Our reading group for Let Justice Roll Down by John Perkins, led by Dr. Steve Guthrie, has begun its third week. All materials for Week 3 are now available, including discussion questions, videos, and articles for further reading. Enrollment is ongoing, so join whenever you like. This week, participants will be reading chapters 15-18 and discussing John Perkins’ interest in economic cooperatives to assist the African American community, the shortage of resources to help Christians apply the gospel to economics, individualism’s erosion of our ability to empathize with others, and much more. Click here to enroll in our Let Justice Roll Down reading group.

I began writing Collect Prayers the second week of March 2020, around the time that the CDC recommended that no more than 50 people gather at a time on account of the coronavirus. At the time, I wrote these prayers in response to specific requests, from both personal friends and strangers on social media, who asked for words that might help them to cope with their fears and to make sense of the senseless. I didn’t imagine that I would keep writing prayers, but new things kept happening that demanded new prayers: a prayer for grocers managing panic-buying shoppers; a prayer for medical professionals overwhelmed by the countless sick; a prayer for anxious children at bedtime. I also wrote a Prayer for Dashed Plans, a Prayer for Driving to Work, a Prayer for Feeling Stressed Out, a Prayer for Untimely Deaths, a Prayer for Geographically Separated Worship and a Prayer for the Pestilence that Stalks in the Dark. I even wrote a Prayer for a Neighbor Behaving Like an Idiot, because I figured we all had a neighbor who fit that description, wherever we may live or whatever our political persuasion. Phaedra and I once again partnered to create a new set of prayer cards (the Psalms Prayer Cards being our first collaboration). Phaedra has contributed a series of original tide-pool watercolor paintings for one side of the card, while I’ve contributed the text for the other side. The prayers include such things as a morning prayer and an evening prayer, a work prayer and a healing prayer, a prayer for the alone and for frustrated relationships, along with prayers for justice, service, community, and mission. Our supremely talented friend Shaun Fox designed the cards and the Rabbit Room has again kindly offered to print and distribute them. Our hope, in the end, is that these prayers might be placed on your refrigerator or bathroom mirror or bedside table or car console as a way to become helpful to you in whatever circumstance of life you may find yourself in and to enable you to feel that God is present to you in these circumstances. Click here to view these new prayer cards in the Rabbit Room Store.

I haven’t kept up with the news for years. Years and years. My long-suffering husband helps by giving me highlights and summaries. He knows that a childhood heavily seasoned with End Times Prophecy and an unfortunate draw toward dystopian fiction sometimes combine with breaking news to send me into an emotional state that closely resembles panic. In the past, I have entered occasionally into a recent story or event. I’ve talked it over with friends and thought about this or that perspective. Then, after days of processing, I’ve taken a step back to remind myself that the world is bigger than the conflict I see in front of me. This year, there’s been no time for processing. The need to care for my children and my community and the desire to engage as a citizen of this country have forced me to keep an eye on current events, but one horror follows so close on the heels of another that I cannot catch my breath. I am daily overwhelmed by shock, fury, and grief. I try to discipline myself, to take the reins of my imagination; I turn to look out the window or whisper a prayer, and sometimes before I’ve completed my exhale, panic is gnawing the edges of my mind. The words of W. B. Yeats rise like specters, and they are no longer poetry but the anthem of a certain doom. “Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold / Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world.” The news cycles, the unfolding lies, the relentless brutality—they spin so fast it seems inevitable that all the bits and pieces of the world I knew will be flung into oblivion. We can’t go on as we have. The center cannot hold. I am frightened. Time and again over these last months, I have asked myself what I should say or do in response to what I see. I’m already afraid of saying the wrong thing, of speaking too soon, of failing to see other perspectives, of attempting to say again what has already been better said. I wonder which is the greater problem: my words or my silence. Things are changing so fast I don’t have time to sit with them and learn from them. Where do I begin when some new thing is perpetually beginning, and it’s big and loud and urgent, and the other thing I was contemplating doesn’t matter anymore? Anyway, what’s the use? My children like to dip their hands and feet in buckets of water and make prints on the wood of the deck. My words are like those prints: distinct for a moment and then gone. Things fall apart while I watch and wonder what to do. I wonder, for example, what Yeats meant when he said, “the centre cannot hold.” What is the center? I’m somewhere in the middle of my life, pulled between one generation and another, often frustrated by extremes at both ends. Behind me is a generation whose parents were traumatized by war, who experienced the horrors of addiction and neglect. I see in them the longing for ideals, for leaders in faith and politics who can be trusted. I respect their determination, but I fear that they have tried to elevate too many things to the level of “center.” A center that includes a spotless American history and an irreproachable structure of human authority cannot hold. But I sense in that generation a terror of the anarchy that might be loosed upon the world. They have seen more of it, perhaps, than I have, and it’s not the kind of thing you forget. On my other hand is a generation who suffers from no illusions. Their perspectives have been shaped by scandals. They have seen the corruption that bred in darkness lanced like boils and exposed to the world. Is there any such thing as integrity? Does anyone tell the truth? Is there any human institution worth saving? I feel their disillusionment, and their refusal to take things at face value is a strength. But I sometimes sense in them a recklessness that would declare there is no center, that the only truth is what each of us in our blindness and desperation wants to believe in this moment. Nihilism has its allure, but I cannot feel at home in such chaos. So I return to myself, somewhere in the middle, and to the question of what I am to do. I have thought many times this year of a book I read in 2018 called The Great Emergence. The author, Phyllis Tickle, suggests that every five hundred years the church goes through a period of transformation. She cites The Great Reformation, The Great Schism, and the emergence of monasticism as support for her argument, and she even points out that every major shift in church history has been accompanied by a plague (!). It was a fascinating little book in 2018. It offered a bird’s-eye view of what might be happening in the world, and it comforted me. It has been a greater comfort in 2020. As ludicrous as it sounds, I feel as if Phyllis Tickle took hold of my hand and did not let go. Her words have been a source of consolation in a season of constant transition and pain. Whatever can be shaken will be shaken, but only because it was never an unshakeable thing to begin with. Stated more plainly, the center will hold. Helena Sorensen This year I’ve been keenly aware of my need for comfort. I have returned to familiar stories in order to experience the comfort of anticipated endings. I have relished the comfort of food, of warmth, of routine. I have ached to be held, to hear a trusted voice murmur words of reassurance while I weep. The truth is, the world is in transition, and it is not a little shift from one year to another or one era to another. It is the transition a woman experiences in childbirth. Transition, in that sense, is a move from the time when you count the minutes between contractions to a time when there are no minutes between contractions, when you run out of chances to breathe, when the birth of something new is close at hand. I have experienced transition twice, and on both occasions I resolved to be brave and calm. I planned to focus my mind and control my emotions. On both occasions, I failed. I panicked. The pain was too big to hold, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. In those moments, what I needed most was a midwife. Her role was minor. She played no part in the conception or growth of my children, and they were born as a result of natural physical processes; but when the crucial moment came, the midwife was there for me. She told me what was happening as it happened. She reminded me that the pain would not last forever. She assured me that what I was experiencing was a normal part of the process of birth. She held my hand while my son and my daughter came into the world. There are as many ways to serve and give and speak and fight and heal and build as there are unique human expressions of God, but, to answer my question, it’s possible that one of my roles is to stand inside the tension, to encourage one generation to let go of anything that is not the center while inspiring another generation to believe there is something worth holding onto. I can remind us all (starting with myself) that there’s no need to worry about unshakeable things. Whatever can be shaken will be shaken, but only because it was never an unshakeable thing to begin with. Stated more plainly, the center will hold. We are receiving a kingdom that cannot be moved. It is held together by a circle of relationship—by Father, Son, and Spirit. The Center is within us, reaching out to everything we encounter. It surrounds us, reaching inward to everything that’s broken. So much is being shaken, and the pains come without pause. It’s a frightening time to be alive, and I know you’re as scared as I am. Take my hand and hold it tight. Something new is being born, and we have reason to hope. The Center will hold. “Our hearts are heavens And our eyes are light-years deep, Sounding Your will, Your peace, in its unbounded fathoms: Oh balance all our turning orbits, till that morning, Upon the center and level of Your holy love: Then lock our souls forever in the nucleus of its Law.” —Thomas Merton

The significant moments of our lives are often etched on more than our calendars. Whether it is the sweet softness of a summer evening that wafts back to us the fragrance of some happy moment in the past, or the chill wind which stings our cheeks like old tears, the seasons give us the sense of where we have been and what we have faced before. Ask anyone who has had to face a significant loss, or had to bear a heavy cross, and part of the patchwork of their experience will be what the weather was doing, how long or short the days were, and how the air felt around them. This is certainly the case for me in Autumn. In October 2004 I lost my father after his year-long battle with cancer. For me, as a 26 year-old, it was the most emotionally difficult and devastating thing I had ever faced. In the seemingly interminable winter that followed, sleep deserted me, and the sweetest experiences of life held a bitter tang. We endured all of “the firsts” (birthdays, Christmas, etc.) but what shocked me most was the sense of replay that the following October carried. The scent of bonfire in the air, the placid cold of early autumn, the scoured and beautiful landscapes without the softening influence of summer, all welcomed me back to the world in which my heart had been broken. Coming back into October in 2005 was like revisiting the set of a play after all of the actors had gone home, having the leisure to peruse the props and the positions which had fuelled the drama. In some ways this was not an entirely unwelcome experience. Many of my friends and some of my wider family had stopped talking about our loss, and much of the world in which I moved seemed to have reset itself in the wake of bereavement. There was a pointedness and poignancy about the course of the year returning, but there was also a sense of pastoral help. A second October in the wake of loss reminded me that the Winter I had to walk through again would reach the Spring, and that all was not truly lost. We can choose in these experiences both to wrestle with the reminder the season brings and find gratitude in the gracious un-forgetting of the natural world, in its sympathy and solace and solidarity with where we once were. Andrew Roycroft Some who are reading this will have their own seasonal elegy—physical realities which confront us with what we have faced, and console us that we are walking through it. Perhaps the summer warmth was once contrasted with the chill of loss, or the drop in the autumn evenings brings again the fevered sense of some grief which once gripped your heart. We can choose in these experiences both to wrestle with the reminder the season brings and find gratitude in the gracious un-forgetting of the natural world, in its sympathy and solace and solidarity with where we once were. In the poem which follows I seek to locate this experience personally, and then to elevate it pastorally, so that the “shucking” of Autumn gives a pledge that Spring will return. This is something which is instinctive to a Christian view of the calendar, where our cardinal truths are often combined with annual feasts which tap out the code of hope and joy, even in the darkness, even in the rise and fall of human emotions. I have tried to engrave the grief of that first October with the signature of God’s grace, and the promise of the Resurrection. Autumn Elegy On these dark October dawns within doors the clicking house rests down on its pipes and sings its heat. We rise in shambled ennui, set about the sacraments of daily bread, watchful for the coming Fall, the new crisp russet carpet, the scarce bearded scrub of lawn, tricked once again back into green. My father died on such a day, mid-month in the middling month, at home, and now each early autumn reads his elegy, briefs and keeps abreast all to whom he lived, that he is gone. This season is a shucking off, a refutation of bold bulbed halcyon days, uncynical. The mere fact of death drifts down, frames our path in shades that dapple sun for now, but later shrouds our walks in ash, beech, skeleton leaves. In the hours after his death we dismantled effects, stripped down his hospital bed, lowering its frame into vacant space of tool-tidy garage, left his room branch bare, until the chestnut coffin took his place; nethered unto the silver trestle, the plumb weight of his absence bore witness in Sunday best, uncanny, like maple crimson, all blushed with vital youth, though dead. And lowered again, in clipped burial ground, love’s pulley sinking further down and down, tension of straps and gravediggers’ arms, hearts heaving heaven, though months out from Spring.

Today I am sitting with the cosmos. It is the eve of their impending demise and we have much to catch up on before they slip away. For months, I have been watchful of their progress. After a few moments of greeting pleasantries, I ask them how they have been and then listen quietly as they begin. They say it has been a lovely summer and they have many things to share with me. They tell me how the breeze has been particularly kind to them this morning. And so they gently sway in thankful appreciation. They tell me of how the sun has been leaning down to kiss their face. And so they use their petals to reflect its radiant warm love. They tell me of the months filled with visiting bees, who have brought them gifts of pollen, helping them be more abundant than they could be on their own. And so they open wide their blossoms to share their pollen and help others bloom as well. They tell me how the soil has cared for their physical needs, giving them just the right nutrients. And so they stand strongly rooted, in an interlacing of hands holding fast to their faithful provider. They tell me of the rain and dew bringing them drink when they are thirsty. And so they stretch their tendril fingers upward in a stance ready to receive. And then they whisper thank you to me, their gardener, for planting them. I sit quietly in this honor of thankfulness they have bestowed on me. I sat with them today in hopes that our conversation and pleasantries will help them go gently. They do not know that today is their last. Tonight while they are sleeping, I know the killer comes! She will rake her icy jagged hand across them and they will be no more. Cosmos are annual flowers, not perennials, so they will not return. This season, and it alone, is the time that they have been given. I hope that when my final day comes, I can be as the cosmos. That when the killer finds me, her icy hand would be left scarred by the strike. That the warmth of my appreciation, my reflection of love, my willingness to share to help others grow, and my strong rootedness to my provider would leave the killer damaged for her transaction! And as I breathe my last, may that breath find me with fingers reaching upward in a stance ready to receive as I thank my Gardener for planting me. I continue to sit in this sacred silence, watching them wave in the wind. They are no better off for this conversation. They are cosmos, and just by being cosmos they are honoring their gardener. Yet I am better for this exchange. Whenever that day comes, may it find me like the cosmos.

The Habit Podcast is a series of conversations with writers about writing, hosted by Jonathan Rogers. This week, Jonathan Rogers talks with Dane Ortlund, former Senior Vice President of Bible Publishing at Crossway and current Senior Pastor of Naperville Presbyterian Church near Chicago. Jonathan Rogers and Dane Ortlund discuss the simultaneous necessity and insufficiency of theological correctness, the recovery of beauty as a meaningful philosophical category, and sanctification as the ongoing renewal of surprise. Click here to listen to Season 2, Episode 44 of The Habit Podcast. Transcripts are now available for The Habit Podcast. Click here to access them. Special thanks to our Rabbit Room members for making these podcasts possible! If you’re interested in becoming a member, visit RabbitRoom.com/Donate.

Almighty God who has given us an abundance of good things, has set our feet about these boundaried shores, and has called us to give an account for the work of our hands, we ask your blessings upon this Election Day. Forgive us for thinking your love is a zero-sum equation in which we are held harmless in loving only those who think, speak, and vote like us. Forgive us for refusing to let go of the hopelessness found in cold hypocrisies and bold untruths. Forgive us for painting in the light of partisanship and fear your call to love all your children. Forgive us for tending poorly to one another, separating one from the other, and dividing prematurely those worthy and those lost. Give hope to us, oh Lord, that these days are not unknown to you. As we powerfully proclaim that you are not a God of darkness and chaos, let us with steadfast hearts participate in this beautiful exercise of democracy. Give love to us, oh Lord, as we deepen our need to love one another. Remind us that you, not our candidates, are the fount of all holiness. Let us recall with humility our own sins as we remember that all are welcome at your table. Open our hearts to new days, new leadership, and new ideas as we pray for those who will begin the work of directing this country. Give courage to us, oh Lord, as we act with scrutiny of word and deed toward those whose names are listed on our ballots, heard in our conversations, and spoken in our homes. Guide us as we separate what is good, beautiful, and true from the rubbish and noise of all that inevitably will come. Ignite in us the holy desire to carry out your work regardless of the outcome of this day. Give us mercy, oh Lord, to lose with dignity and win with compassion, remembering that all those on the ballot were made in your image. Let us rise again tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow with an urgency to feed the hungry, give drink to the thirsty, clothe the naked, bury the dead, shelter the traveler, comfort the sick, and set the captive free. Lord, hear the prayers of all those gathered in voting booths, in precincts, in campaign rallies, and those huddled around computer screens. Hear the prayers of your children who raise their hands with confidence just as you continue to hear the prayers of those whose hands will always tremble in silence. See in us, Holy Father, what you love in your Son as we offer great thanks that our citizenship in Heaven will never rest upon our political allegiances, but on the sacrifice of the Cross. Remind us of the promise of your salvation as you bestow upon this land your protection and your guidance. We give you this day, and every day, to shelter and bless this country we love. Lamb of God, you take away the sins of the world, hear our prayer. Lamb of God, you take away the sins of the world, hold our beloved states. Lamb of God, you take away the sins of the world, grant us peace. This liturgy was originally published on the Rabbit Room blog on November 8, 2016. #AEGraham #election #liturgy

I had the privilege of talking with Wayne Brezinka, one of my favorite Nashville artists, about his current project: 2020 Disrupted. In addition to being a delightful and thoughtful interview, it was Wayne’s very first Zoom experience! After much laughter and figuring out which buttons do what, we settled in for a chat. Tell me about your project. You’re feeling the weight of it. How long have you been working on it? The sketch and the idea came to me about six years ago. I was sitting in the service at our church, and the pastor was talking about Job. I’m so conceptual and visual that I began to wonder what Job might look like in our context, and I kind of tucked that idea away. When my father-in-law came to visit about a year later, I shared my vision and asked if he’d be my model. He said, “Sure, what do you want me to do?” He’s very up for anything. He’s in his late 70s. I hand him a pair of Nike shorts and say “Here, put these on.” And he’s like “Great!” So he took everything off and then sat on this chair in my living room and I photographed him, sitting on the floor, because I wanted to capture this figure with some scale, from the ground up. I sketched him out shortly after that. I took his photographs, compiled them together, taking what I felt were the most vulnerable shots.  He was great. I had him lean on a broomstick, I had him look up desperately, I had him be angry at the sky and stuff. I combed through those images and I picked the ones that I felt might translate well and convey this idea. And then it sat. For five years. When the pandemic hit in March, and everything shut down, the idea came back… 2020… Job, pulled out of ancient texts, plopped into current circumstances. Modern Day Job, as a springboard. My vision is to use the story of Job, of loss and sorrow and pain, to capture what people are feeling, to give a visual landing point to this year. I’ve followed your work for years… Johnny Cash, Mr. Rogers, birds, magazine and newspaper illustrations. I’ve never seen you do a Kickstarter. What led you down this path? With most of my work, I just create. I’m inspired and so I do it. Creative people, during this pandemic, have really had to pivot and struggle well at figuring out how to pay their bills and still do what they do best. I fall in that category. My wife said to me, “We can’t spend any more of our own money on this project. You’ve got to do something different.” So I turned to Kickstarter. I’ve never done Kickstarter before. Before I dove off that cliff, I called people. I called Andy Gullahorn, Matthew Perryman Jones, Steve Taylor, and several other of my artist friends who have done these things and been successful. I asked them what to do, what makes it good, how do you navigate these waters… you know, everybody had their own nuggets of truth. It has scared the shit out of me. I describe myself as running off a cliff. I’ve lived on the cliff for years, like a bird with its mouth open. But now I ran off the cliff, and I’m still going, “Hey!” (gestures with hands out like he’s begging for food) There’s this figure in front of me, this dollar figure, and it’s really jacking with my serenity. But there’s this quiet voice I hear that says, “Trust me.  Trust me.” I don’t know how it’s going to work. I don’t know if it’s going to work. And if it does—that’s great. If it doesn’t—there’s another plan. I keep coming back to this, “Trust me. Trust me.” I mean, to be uncomfortable is what you want, right? If you’re not uncomfortable, then you’re not growing and you’re not moving forward. And sometimes it hurts, really horribly. This week’s been really difficult. I hit a wall on Monday. I was in tears. The forecast on Wednesday, here in Nashville, was beautiful and I thought, “I’ve gotta take the day off and go to my sacred creek.” So I asked Matthew Perryman Jones to go and we just hung out at the creek, put our feet in the water. I swam, we built a fire. It’s where I’ve found God this year, in a way that I’ve never really experienced before. I guess by making a modern day, 2020 Job, maybe I’m inviting people to feel their sorrow and their grief. I don’t think that we, in western culture—in the United States—do that very well. When people are invited to feel and grieve and lament, that creates a space for something bigger to come in, something more beautiful. We hold onto these things—I’ve held onto these things for years, you know—but letting them out, and being seen by others, by your friends or your family or your loved ones, and your witnessing their grieving—the communal aspect of it—is important. That’s what this project is about: grieving. It’s an invitation to people to consider—what is it that’s been so difficult for me this year? It doesn’t matter what side of the aisle you’re on. It’s not about political stuff at all. You can’t look at 2020 and say that it hasn’t been difficult. It’s been hard. So that’s my vision, my hope—that it would stir people. Once it’s created and built, I get such joy from getting out of the way. My hope is to have a parking lot tour with this thing in a glass truck and let people come up to it and let it speak to them. Have you seen this? Yes! I’ve seen it several times, on your Facebook and Kickstarter. It’s so evocative. The look on his face is what I love—he looks vulnerable, desperate in a way, helpless. There’s a power to it. Wayne, will you talk to us about what you’ve used to make him? One of the things I love about your pieces is how much you incorporate into them. Yeah, so, what you’re seeing right now I call a prototype. One of the things I realized, as I was laying out this campaign, is that people aren’t going to grasp my vision with a pencil sketch. I needed to build a prototype. So I started to build parts of it. I work with cardboard…you can see cereal boxes, foam core. How do you modernize Job? His skin color is dark toned, which it would have been and I wanted it to be. You know, we don’t need anymore elevated white men. And the ear buds—I found those important. Everybody has those and tattoos, in 2020. His hair is made out of farm rope, which I soak in water and then pull apart and paint. It’s simple, but it works. You can kind of see some newsprint. There will be more added… he’s in the very beginning stages. You referenced him as a prototype. Will you actually use this head in your piece? I think so. It came together so beautifully one Sunday afternoon… why change it? Why not just use it, and the energy that’s in it? So, I probably will. I’ll add to him, though. What about the hand that I’ve seen? I believe it’s holding something? Yeah, right now it’s holding a measuring tape. It’s a broom handle, or it’s going to be. I’m debating about whether to put an actual broom handle on top. Again, modern day, right? What would he be hanging on to? Not a stick. It’d be something from the garbage heap, like a broom handle. There’s also this little ray of hope, this blue bird, which I think represents hope. It’s made out of cardboard and foam board; you can see the cereal boxes. This is the little ray of hope that would be on his broom handle. It feels like you are in a waiting period. You’ve started your Kickstarter, you’ve got your prototypes, you’re waiting and hoping for it to be funded so you can pull the trigger…what are you doing while you wait? Ugh. Marketing. I get up, and I think about who I can reach out to, who I can call, to bring them to the site and hopefully get them to contribute. That’s consuming a lot of energy that I don’t like. Another aspect is asking for help. It’s hard for people to ask for help. It’s hard for me to ask for help, you know? So I’m like this, right? (mimes holding up his hands like he’s begging for food) That’s how I spend my days. You said that one of your goals for this piece was for people to get to feel their grief. It sounds like you’re kind of paving the way. Yeah. Yeah, I think you’re right. You know, a friend of mine said that I’m carrying the weight and the grief of a lot of people. I feel like I just want to make this piece to get it out of me, but instead I’m in this waiting period. Waiting for this thing to succeed—but it may not succeed. I hate to even say that, but it’s a reality. But I can’t stop moving towards that goal, and doing what I can do to reach it. It’s tiring. You know? You’re having to spend your time in something that’s not your first love. You’re having to spend your time with all your energy invested into marketing. You’re a creator, not a marketer. No offense! Your marketing material is fantastic. The video on your Kickstarter is so good. That’s thanks to Drew Darby! Drew’s a filmmaker out of Philadelphia and he is a wonder boy. He’s 24. He did that video for me and I couldn’t be happier. I noticed one thing in your plans for this piece that is different than what I’ve seen in your previous pieces—there’s an integration of technology. Tell me about that. It initially started with ancient texts, pulled out and plopped into real time. How are we living? We’re living like this, on Zoom meetings and phone meetings and computers. That was definitely something I wanted in this piece. So how do you incorporate it? There are going to be two or three computer screens, iPhones, put in the trash heap. They will be looping submitted photographs from the public who want to be a part of this piece.  That doesn’t cost anything to submit. Anyone who has a photograph or a story can go to my website and just submit to me and that will be a part of this loop. Now, if you want to contribute a physical item—that’s part of the rewards on Kickstarter. When you get to certain reward levels, then you can send in a piece. The photographs and the technology, I think, will be really powerful to see. I mean, what has this looked like for you, for the public? Is it your family? Your spouse? Your kids? Coworkers? Trips you’ve taken in the woods? It could be anything. I’m excited about that, and I hope that it takes off. I hope that people participate and send in their images. Is there anything else that you want to tell people? Or anything that you want people to hear from you before your piece gets made? Yeah, I’m really curious what has been one of the most—if not the most—disruptive moments for people. That’s a question that I ask on the Kickstarter and on my website. What, for you personally, has been the most disruptive thing this year? Some of the emails that I’ve received have blown me away. People are sharing that they feel lost and sad and lonely. That they don’t have a car. Kim Fisher shared that, “I’m deaf. I read lips. I can’t hear you.” This is what’s on her mask. That just blew my mind. She said that her world begins to feel smaller and smaller each day because of the masks. My friend, Dan, sent me a picture of himself in tears the day his Covid hit. He was afraid that he was going to die. He couldn’t breathe. He was afraid to go to sleep. So this is what’s been coming into my inbox. That’s what I’m interested in from the public. I want to hear from them, I want to hear from people—what is your story? What has been difficult for you? That’s been very affirming, because it tells me that this piece is connecting with the public. It’s a landing point, an opportunity for people to move into their own inner landscape. It’s terrifying, sometimes, to go inward. I want to invite people, to show them it’s okay to follow your fears. On the other side, there’s going to be a beautiful opening, a beautiful space that will be filled with something better. How are you feeling about the items you’ve gotten?  I’m picturing you trying to wade through your studio, with all the things that people are sending to you. Does it feel overwhelming? Well, I’m excited about it. I have not received a lot. When people contribute on the campaign, they’ll have the opportunity to send me their items on the back end. I don’t know what’s coming yet. I’m excited. I have received a pair of crutches from a doctor who fractured his hip. He slipped on his bike. That was a big disruption for him. Let’s see, what else… oh! Another friend of mine is an ER doctor, and he sent me a set of sutures… Is that what is stabbing Job?  I’ve seen in your sketches that there’s a pair of scissors.  That’s the part that gives me the heebie jeebies. That’s a good point that you bring up! It’s a pivot for me. You know, most of my work has been wholesome and pretty. And now I’ve got screwdrivers and knives in a body. These sharp objects are representative of today. I’ve been nervous about how that would be received. You are not the first to bring up that it’s difficult to look at. It is. It’s hard to look at. 2020 is hard to look at. Grief is hard to look at. Yeah. Grief is hard to look at. And then I think, you know, if we’re going to be honest about the Gospel… Jesus hanging on a cross is graphic. Hard to look at. So I go, “yeah, Wayne—keep moving.” I feel this voice, “Keep moving forward.” It’s hard. But it’s gonna take one of these things for people to go “ohhhh.” And then they’re either going to move away from it, because they are so uncomfortable, or they’re going to move forward and go, “Ohh I don’t like this, but what is this telling me?” And be drawn in to it. Which is another really great response. Yes! So when I sit with it long enough to realize that it’s graphic…but that’s okay… then I go, “This is what I want!” I want to stir people, you know, so I’m excited about that direction of the work and where my work will go after this. I’ve thought about exploring darker elements of… perhaps the Gospel… or just life in general, that are important and move me. Artists create work that tend to bring up things in their own lives, and ultimately open the door for other people. And click here to see more of his work.

Through language we are able to create realities. We do it every day. Persuading, encouraging, fear-mongering, story-telling, teaching, selling, insulting, begging—these are just a small sampling of the ways we create and/or rearrange inward realities in other people. The Puritan John Flavel (quoted in Marilynne Robinson’s What Are We Doing Here) had this to say on the subject: Other creatures have apt and elegant organs: birds can modulate the air, and form it into sweet, delicious notes and charming sounds; but no creature, except man, whose soul is of an heavenly nature and extraction, can articulate the sound, and form it into words, by which the notions and sentiments of the soul are in a noble, apt, and expeditious manner conveyed to the understanding of another soul. —John Flavel It truly is a remarkable thing that by moving air through your larynx and simultaneously moving your mouth and tongue around, or by making marks on a page, you can manipulate the movements of a human soul. It’s not a thing to be taken lightly. What’s more, to change inward realities is also to change outward realities. Persuasion elects leaders, creates laws, preserves peace, starts wars. Persuasion builds interstates, bridges, prisons, parks. Persuasion builds whole societies and cultures. And yet… While it is true that we can create realities through language, we can’t create reality. Reality is given, not made with human hands or human voices or human consensus. And reality always has the last word with the sub-realities we make for ourselves. As I have said before, reality is that which continues to exist whether you believe in it or not. Believe in gravity or don’t believe in it. Either way, if you jump out a window, you’ll fall to the ground. Reason, according to Thomas Aquinas, is a “regard for and openness to reality,” an “acceptance” of reality. This idea is very closely related to the ancient idea of prudence, the first of the four cardinal virtues. There are ways, of course, to bend or twist reality for our own purposes—at least until reality snaps back on us. And it always does. That snap-back is sometimes referred to as karma. You can use that word if you want to, but I’m going to call it the coming of the Kingdom of God. Every time reality asserts itself against the status quo, it gives us a preview of the day when reality is all there is. Lord, haste the day. If prudence or reason is a willingness to align oneself with reality, cunning is the attempt to align reality with oneself. Jonathan Rogers But I digress. If prudence or reason is a willingness to align oneself with reality, cunning is the attempt to align reality with oneself. Josef Pieper defines cunning as “the insidious and unobjective temperament of the intriguer who has regard only for ‘tactics,’ who can neither face things squarely nor act straightforwardly.” In our public discourse I see a lot of cunning people who show no regard for reality, who seem to believe that no falsehood is too egregious if it serves their purposes. The ends justify the means, as the old saying goes. But I feel compelled to point out that if justification is what you’re after, political ends aren’t going to do it for you. My fellow Americans, as the 2020 election approaches, let us throw off cunning. Most of us aren’t very good at it anyway, and trying to be cunning only leaves us at the mercy of those who actually are. And while we are at it, let’s also throw off cynicism. I will admit that cynicism has its pleasures, but they are pleasures more appropriate to sophomores than to mature adults like us. Cynicism, like conspiracy theory, is just oversimplification posing as sophistication. In place of cunning and cynicism, let us embrace prudence. In the coming weeks, you will have many opportunities to use your voice to create new realities—to argue, to express your opinion, perhaps even to persuade. Will you use your creative powers to help others (and yourself) come into closer alignment with reality? We won’t all agree on the nature of reality. Reality is exceedingly complex, and self-interest inclines me to ignore the parts of it that don’t jive with my notions of how the world would work best for me. Even so, an openness to a reality that exceeds and supersedes self-interest is an excellent place to start. Every day you wake up in a world that you didn’t make. Rejoice and be glad. This piece was originally shared in Jonathan’s weekly Habit Newsletter. If you’d like your own inbox to be graced with such insight—and with staggering frequency, at that—you can sign up for it by clicking here.

Wherein Pete Peterson reads his ghost story “A Shade of Yellow,” Zach & Maggie treat us to a special Halloween song, and we are visited by Drew’s evil twin. “A Shade of Yellow” first made its appearance on the Rabbit Room blog back in 2012. In it, you’ll hear the narrator slowly re-assemble the pieces of a past tragedy, only to find that reality was much different than he had long supposed. Click here to listen to “Halloween Edition: A Shade of Yellow.” And click here to subscribe on Apple Podcasts and here to subscribe on Spotify. Transcripts are available for The Molehill Podcast. Click here to view them. Artwork by the inimitable Stephen Crotts Words of Befuddlement graphic by Mindy Cook Original Molehill Podcast theme music by Zach & Maggie Other music featured in this episode: “Sitting Still” by Thad Kopec “By the Grave” by Anton Belov “Observance” by Adam Bokesch “Opaque” by Luke Atencio “Come Love, See My Hands” by Brooke Waggoner “Double Grave” by Zach & Maggie

As the pandemic has made us painfully aware, women are often the first to give up. We give up our jobs to take care of the children, after first giving up our bodies to bring them into the world. We give up our needs to make sure that others’ are met. In many contexts, this means we lose our time or our money (or the possibility of making money), but what about the context of worship music? Women are worship leaders and musicians, songwriters and lyricists, but when we give up our places in the church to serve other needs, we give up our very voices. But the church and the world need our voices. Cardiphonia Music has been aware of this for some time; they’d been asking women to contribute to their liturgical music compilations, but finding that women just didn’t participate. This summer, they launched an album project designed to correct the problem. They asked Rachel Wilhelm to produce an album of songs by women, centered on the theme of lament. Rachel helps lead the Liturgy Fellowship Group (a collection of pastors and worship leaders) and leads the Women Church Musicians Group, both on Facebook. Even before she started asking women to contribute songs to the album, she knew that many of these women, who serve as worship leaders in their congregations, lacked the recording equipment and studio time that their male counterparts have as part of the job. Many of these women had given up time, equipment, and extras, so as not to “burden” their congregations or seem to ask for too much. How, then, could they contribute recordings to an album without the resources to record? In a crumbling world of disconnection, Daughter Zion's Woe was a coming together; it was taking each other's hands across great distances and raising them to God in supplication. Kate Bluett Rachel had been in exactly that position before, and was well equipped to come up with a solution: Facebook itself. For all its ills, it was connecting women to each other as worship leaders; why couldn’t it connect women to recording opportunities, too? Using the connections of the Liturgy Fellowship Group, Rachel asked for volunteers to help produce, engineer, and mix tracks remotely, allowing women to be heard in their music. The response was overwhelming, and Rachel matched artists to engineers all over the country—as well as Canada and England! She coordinated pairings by phone, coached artists and writers long-distance, and even worked out guest musicians on each other’s tracks. The result is the new Cardiphonia album, Daughter Zion’s Woe. Born of the circumstances of 2020, and responding deeply to a world in agony, Daughter Zion’s Woe is a cri de coeur from voices the world needs to hear. It’s also, though, a love song to that same tortured world. Its creation, in Rachel’s words, consisted of “the Body of Christ in action”: “Men helping women. Women helping women. Friends helping friends. Strangers helping strangers! A real labor of love.” The only thing this world needs more is Christ himself, and the songs plead with Christ for the world. As musical duo Sister Sinjin describe their contribution, “Silence,” this way: “We do not take our sackcloth and sadness to the corner for a pity party, we sing from the hilltops and through the valleys because only by acknowledging what is wrong can it begin to be made right. Lament is not bitter acceptance, it is protest.” These songs are begging for healing for the whole world. Artist Keisha Valentina found healing in the process of writing her lament, “Sing Away the Dark”: This song was brought forth out of the depths of a troubled soul on raging seas. Having struggled with debilitating anxiety since childhood and wrestling through hard things the last several years, I didn’t think I could write a single note when Rachel approached me with the project. Her response to my concerns was to “take all those anxious thoughts and turn them into something beautiful.” That resonated with me and reminded me of why I began to write music in the first place. It’s always been a place of comfort for me. Where I see God. The minute I begin to worship the anxiety flees and my soul is at rest. That is why music means so very much to me. Why I can’t write about anything other than the God who saves. Because He has saved this weary, restless, tired soul time and time again. Amy Carmichael once said, “I believe truly that Satan cannot endure it and so slips out of the room more or less —when there is a true song.” So with trembling voice this song was brought forth. Just another weary soul standing alongside generations of others. Proclaiming the goodness of a God through the mess trying to create something beautiful. —Keisha Valentina, on the writing process for her song “Sing Away the Dark” Even women who aren’t worship leaders are represented on Daughter Zion’s Woe. I’m a stay-at-home mom who homeschools her two children and writes hymns and lyrics when they are occupied. I don’t lead music; I make lunches. But I’ve had the privilege of collaborating with Rachel on a number of songs. When she asked me for a lyric of lament—something simple and soulful—I was happy to oblige. Her email got tangled up in my head with a description I’d just read by Frederick Douglass of enslaved people walking through the woods and singing their woes to God. I wrote something that, in my head, sounded like the wailing of women in a world without justice. I’m no worship leader, but even I, in my suburban existence living with white skin in 2020s America, have to grapple with the systemic injustices of the world in which George Floyd isn’t breathing any more. Karin Simmons and Rachel Wilhelm wrote an equally wailing tune, and Rachel sings it over Jered McKenna‘s instrumentation. The result is something I’m proud to have the world hear. But if it weren’t for people coming together in charity, unity, and solidarity during a global pandemic, no one would be hearing it. In a crumbling world of disconnection, Daughter Zion’s Woe was a coming together; it was taking each other’s hands across great distances and raising them to God in supplication. It was community and prayer, and we needed it. Click here to stream and download Daughter Zion’s Woe on Bandcamp.

The art of theater is inherently transient—a well-rehearsed play is an enormous labor, only to be enjoyed a handful of times by a handful of audiences. A. S. Peterson’s adaptation of Frankenstein was a tremendous gift to all who were able to see it live. For everyone else, it has been confined to a printed script. Until now! We at the Rabbit Room are so glad to announce—just in time for Halloween—a special audio performance of the play, now available in audiobook form. And you can hear a ten-minute preview here in this blog post. This excerpt is taken from Act 1, Scene 9. As you can hear, this is not merely a group of actors reading their lines in front of microphones—it’s an entire atmosphere of sounds carefully produced to bring you directly into the story. Click here to purchase an audiobook CD of Frankenstein in the Rabbit Room Store. Click here to download Frankenstein on Audible. And click here to view the stage adaptation in printed form in the Rabbit Room Store.

We’re excited to share with you today a new liturgy from Every Moment Holy, Vol. 2: Death, Grief, and Hope, which releases on February 19th, 2021. At this point of the year, this particular liturgy feels especially appropriate. We hope you find hope and comfort in it. Before we get to the liturgy, a special announcement: There is now an audiobook for Every Moment Holy, Vol. 1, featuring readings by Fernando Ortega and Rebecca Reynolds. Click here to view the audiobook on Amazon. A Liturgy for Embracing Both Joy & Sorrow Do not be distant, O Lord, lest I find this burden of loss too heavy, and shrink from the necessary experience of my grief. Do not be distant, O Lord, lest I become so mired in yesterday’s hurts, that I miss entirely the living gifts this day might hold. Let me neither ignore my pain, pretending all is okay when it isn’t, nor coddle and magnify my pain, so that I dull my capacity to experience all that remains good in this life. For joy that denies sorrow is neither hard-won, nor true, nor eternal. It is not real joy at all. And sorrow that refuses to make space for the return of joy and hope, in the end becomes nothing more than a temple for the worship of my own woundedness. So give me strength, O God, to feel this grief deeply, never to hide my heart from it. And give me also hope enough to remain open to surprising encounters with joy, as one on a woodland path might stumble suddenly into dapplings of golden light. Amidst the pain that lades these days, give me courage, O Lord; courage to live them fully, to love and to allow myself to be loved, to remember, grieve, and honor what was, to live with thanksgiving in what is, and to invest in the hope of what will be. Be at work gilding these long heartbreaks with the advent of new joys, good friendships, true fellowships, unexpected delights. Remind me again and again of your goodness, your presence, your promises. For this is who we are: a people of The Promise—a people shaped in the image of God whose very being generates all joy in the universe, yet who also weeps and grieves its brokenness. So we, your children, are also at liberty to lament our losses, even as we simultaneously rejoice in the hope of their coming restoration. Let me learn now, O Lord, to do this as naturally as the inhale and exhale of a single breath: To breathe out sorrow, to breathe in joy. To breathe out lament, to breathe in hope. To breathe out pain, to breathe in comfort. To breathe out sorrow, To breathe in joy. In one hand I grasp the burden of my grief, while with the other I reach for the hope of grief’s redemption. And here, between the tension of the two, between what was and what will be, in the very is of now, let my heart be surprised by, shaped by, warmed by, remade by, the same joy that forever wells within and radiates from your heart, O God. Amen.

The Habit Podcast is a series of conversations with writers about writing, hosted by Jonathan Rogers. This week, Jonathan Rogers talks with Andrew T. Le Peau, former Associate Publisher at InterVarsity Press and author of Write Better: A Lifelong Editor on Craft, Art, and Spirituality. Jonathan Rogers and Andrew T. Le Peau discuss the simple power of physical exercise to generate creative ideas, what Andrew has learned as an editor about what gets in the way of the writer’s voice, and the constructive tension between Jonathan’s emphasis on self-forgetfulness in writing and Andrew’s claim that all writing is autobiographical. Click here to listen to Season 2, Episode 43 of The Habit Podcast. Transcripts are now available for The Habit Podcast. Click here to access them. Special thanks to our Rabbit Room members for making these podcasts possible! If you’re interested in becoming a member, visit RabbitRoom.com/Donate.

A common shadowy thought lurks in the depths of many songwriters’ minds, surfacing without warning. What if I never write a good song again? Like an unwelcome houseguest, this question often hijacks your most innocuous moments—brushing your teeth at the bathroom sink, frying an egg, driving to meet a friend for coffee—and then hangs around your life for an indefinite stretch of time. Later, returning to pen and paper, you find the thought still present, watching you from across the room. I became especially acquainted with this reality after releasing my album River House in the fall of 2017. The album was in many ways a debut, my first full length project and the first thing in my life I felt unbelievably proud of. The songs had poured out of me in the span of a year, like casting a net I pulled up full every time. I didn’t fuss much with anything or edit any lyrics. There was an ease about the whole project and for the next two years as I toured the record and shared those songs, I felt them finding a home with people. I knew the work I’d done was good, that I wanted to keep going, yet at the same time, I felt a fear growing somewhere deep —what if the well is empty? A year or two passed and as many artists naturally do, I felt myself itching to start another project, to say something new. But instead of a pile of songs, I had only one I was sure of and maybe 17 half-ideas in my Notes folder. So I got to writing, and, well, I hit a lot of dead ends. The last record had come so easily, but now the words seemed to fight me on the page. My inspiration deflated. The fear of not being able to write something good and true fully presided over my creative space, to the point that I would often feel I didn’t want to write anything. I majorly doubted I had a second album in me. Then, two Januaries ago, I wrote a song. I had been looking for new songs the same way I’d found the old ones, wanting to feel the old magic, but the new songs weren’t back there. I had to find another way in. Taylor Leonhardt It started with trying to learn keys. I kept playing this one piano riff that felt like a mix between a gospel hymn and a Ray LaMontagne tune. And I sang out a line, “I will not hang my head, his banner is over me,” and I knew I had to keep going. I had been reading this poem by Teilhard De Chardin, the Ignatian priest, that begins with “Above all, trust in the slow work of God.” It was the dead of winter then, and I was seeing in the woods behind my neighborhood the evidence all around of how much growth happens in the hidden places, deep underground. I had a sense that I was meant to learn what that slow work is. “He said I am his poetry, he won’t waste a word,” I wrote, and that chorus felt like a sign I had found my next direction. I had a feeling there was a reason these songs wouldn’t come fast. In fact, they would need some great patience, intentional waiting, slow trust. This has been the hardest thing I’ve had to learn so far—how to unearth the song, how to push through the resistance that meets me whenever my aim is to make something beautiful. I remember the scene from Prince Caspian, when Aslan tells Lucy “things never happen the same way twice.” I had been looking for new songs the same way I’d found the old ones, wanting to feel the old magic, but the new songs weren’t back there. I had to find another way in. It’s been a beautiful thing to learn to fight for the good songs. To find the voice that comes from listening. To trust that the well won’t run out, but I may have to dig deeper. I’ve had to hold some things really precious and let other things go. I’ve had to invite collaborators into my writing room. I’ve had to get better at editing and rewriting song sections. I’ve taken myself on lots of long walks. I learned to ask for help. When I feel the familiar shadow of the unforgiving inner critic watching over my shoulder, I’m learning to usher it out the door. There’s more room in this house without it, room for all kinds of songs. “Only God could say what this new spirit forming within you will be,” Teilhard de Chardin continued. I see now what wondrous things are growing when you think nothing is. I know what a lyric and a melody can show you if you’re patient enough to let them. And click here to listen to Taylor’s episode of The Second Muse, where she and her producer, Lucas Morton, share about the process of making this record and go into depth on the song “Hold Still.”

We’re not ready for the fun to end. So we are extending archive access for Hutchmoot: Homebound 2020 until November 15th—for everyone. This means that even if you missed the October 11th deadline for registration, you can still access the entire archive for $20. And if you were already registered, you don’t have to do anything. The archive will simply stay open. Over 24 hours of video content, over 50 speakers and performers, content for kids and families, curated food menus, secret missions, and so much more, will remain available for just $20 until November 15th.* So take your time. Sip the goodness slowly. And enjoy. *With the exception of time-sensitive content, such as Mark Meynell’s Hutchmoot: Homebound Challenge and the Tournament of Cheeses.

Four months ago, the Rabbit Room began wondering, dreaming, asking how in the world we were going to adapt to 2020 when it came to our biggest event of the year: Hutchmoot.⁣ How do we take an annual conference—marked by its in-person-ness, its ability to spark friendships over shared meals and long conversations in the hallway—and translate its magic into a primarily online experience? Can friendships still be made during this weekend? How about shared meals? Collaborative art? Communal singing?⁣ We believe the answer to all those questions is yes.⁣ Of course it’s not the same. We can’t re-invent the wheel of sharing physical presence with newfound kindred spirits. But I’m so proud to be part of a team that has re-imagined how to eat together, sing together, and make something beautiful together—even from a distance, even in a world ravaged by a pandemic.⁣ Adversity can bring paralysis. It can also prompt creativity. It has done both for me this year. But it’s so much easier to engage creatively with adversity when we do it together. For the past four months, that’s what the Rabbit Room staff has been doing week after week. Adversity can bring paralysis. It can also prompt creativity. But it's so much easier to engage creatively with adversity when we do it together. Drew Miller We cannot wait for all our work and play to spill over into this conference, and especially that unique gladness of watching creativity unfold in new and unexpected ways among guests and participants. It’s truly an over-abundance, the kind of joy that isn’t complete until shared.⁣ To me, that’s what hope looks like: new songs, new recipes, new stories, new relationships sparked in a year determined to snuff them out. And at the end of the day, it’s an act of defiance: pushing back the darkness, declaring that there isn’t a square inch of creation that will not finally be redeemed.⁣ I couldn’t be happier to be spending my weekend this way. Convene the Hutchmoot. Registration for Hutchmoot: Homebound will remain open until the end of the day Sunday, October 11th, and 90% of content will remain available for two weeks.

Wherein Jonathan Rogers reads his poems “Two Villanelles,” Janna Barber reads her piece Cinnamon, and Drew Miller shares the fifth Word of Befuddlement: soggage. First appearing in Volume 4 of The Molehill, Cinnamon is a memoir, which makes it extra special to hear Janna herself read it out loud. It’s the story of her very first therapy session and the winding road of healing that it set her upon. Janna invites us as fellow travelers to follow her into some of her most formative childhood memories and then back into the present day, witnessing the ever-evolving connections between her identity and her faith. Words of Befuddlement Words of Befuddlement is a special Molehill Podcast segment inspired by games like Dictionary and Balderdash. In fact, it’s no different, except that the word in question doesn’t exist anywhere other than in the notorious mind of Pete Peterson (so don’t go looking for it in a dictionary). Each week, Drew Miller (host of The Molehill Podcast) will share a new Word of Befuddlement and ask you to send in your very own definition to drew@rabbitroom.com. The following week, he will read some of the definitions he received and reveal the “correct” definition as determined by Pete. The fifth Word of Befuddlement, shared in today’s episode, is the noun “soggage.” You can send in your very own definition of “soggage” to Drew, and he might just read it on next week’s show. And who knows? You may even guess correctly. Click here to listen to “S1 E5: Cinnamon.” And click here to subscribe on Apple Podcasts and here to subscribe on Spotify. Transcripts are available for The Molehill Podcast. Click here to view them. Artwork by the inimitable Stephen Crotts Words of Befuddlement graphic by Mindy Cook Original Molehill Podcast theme music by Zach & Maggie Other music featured in this episode: “Pictures” by Adam Bokesch “Beyond the Window” by Vesky “Take My Life and Let It Be” by Ron Block “With Love” by Analog Heart

To get where I’m going, I first need to invite you to my pity party. Please come, and please bring some levity. Beware the Ides of March The date is March 3rd. I wake up to a buzzing phone. I’m on tour in Chicago, and about a dozen folks text me to see if I’m alright. Apparently a tornado just ripped through our neighborhood in East Nashville. Driving down our street that night feels like driving into the Twilight Zone. Debris litters the streets, the power is out for blocks, and the iconic Basement East is lethally scarred. The sky is still menacing, as if to say there’s more on the way. There is. Pulling into my driveway, I watch a passing car knick a possum. Though possums are the children of Beelzebub, a slowly dying animal always gets me. It clearly has a marathon of pain still ahead of it, so I go looking for a shovel and come back with a brick. I reflect on my relapsed veganism and summon the full protection of my fragile machismo ego. Lord, beer me strength. By the time I get all the blood out of my shirt, it’s time for another tour. But a few days into the 30-show run, the pandemic leaves me stranded and gig-less in DC. The 10-hour return journey also has me nursing a boil that will go on to flirt with a staph infection, at least until two consecutive antibiotic shots in the buttocks bring me to life, a la Evanescence. I am woken up inside. Out comes a new song. Writing to Redeem For me, and maybe for you, this sort of compulsive creativity in the wake of the absurd is almost routine. For as long as I’ve written songs, I’ve viewed creativity as an exercise in redemption, albeit a haphazard one. While writing this new song, I referenced my precious boil, and I even tried to squeeze in the possum, just to find/force some purpose into the whole mess. This leads me to think that, on some level, my need to create is motivated by my unwillingness to sit still in the face of meaningless suffering. Because, if I can write about the absurd in a song, then surely it wasn’t so absurd after all? As in, there simply must be a purpose to the evidently purposeless if it leads to some sufficiently moving macaroni art. But while this strategy of creative “redemption” might help me cope with something awful, I don’t think it makes the thing itself any less awful. No amount of songs will redeem the devastation of the Nashville tornado. And that possum could never and would never care about my latest Spotify ballad. Quarantine has given me some space to reflect on the shadow of my meaning-making process. For the last eight months, the collective pseudonymous works of Søren Kierkegaard have been helpful. The Danish existentialist covers a lot of terrain, but one idea that I’ve found particularly helpful / disturbing is his notion of faith. In one of his early hits, Fear and Trembling, Kierkegaard dissects faith in order to show himself, along with all of enlightened Christendom, that faith is an exceptionally difficult task—more than enough for one lifetime. On some level, my need to create is motivated by my unwillingness to sit still in the face of meaningless suffering. J Lind Kierkegaard’s discussion centers around the notorious “knight of faith,” the extraordinary or maybe especially ordinary person whose life is marked by two simultaneous “movements.” (Yes, he keeps the lingo of the philosophers of his day in order to make his dense authorship even less comprehensible.) The first “movement of infinity,” as he calls it, is one of resignation. The knight of faith must resign themself to the earthly impossibility of the promise at hand, the promise whose fulfillment is their deepest desire. Abraham must recognize and feel the weight of the fact that killing Isaac will make it humanly impossible for him to be the father of a people as numerous as the stars in the sky, just as Mary must appreciate the impossibility of conceiving a child as a virgin. If they don’t sit with the impossibility of the promise, then they’re not “knights of faith;” they’re just naive. Leaping to Resignation This quarantine (as opposed to other quarantines), I’ve questioned whether my creative process has ever been marked by Kierkegaardian faith. In being so quick to reach for the pen, I don’t think I’ve really resigned myself to the genuine impossibility of the task at hand. Because I don’t think that any song can imbue devastation or death with meaning, or at least not with sufficient meaning to make either worthwhile. No number of sermons can bring back Job’s children, just as no number of Renaissance paintings can justify the crucifixion. This leads us to Kierkegaard’s second movement, the “leap of finitude.” This is where the knight of faith, having resigned themself to the impossible, makes a groundbreaking “double-movement.” (Again, I’m sorry that Kierkegaard is so unapologetically enlightened.) This second movement involves believing that God will do precisely the impossible: the promise will be fulfilled by killing the very son on which the promise depends. God will surely raise Isaac from the dead, even though that’s absolutely ridiculous. Mary will have a child even though that’s, you know, biologically impossible. And it’s probably the absurd impossibility underpinning this movement that leads Kierkegaard to believe that genuine faith is exceptionally rare in the modern world. No, I don’t think he would count Sean Feucht’s viral worship rallies. In sum, or at least according to my reading of Kierkegaard, each of us has the terrible responsibility of working out our faith with fear and trembling. I’m no father of existentialism, but I really don’t think I’m anywhere close to that absurd double-movement. Do I lack faith? I don’t even know if that’s the question to ask, much less how to answer it. But if Kierkegaard is onto something, then it seems like it’s at least time to meditate on that first movement that I’m so quick to forego: the movement of infinity. The leap of resignation. Sitting with the full weight of the meaninglessness, terrifying though it may be. Maybe that’s the only way into the Land of Canaan.

The Habit Podcast is a series of conversations with writers about writing, hosted by Jonathan Rogers. This week, Jonathan Rogers talks with Charlotte Donlon, author of The Great Belonging: How Loneliness Leads Us to Each Other and host of the Hope for the Lonely podcast. Jonathan Rogers and Charlotte Onlon discuss the two-way street between loneliness and belonging, the power of stories to de-stigmatize our loneliness, and the crucial difference between loving someone and understanding them. Click here to listen to Season 2, Episode 45 of The Habit Podcast. Transcripts are now available for The Habit Podcast. Click here to access them. Special thanks to our Rabbit Room members for making these podcasts possible! If you’re interested in becoming a member, visit RabbitRoom.com/Donate.

Wish you had time to re-read and enjoy that daunting stack of Charles Dickens novels? Take heart: Dickens enthusiast Gina Dalfonzo has done the heavy lifting for you. In short, readable excerpts she presents the essence of the great novelist’s prodigious output, teasing out dozens of the most memorable scenes to reveal the Christian vision and values that suffuse all his work. Dickens can certainly entertain, but his legacy endures because of his power to stir consciences with the humanity of his characters and their predicaments. While he could be ruthless in his characterization of greed, injustice, and religious hypocrisy, again and again the hope of redemption shines through. In spite of—or perhaps because of—his own failings, Dickens never stopped exploring the themes of sin, guilt, repentance, redemption, and restoration found in the gospel. In some passages the Christian elements are explicit, in others implicit, but, as Dickens himself said, they all reflect his understanding of and reverence for the gospel. The Gospel in Dickens includes selections from Oliver Twist, David Copperfield, A Tale of Two Cities, Great Expectations, A Christmas Carol, Nicholas Nickleby, The Old Curiosity Shop, Martin Chuzzlewit, Dombey and Son, Bleak House, Hard Times, Little Dorrit, Our Mutual Friend, The Mystery of Edwin Drood, and Sketches by Boz—with a cast of unforgettable characters such as Ebenezer Scrooge, Sydney Carton, Jenny Wren, Fagin, Pip, Joe Gargery, Mr. Bumble, Miss Havisham, Betsey Trotwood, and Madame Defarge. Click here to view The Gospel in Dickens in the Rabbit Room Store. Curious to learn more? Click here to listen to Gina Dalfonzo’s conversation with Jonathan Rogers on The Habit Podcast, where they go into greater depth on the editing of this book and the intersection of faith and literature.

Back by popular demand, it’s the Rabbit Room Christmas Gift Exchange! But wait, what is it? It’s a “Secret Santa” program. Everyone who wants to participate signs up, then we pull names out of the virtual hat, and everyone gives a gift (or gifts) to the person whose name they receive. You can remain anonymous if you wish, or you’re welcome to be as open as you like. How much should I spend on a gift? We’ve set a suggested gift value of $30. We’d love it if you bought your gifts in the Rabbit Room Store (this is a great time to share your Rabbit Room wishlist—click here and log in), but you don’t have to, and we encourage folks to give creative gifts, something handmade maybe, something you made maybe. Be creative! But please ensure that the gift you give is something you’d value at about $30. You’re welcome to lavish your recipient with more if you like. (And please feel free to disregard the wishlist and shopping options built into Elfster—see below.) Where do I sign up? This link (also at the bottom of this post) will take you to the Elfster website where you can sign up for the exchange. The site is a little clunky (and we hate the ads) but the exchange has gotten so big in the last couple of years that we need to use a system like this to administrate it effectively. What if I don’t get a gift? We urge everyone to be sure they mail or deliver their gifts well in advance of Christmas Day so that no one feels left out. However, should your Santa drop the ball, please let us know on or after January 1st. We’ll do our best to remind them and resolve the situation, and if necessary, we’ll make sure that person cannot participate again next year. Can I be a backup Santa? Yes! You can! If you’d like to make yourself available in the event that someone doesn’t receive a gift, please let us know via email at info@rabbitroom.com. We hope you won’t be needed, but we’d love to have your help if the situation arises (put “Backup Santa” in the subject line of your email). When will I find out who I’m giving a gift to? Sign-up starts right now. The sign-up deadline is Monday, November 23rd, and names will be drawn on Tuesday, November 24th. NO LATE ENTRIES will be permitted. If you miss the sign-up window, you’ll need to wait until next year—this isn’t because we’re mean, it’s because it’s a closed system that cannot be amended once names are drawn. Everyone who enters will receive an email with their target’s name and address on Wednesday, November 25th. Any other questions? Ask in the comments and we’ll do our best to answer. Have fun! And please use the comments section to introduce yourself. You might also want to let folks know what your interests are and what books and music you like in order to give your Santa some hints to work with.

This year, it’s not a given to be thankful. In fact, one could go so far as to call it an accomplishment. So we’re not here to pressure you into it, silently waiting to cut the turkey until you’ve shared what you’re thankful for this year. However, we are here to offer some words and melodies that stir thanksgiving in us, recognizing that perhaps now more than ever, gratitude is a necessity too often mistaken for a luxury. Typically on Thanksgiving, one of the pieces we share is Doug McKelvey’s “Liturgy for Feasting with Friends” from Every Moment Holy. And while we’re still including it for those of you who have the excellent fortune of being able to safely share a meal with loved ones, we also recognize that for so many of us, that will be impossible, and it comes as a great loss. So alongside that liturgy, we are sharing other liturgies that are all too applicable in 2020: liturgies “For Missing Someone” and “For a Meal Eaten Alone,” as well as several more. All of these are available for free download at EveryMomentHoly.com/Liturgies. In addition, here’s a new song from our friend Becca Jordan called “Autumn Gold.” It is at heart a prayer—for daily bread, for stillness of soul, and for the sustaining of hope, day after weary day. This is a prayer we could all use this year, and it gently nudges us into the waiting season of Advent.

The ark of the covenant was hidden behind a network of barricades. You couldn’t stroll into the temple and lay hands on the seat and symbol of God’s presence. There were sacrifices to be made, garments to be worn. After ritual cleansings, there were sacred coals, incense, showbread, a bloody altar. If you ran this gauntlet, if you leapt every hurdle, still you would not meet God. You’d come face-to-face with a thirty by sixty foot wall of fabric. As it wasn’t made of stone, perhaps the veil gave an illusion of flexibility, of softness. But make no mistake: it was there to keep you out. It was there to prevent your entering into the holy of holies and communing with the Most High God. It is the season of Advent, two thousand and twenty. I have done the ritual cleansing and worn the special garments. I have followed the protocols; I’ve made sacrifices. But all my labor and preparation has only brought me to the veil. I have stumbled into the wall of my irremediable loneliness, and there is no way through. I don’t want to wait here in the semi-dark, in a cloud of incense, alone. Waiting requires resources—incredible resources—and I have none. What I want is change. Relief. I want a dazzling, dramatic rescue. What I get is a baby, playing on the floor beside me. He is dark-skinned and bright-eyed, and he has found a loose thread at the bottom of the heavy veil. He’s pulling it, and a little piece of the hem is unraveling. I watch him, sighing. The veil is dense and high and broad. It would take a lifetime to unravel it. How long will I have to wait until the curtain parts and the light breaks through? How long until the air clears and the barricades finally fall? Today, I light a candle in hope. I light it in honor of the baby and the thread and the life that will prove a continual tugging. I light it in honor of the fellowship that waits on the other side and the God who is eager to pick up the conversation where we left off: in the garden, in the cool of the day. Original art for this post by Jonny Jimison. “O Clavis” by Malcolm Guite Even in the darkness where I sit And huddle in the midst of misery I can remember freedom, but forget That every lock must answer to a key, That each dark clasp, sharp and intricate, Must find a counter-clasp to meet its guard, Particular, exact and intimate, The clutch and catch that meshes with its ward. I cry out for the key I threw away That turned and over turned with certain touch And with the lovely lifting of a latch Opened my darkness to the light of day. O come again, come quickly, set me free Cut to the quick to fit, the master key.

Melanie Penn picked the perfect time to be so straightforward. Artistic work often includes laboring over the choice of the right analogy or descriptive phrase, a way to dress up meaning or cloud the obvious. Melanie’s latest album, More Alive Vol. 1, is earnest through and through. With a musical goal to provide hope and encouragement, Melanie and longtime producer Ben Shive (along with Cason Cooley on this project) delivered a surprisingly bright light for these dark days. As I said, her timing was perfect. In the midst of a global pandemic and social unrest, Melanie says her goal was to boldly state what God says to be true. There is hope on the other side. There is comfort for our grief. There is joy to be found today. I recently sat down with Melanie to ask her about the new album and what it’s like to release an album in a year like 2020. There’s an almost David-and-Goliath thing happening with this encouraging or optimistic release coming into such a dark year. Did that context worry or excite you at all? A positive message will conquer every time. I really believe that. A true positive message will go so far. In the short-term, it might not seem that way, but over time, the positive messages really endure. I really believe that. Let me lean further into that. Many times, the optimism is balanced out or shrouded in some imagery or something. Your album, on the other hand, is such a blatant offering of optimism—— 10 straight tracks! Yes, it is. Front to back, it’s one encouraging message after another, one bright light turned on after another. How intentional was that for you to create a package like this? Or is that just a byproduct of your natural disposition? It was 1,000 percent purposeful. It’s actually pretty risky business because I’m well acquainted with suffering. I never want to be an artist who is forcing people to smile or saying, ‘Things are fine, guys,” while in complete denial. That’s the balance that I have to work in with sensing what kind of artist I’m supposed to be. I have to hold that loosely so that I’m not trying to shove something down people’s throats. There’s this proverb that I really take to heart. It says “singing cheerful songs to a sad heart is like one who takes off a coat in winter.” I think of that all the time because you could potentially make someone colder because you’re trying to remove whatever defenses or grief they have that is actually preserving them. I never want to be doing that. So I just want to be aware. I don’t have strategies on how I hold those things in balance when I’m trying to write an album. I just try to be aware and hope that awareness solves it. Was there conversation around that with Ben or Cason? Tons. I felt so strongly about the album I wanted to make and for the material to be so optimistic, like you’re picking up on. We worked on this song “I Want To Know You” with a line in the chorus that says, “I want to share your sufferings like a child of God.” Which is straight from the Bible, straight scripture. I was like, “I don’t know about sharing in suffering. That’s not what I’m talking about. I want people to rise above.” I think Cason and Ben had to ground me a bit and help me tell a deeper story and a more true story by even referencing the word suffering in a poppy praise song, you know? So there were a few conversations like that. You mention a true story, and I wanted to jump to the final song, “Avenue of the Americas.” You end this album with what seems to be this really vulnerable admission toward the end with “Maybe this will be my year.” It’s the most singer-songwriter-y song on the album for sure. It’s definitely the most biographical. I want “Avenue of the Americas” to live in this genre of New York songs. Singer-songwriters have talked about trying to make it in New York for many years in their songs, so I wanted to pay homage to that. Of course I finished the song last year so I never knew that “maybe this will be my year” would become an ironic statement in 2020. Everyone’s dreams have been pretty much crushed. I can’t tell you how many years someone in the industry or someone else has told me, ‘This is gonna be a big year for you, Melanie.” So that line is also an echo of how many times people have said that to me over the years. No one actually ever knows what the big year will be. So I think that line works on so many levels. I think it works for us collectively as a very ironic note on the album. It’s also my heart as an artist, too. Everyone needs a big year. I think a good artist career has a periodic good year and then you move forward. But, yes, it is a very vulnerable, honest line. Which song are you hoping finds a home with listeners the most? One song that means a lot to me is “One Word.” What I love about that song is that it takes us immediately to that story of Jesus calming the storm with the disciples in the boat. Jesus’ power is on display and his ability to be completely nonplussed is on display, but also the disciples and Jesus experience this when they’re on their way to do something great. I would want us to remember in this very stormy year that we’re on a passage. We’re on our way to do something great. There’s great work on the other side for us to do. If we can look at this very crushing year in that way, I think it can help keep us going. This is the wave of resistance while we all have very important work to do and I think we can continue to trust that God will bring us to the other side. Anything else you want to say to readers about the new album or where you’re at? I love this album. I do intend to tour it when the world opens up, even if it’s a modest, socially-distanced kind of way. I’ll trust my instincts to know when that will be back and happening. It’s definitely another chapter in my artistic collaboration with Ben, and it feels important to continue to evolve with him and figure out what we’re doing. I know I could work with another producer, but my relationship with Ben is very foundational. For anyone following along, this is totally a step forward for us. Click here to visit Melanie Penn’s website. Click here to stream More Alive, Vol. 1 on Spotify and here to stream it on Apple Music.