrating the materialization of our dreams, it’s easy to get caught in the fire of fantasy, a flame that is fueled by the inability to see the reality before and within us. I thought I'd get everywhere quicker with less effort and somehow have the same stories and sense of satisfaction. See, that's the thing about fantasy: it twists what is in fact sacred timing into what seems to be delay. Joshua Luke Smith In all honesty, in my fantasy I had visualized everything happening a lot earlier than it has. I thought people would begin digesting and sharing my work like they are now a decade ago. I thought I was going to get signed in my late teens rather than my late twenties. I thought I’d get everywhere quicker with less effort and somehow have the same stories and sense of satisfaction. See, that’s the thing about fantasy: it twists what is in fact sacred timing into what seems to be delay. Fantasy doesn’t care for essence, process, or growth. It simply desires results at any cost, even if that cost becomes your soul. We all know the best things take time, especially when we’re consuming it (slow cooked pulled pork, anyone?). It’s harder to appreciate it when it’s less what we’re consuming and more who we’re becoming. As I stand here, overlooking the Hudson, I’m feeling an overwhelming sense of both gratitude and grief: gratitude that God in his kindness has opened doors and made connections that have helped us get to where we are right now. Gratitude for the gift and desire to write poetry that helps people. Gratitude that I’m here. The grief, though uncomfortable, is equally valid. It’s the awareness that I’ve lost time meditating on lies rather than dwelling on truth and embracing the mystery of it all. My single most important responsibility is to remain present. Meditating on a thought that is rooted in worry abducts you from the here and now and locks you in a room whose walls are built with the bricks of fear. There’s no goodness in there. There is more about life that is utterly out of my hands than there is under my capability and control. Submitting to that notion has produced (what seems to be) a purer form of productivity and willingness to work. Creating without an acute fear of the future or anxiety in how this act of expression will serve my fantasy has been, for me, life-changing. Like the pilgrims of old, we’ll all get to where we’re going when it’s time to get there. The mountains we must ascend lead to a way of life we can only receive when we relinquish our right to be offended by the treachery of the terrain. I’ve met so many inspiring people along the way of this road and the one thing that has stuck out to me is that no two journeys are the same. It’s so easy to get disappointed or disillusioned en route, hard-hearted because you haven’t got to where others seem so effortlessly to have landed. Take heart, for your story is your own and it will take shape. The long road isn’t the wrong road. You’re not late, you’re not lost—you’re just going a different way. This piece was originally posted on Joshua Luke Smith’s website. Click here to check it out.

A few years ago, standing on the precipice of yet another life transition, my wife and I sought counsel from a seasoned and wise mentor, Jerram Barrs. We felt particularly fragile and dependent. Sitting together in his office, he shared a metaphor which his mentor, Edith Schaeffer, shared with him many years prior. Imagine standing on the edge of a rushing stream in the darkest of nights waiting for a flash of lightning to illuminate the next stepping stone across raging waters. The light flashes and illumines one stone. Once you find the courage to step out, your confusion is only increased as you straddle two stepping stones. Your disorientation is heightened as you wait for the next flash of lightning to reveal the location of the next stone. This precarious situation is not at all the comfort and security most of us have been trained to hope for and work to maintain in our lives—yet it describes the walk of faith. How might those who embrace God’s covenant from the heart attain anchoring in the midst of such an uncomfortable position? In Ephesians 2, Paul describes the nature of salvation and our collective redemption. His letter positions our lives within a larger cosmic and redemptive drama which offers an imaginative framework for the life of the world. A Cosmic Rescue (v. 1-10) Why is it cosmic? Because this drama involves past, present, and future; heaven and earth; and a battle fought between supra-human beings beyond the seen world. Paul reveals a dire situation and a tragic departure from our original design. With the opening phrase, he gives his listeners the stark reminder: “And you were dead.” We have been collectively caught in a condition which can only be called death: created to enjoy perfect companionship, but now separated from it. The Bible portrays human beings as physical bodies animated by God’s very breath, created in his image. Yet we now inherit a condition of death, cut off from God’s life-giving presence—people created by God and for God, now living without God. The triumph in this drama is unveiled in the powerful phrase, “But God.” Because of his rich mercy, God himself rescues us in the person of Jesus. He restores life and transforms “by grace through faith.” The recipients of this new freedom can now bring him glory, reflect his grace, and devise new ways to dignify and honor one another. We find our own core identity as former strangers now fully welcomed as 'members of the household of God.' Rob Wheeler However, in the midst of the raging waters of a broken world, it’s a continual struggle to maintain the hope and imagination required to believe that we are indeed “his workmanship.” This two-word phrase in English, “his workmanship,” comes from the single Greek word poiema which means “that which is made.” It’s connected to the English word poem—a crafting of words. Thus, even in the aftermath of comprehensive brokenness, we can delight that God made us what and who we are. We are created in the image of God to be sub-creators, bringing out the fruitfulness of the earth and blessing one another, together seeking to enjoy the life of God in his beautiful world. A Restored People (v. 11- 22) Notably, almost every second-person pronoun in Paul’s letter is plural. This stands in stark contrast to our culture’s individualism. Not only does our culture prioritize our individuality, but our language does not help the situation—as modern English speakers, we inherit the great misfortune of having only one word for both the singular and plural forms of the second person: you. Greek speakers (as well as Southerners, who have mastered the word y’all) are in a far better position to interpret Ephesians. Keep this in mind if a Bible teacher ever asks you to replace Paul’s personal pronouns with your own name. As you come across the word you, it’s best to read it as y’all or you people rather than me. This section provides a thorough exposition of the covenantal inclusion of the Gentiles. The position of the nations outside of Israel is sheer, bleak covenant exclusion: “…separate from Christ, excluded from citizenship in Israel and foreigners to the covenants of the promise, without hope and without God in the world.” In Christ, these former outsiders are no longer foreigners or aliens, but full members of God’s household. Moreover, the outsiders don’t just have full access to the presence of God, but constitute his living temple, the very dwelling place of God. But these ethnic groups are set against one another. They seek to exploit and gain dominance against each other. These animosities are scars in God’s creation, but Paul insists that in Christ, we can experience a new humanity. Interestingly, he does not advocate for a rapid, wholesale overthrow of the power structures in place, but rather plants the seeds that will allow the people to bring about greater unity and flourishing as the drama continues to unfold through time. Paul speaks to the racial hostility between the Jews and non-Jews, showing a new way of reconciliation. The ones “who once were far off have been brought near.” Christ “has broken down in his flesh the dividing wall of hostility,” bringing into view our longing for unity and camaraderie within an eternal, all-encompassing reconciliation. We find our own core identity as former strangers now fully welcomed as “members of the household of God.” In his narration of the reversal of death and the reconciliation of former enemies, the Apostle Paul provides a new imaginative grid for participants in the grand unfolding drama of redemption. These words from Ephesians 2 provide a bolt of lightning from the Lord, illuminating the contours of his purposes for the world. Today, as we navigate new and unknown stepping stones with both courage and fear, may we find an ever deeper capacity for faith, hope, and love, informed by our cosmic rescue and a new identity as God’s restored people. May you know the beauty of these cosmic purposes and embrace them as we take our next steps of faith.

There’s been some negative press about the new Tolkien biopic starring Nicholas Hoult and Lily Collins, and a lot of folks have shied away from the film due to rumors of how it might have been mishandled. The legacy of old Tollers is something near and dear to our hearts around here, so we were anxious to see it for ourselves and make up our own minds. In this episode, John and Pete discuss the nuances of the film, both the good and the bad, and do their best to pronounce “Tolkien” correctly. John Barber and Pete Peterson are fascinated, infuriated, and gobsmacked by the art of cinema. In other words, they’re in love with the movies. In Fixed In Post, they discuss the joy, the disappointment, and the magic of film. Listen to the new episode here. And click here to browse the Rabbit Room Podcast Network.

It’s no secret that Jonathan Rogers is a wellspring of writerly wisdom, a masterful storyteller, and a disarming conversationalist. He has all kinds of resources available at his website—and now, he’s teaming up with the Rabbit Room Podcast Network to launch The Habit Podcast. Simply put, The Habit Podcast is a series of conversations with writers about writing. And seeing as writing has everything to do with the whole of life itself, these conversations end up in all kinds of uncharted territory. Guests include Doug McKelvey, Jennifer Trafton, Claire Gibson, Russ Ramsey, and a handful more. This first episode features a conversation with Katy Bowser Hutson. They talk about her chapbook Now I Lay Me Down to Fight, the surprisingly motivating force of mortality, and how the “pre-verbal” component of trauma can be profoundly expressed through the verbal medium of poems. Click here to listen to Episode 1 of The Habit Podcast. Special thanks to our Rabbit Room members for making these podcasts possible! If you’re interested in becoming a member, visit RabbitRoom.com/Donate.

The best lesson I ever learned about God’s grace came as an eight year-old at the piano with my dad. Undoubtedly, there is extraordinary significance in God’s decision to portray himself to us so often as a father. For one, we know that suspended within God’s character is an incomprehensible tension between his justice and mercy—his righteousness and grace. And perhaps it’s in the imaging gift of fatherhood that we see these tensions demonstrated (and demanded) most clearly of all. When I was six years old, my older brother and sister began taking piano lessons. I would travel with them to each one, watching mesmerized as I sat cross-legged on the floor, waiting for the seemingly unreachable age of eight to begin my own. And when I finally did, I was thrilled. Beginning in those early days, I found in my time at the piano a reprieve of freedom, an untangling of thoughts, and an outlet for divine-imaging creativity that I still treasure today. I would rush through apellos in impatience, flourish through allegros in joy, pound staccatos in frustration, dramatize the ritardandos in performance, and smooth over legatos in peace. My fingers danced along the keys in waltzes and foxtrots, taps and ballets—and my heart followed their lead. Of course, for this gift, I have largely my parents to thank—not only for funding my lessons, but for establishing and enforcing expectations of daily practice so that I could continue learning, and ideally, enjoy playing even more. Also to my parents’ credit, these expectations were clear, consistent, and not particularly demanding: I was to practice thirty minutes a day. And yet, at the peril of my preference for unbridled autonomy, I gradually began to view that expectation as more of a rigid requirement than a developmentary discipline. My rightful gratitude increasingly turned to unmerited resentment, and what was once a joy to anticipate became a burden to dread. As irrationally dramatic as it now seems (quite evident in hindsight, of course), at the time, I felt enslaved to an uncompromising standard that, in all my striving, left me frustrated, exhausted, and increasingly discouraged. Those bitter waters continued piling up behind a weakening dam in the Marah of my eight year-old heart—before breaking quite distinctly one Thursday afternoon. As the thirty minutes on the kitchen timer wound down more and more slowly, my anger welled up more and more quickly, finally overflowing in tears streaming down my face. So there I sat, my hands pounding out Mozart’s Allegro in D while my pounding heart choked out the vocal accompaniment of a sob. And as my mom undoubtedly massaged her temples in rivaling despair, suddenly, a terror-inducing sound ran out through this cacophony of noise: the turning of a door knob and the screech of a kitchen door. Dad was home. Like the snapping of a yoke or the tearing of a curtain, everything changed. Kaitlin Miller Many, many things could have happened in that moment. My dad, returning from an exhaustingly tense day of work only to enter the chaos of emotional turmoil at home, could have thrown down his white coat, stormed into the piano room, and told me to get it together. He could have raised his voice in stern rebuke of my ingratitude for the lessons that his highly pressured day had worked to afford. He could have disciplined my tantrum with the hard hand of raising my requirements for practice even higher. And I honestly don’t know what would have happened if he had. Maybe everyone would have been roused up to avalanche in soon-to-be regretted words of anger. Maybe we all just would have lost it all together. Or maybe I would have begged my parents to let me quit piano for good, forfeiting an art I still treasure so dearly today. But my dad didn’t do any of those things. Instead, after a quick assessment of the miserable situation, without a single word, he came and sat down beside me on the bench. Loosening his tie, he reached up on top of the piano, sorted through the disheveled books, spread a new piece of sheet music in front of me, and gently asked a single question: “Will you play this one for me?” Right then, like the snapping of a yoke or the tearing of a curtain, everything changed. What I felt in that moment was an unexpected flood of compassion, of kindness, and of mercy. And so, blinking through enough tears to bring the notes back into focus, I began to play again. But this time, I played not as a striving to meet ever-looming standards for approval or to fulfill an impossibly cruel requirement, but because my dad, who loved me, wanted to hear me play. My heightened sobs descended from wails to sniffs, and the dance reversed, my fingers now following the lead of my heart. Slowing from angrily banging out steps to gently crafting melodies, I began retracing familiar paths of a song I had forgotten I even loved. And as it drew to a close, my dad reached up, found another piece and asked that one question once again: “Now will you play this one for me?” And so I played—resentment softening to gratitude, obligation returning to joy—as my dad sat beside me listening to song after song, until I was shocked to hear the ring of the kitchen timer I had long since forgotten. Those thirty minutes which once crawled on so painfully slowly had this time, somehow, flown by. And when I finished the last song, my dad reached up, closed the lid to the piano and said, with sincerity I never questioned, “Thank you for playing for me.” For the first time in months, I didn’t want to stop. My dad came alongside me, shifting my motivation and focus from merely completing a task for approval to delighting my father who already loved me more than I could ever imagine. Kaitlin Miller I didn’t know it at the time, but on that Thursday afternoon, I had reached the tipping point of exhaustion that comes from striving to uphold commands (even good commands set forth with sound reason in mind and the best intentions at heart) for the sole aim of fulfilling a requirement to earn approval. And so I began harboring the ugly suspicion that these rules were unnecessarily restrictive and callously harsh. But my dad’s steady, tender-hearted reaction to my frustration that day reflected the beautiful tension of our heavenly Father, who is always full of grace and always full of truth (John 1:14). A. W. Tozer confirmed this in reminding us that “we should banish from our minds forever the common but erroneous notion that justice and judgment characterize the God of Israel, while mercy and grace belong to the Lord of the Church…whether in the Garden of Eden or in the Garden of Gethsemane, God is merciful as well as just.” My standard for piano playing was not compromised. The thirty minutes of practice still had to be met. But I was not left alone to uphold this command out of sheer self-will. My dad came alongside me, shifting my motivation and focus from merely completing a task for approval to delighting my father who already loved me more than I could ever imagine. And in the process, my bitter, resentful heart was transformed, enabled to play with joy once again. In the same way, when the aim of our obedience to the Lord shifts from burdensome compliance to hopeful trust in a loving Heavenly Father who gives good commands and delights to watch his children fulfill them, we are “released from the Law, having died to that which held us captive, so that we serve in the new way of the Spirit” (Romans 7:6). And as we serve in that new way with that Spirit-softened heart, we come to see that his commands were not given to enslave us to a life of legalistically striving for his love, acceptance, and salvation. In fact, he assures us that we are saved not by upholding those commands, but by his grace alone, so that we can rightly boast in nothing and no one apart from him (Ephesians 2:9, 1 Corinthians 1:31). Yet he also assures us that his commands are not burdensome. Rather, they were designed and ordained to bring the joy and peace that well up to eternal life (John 12:50), and to keep them is the very love of God (1 John 5:3). We can run in the power of his love towards trusting obedience in the return of our love back to him, fueled by the good pleasure of our Father who delights in us, or we can hopelessly labor to earn his love in an ever-upward striving that leads to the ever-downward spiral of resentment and defeat. But even when we choose that hard and heavy yoke we were never made to bear, falling to our knees in refusal to submit to the light and easy yoke of Jesus (Matthew 11:28-30), right there in the middle of our exhaustion and tears, we may just feel him quietly come alongside us, place the next set of notes in front of us, and gently ask us one simple question: “Now will you play this one for me?”

If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound? I’ve never seen the California redwoods, but when I was a junior in high school, I studied their root systems in my earth science class. I don’t remember much I learned in the course, but I remember the redwoods, three families of sequoias, and how they grow in thick groves, and how their roots intertwine and fuse together. Most redwoods grow to about three hundred feet high and weigh nearly two million pounds. Their roots range from five- to twenty-feet deep and spread out over an acre of land, claiming 90,000 cubic feet of soil. Yet the burden of their own lives is simply too much for them to hold up themselves, and the only way for them to bear their own weight is to intertwine their roots with those of the other sequoias in their grove. So they grow and fuse together, forming a mass of roots and soil that keeps them all standing. When I was studying earth science as a junior in high school, one of my best friends was a tiny, vivacious, beautiful girl named Ann. She loved faerie tales (always spelled like this) and philosophy and poetry. She loved nature and trees, and she always loved the thought of California. Redwoods grow along the coast, soaking up the Pacific Ocean through their matted roots in a 450-mile-long belt of forest. It’s windy there and floods easily. There are forest fires, and far deeper than sequoia roots can grow, there are fault lines from which earthquakes rise. With wind and rain and fire and moving earth, it is not an easy place to grow. It’s an easy place to fall, actually. If a redwood falls, but no one can hear it over the grind of moving earth, does it make a sound? The more I grew to know my friend Ann, the more I grew to know what she loved. She loved independence and being okay. When she wasn’t okay, she tried to seem okay. She loved dresses with sleeves long enough to cover the scars on her arms. As the school year went on, I could see the fault lines beneath her roots. The burden of her life, beautiful as it seemed, was too much for her to hold up herself. She couldn’t bear her own weight. The most common cause of a sequoia’s death is not age or lack of nutrition; it’s falling down. Somehow, the seed germinates too far from the grove; somehow, the roots fail to sufficiently intertwine with others. The tree grows for a while on its own, and on the surface of the earth, it looks beautiful and independent and okay. But the roots below the soil strain against the weight of their own trunk, and the foundation grows weak against the branches’ mass. King David writes, “How the mighty have fallen,” and we feel the ground tremble and crack. For a sequoia, independence is death. Are you a tree with six-foot roots or twenty-foot roots? Do you know the depth of your roots doesn’t matter if you grow alone? Does your nutrient system cover an acre of land all by itself? Do you claim 90,000 cubic feet of soil as your very own? You are mighty and beautiful, and you are in a dangerous place, my friend. We all are, without a grove. What can we do with the sound of a tree’s fall, if it has insisted that no one be around to hear it? When I saw Ann’s tree falling, I wanted to offer hope to her, to help her and hold her up, to give her my root system for support. Yet when Ann’s tree began falling, it began falling into the trees around her, including mine. She had questions, and we didn’t all have answers. She needed guidance, and I didn’t very well know the way. My roots weren’t strong enough to keep hers planted. You are mighty and beautiful, and you are in a dangerous place, my friend. We all are, without a grove. Hannah Hubin Yet in the beautiful communities of this world, the roots of friends who are falling intertwine with the roots of friends who are being fallen into, whose roots are themselves intertwined with others. Do you see how it continues? When roots begin to lose hold, there are always other sequoias further back—friends, family, neighbors, pastors, mentors, counselors. Eventually, the earthquake subsides. Until then, the entire grove, interconnected as it is, will feel it and share the thrust of it. Ann could lean on me only insofar as I leaned on others. This, I think, is a good thing. The oldest sequoia in the world is named General Sherman. It is the largest known single-stem tree on earth, weighing 2.7 million pounds. Scientists have estimated that its seed germinated over 2,200 years ago. How many redwoods have intertwined their roots with those of the good General in 2,200 years? How many redwoods does the General depend upon to live? Even after all these years and all this weight—especially in all this weight—the General must lean on others for his survival. There is no room for arrogance in the grove. Do I know independence is death? I know it better than I knew it before my junior year of high school. I also know I need people to remind me. I don’t want to grow arrogant. I don’t want to forget. Ann is well. She’s studying art at a local college now; it’s a messy practice, and she’s prone to wear t-shirts for it. She is mighty and beautiful in her dependency. Nothing stands forever; not in this world. Someday, the good General will fall in battle. When sequoias die, their roots break off close to the base of the tree. When the General falls, he won’t take his roots with him; he’ll leave them here, interconnected as they are, still supporting those he leaves behind. I’ve never seen the California redwoods. But I have seen my community gathered around someone I love—many times. I have joined my community in gathering around someone I love. And I have seen my community gathered around me, too. Often, I see all three at once. Someday, my tree will fall in the forest, and when it does, there will be a community there to hear its sound, for the community I’m leaving behind has kept it standing until the end.

Stephen Kellogg has spent the last two-plus decades trying to silence the surrounding voices. It’s hard enough to trust your own voice, but when the industry tells you to be more folk or less country or more rock—wait, less rock—it can be hard to shut out the confusion of label demands, industry expectations, fan wishes and the like. It’s taken some time, but Kellogg has finally found a way to change the metrics; the only expectations that matter now are his own. This conversation felt like the perfect debut episode for The Resistance, given that we’ve likely all felt those same pressures. It’s frustrating to realize just how many days we’ve lived trying to adhere to someone else’s standards or allowed the marketplace to dictate our priorities. Personally, my lowest points are the ones where I couldn’t locate my own magnetic north, when my own sense of direction was overwhelmed by the voices all around me. This episode with Stephen Kellogg not only features honest insights from one of the best (and most underrated) singer-songwriters in music today. His vulnerable testimony is a much-needed reminder for so many of us that our voice matters more than we think—and it’s okay to fight for it. Click here to listen to Episode 1 of The Resistance. Special thanks to our Rabbit Room members for making these podcasts possible! If you’re interested in becoming a member, visit RabbitRoom.com/Donate.

Ebo’s older brother, Kwame, is gone—gone from their village in Ghana, out toward Europe, to seek a better life. First Ebo’s sister, now Kwame. This time, young Ebo will not be left behind. Ebo sets out on Kwame’s trail, scrounging and scraping to get through each leg of the journey. Through desert and disease and a perilous ocean voyage, Ebo must overcome merciless terrain and equally merciless people. But he clings to the hope that motivates anyone to make such a journey: the hope of new opportunities, finding a fresh start, and a reunion with loved ones—the hope of a better life. Illegal is a fictional graphic novel based on the true stories of very real migrants seeking passage from Africa to Europe. The way is long and treacherous, and we experience it all through Ebo’s journey. Authors Eoin Colfer and Andrew Donkin have captured a real-life crisis in a story that is a call to action, a powerful study on human empathy, and an epic journey against countless obstacles. There’s a delicate balance to Illegal: it’s inviting and kid-friendly, yet brutal and heart-rending with every dangerous, desperate, inhumane step of Ebo’s mythic quest. A call to action, a powerful study on human empathy, and an epic journey against countless obstacles. Jonny Jimison That balance is brought to the page in truly stunning fashion by the art of Giovanni Rigano. Rigano’s immaculately detailed illustrations have all the immersive beauty of the best European comics, delicious and inviting even as they vividly parch with the grainy coarseness of the desert and chill with the icy froth of the ocean. As always, parents, use discretion. The horrors of Ebo’s journey are presented tactfully and tastefully, but they are still horrifying; a heavy weight to place on anyone, especially a young child. The back cover says “Ages 10 and up,” and I think that’s a good starting point. Illegal is a joy to read. It’s also heartbreaking. Above all, it’s a journey I’m glad I took. In the words of the authors, “It’s not a journey to be undertaken lightly. Every person making the choice to embark on that journey has their own reasons for doing so. And every person is a human being.” Click here to view Illegal on Amazon.

The Habit Podcast is a series of conversations with writers about writing, hosted by Jonathan Rogers. Seeing as writing has everything to do with the whole of life itself, these conversations end up in all kinds of uncharted territory. Guests include Doug McKelvey, Jennifer Trafton, Claire Gibson, Russ Ramsey, and a handful more—today’s episode features a conversation with Pete Peterson. In this episode, Jonathan Rogers and Pete Peterson discuss playwriting, the secrets to a compelling story, and Pete’s upcoming stage adaptation of Corrie ten Boom’s The Hiding Place. Click here to listen to Episode 2 of The Habit Podcast. Special thanks to our Rabbit Room members for making these podcasts possible! If you’re interested in becoming a member, visit RabbitRoom.com/Donate.

“I can only answer the question ‘What am I to do?’ if I can answer the prior question ‘Of what story or stories do I find myself a part?’” —Alasdair MacIntyre Our brother Paul is writing to particular people, as we have seen—maybe a lot of particular people. If Ephesians was a letter intended to reach many believers in a circuit, then its intent was almost uniquely comprehensive compared to a lot of the other epistles. We may receive it in that spirit; it was written in a particular time for a particular region, but its relevance to us and for the whole body of believers is profound. I love that—and I love and appreciate this book and this chapter. There is so much in it about our identity and place because of the rich mercy of God who has done so much for us in his incredible plan and in his own perfect timing. He has brought near those of us who were far off! By grace. We have been invited into a story. The Story. And we have been shown our place: a place of receiving and believing. So much emphasis in Ephesians is placed on what God has done. Out of this identity, we are instructed to walk in a manner worthy of our calling. We’re invited to see and appreciate the unity of the body, walk in the unity of the Spirit, and to see ourselves as in communion. We are in communion with others who have been given gifts by our triumphant Christ! These gifts are for people for people. They are given to bless, build up, and equip our brothers and sisters in Christ. Paul is serious about love and unity and what our gifts mean. One body, being built up—all of us heading for maturity. Goodness, truth, and beauty live together or die apart. Brian Brown He is also serious about truth. He doesn’t want us to be easily shipwrecked by deceitful schemes and false teaching, but to be strong in truth and unity. This is how we grow and build up the body. It is not a body of lies. Many artists are tempted to lay aside an emphasis on truth and go after beauty instead. This is a grave error. Beauty and Truth are sisters who sing beautifully in harmony, but are—either one—horribly off-pitch alone. It’s easy to be tempted to think of a concern for the truth as being at odds with a concern for love. Loving truth does not, in my reading of Paul here in chapter four and elsewhere in Scripture, conflict with love. Rather, it is an expression of love. Jesus came, full of grace and truth. As Qoheleth in Ecclesiastes says about another matter: “It is good that you should take hold of this, and from that withhold not your hand…” And Paul cares about goodness, too. He warns his readers against the hollow and unsatisfying pursuit of sexual sin. He describes their bondage as a greed for impurity. The original readers, and all who belong to Christ, are called to moral goodness. No amount of whataboutism can provide an escape hatch to give us liberty (though it’s actually slavery) to indulge in our sinful desires. The acknowledgement that these are our real desires, very much what comes naturally to us, does not inspire Paul to welcome it. Instead, he invites us to remember who we are and how we were called: how we came to Christ. Coming to Christ means leaving non-Christ. It means being welcomed into a treasure-trove of truth, relationship, and reality. But we are fools. We want, having been saved from the tsunami by the Coast Guard, to dive off the rescue helicopter right back into the swirl so we can guzzle gallons of seawater in self-indulgent suicide. Don’t believe it. Don’t surrender to lies. And what are some of the primary sins of this self-indulgence? Bitterness. Anger. Wrath. Quarreling. Slander. Malice. Many of us who see ourselves as “fighters for the truth” are simply fighters. Mere quarrelers. It ought not be. Our way, the way of Christ, is the way of love. This love does not leak virtue or truth—rather, it’s robust and mature. It’s a love made up of differently-gifted, similarly-called, diversely-beautiful gift-receivers and gift-sharers. We cannot escape the fact that there are so many commands in this passage and this letter—and in much of Scripture, for that matter. And we shouldn’t. God does not only save us by grace, but gives us grace for life. We are not welcomed to Christ by the Spirit only to return to the flesh. Paul’s letter to the Galatians gives us the good word there: we are obeyers. Christ followers are…Christ followers. We are servants and Christ is our Master. Paul repeatedly identifies himself as a servant, as does Peter, James, and Jude. This is actually good news, though our proud entitlement, privilege, and self-esteem can be affronted by it. God’s commands are not a cage, but a key. His rule is good, and his commands are life. And, according to Paul himself in Galatians, we are far more than simply servants—we are sons and daughters. We have a share in the inheritance. We are in the family and all the stuff is ours. We are welcomed, rich, and our position is like the ending of a Jane Austen novel, only better. Out of this abundance, should we turn aside from obedience? Should we indulge our sinful desires? Should we be quarrelsome? Should we embrace falsehood? To the contrary, who we are in Christ ought to inform and give meaning to the story we live out in the world. How should we act? Chapter four shows us where to begin: “Be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, as God in Christ forgave you.”

The Habit Podcast is a series of conversations with writers about writing, hosted by Jonathan Rogers. Seeing as writing has everything to do with the whole of life itself, these conversations end up in all kinds of uncharted territory. Today’s episode features a conversation with Jennifer Trafton. In this episode, Jonathan Rogers and Jennifer Trafton discuss the vital role of play in creativity, the tricky business of self-forgetfulness, and how to recover and retain our childhood loves even in the throes of adulthood. Click here to listen to Episode 3 of The Habit Podcast. Books mentioned in this episode: -Ray Bradbury, Zen in the Art of Writing. -Susan Wooldridge, Poemcrazy: Freeing Your Life with Words. Special thanks to our Rabbit Room members for making these podcasts possible! If you’re interested in becoming a member, visit RabbitRoom.com/Donate.

What does it look like to live a fully human life in an increasingly fragmenting world? For over fifty years, the branches of L’Abri Fellowship around the world have sought answers to this question. French for “the shelter,” Francis and Edith Schaeffer chose the name “L’Abri” in 1955 for their ministry to provide a hospitable environment for any person seeking honest answers to honest questions about God and truth. Following in that tradition, the Nashville L’Abri Conference aims to provide an opportunity through lectures, discussions, and personal interaction to deepen understanding of what it means to be human in a fragmenting world. The conference will take place at Lipscomb University’s Swang Business Center on July 26th and 27th. It will include lectures, small group workshops and discussions, two lunches and one dinner together, an evening of music from local artists, and an environment to nurture conversations and questions. Each lecture, workshop, mealtime, and discussion is designed to facilitate an exchange of ideas among conference attendees and speakers around subjects such as: Community America’s Polarized Politics: Can Christians Have a Redemptive Role? Pursuing Freedom in a Culture of Choice Early Peacemaking: Can Conflict be Outmaneuvered Before It Starts? Sexuality Bodies with Meaning: Christianity’s Liberating Sex Ethic What Does the Bible Have to Tell Us about Sexual Harassment and #MeToo? Cultivating a Hopeful Imagination in a Pornified Culture Relationships Becoming Less Fragile: Self-control as Inner Dominion How to Be a Better Lover: Attention in a Distracted World Staying Human in a Smartphone Culture

We’ll start with the bad news: there’s no “other side” when it comes to resistance. For those of you hoping there’s a certain point at which you will no longer feel the pressures, the apathy, the fears as you pursue your goals, you should learn this lesson now. The pains from the straining and wrestling, the pushing and the pulling, will never disappear. You will always feel these things, at least to varying degrees in various forms. The resistance never fades. Lynn Renee Maxcy is on the other side, if there was such a thing. As a writer living in Los Angeles for the last decade, Lynn has spent hours upon hours alone crafting words for audiences only in her head. She’s endured the same familiar forms of resistance we all face when leaning into our calling, and she’s pressed through to finish the work. These days, she’s accomplished and successful, spinning multiple creative plates while working with one of Hollywood’s hottest properties. Specifically, Lynn is part of the Emmy-winning team of writers for the mega-hit Hulu series, The Handmaid’s Tale. She’s also currently shooting her first film, The Complex, which is a sci-fi branching narrative (e.g. a choose-your-own-adventure movie). These successes come on the heels of her writing credits for Covert Affairs, Eureka, Alphas and more. On this episode of The Resistance, Lynn Renee Maxcy will frustrate those of you who want to hear that all the self-doubt subsides after you’ve “made it.” Fortunately, she’s also ready and willing to share plenty of heartening advice about what it means to cultivate creative community and how to persist in the face of it all. Click here to listen to Episode 2 of The Resistance. Special thanks to our Rabbit Room members for making these podcasts possible! If you’re interested in becoming a member, visit RabbitRoom.com/Donate.

It started with an open mic and a semicircle of chairs in a church classroom in Nashville, TN. We weren’t sure anybody would come; we weren’t even sure how many poets were hanging around at Hutchmoot 2017. Sure, The Rabbit Room is home to many poetry lovers, but loving and writing are different things. So we asked people to bring two poems—one they wrote and one they loved—and come willing to share, whether they call themselves a poet or not. If only five people came, well, that would be fine. Well, people totally came—over thirty, all with poems of their own. Poems about blueberries, the ghost of Martin Luther, and one little piece introduced with “I’ve only read this to my therapist.” And after every poem, the room overflowed with kindness and encouragement. Two hours wasn’t enough to share all the poetic goodness in the room, so the next year, we hosted two open mics. And because we couldn’t help but keep going, in November 2018 The Poetry Pub Facebook group was born. And now we’re excited to share our first chapbook with you! In our first community chapbook, we explore the theme of home and place. From an African village to New England woods, and the lights of Beijing to a backyard swing, join us as we contemplate our place in the world through twenty-two original poems, plus a collaborative piece by Poetry Pub members. We hope you enjoy this collection as much as we loved putting it together for you. You can download The Poetry Pub Chapbook Vol. 1 for free on Noisetrade. (Any tips received will be donated to The Rabbit Room.) And if you love writing poems too, visit us on Facebook and send a request to join!

There is great freedom in recognizing your own brokenness. An awareness of our inability to impress God or earn his favor on our own terms leaves us utterly reliant on his undeserved, lavish, and extravagant grace. As the outpouring of blessing comes to a crescendo through the first three chapters of Ephesians, you can almost hear Paul’s heart beat. Reveling in the remarkable truth of the gospel, he invites the Ephesians (as Russ Ramsey so beautifully put it) to “rejoice in the lyric and music of being redeemed in Christ.” When we stand without pretense in the reality of grace, recognizing our unworthiness yet basking in the warmth of our acceptance in Christ, we begin to understand freedom. But that is not the end of the story.  As important as it is to own the broken reality of life in a fallen world, there is a subtle danger that Paul is careful to bring into the light. While God meets us in our sin he does not intend that we camp out there. In 2 Corinthians 3:18 Paul says, “So all of us who have had that veil removed can see and reflect the glory of the Lord. And the Lord—who is the Spirit—makes us more and more like him as we are changed into his glorious image.” When we catch a glimpse of the heart of God and the grace that he has poured upon us we cannot remain as we were. The presence of his Spirit within us will not allow it. If the lives we live are not impacted by the reality of who we are in Christ, some questions must be asked. It is not enough to know and appreciate grace as an intellectual fact. The gospel must change us. In chapter 4, Paul turns to the practical outworking of the gospel in the everyday lives of those who allow it to take root within them. He begins by urging believers to walk worthy of the remarkable Story they have been welcomed into. Together they are to grow to maturity in Christ, clinging doggedly to the oneness that is not only a gift from the Spirit but, according to Jesus in John 17:23, proof that the Story itself is true. For the Ephesians, the love Paul called them to embody was forged in the fire of clashing tradition and cultural diversity. Heidi Johnston Ephesians 5 opens with a plea to love each other well. Imitating God himself, Paul implores his readers to not only walk worthy of their calling but to walk in love. Love, in the sense that Paul uses it, is more than a mutual affinity with someone who shares your interests and opinions. It’s more than just a feeling in your chest. This is love that follows the example of Christ. It is an intentional, sacrificial, costly and often painful decision to put someone else’s interests ahead of your own. For the Ephesians, the love Paul called them to embody was forged in the fire of clashing tradition and cultural diversity. From the beginning of the Story itself, the God who has our names inscribed on the palm of his hand has been calling his people to live lives that reflect his holiness—not because we face punishment or because he’s waiting to whip us into line when we fail, but because his grace has captivated us, his love compels us, and his Spirit within us is changing us to become like him. According to Paul, it’s impossible to love God wholeheartedly and willingly embrace a lifestyle that is contrary to his character. The letter to the Romans makes that pretty clear. There is no denying the war being waged within us. The older I get, the more deeply I feel it. My “old self” is always present, lurking in the shadows, waiting for the nod it knows will come. I’m thankful that grace covers my failures and holds me fast despite my constant stumbling. However, when I read passages like Ephesians 5, some uncomfortable questions begin to surface. Do I really want to become more like Christ? Is it my desire to conduct my ordinary, everyday life in a way that reflects the heart of a holy God? Does it grieve me that my sin is an affront to his holiness? In verse 6, Paul urges the believers not to be deceived by empty words. It’s easy to be seduced by the lie that grace means our behavior doesn’t matter. Rather than being free to follow every impulse, which isn’t freedom at all, the reality of the gospel gives us freedom to become who we were created to be. If we, who were once prisoners of the dark, have now become children of the light, then our ordinary, everyday lives ought to reflect our true citizenship. In Phil Vischer’s fascinating Hutchmoot podcast, The Importance of Being Silly, he helpfully highlights the important distinction between not taking yourself too seriously (something I have a tendency to do) and not taking anything seriously. When we take nothing seriously we undermine our faith and ultimately rob life of meaning. The transformation that is born of grace affects even our most intimate desires and relationships. In Ephesians 5, there are some things Paul urges the believers to take seriously.  Verse 3 says, “But sexual immorality and all impurity or covetousness must not even be named among you, as is proper among saints.” When it comes to the whole area of sexual immorality, Paul’s instructions are pretty clear: Don’t get involved. Don’t allow it to become part of your conversation. Don’t joke about it. Don’t minimize the seriousness of it. Don’t take it lightly. These are not gentle, vague, take-them-or-leave-them suggestions. Neither are they harsh, judgmental pronouncements from an out of touch scholar. This is an exhortation from the heart of pastor who cares deeply about his readers and understands the damage they will cause to themselves and others if they are not intentional about pursuing holiness. If we place a high value on others, desiring their best, then we cannot celebrate or even be comfortable with anything that damages or belittles them as image bearers of Christ. If grace shapes the way we treat others, prompting us to love like Christ, submitting to one another out of reverence for Him (v. 21), then our closest relationships will also be transformed. From verse 25 onwards Paul begins to apply these same principles within marriage. The sad reality is that, all too often, the people we love most get the worst parts of us. When everyday life has chewed up our grace and feasted on the bones, we offer our families the unfiltered ravages of our old self. I know this because I do it all the time. According to Paul, that’s not the work of the gospel. In a culture where women were often treated as little more than slaves and men had freedom to indulge themselves elsewhere with no apparent consequence, Paul’s instructions for marriage were revolutionary in their beauty. Today, in a world where my rights, my feelings, and my happiness trump everything else, they are no less startling. If we place a high value on others, desiring their best, then we cannot celebrate or even be comfortable with anything that damages or belittles them as image bearers of Christ. Heidi Johnston For a long time I found these verses difficult. Read in isolation, in a different time and culture, it’s so easy to get caught up in debate about the finer details. When we focus only on the specific practical outworking of this we miss the beauty of what Paul was saying. Expanding the two becoming one image we find in Genesis 2, Paul highlights the change of posture necessary from both partners if marriage is to become the shared adventure God always intended it to be. In God’s kingdom marriage is less about what you can do for me and more about how I can serve you. In some mysterious way, human love becomes a picture of the relationship between Christ and the Church. It’s not difficult to see how this intentional, voluntary giving of yourself for the good of the one you love would lead to a relationship of mutual respect and deep affection. When the calling and gifts of each spouse are encouraged and supported by the other, each desiring that the other grows more deeply in love with Christ, you end up with a picture of marriage worth fighting for. In all their relationships, as the believers learn to live as part of a new Kingdom, Paul encourages them to address one another “in psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, singing and making melody to the Lord with your hearts” (v. 19). I’ve always found that to be a strange instruction. On this reading, in the context of the Rabbit Room, it took on a fresh beauty. Here, perhaps more than anywhere else, I have learned what it means to tell the Story back to one another, reminding each other in so many rich and beautiful ways of the grace that covers our failures and compels us to live like we belong to God.

Resistance is typically linked to the start of an endeavor—the blinking cursor on a blank digital page, the initial motivation (or lack thereof) to go to the gym, the fear of asking him/her out. From there, the assumption is that resistance will slowly fade or even disappear altogether as success is found and progress is made. Theodore Shapiro would beg to differ. Theodore is a film composer who has scored over 70 films, from The Wolf of Wall Street to The Devil Wears Prada, Marley and Me to Ghostbusters. Unfortunately, none of his success has stopped the resistance. Despite a calendar filled with high-profile commitments, Shapiro is not fully satisfied. His resistance is still present and very much at work. On this episode of The Resistance, Theodore speaks honestly about the difficult balancing act between contentment and ambition. Is it healthy to feed the ego? What about our drive for excellence? When is enough ever enough? There are no easy answers here. Click here to listen to Episode 3 of The Resistance. You can visit the official website of The Resistance here. Special thanks to our Rabbit Room members for making these podcasts possible! If you’re interested in becoming a member, visit RabbitRoom.com/Donate.

“The unicorn lived in a lilac wood, and she lived all alone.” This is how Peter S. Beagle swings open the door to the world of his classic, The Last Unicorn. But before I was able to make words out of letters, and stories out of ink on a page, my unicorn lived in the 1982 animated classic under the same name. Her world unfolded to me again and again in a VHS found on the second-from-the-top shelf of a movie rental in the corner of a grocery store, because—once upon a time—that was a thing. There was no lilac there; there was a lot of frantically flashing and buzzing of overhead light. But I felt the magician as I stood on my tip-toes to push the tape across the counter. I held the magic in my throat, knowing what would happen to my unicorn, and longing to be caught up in it again. And later, I would sit entranced on the floor of my grandmother’s living room, watching the medieval Unicorn Tapestries coming to life in the opening credits. It was only a few months ago, while scrolling through my Goodreads feed, that I realized The Last Unicorn had its origin as a novel. I breathed out an “of course.” Of course this enchanting story that ebbed and flowed over the weekends of my youth began in written words. And yet, as I tried to recall the storyline for nostalgia’s sake, I couldn’t come up with anything clear. Was there a band of derelicts on a quest? Was the unicorn captured? Or lost? Or both? I was gripped by excitement as I suddenly realized I had the rare chance to become young again—to enter afresh into a story and to be surprised and enchanted like a newcomer. Beagle’s storytelling is really remarkable. He plays with metafiction and anachronisms, but never at the risk of losing credibility or investment in his characters. His writing moves from poetic prose to stand-up-comedy material, and amazingly without giving any sort of mental whiplash. But I wasn’t here for literary analysis. I was watching for this: What was my childhood heart thirsty for when The Last Unicorn kept beckoning me to return to its stream? Even thirty years later, when I could produce nothing more than a fuzzy outline of the plot, I knew, at least, that my childhood stance towards this fictional unicorn was not one of playful friendship. I could not imagine myself wanting to throw my arms around her neck, and there were definitely no daydreams of flights over rainbows. My stance was reverence. It was wonder. She was an Aslan to me (though a poorer version, as I’ll share) before I knew Aslan. Does remembrance only mean being an echo in someone's mind? Elizabeth Harwell The story goes roughly like this (spoiler alert! But really, the story is in the fabric—and I’m not going to ruin anything for you by giving the design): A unicorn discovers she is the last of her kind running free in the world. On her quest to reclaim the captured unicorns from the clench of the Red Bull, she meets a wizard named Schmendrick and a vagabond named Molly who she allows to join her. As this last unicorn is just about to be driven away by the Red Bull, Schmendrick uses his magic to turn her into a beautiful—though now mortal—woman. Now as three humans, this band of travelers shows up at King Haggard’s castle: home of the Red Bull. Haggard’s son, Prince Lir, falls in love with the unicorn-turned-woman who is now known as Lady Amalthea and, as she forgets her true self, she becomes lovesick, too. The story is chock-full of sign-posts to Christ: purity, immortality, incarnation, sacrifice, substitution, resurrection. And yet, it wasn’t until the last few pages that I realized what had set my heart ablaze and left me longing, as a child, to watch unfold again and again: the unicorn remembers. In one of the closing scenes, Schmendrick turns Lady Amalthea back into a unicorn to fight a battle with the Red Bull. After winning the battle, she stands over a dead Prince Lir, who sacrificed his life for her in the midst of the chaos. She stands for a very long time, as if scanning the history of the world to remember who he is. She then touches him once with her horn to resurrect him, and a second time over his heart saying, “I remember you. I remember.” And then she leaves. Forever. Now, as a unicorn again, she could never be with her Prince Lir in the same way she was with him as Lady Almalthea. The scene is haunting, and melancholic, and a little jarring. We ache with Prince Lir that after such a pure love—a love that birthed sacrifice—the unicorn could walk away from him. Schmendrick consoles Lir with the famous line: “As for you and your heart and the things you said and didn’t say, she will remember them all when men are fairy tales in books written by rabbits.” This is meant to quiet our hearts. Though she leaves, she remembers. An immortal unicorn will carry you in her heart for eternity—even after you exist. His remembrance will mean action—a storming of the gates of heaven on our behalf. The water will recede. The waiting will be over. Elizabeth Harwell But it didn’t quiet my heart. I kept returning back to the story because of this display of remembrance: It was beautiful. Being remembered by someone infinite is an unfathomable love. But does remembrance only mean being an echo in someone’s mind? It felt like a hollow beauty. This unicorn dazzled and enchanted and loved. And then she left. I think I must have, unknowingly, kept coming back to see if one time the unicorn’s remembrance would make her turn around. Maybe one time she would come back. What I didn’t know then, as a child, is how this longing could be so sweetly met by another who came incarnate. He touched me once for resurrection, and a second time to say, “I will remember you. I will remember.” And his remembrance spurs action. When Noah sat in a corner of the ark with his knees pulled up to his chest, his body and soul rocked to the lullaby of the waves: “You are alone. This will not end.” And then, God remembered Noah. The water receded and the doors opened. Noah walked out into life; he walked out into conversation with God. Great, hollow silence was shattered by remembrance, and then: action. The Israelites, with the sun searing their backs, labored in vain at the hand of Pharaoh. Brick by brick, they built someone else’s dream to the tune of their collective cry: “This is for nothing. Our lives are for nothing.” And then, God remembered. He sent all of heaven and earth into a chaotic upending of the natural law to rescue his children. Remembrance. Action. Jesus hung on a cross between two criminals. One of them shouted demands and jeers—”If you truly are the Messiah, get us out of here! You can’t be God if we suffer.” In his religion, there could be no long nights in a boat of silence. There could be no enslavement to another’s dreams. There could be no cross. But the second criminal understood. He didn’t need to change God’s plans; he just needed to be remembered in the midst of them. He only needed to hang on to Jesus’s coat tails when he would inevitably burst forward into action. So this criminal—this wise fool—called out: “Jesus! Remember me. Hold me under you arm when you make all of this right. Carry me forward in your grand crescendo.” And Jesus responded, “Truly, you will be with me in paradise today.” We don’t get to peer behind that curtain. But it will be our story one day, too. He will remember you. He will remember me. And his remembrance will mean action—a storming of the gates of heaven on our behalf. The water will recede. The waiting will be over. His incarnation gave us the means to have a relationship, to love and be loved. But his ascension isn’t the end of this story. We will not just be an echo in his mind when men are fairy tales. One touch for resurrection. One for remembrance. He will come back for you. And when he does, I think our hearts will shout something like the best line of The Last Unicorn: “I did not know that I was so empty to be so full.”

The Habit Podcast is a series of conversations with writers about writing, hosted by Jonathan Rogers. Today’s episode features a conversation with Christopher Williams. In this episode, Jonathan Rogers interviews Christopher Williams about his new concept album, We Will Remember, based on the book of Joel. As Jonathan says, “You’ve never heard a better concept album based on a minor prophet.” They discuss their love-hate relationships with deadlines, the difference between writing a song and writing a novel, and what the book of Joel has to say to today’s church. Click here to listen to Episode 4 of The Habit Podcast. Special thanks to our Rabbit Room members for making these podcasts possible! If you’re interested in becoming a member, visit RabbitRoom.com/Donate.

Hutchmoot 2019 is open to partners who share our vision for building community by drawing people together around art, music, story, and the gospel. If you or your organization are interested in becoming a Hutchmoot sponsor, send us an email at info@rabbitroom.com. You can also find more details at our sponsorship page. Join ranks with us as we welcome guests from all over the world and celebrate with a unique and vibrant community!

The Habit Podcast is a series of conversations with writers about writing, hosted by Jonathan Rogers. In today’s episode, Jonathan Rogers interviews Claire Gibson. In this episode, Jonathan Rogers interviews Claire Gibson about her new book Beyond the Point, befriending our inner critics, writing as service, and the landscape of storytelling—and at the end, she even asks Jonathan a few questions. Click here to listen to Episode 5 of The Habit Podcast. Special thanks to our Rabbit Room members for making these podcasts possible! If you’re interested in becoming a member, visit RabbitRoom.com/Donate.

Sometimes you find great music, and sometimes it finds you. One day, I got an Instagram message from someone I’d never met, asking for some thoughts on her husband’s new independent worship album. A few messages exchanged, and she sent me a link to listen to it. Reader, I’m a fan. Meet Jason Gregori. Jason Gregori brings over 20 years of experience to his independent debut album, and it shows, from the lovingly crafted arrangements to the contemplative, heartfelt songwriting. Like many of our favorite artists, Jason draws on Scripture for his thoughtful approach to worship music. But I was struck by how lovely the recording and arrangements are on this album. All That I Was Meant For rests in peaceful piano arrangements, inviting in guest voice Elizabeth Kelly for some of the songs. Whether reflecting on “Isaiah 40” or contemplating our resting place in the Kingdom coming, these songs serve as a gentle companion on the journey. If you love artists like Fernando Ortega, Audrey Assad, and Amanda Lindsey Cook, you won’t want to miss getting to know this new voice. All That I Was Meant For is available on iTunes, or you can listen wherever you stream music. Learn more and listen to the first three songs on Jason’s website.

The Habit Podcast is a series of conversations with writers about writing, hosted by Jonathan Rogers. In today’s episode, Jonathan Rogers interviews Russ Ramsey. In this episode, Jonathan and Russ go back and forth about the fine line between fact and fiction, the fallibility of human memory, and where truth comes from, specifically as these issues pertain to a memoir Russ wrote called Struck. Click here to listen to Episode 6 of The Habit Podcast. Special thanks to our Rabbit Room members for making these podcasts possible! If you’re interested in becoming a member, visit RabbitRoom.com/Donate.

As of today, The Fiddler’s Gun, Part I: Foundations is now available (that’s chapters 1-12). Over the next few weeks, I’ve got a couple of bonus episodes lined up, one featuring some deleted material, and one featuring a conversation with Shigé Clark in which we dive into a behind-the-scenes (behind-the-page?) discussion. Look for Part II: Across That Foamy Deep (the conclusion to The Fiddler’s Gun) in August, with more bonus content to follow before we dive into Fiddler’s Green. Reading and recording this book for its tenth birthday has been a blast, and I hope folks will have as much fun listening to it as I’ve had doing all its characters’ voices (please be forgiving of my accents). Sitting in my closet and yelling at myself turns out to be a hoot. Who knew? Happy Fourth of July! To subscribe, click the little “bullseye” icon on the player below, search for the show in your favorite podcast app, or click here. Pete Peterson is the author of the Revolutionary War adventure The Fiddler’s Gun and its sequel Fiddler’s Green. Among the many strange things he’s been in life are the following: U.S Marine air traffic controller, television editor, art teacher and boatwright at the Florida Sheriffs Boys Ranch, and progenitor of the mysterious Budge-Nuzzard. He lives in Nashville with his wife, Jennifer, where he's the Executive Director of the Rabbit Room and Managing Editor of Rabbit Room Press.