After a two-year hiatus, we are immensely grateful to be able to say that Hutchmoot US is returning in 2022! It will take place in Franklin, TN on October 6-9, and there will be stories told, songs sung, cheeses consumed, and friendships made. To put it quite simply, we at the Rabbit Room can’t wait to see you again. Tickets will go on sale at 12:00pm CDT on Saturday, April 2nd at Hutchmoot.com, for $325 each. But please do read on for more details—there are a few things it would be helpful for you to know if you’re interested in joining us this year. The Ticket Situation Back in the before-times, we had planned to host Hutchmoot US 2020 just like every year. We even got so far as selling tickets. And then, once it became clear that Hutchmoot would be impossible, rather than cancel those tickets, we chose to honor them at a future Hutchmoot US. Well, to those of you who bought your tickets in 2020, your time has (finally!) come. You should have an email in your inbox containing your renewed ticket for 2022. Congratulations! If for some reason you don’t see that email, then first, check all your spam folders—weird things can happen—and then, if all else fails, email us at info@rabbitroom.com and we’ll help you get it sorted out. There are still a handful of tickets left, and those tickets will go on sale at Hutchmoot.com on Saturday, April 2nd. We even chose Saturday specifically so that you wouldn’t think it’s an April Fool’s joke! You’re welcome. Please note that all tickets to Hutchmoot US 2022 are non-refundable. If you currently have a ticket in your name and wish to transfer it to someone else, then follow the instructions listed below. How to Transfer Your Ticket to Someone Else Have a ticket, but want to transfer it to someone else? Here’s how to do that: Go to Universe.com & log into your Universe account. Once logged in, click your name in the top right corner (on desktop) or tap the sandwich menu in the top right corner (on mobile), then select “My Tickets.” Underneath the “View ticket” button, select “More,” then “Transfer ticket.” Follow the prompt by entering the first name, last name, and email address of the person to whom you want to transfer your ticket to Hutchmoot US 2022. Bam! You’re done. Pat yourself on the back. Want to Sponsor Hutchmoot US 2022? We love to partner with people, both organizations and individuals, who believe in the good work of Hutchmoot and want to contribute to its flourishing. Click here to learn more about sponsorship. Stay tuned for exciting announcements on Saturday, April 2nd regarding what Hutchmoot US will look like this year!

It’s a big year for the Rabbit Room Podcast Network! We’re launching another brand new show hosted by Matt Conner: Call It Good, a limited series of conversations with authors, artists, and pastors about creative confidence and the invitation before us to join with the Spirit in the act of re-creating the world. In this introductory episode, Matt Conner tells us about where his idea for Call It Good came from and what he hopes to offer through this collection of conversations. Read on for a word from Matt about the show. Our identity as humans is rooted in being co-creators, in participating alongside the work of the Spirit who is, even still, hovering over that which is dark, that which does not exist, that which is a void in order to bring forth something beautiful. Most of us have no problem with this, that the Genesis narrative presents a poetic model for us to follow. However, it’s the last section of the cycle of creation that stumps most of us. Even if we can wrap our minds around what it means to create just as we were created, that we are all invited and equipped to bring something from nothing and light from darkness, it’s this closing reflection that trips us up. What does it mean for something to be 'good' in the first place? What is behind our hesitancy to extol the beauty of the work of our own hands? What is lost when we hide what has been created in the name of humility? Matt Conner The creation narrative we’ve been handed over the centuries involves more than just the creation of something. It also includes the hanging of an unseen banner over it. It’s hanging over all of us as created beings. It calls us good. After living with these two competing scenes, the ones with my embarrassed son and the confident musician, an idea emerged to explore this reticence further. Introducing Call It Good, a new short-series podcast from the Rabbit Room that will expand on this idea. What does it mean for something to be “good” in the first place? What is behind our hesitancy to extol the beauty of the work of our own hands? What is lost when we hide what has been created in the name of humility? Call It Good will feature a diverse set of creators who will open up about their own creative work and their ability (or inability) to call it good. We’ll also ask them to invite us into their own works that are truly excellent to serve as examples for us all. Our hope is that this series of intimate conversations will provide vulnerable yet trusted companions for you to do the same—to begin to listen to what the spirit might ask you to bring forth and that you can complete the cycle of creating it by sharing it with joy for the rest of us. Welcome to Call It Good. Click here to listen to Call It Good on Omny, here to listen on Apple Podcasts, and here to listen on Spotify. Transcripts are now available for Call It Good. Click here to access them. Sponsorship on the Podcast Network Are you interested in teaming up with us to support the work you love? Send an email to our Head of Development, Sarah Katherine Woodhull, at sarahkatherine@rabbitroom.com if you are interested in becoming a sponsor of our Podcast Network. Rabbit Room Membership Special thanks to our Rabbit Room members for making these podcasts possible! If you’re interested in becoming a member, visit RabbitRoom.com/Donate.

[Editor’s note: Today, we bring you an oldie and a goodie from Helena Sorensen. In this Lenten reflection from 2018, Helena tells the story of how her fast from God paradoxically opened up more space for her to enter God’s presence.] I’m new to the liturgical tradition. Growing up, we thought Episcopalians and Anglicans were people who didn’t have the nerve to call themselves what they were: Catholics. Lent fell neatly into the same category of things I didn’t know much about or care much about. From a distance, it looked like self-flagellation. I wanted no part of it. Until this year. This year I was ready for Lent, and I knew exactly what I wanted to give up: God. In the weeks leading up to Lent, I’d come to a place of extreme frustration and exhaustion. I’d been pleading with God, straining to see his goodness through the pain of prayers long unanswered. I felt as if I’d been dashing myself against a cliff. I was battered. I was done. I stopped praying, stopped asking, stopped talking to him at all. I stopped reciting the liturgy with my church congregation, stopped going forward to take communion. I no longer read the Passion translation of Luke when I got up in the mornings, and I skipped whole rows of daily readings from Gail Pitt’s “First We Were Loved.” I wanted everything to go quiet, and it did. What a relief! That was my first reaction. No more weeping and wrestling with God. No more begging for answers, for healing. My mornings were free and uncluttered. I was surprised to discover that not talking to God felt like Sabbath. When my frustration with God, my anger at him, my feelings of grief and abandonment, choked off all possibility of prayer, even then, I could sing. Helena Sorensen But something else happened in the following days. I found it difficult to stick to my commitment. I kept bumping into situations in which I normally offer a kind of knee-jerk prayer. I might drive away from my house, for example, and whisper a brief, panicked request that my children will be okay while I’m gone. Maybe a car swerves into my lane on I-24 and I throw up a quick, “Oh God, help!” Or an appliance makes a funny noise, and I beg the Lord to hold it together a little longer. During Lent, I wasn’t supposed to say those prayers. I’d determined to stop. So I caught myself; I stopped. But without the prayers, I was left with nothing but the fear that drives them. I discovered that knee-jerk prayers have nothing to do with connection or relationship. They don’t rise from a place of trust in the God who is for me. They’re more akin to the practice of reaching into a wall niche and touching a household god before going out. They’re automatic, superstitious, and they’re getting me nowhere. My next discovery was more confirmation than surprise. On Sundays with our congregation, or in my car with the iPhone connected, or in my kitchen while cooking dinner, I could sing. When my frustration with God, my anger at him, my feelings of grief and abandonment choked off all possibility of prayer, even then, I could sing. I could always sing. Anne Lamott discusses this phenomenon in Traveling Mercies: I went back to St. Andrew about once a month. No one tried to con me into siting down or staying. I always left before the sermon. I loved singing, even about Jesus, but I just didn’t want to be preached at about him. To me, Jesus made about as much sense as Scientology or dowsing…it was the singing that pulled me in and split me wide open.Eventually, a few months after I started coming, I took a seat in one of the folding chairs, off by myself. Then the singing enveloped me. It was furry and resonant, coming from everyone’s very heart. There was no sense of performance or judgment, only that the music was breath and food. Something inside me that was stiff and rotting would feel soft and tender. Somehow the singing wore down all the boundaries and distinctions that kept me so isolated. Sitting there, standing with them to sing, sometimes so shaky and sick that I felt like I might tip over, I felt bigger than myself, like I was being taken care of, tricked into coming back to life. But I had to leave before the sermon. —Anne Lamott, Traveling Mercies Music is sneaky that way. It’s a trick that “splits you wide open.” And I suppose I betrayed my commitment, because I didn’t only sing on feast days. I couldn’t help myself. I sang on many days, and that channel of communication stayed wide open. It didn’t take long before I missed God. There were things I wanted to discuss with him—choices to make, ideas to explore. Things were rising in my heart that I didn’t know how to handle. I felt lonely. Of course I wasn’t alone. There is no separation between us. But God honored my commitment, waiting patiently without shaming or bullying, giving me time to catch my breath and look around before finally bringing my eyes to meet his. He waited while I remembered that I can be furious with my beloved and absolutely adore him in the same moment. God is so close and so quiet that he hears even the solitary whispers of my longing. I can shout my pleas from the rooftops every morning till I die, but those cries won’t be heard any better than my first little whimpers of hope. Helena Sorensen Then came Easter morning, and I expected a glorious reunion, a slow-motion run into the arms of Jesus. Except that we hadn’t been apart, not really, and it was cold and rainy on Easter morning, and all the emotions I’d set aside while I gave God up for Lent came roaring back. The dam broke, and I was a mess. All day. I never did feel triumphant. Today the sky is clear and the sun shines. The hostas push fat spears out of the soil, and the Japanese maple unfolds its red lace leaves. I am entering slowly into the joy of Resurrection. But I learned some things on my forty-day journey. Before Lent, I’d convinced myself that God would answer my prayers if I prayed hard enough, with enough passion and fervor. I thought I would be heard for my “much speaking.” I had to break myself against that lie before I could see the truth. God is so close and so quiet that he hears even the solitary whispers of my longing. I can shout my pleas from the rooftops every morning till I die, but those cries won’t be heard any better than my first little whimpers of hope. They’re tucked away safe, every one, whether I’m praying today or not. I remembered that singing is prayer, and for me perhaps it is the very best kind. Helena Sorensen I learned that what I thought was prayer was often only an expression of fear. Giving those prayers up was a wonderful choice, because now the Lord and I can begin a conversation about my fear. I can chuck the household idol. I remembered that singing is prayer, and for me perhaps it is the very best kind. Why it opens my heart so easily and so fully is a mystery. Maybe it’s science. Maybe it’s a matter of spiritual dimensions. In any case, it’s a lifeline, and I’m grateful for it. I learned that my community is present with me in my places of struggle. My friends listened with compassion and understanding when I told them what I was doing for Lent. My church congregation recited the Nicene Creed and the Lord’s Prayer while I sat in the pew. My silence did not deter them. During Lent, I couldn’t ask God to advance his kingdom or send my daily bread. My church did it for me. I learned, too, that while I cannot control God, neither can I escape him. To one who knows nothing of his heart, the realization might feel oppressive. But Lent is about making space, and this year I discovered just how much space there is. I am united with God, finally and forever, yet within that unbreakable union is all the room I need to ask or be silent, to rage or rejoice. I am seen and heard and held secure. Thanks be to God. Click here to visit Helena Sorensen’s website.

This week on The Habit Podcast, Jonathan Rogers talks with professor and author Jessica Hooten Wilson. Jessica Hooten Wilson is the Louise Cowan Scholar in Residence at the University of Dallas. She has written books about Flannery O’Connor, Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Walker Percy, and Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn. Her most recent book is The Scandal of Holiness: Renewing Your Imagination in the Company of Literary Saints. In this episode, Dr. Wilson and Jonathan talk about the ways that reading great works of literature cultivates an imagination that moves us toward holiness. Click here to listen to Season 4, Episode 13 of The Habit Podcast. Transcripts are now available for The Habit Podcast. Click here to access them. Sponsorship on the Podcast Network Are you interested in teaming up with us to support the work you love? Send an email to our Head of Development, Sarah Katherine Woodhull, at sarahkatherine@rabbitroom.com if you are interested in becoming a sponsor of our Podcast Network. Rabbit Room Membership Special thanks to our Rabbit Room members for making these podcasts possible! If you’re interested in becoming a member, visit RabbitRoom.com/Donate.

On October 6-9, the Rabbit Room will convene Hutchmoot US 2022 at Christ Community Church in Franklin, Tennessee. Registration opens today at 12:00pm CDT for our weekend of live music, delicious food and conversation, and a series of discussions centered on art, faith, and the telling of great stories across a range of mediums. Plus, we’re so excited to welcome Sho Baraka as this year’s keynote speaker and Taylor Leonhardt as our featured musical guest. Click here for more information and to register for Hutchmoot US 2022.

Recently, I had the pleasure of asking Russ Ramsey a few questions about his new book Rembrandt Is In the Wind, the story of how he came to love visual art, and the interaction of that love with his faith and ministry as a pastor. Read on for some beautiful responses from Russ. When and how did your love of the visual arts and art history begin? Share that origin story with us. In high school, I had the good fortune of having an art teacher who loved art. She wanted us to love it, too. So she introduced us not only to great works of art but, more importantly, to the people who created them. She broke out the old projector and filmstrips so we could tour Frank Lloyd Wright’s Falling Water from our classroom in Tipton, Indiana. She impressed upon us the role of math and dimension by taking us on the trip that is M. C. Escher. She broke our hearts with the sad and beautiful story of Vincent van Gogh by making us watch the wonderful Technicolor Kirk Douglass film from the 60s, Lust for Life, which is based on Irving Stone’s book by the same name—a great place to start with van Gogh. Every year she took us to the Indianapolis Art Museum. There I learned how exhausting art can be. She’d turn us loose for the afternoon, and I’d meander from room to room trying to look at everything—you know, to get my money’s worth. But I’ll never forget the first time I walked into the room with the van Goghs after I had learned about his story. His canvases struck me in such a way that I had to sit down and just look. In fact, I spent most of my time in that room that day, just looking at van Gogh. That day with van Gogh shaped the way I would approach art thereafter. If you had to choose just one visual artist from all of history to call your favorite, who would it be and why? What unique contribution did this artist make, and why does it resonate with you so deeply? The harder we work at something, the more we are able and free to enjoy it. Rembrandt knew this too. Russ Ramsey At this point in my life I would have to say Rembrandt. There was a time when it was most definitely Vincent van Gogh, but it’s Rembrandt now. I think a big part of this comes with age. When Vincent died, he was eleven years younger than I am now. Rembrandt lived into his late 60’s, and the arc of his life shaped his art. I’m trying to pay attention to that. I’m currently researching Rembrandt’s life story, and it’s really making me tender toward him in ways I haven’t felt before. Rembrandt was regarded by his own peers as a master, second only to Dürer in all of Europe at the time. And now, many of us might ask, “Who’s Dürer?” But we all know Rembrandt. He was an absolute genius, an artistic prodigy, and a man who had to navigate the fame his talents brought along with the suffering he came to know in the second half of his life in particular. I am drawn to the stories as much as the paintings. How has your understanding shifted over the years regarding the convergence of faith and pastoral ministry with deep engagement in art? Are there any ways in which your mind has changed or your imagination has expanded? Art and ministry have always been linked in my mind—since the very beginning. My sense of call to ministry came after I developed a love for art, so I went into my vocation with an appreciation for the power of art. Over the years, I have come to believe more deeply in the importance of regularly engaging with things that move us to awe and wonder. So much of our early adult years can be spent trying to nail things to the floor (theological, relational, philosophical, spiritual, or otherwise) that simply cannot be wrangled in that way. Engaging with beauty and wonder pries our grip off of our felt need to lock things in so we can control them. What are a few examples of scriptural themes and theological insights that have taken on new depth for you as you’ve seen them represented in visual art? Scripture talks a lot about how in this world we will have trouble, and how when we’re young we’ll tend to think we’ve got things under control only to discover later that control is an illusion. I love paying attention to how an artist develops over time. I care as much about the body of work as I do for any individual piece of it. Since I’ve got Rembrandt on my mind a lot right now, let’s use him as an example. In his younger work, he flexed for the viewer, showing off his technical abilities, which were unmatched. To think a man in his mid-twenties painted The Presentation of Jesus in the Temple is hard to get my mind around. As impressive as it is, however, it’s not that intimate. But later, he paints the same scene again, only this time he is an old man, approaching death. He has suffered. He has lost a wife, three children, his fortune, and reputation. This version is intimate, warm, and simple. In his early painting, he wanted to show us what he could do, but in the later version, it’s as though all the old man wants to do is hold Jesus. Those two paintings come together to tell the story of one man, and how youthful self-assurance gives way humility and dependence—and often by way of suffering. 1631 Between 1665 and 1669 In your epilogue you say, “the world is short on masters, and consequently, it’s a world short on joy, too.” What do you mean by that? For Rembrandt to become who he was, he had to train his hands to paint as he alone was made to paint. But in doing that, he had to learn the fundamentals. He had to practice. This means he must have started somewhere. It’s hard to imagine, but there had to have existed some pretty terrible Rembrandts at some point—early charcoal works hung on the wall and loved only by his mother. What’s not hard to imagine is a solitary figure in a lamp-lit room mixing his oils, preening his brushes, thinking and painting and thinking and painting. Practicing. Later he would say to young artists, “Try to put well in practice what you already know; and in so doing, you will in good time, discover the hidden things which you now inquire about. Practice what you know, and it will help to make clear what now you do not know.” The mastery of something leads to a greater enjoyment of it. Singers, musicians, painters, writers, athletes, and artists of all stripes know this. The harder we work at something, the more we are able and free to enjoy it. Rembrandt knew this too. Click here to view Rembrandt Is In the Wind: Learning to Love Art through the Eyes of Faith on Amazon.

Have you listened to the new Jill Phillips record yet? If you haven’t, stop everything and listen immediately. Then, when you’ve finished crying, come back here and read this beautiful interview where Ben Shive (who worked with Jill to produce the record) asks Jill some questions about the craft of songwriting, the story of her lifelong love of music, and the meaning of collaboration. Ben Shive: You are the all time name-that-tune champ in the 80’s pop genre. Seriously encyclopedic. You’ve always been an active music listener and I know you still seek out new music. I find that listening gets a little harder for me every year and I think that’s common. Can you talk about what keeps you interested in new music? What are you looking for when you listen? Is there anything you used to look for that you don’t care about anymore? Jill Phillips: Ben, this is such a good question. I don’t know that I can ever re-create the influence of the artists I was listening to in my early days as a musician. Susan Ashton, Jonatha Brooke, Patty Griffin, Rich Mullins, Crowded House—their music shaped me at a pivotal time. It feels like thinking of your childhood hometown or best friend; there’s a wistfulness to these names that parallels my own journey of being a student at Belmont and growing into being an artist. These days my listening is different and it’s harder to find artists that are as influential to my work, where I want to dive into everything they’ve released and absorb every word and note. I do find those artists occasionally and it’s a gift as I get older. It happened recently with Daniel Tashian (the Silver Seas)—I’m a bit late to the party but he felt like the next artist I will listen to over my lifetime, not just for a month. I don’t listen to some of the early artists who inspired me quite as much anymore, almost as if they were for that season. I still listen to and enjoy old music and songwriters I have loved for decades, but I’m listening to a lot more gospel and soul music. I think in this season of life I’m looking for more unrestricted emotion in songs—not that it’s inherently better, it just seems to be what I need right now. I feel less self-consciousness coming from these voices and the wisdom, hope, and character that comes from suffering. I am drawn to voices that aren’t affected and contorted to whatever the latest style is. I care very much about words and writing, but I am equally drawn to the vocals and the overall vibe. That being said, if you looked at the songs downloaded on my phone you might be hard pressed to find an overall theme. Next to Callie Day, CeCe Winans, and Maxwell, there might be songs by The War on Drugs and Bleachers. Deeper Into Love is a wisdom record. From the beginning, I think your catalog is essentially wisdom literature. When did that quest for wisdom begin? What have you learned about the nature of wisdom along the way? How has your new vocation shaped your search? I have never thought about my catalog as wisdom literature. That’s really moving to me, thank you. I think I’ve always been an old soul and have asked deep questions from a young age. I’ve often been an observer and wanted to sit in the mystery and complexity of things. I would lie awake late into the night thinking about philosophical and theological questions, and honestly, I don’t know why. Some of it is personality and some of it is growing up in a home with two parents who were teachers and in a church with a lot of great mentors who encouraged me to ask deep questions. I still attend a church that welcomes reflection and have also had the opportunity as a musician to travel to places across the world where people are leaning into learning and growing. Being a musician and being a counselor both flow from a posture of being awake, asking deep questions, making observations, and trying to integrate many insights into one song or one concept. I don’t know that I have an answer for how I define the nature of wisdom, but the best I can come up with in my own life is being rooted in Love: knowing I am loved by God, loving God, loving others. Being part of a bigger love story. And to embrace my humanity and who God created me to be as best as I can. Spiritual direction and wise mentors have helped me so much in this journey of really beginning to accept how loved I am by God. And that changes everything. There is so much spaciousness and freedom in his love and sadly we don’t always experience that from the church or Christians. But it is the truth. This verse from the Message translation of Galatians sums up what wisdom looks like vocationally and personally in this season of my life: “Make a careful exploration of who you are and the work you have been given, and then sink yourself into that. Don’t be impressed with yourself. Don’t compare yourself with others. Each of you must take responsibility for doing the creative best you can with your own life.” I want to spend the rest of my life practicing this and inviting others into this freedom as well. “Writing on the Wall” and “Deeper” each turned out to be prescient; each was written about grief just before you experienced a profound loss. What do you make of this? How has writing correlated with your circumstances and inner life? It is so strange, isn’t it? I know grief is all around us all of the time, but when I experienced my first great loss after my father died, I had no idea how much it would open me up to this reality. The more I live and love, the more I have experienced loss. It is such a constant part of life now. I wouldn’t know where to begin in telling all the stories of loss and grief I’m holding right now, mine and others’. There are still losses that gut me and shock me, like losing Thomas and Charlie McKenzie on the first day of recording this project, but I am more and more experienced with loss as I grow older. I love that the Bible says Jesus was a Man of Sorrows acquainted with grief. Suffering has only increased my capacity to experience peace and joy. What a bizarre mystery. I think that’s what we were trying to say in the song “Bright Sadness.” My writing has always correlated with my inner life and circumstances. I truly don’t know how to do it any other way. Each album is a snapshot of where I am and what I am wrestling with or being comforted by at that time. Early in my career, I tried to write songs that pleased others, but I was miserable and it didn’t last long. I have the ability now to write what I want about what I want, and I hope that helps me sing with authenticity and authority. This is the first time we’ve written together. What’s it like stepping into a new collaboration? What are the joys of writing for you? Does collaboration enhance those joys or change them in some way? I think I’m always a bit scared stepping into a new collaboration. I am grateful our path to writing was organic and based in years of friendship, which made it easier for me. I am very relational, so writing with people is always easiest for me when there is safety and relationship. It’s such a vulnerable thing to share your heart and vision with someone. I hope that as I have gotten older I can show up and worry less about proving something. Most performers like me grow up with some performance-based wounds, so collaboration is always an invitation to be present more, hustle less, and tap into the larger creative process at work. Co-writing has never been as easy for me as it is for Andy, who could write with someone new everyday, but I am usually encouraged and expanded in some way by each experience. You’ve worked with some great producers: Wayne Kirkpatrick, Matt Stanfield, and Cason Cooley. This is the first time we’ve worked together and you came in like a pro. You gave me a lot of room to do what I do but you weren’t afraid to speak up when you wanted something or when something wasn’t right. Were you always so comfortable in the studio or has that been a process? I am so glad you felt that way! I thought it was incredibly easy to work with you too. It felt effortless and natural and I needed that so much in this season of life. I was not always so comfortable in the studio and I remember my insecurities getting in the way when I was beginning to record as a student at Belmont. I would internally shut down at suggestions or criticism, even if I didn’t voice it. I would get in my head too much. Insecurity and ego can stifle the creative process like no other, and I’m grateful I’ve had decades to get more comfortable in my skin, know my voice, own my limitations, and just go in being more myself. That has also freed me to explore more from this safe base and take creative risks. Suffering has only increased my capacity to experience peace and joy. What a bizarre mystery. I think that’s what we were trying to say in the song 'Bright Sadness.' Jill Phillips Wayne Kirkpatrick was instrumental in starting me on this journey. He is an amazing man and was the perfect person for me to begin working with as a young artist. I’m actually getting emotional thinking about it now, as it’s been so long since I’ve revisited this time in my life. He had industry credibility and success, and he used every bit of that to advocate for me who had no power. He did not have to do that; he could have lined his own pockets. He could have tried to write and play on everything and he didn’t—instead, he empowered me and Andy to be ourselves and do what we do. He made sure I sang my own songs and he had Andy play all of the guitar. He was comfortable in who he was, which created a generous work environment, and that experience has stayed with me to this day. And there is so much I could say about Matt and Cason, too—they are so supportive and collaborative and have always believed in me. I learned about incredible attention to detail from Matt—we would work long hours to get everything exactly how we wanted it. I learned a lot about big picture vision from Cason and creating an overall sonic landscape. Not to mention amazing lunches every day! We spent as much time talking about where we would eat as we did going over vocal comps. He is so fun. I felt a perfect blend from you of letting me be myself and also pushing me to something better and more beautiful with every word, every vocal take. I would be content with something and you would find a way to elevate it. And it never felt critical; it was freeing to have someone expect more from me and from the music. I am so grateful for each of you and each of these experiences. Click here to view Deeper Into Love in the Rabbit Room Store, and stay tuned for Part 2, where Jill interviews Ben.

This week on The Habit Podcast, Jonathan Rogers talks with songwriting legend and member of the Nashville Songwriters Hall of Fame, Tom Douglas. Tom Douglas recently released a movie—a one-man show called Love, Tom: A Letter of Hope to a Desperate World, streaming on Paramount Plus. It’s a beautiful, wise, and honest meditation on the creative process. In this episode, Tom and Jonathan Rogers talk about harnessing hurt and rejecting idolatry in the creative process, and steering a middle course between apathy and anxiety. Click here to listen to Season 4, Episode 14 of The Habit Podcast. Transcripts are now available for The Habit Podcast. Click here to access them. Sponsorship on the Podcast Network Are you interested in teaming up with us to support the work you love? Send an email to our Head of Development, Sarah Katherine Woodhull, at sarahkatherine@rabbitroom.com if you are interested in becoming a sponsor of our Podcast Network. Rabbit Room Membership 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 suppose naming a song and album “There Will Be Surprises” is rather like praying to God for patience. Meaning, I can’t set out on a project with this title and expect not to be surprised myself. And let me tell you: I’m not easy to surprise. I’m supposed to be the one doing the surprising here after all, but every step of the way, I’ve been given taste after taste of my own medicine. As I recall, the writing of this song was itself a bit of a surprise. I had just finished up a few days in the studio in January 2019, recording my Desolation and Consolation EPs, when one evening I found myself pacing around downstairs with my guitar, finger-picking this simple chord progression and grasping for words. I remember the vague feeling that lyrically, this song was a dare, a gamble—the narrator is betting with each verse that violence will not pay off, that children will inherit kingdoms with mourners, and that in the end, human ambition will be overturned and upended. (By the way, I’m stealing shamelessly from the Beatitudes here. If you want the source text, look no further than chapter five of Matthew’s Gospel. Unfortunately, many of us have grown so familiar with this passage that it’s lost its capacity to surprise us, but that’s not irreversible. Sit with it for a minute and see if you can recover your own sense of surprise at Jesus’s relentlessly bold assertions.) This song continued to surprise me in the recording process. I went into pre-production at the Art House expecting to find a mellow, warm bass-and-drum groove to sit underneath my guitar-picking. Instead, Lucas Morton suggested that we leave the guitar behind altogether in search of a feel that would restore a sense of spacious momentum and vitality to the song. I went home that day pondering what such an idea might sound like. The next morning, I walked into the Art House and Lucas said, “Drew, I took your song in a new direction after you left yesterday.” And he played me a piano-led, energetic-yet-nostalgic progression, held together by an electronic percussion loop and a synth bass. Not what I’d expected! And yet, in that demo, I heard the heartbeat of the song from when I had first written it two Januarys ago. Although many elements have shifted since that demo, the piano you’ll hear in the master is the take he recorded that day after I had left. It could not be improved upon in any way, and I grew more and more attached to it with each listen. The cover art process for this song was surprising, too. Kyra Hinton had already made a gorgeous cover painting for the album as a whole, but we knew we needed separate art for when I released the song on its own as a single, to distinguish it from the full album. So, rather than try to re-invent the wheel, Kyra sifted through the steps she had taken to arrive at album art. In that sifting, she found a white canvas filled with a whirling circle of green-blue that she had made along the way. This canvas was never meant to be more than an intermediate step, and yet I was transfixed by the deliciousness of the color and the sense of freshness and excitement that it conveyed. Again, this is not at all what I had expected, but it was perfect for a song that’s all about the subverting and re-shaping of our expectations. So many mistakes are made and so much damage done in the vain search for completion, for mastery, for the assurance of control. That’s the core premise of this song, and in many ways, this whole album. And the creative process, like every other process in life, invites us to lay down this vain search. Instead of completion, try curiosity; instead of mastery, a confession of ignorance; instead of control, surrender. I’m moved when I consider how this one little song has been issuing me that invitation repeatedly, playfully, all throughout its little life. Click here to listen to “There Will Be Surprises” on Spotify and here to listen on Apple Music.

Being an artist can be lonely work. Not only do we often work alone, but we frequently find ourselves in community with people who may not have as intimate a relationship with their own creativity as we do. Sometimes we don’t know how to talk about our creative work, and our loved ones don’t know how to ask about it. If our friends don’t know how to ask why we love the things we love, and we don’t know how to bridge the gap from our side, then how can we be truly known? In this episode, Kyra and Jamin are joined by Orion Dyson-Smith in a conversation that explores being known. Along the way they discuss questions they wish people would ask them, their favorite paint color pairings, and fishing. Orion Dyson-Smith is a part time nurse anesthetist and part time visual artist, working with graphite, watercolor, and oil paint. He earned a Bachelors Degree in Fine Arts from Wichita State University in 2005 and currently lives and works in Wichita, Kansas. Click here to learn more about Orion and view some of his work at his website, and here to find him on Instagram. Click here to listen to The Artists & Podcast on Omny, here to listen on Apple Podcasts, and here to listen on Spotify. Transcripts are now available for The Artists & Podcast. Click here to access them. Sponsorship on the Podcast Network Are you interested in teaming up with us to support the work you love? Send an email to our Head of Development, Sarah Katherine Woodhull, at sarahkatherine@rabbitroom.com if you are interested in becoming a sponsor of our Podcast Network. Rabbit Room Membership Special thanks to our Rabbit Room members for making these podcasts possible! If you’re interested in becoming a member, visit RabbitRoom.com/Donate.

[Editor’s note: Our friends at Square Halo books have a brand new collection of essays called Wild Things and Castles in the Sky. Together, these essays form one cohesive guide for choosing books for children. We’re grateful to get to share with you an essay from the book written by Katy Bowser Hutson, which explores themes of wonder, magic, courage, and how fairy tales remind us we’re part of something bigger than we could ever dream.] My family went to the beach in Florida recently. After a year of quarantine, we jumped at the chance to stay in a friend’s house, be in a new space, and run around on the beach, even though it was winter. We played in the sand. We splashed in the waves, wearing wetsuits to make the February water bearable. On the last day, we piled in the car, exhausted from fun and from throwing ourselves against the enormity of the ocean, our calves sore from navigating shifting sand. We noticed our salty lips as we drove back to the house for hot baths. The kids were that rare kind of quiet that happens when they are wonderfully spent. As I drove, my husband mused, “I wonder why the ocean is salty.” The thought hung in the air. Then Story, our ten-year-old daughter began, with a dash of bardic flair, “Well, you see, there were two brothers, one rich, and one poor. It was Christmas Eve, and the poor brother didn’t have a bite in the house.” Her six-year-old brother jumped in. “The younger brother asked the older brother for some food for Christmas.” An argument ensued as Story and Del negotiated over who would get to tell the tale. In the end, Story got to tell the main points, and Del was allowed to add color commentary. They told their dad of a bargain between brothers, a man who met the younger brother en route to Dead Man’s Hall, who then counseled him to bargain for the magic hand-mill behind the door—with the caveat that the magic mill’s owner must know how to make it stop once it had ground out the requested riches. The younger brother escaped from under his brother’s thumb and got the better of him, finally selling the mill for great riches to a traveling skipper. The skipper commanded salt from the magic mill and, in order that he might rest from his perilous travels overseas, ran away to sea before anyone could take the mill from him. But the captain, in his greed and fear, had not asked how to stop the mill. As Story and Del ended the tale, the ship sank beneath the weight of the salt. The mill lies at the bottom of the ocean, grinding on to this day. My husband sat in the front seat and grinned. “Why The Sea Is Salty,” a Norwegian fairy tale first published in the 1840s, was now knit into our story. Our kids know it’s an old story. We can speculate how the story came to be: somebody’s dad in Norway was playing with them at the beach sometime, probably, pulling in his fishing nets, and a child asked, “I wonder why the sea is salty.” Or maybe the dad asked, and the child told the story. The fact remains: the sea is salty, and it is wondrous and worth wondering about. Like hymns and other great works that survive centuries, fairy tales remind us we are part of something bigger. Something magical. I read “Why The Sea Is Salty” to my children a couple of weeks ago at the beginning of our school day. (We homeschool.) I’ve considered whether to officially include fairy tales as part of our school time. When something is added to our official school day, the kids get suspicious. It becomes obligatory. But fairy tales don’t come with any baggage. I don’t require a narration, and I don’t test. Generally. Okay, this time I did. On a whim, I asked my kids to write a fairy tale; my son had to narrate his for me to write down, and my daughter had to write one. There were two requirements for this fairy tale: it had to explain something inexplicable in the world, and it had to have a twist of magic. It was effortless for them. Because kids get magic, and kids get wonder. Our family is not a “books only” family, but books do comprise a large part of our story diet. Books dominate a good bit of square footage (and floor space, and counter space) in our home. We read The Chronicles of Narnia again this year. We are finishing up The Hobbit again and hoping this time the six-year-old and ten-year-old will be up for The Lord of the Rings. We love The Blue Fairy Book and Grimms’ fairy tales. We love D’Aulaires’ Book of Norse Myths and Greek Myths. I’m finally giving J. R. R. Tolkien’s The Simarillion a shot. Emily Wilson’s translation of The Odyssey I really dig. (You see me blurring the line between fairy tales and myths. I know. I think it’s blurry.) We are not purists or traditionalists. My daughter also devoured Chris Colfer’s Land of Stories series, which are fun and mischievous takes on Grimms’ and others that Colfer conceived of in childhood. I am thoroughly enjoying Neil Gaiman’s Norse Mythology. We read fairy tales because they enrich our imaginations. And that is a big deal. I do not believe that fairy tales are tinsel, simply decorating our lives. I do believe that the strength and content of a person’s imagination is of life and death importance. Fairy tales prepare us for life. A few weeks ago we were all at home when Story called from the living room, “Mama, there are a bunch of cars out front and police yelling, and they just pulled guns out.” We yelled to the kids to run to our bedroom and made them lie low behind our bed. We told them everything we could about what we knew—that God watches over us, and that we have very strong brick walls bullets can’t go through. We prayed for the police officers, and we prayed for whomever they were chasing. We heard helicopters overhead, and the kids were scared. We were scared. After a while Kenny and I crawled to the front window to see what was going on, and the situation was in hand. Two people were handcuffed. The police had identified a stolen car, and there had been a chase all over town. The culprits had gotten lost in our neighborhood, and the whole situation had come to a head in front of our house. After talking it out some, we had rest time. We typically separate the kids so that they settle down, but they asked if they could be together, and we kept doors open between us. They looked out the front window where the whole event had happened. They told the story. They came up with scenarios. “What if I had gone out there in Dad’s army helmet from when he was a kid and my bubble gun?” (They laughed.) “What would they have done?” “What if the bad guys took the car because theirs was all rusty? What if this one looked so fast and good?” I do not believe that fairy tales are tinsel, simply decorating our lives. I do believe that the strength and content of a person’s imagination is of life and death importance. Fairy tales prepare us for life. Katy Bowser Hutson In Bessel van der Kolk’s wonderful work on trauma, The Body Keeps the Score, he tells about visiting friends in New York City shortly after September 11. The morning the first tower fell, the parents had run to their child’s kindergarten and brought their child home. During van der Kolk’s visit, the child showed him a picture he had drawn of the burning tower, the plane, and the people falling. But van der Kolk had a question about the dark circle the child had drawn below the tower. “It’s a trampoline, so next time they won’t get hurt,” the boy said. This child’s imagination was helping him through trauma by imagining a scenario where things could be better next time. The ability to imagine that we could respond with creativity—that we can do something good to help something awful, that it could be better—is the kind of hopeful thinking that allows us to move through trauma without despairing. Dr. van der Kolk later says of people frozen in a moment of suffering: “Trauma has shut down their inner compass and robbed them of the imagination they need to create something better.” Fairy tales do not simply amuse and distract. They arm us. They enrich the arsenals of our imaginations. What does Bilbo do when the dwarves are imprisoned by the elves? What does Saint George do when the dragon captures the well? What do Jill, Eustace, and Puddleglum do when the Green Lady enchants Prince Rilian? What do we do in the face of brokenness and evil? Is there any help for us? Sometimes, fairy tales show us that cleverness, bravery, or even conniving will get us out. I predict the objection, “But we do not live in a world of magic and fairy tales.” To which I strongly disagree. We have forgotten how to look. Consider this thought of G. K. Chesterton’s: When we are very young children we do not need fairy tales: we only need tales. Mere life is interesting enough. A child of seven is excited by being told that Tommy opened a door and saw a dragon. But a child of three is excited by being told that Tommy opened a door. Boys like romantic tales; but babies like realistic tales—because they find them romantic. In fact, a baby is about the only person, I should think, to whom a modern realistic novel could be read without boring him. This proves that even nursery tales only echo an almost pre-natal leap of interest and amazement. These tales say that apples were golden only to refresh the forgotten moment when we found that they were green. They make rivers run with wine only to make us remember, for one wild moment, that they run with water. —G. K. Chesterton, Orthodoxy Fairy tales shake us up; they make us see the world with clean eyes. Imagining a world with dragons reminds me that we live in a world with birds: creatures with jeweled bodies flying everywhere. Magic forests and Ents remind me that we have trees, soaking up and breathing life into our world. Conversely, the major flooding in Nashville this week reminds me of the peril of Saruman’s evil in hastily tearing up old-growth trees. There is a wonderful TED Talk on the genius of babies, wherein psychologist Alison Gopnik compares their brain chemistry to what happens in an adult’s brain when they travel, when they experience romantic love, and when they have had caffeine. She likens babyhood, with all its highs and lows, to “being in love in Paris for the first time after you’ve had three double espressos.” Don’t fairy tales help us recover some of this? To see the world’s wonders anew? One of the most formative things I’ve heard on books versus movies taught me something about the value of reading fairy tales. When I attended a L’Abri conference as a new mom, I heard Jerram Barrs speak on the seventh Harry Potter book. A mom asked when he thought it was okay to let her children read or watch Harry Potter, or The Lord of the Rings, or other epic fairy tales. Jerram replied that he read The Lord of the Rings to his grandchildren when they were very young. But he would not let them see Peter Jackson’s movie of the same story until much later. Children, he explained, know very well that there is evil. But they do not need Peter Jackson’s apprehension of evil as he, a grown man, understands it. Let them understand a Ringwraith with a child’s scope of darkness and grapple with it in their own understanding of light and dark. Fairy tales are light and darkness boot camp. Children are trying to make sense of the world. It does not make sense without wonder, without heroes, without supernatural beings, or a grand rescue. Frederick Buechner nails this with his book Telling the Truth: The Gospel as Comedy, Tragedy, and Fairy Tale. God is telling the biggest, best, most magical story. We grownups have made tentative sense of things. We’ve made enough peace with mysteries to put them on the shelf and be “productive.” Which is necessary, but perilous. That’s why God gives the world children. They are still skeptical enough to wonder. Their inability to rein in their curiosity waylays curated lessons. They are still wandering off paths into dark, magical woods. Fairy tales give children a magic saltshaker to season their days; they give them a lexicon of courage and wonder. We grownups know that our children have beanstalks and giants ahead, and that’s why we need fairy tales, too. Let’s read them together. Curated and edited by Leslie and Carey Bustard with Théa Rosenburg, Wild Things and Castles in the Sky explores topics like classic literature, imagination, art history, race, poetry, young adult novels, faith, and more. The aim and hope is that these essays would encourage parents, grandparents, teachers, and friends to share the power of a good story with a child they love. Click here to learn more about the book. To learn more about the book from its editor, listen to Leslie Bustard’s conversation with Jonathan Rogers on The Habit Podcast.

This week on The Habit Podcast, Jonathan Rogers talks with the Rabbit Room’s very own Pete Peterson and Jennifer Trafton, who together edited the latest offering from Rabbit Room Press: The Lost Tales of Sir Galahad. The Lost Tales of Sir Galahad is a collection of “newly discovered” tales of the Arthurian knight’s adventures in the Wild Forest. In this episode, husband-and-wife editorial dream team Pete Peterson and Jennifer Trafton discuss their work in bringing this work to life. Click here to listen to Season 4, Episode 17 of The Habit Podcast. Transcripts are now available for The Habit Podcast. Click here to access them. Sponsorship on the Podcast Network Are you interested in teaming up with us to support the work you love? Send an email to our Head of Development, Sarah Katherine Woodhull, at sarahkatherine@rabbitroom.com if you are interested in becoming a sponsor of our Podcast Network. Rabbit Room Membership 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’s been a long time coming, but today I finally get to unveil the Rabbit Room’s newest program: Rabbit Room Theatre. And on June 30th, 2022, we will launch headlong into our fresh, newly-imagined production of Corrie Ten Boom’s The Hiding Place. By incarnating stories on the stage, Rabbit Room Theatre embodies our belief that beautiful, well-told, and truth-bearing tales are a fundamental means by which we understand ourselves, our world, and our God. Through the unique magic of drama, we aim to nourish Nashville and its theatre community by creating works that reflect our values of excellence in story, art, and music. I initially adapted Corrie’s book for the stage back in 2019 and it premiered at the George Theater in Houston (you can read the Broadway World review of that production here). But in the past couple of years, the play has undergone significant changes and revisions through collaboration and workshopping with the Nashville theatre community. We’re confident that the play is now better than ever, and we can’t wait to show it to all of you. Rabbit Room Theatre is proud to be partnering with Matt Logan Productions to bring the Ten Boom story to life. I’ve worked with Matt on a number of past productions and if you’re familiar with Studio Tenn, you’ll recognize his work from a HUGE number of their past shows. He’s a visionary director and designer and I’m thrilled to be working with him again on this story. We’ll have full information, casting, photos, trailers, behind the scenes material, and who knows what else in the coming weeks. But for now, mark your calendars. You’re invited to a night at the theater. Tickets go on sale soon. Click the button below if you’d like to be notified when they do (along with other theatre-related news). Yes! I NEED this information!

This week on The Habit Podcast, Jonathan Rogers talks with Leslie Bustard, editor of Wild Things and Castles in the Sky: A Guide to Choosing the Best Books for your Children. Leslie is a writer, a teacher, a conference organizer, a publisher, and a museum-goer, among other things. She recruited forty writers to contribute essays to Wild Things and Castles in the Sky, a book she curated and edited with her daughter Carey Bustard and editor Thea Rosenburg. Click here to listen to Season 4, Episode 16 of The Habit Podcast. Transcripts are now available for The Habit Podcast. Click here to access them. Sponsorship on the Podcast Network Are you interested in teaming up with us to support the work you love? Send an email to our Head of Development, Sarah Katherine Woodhull, at sarahkatherine@rabbitroom.com. If you're interested in becoming a sponsor of our Podcast Network. Rabbit Room Membership Special thanks to our Rabbit Room members for making these podcasts possible! If you’re interested in becoming a member, visit RabbitRoom.com/Donate.

Jennifer and I are taking something of a sabbatical this month and walking the Camino de Santiago, a 500+ mile pilgrimage from France, across northern Spain, to Santiago de Compostela, the traditional resting place of St. James. I’m writing a bit about the experience along the way. 29 April (Mile 5.1 / KM 8.35) – Woke at sun-up, around 7am, packed for the day and arrived downstairs to find breakfast waiting. Muesli and fresh bread with butter and jam. Our hosts made us a sandwich to pack for lunch: a pepper and onion omelet in a fresh baguette. A journey of a 1,000 miles may start with a single step, but an omelet sandwich doesn’t hurt. We set off down the cobbled streets of St. Jean and cleared the town after only a few minutes. What waited for us beyond the town border was a lot of pretty country, and a lot of pain. Now listen: I’ve done a considerable amount of hiking, and most of that hiking involved climbing at least some part of a mountain. Last October, we spent five days on the Appalachian Trail, from Amicalola Falls to Neel Gap, and in those five days we peaked 14 mountains along the way totalling around 10,000 feet of elevation if memory serves. So I’m not new at this. But the five miles from St. Jean to Orisson are the longest steep I’ve ever had to walk. According to my watch, we climbed over 2,100 feet of elevation against only 98 feet of descent. Folks, it was hard. Maybe I’m just getting old, but I’m exceedingly happy that we reserved a bed at the Refuge Orisson so we didn’t have to continue on the other 12 miles to Roncesvalles like many folks do. I told Jennifer several times (in order to remind myself) that we are not in a race, and I’m here to enjoy the walk, not to rush to the finish. To be honest though, being passed along the way by a huge group of 30+ tourists hurt me more than the hike. Remember what I said about humility? This is it. Being passed on a hike by an 87-year-old lady who weighs 47 pounds will humble you. Though I suppose passing by my hulking figure of American manhood probably made her day. My pleasure, ma’am. Don’t mind if I do. As we approached the end of our climb up the Pyrenees mountain range, we ascended into the clouds and the world became no more than the few yards before and behind us. At times we teetered at the edge of the pathway, sensing the great expanse of hills and vales that lay below us, but all we could see of them was a vast white emptiness. One misstep and I could imagine falling into the abyss, nevermore to be seen again (in reality, I’d probably just end up in a hedge, pricked by the gorse and filled with more of that every growing sense of humility). Respite: I don’t need language to comprehend that. Pete Peterson But after what seemed like hours and hours of ascent (it wasn’t), a figure emerged into the visible world ahead of us. It was a white-haired woman in a blue coat who was wobbling in a worrisome way and was obviously struggling to put one foot in front of the other. As we passed her (yes indeed, I did pass one white-haired septuagenarian. Thank you, ma’am. Don’t mind if I do), we called out the traditional “Buen Camino!” And she cried unto the heavens “Mon Dieu! Le repit!” (My god! Respite!). We agreed, for she’d shouted the very truth burdened on all our hearts. And lo, a few moments later, out of the cloud emerged the welcome site of the Refuge Orisson. A stout building jutting out of the mountainside with a vast deck of tables and chairs overlooking the valley. At least I assume it overlooked something. As far as we could tell, it merely struck out into nothingness. Inside, on the ground floor, was a bustling pub where 50 or 60 pilgrims were gathered for their longed-for le repit. Ours came in the form of a cafe con leche (glorious) and the much-dreamt-of omelet sandwich. With a sense of legitimate joy, we greeted Gary and Joan and several others we’d dined with the night before. We all had a sense of “You made it!” More than a sense, I suppose, for we had indeed. After eating, we were shown to our room (once again with Gary and Joan). Time for a nap. Now I’m back downstairs in the pub with a pint of beer that tastes heavenly. There’s a group of Asian pilgrims to my left. A few French to my right. A smattering of others around the room. I don’t understand what anyone is saying, and I’m okay with that at the moment, because it’s plain that everyone is happy. Respite: I don’t need language to comprehend that. Click here to read Pete’s first journal entry from the Camino and here to read his third.

Last week, we introduced you to a beautiful new documentary series on the spirituality of food called Taste & See, and invited you to attend one of the virtual screenings coming up on June 3rd. Over the next few weeks, we’ll be giving you various peeks behind the scenes of this project, starting with this in-depth interview with Director Andrew Brumme. Drew Miller: You mention on the Taste & See website that this journey of connecting food and faith began for you in earnest when you read Robert Farrar Capon’s The Supper of the Lamb. That book is foundational at the Rabbit Room, so I’d love to start there: could you elaborate on your experience reading that book? What were some of the central insights that got your wheels turning? And beyond Capon, what other influences led you into this project? Andrew Brumme: I still have a vivid memory of my first encounter with Capon’s writing. I’d never heard of him until my brother gave me The Supper of the Lamb as a Christmas gift in 2014. I savored the book slowly over the next few months. Even recalling the experience of reading it now, I feel much of the same delight as that first encounter. That’s really the word that stuck with me regarding Capon, delight. He has this light-heartedness that is profoundly rooted in the most weighty truths about who God is, and who we are in this delicious world. I always picture Capon with a perpetual twinkle in his eye, as if he’s been let in on the most awesome secret and there’s no longer any need to fear. We are simply invited to delight in God’s creation, to taste and see that he is good! Reading The Supper of the Lamb gave me that first taste, which led me to seeing the goodness of God vividly in all things related to food. Capon loved food and he loved God, and he so strongly emphasizes that it’s not one love at the expense of the other. The material and spiritual are inseparable because God loves, in Capon’s words, “the stuff of this world.” And as we come to love creation as God does, it whets our appetites for our true home. Growing up in a white suburban American Christian home, food was never really connected to our faith. The revelation Capon gave me was that eating is a profoundly spiritual act. He makes such a masterful case for paying attention, the chief example of course being the incredible chapter on the onion. Our producing team did the exercise of mindfully peeling and slicing an onion together while reading the chapter out loud as a way of kicking off the production process. It’s impossible to view onions in the same way after that! The astounding thing is that the same wonder and delight are available to us every time we come to the table, or spend time in the fields or the kitchen on the way there. Documentary storytelling is one of the ways I work things out and engage with the world. So my first thought as I finished the book was to locate the author and make him the star of a food documentary like none other. I was terribly disappointed when I learned Capon had passed away only a few years earlier. Undeterred in my newfound enthusiasm for all things food and faith, I dove headfirst into more expansive research. I found a feast of books and stories awaiting me, many similarly inspired by Capon’s work. Some of the earliest influences were Eat with Joy by Rachel Marie Stone, Food and Faith by Norman Wirzba, Take this Bread by Sara Miles, and Leslie Leyland Fields’ compilation The Spirit of Food. There are many others I draw from, especially as new stories in the series are developed. These are often inspired by a particular book. For example, the first film we’re releasing now got its initial inspiration from Fred Bahnson’s masterful Soil and Sacrament. It was a delight to discover a diverse food and faith movement, united in the idea that tasting really can lead to seeing. I became convinced that it was through the stories of people actively engaging with food, deeply rooted in their faith, that I could bring alive the spirituality of food in a documentary series. DM: Taste & See explores the intimate, oft-forgotten relationship between the spiritual and physical, especially as it unfolds within the richly layered context of a shared meal. Could you give us a slow-motion play-by-play of all the layers of meaning that unfold in concert with one another during a shared meal, from preparing to serving to tasting? AB: This is an ambitious question! Whole books have been written on the subject. I’d especially recommend Norman Wirzba’s Food and Faith, which has informed so much of my own understanding. But here are a few thoughts about what I understand is happening as we eat together beginning in the field, moving to the kitchen and finishing around the table. A central theme when we eat is in fact death. We can’t escape the fact that something (be it plant or animal) had to die in order for us to live. And we must eat, or we ourselves will die. So the sustaining of our lives is constantly requiring the death of something else. If we start with the land that provides our food, the soil is literally “eating death” and turning it into life. Anyone who composts can attest to this wondrous fact! Moving to the modern day kitchen, which is often far removed from the realities of death if we aren’t preparing or cooking with real ingredients. We have to admit that whether we’re butchering an animal or dicing an onion, something that was living is dying in our hands (or on the way to them) in order to feed us and feed those we love. Then finally at the table, food takes its final journey as we receive it into our bodies and it nourishes us, keeping us alive for another day. Life from death. The question then is, what can we do with the energy we’ve been given through our eating, to make our lives worthy of all this death? It can be a pretty uncomfortable and depressing question if you sit with it a bit. Those who follow Jesus can’t help but recall that incredible mealtime scene on the eve of Jesus’ own death as he passed around bread and wine to his closest friends, and told them it was his own body and blood and they were to eat and drink it in remembrance of him. Jesus essentially told us to eat him! Talk about a mystery we need to sit with. I think it’s essential to apply this to all of our eating, not just a ritual during a worship service (and don’t get me started on flavorless wafers and shots of grape juice). What does it mean to eat eucharistically? I think it’s being mindful of the death constantly required to give us life, especially the life of Jesus given for us. This earth-shattering truth is present in every part of our engagement with food. If we’re aware of this, how can we not respond with gratitude, joy, wonder, and ultimately, worship? DM: The filmmaking process is shrouded in mystery for most of us. How did you decide whose stories to explore, and how did you go about getting to know these people? What was filming like, and how has the pandemic impacted the production of this series? AB: Mystery is a good word, because I think the verité style of documentary filmmaking is very much about being a witness to an unfolding mystery. This process is an unscripted approach where, as much as possible, we are a “fly on the wall” to what’s taking place. My job as director is to be fully present and listen, actively discerning what story we are being given and to follow the breadcrumbs where they lead. It’s terrifying and thrilling at the same time, because we never know if we’ll return from a shoot with something we can edit and use in a film or not. But it’s so much fun when we are given such a gift. There is also plenty of preparation involved. While we don’t write a script, we do try to assemble the right ingredients so that when our crew shows up, there is the potential for a story to emerge. For Taste & See, rather than an educational film with a bunch of talking heads waxing eloquently about food and faith, we are taking a story-driven approach, anchoring each film in one individual’s journey. We were looking for people wildly passionate about food, with expertise and credibility in the food world, as well as a deeply rooted faith—chefs, farmers, bakers, winemakers, and other visionaries engaging significantly with food as a profound spiritual gift. We were intentionally staying away from the preachy types and those who view food as a cheap spiritual metaphor. Rather, we sought out people with a contagious joy for life and a particular window on that joy through food. Those who are tasting and constantly seeing afresh, and whose experiences could help us to do the same. One of the biggest challenges was that so many people had incredible experiences from their past, but we needed to capture an actively unfolding story. I am always asking what they’re doing now with food, looking for opportunities that might set the table for something to emerge when our crew shows up. The actual production shoots were really short, usually less than a week. We always began our time in person with a subject sharing a meal, before we brought out all the cameras. We found that breaking bread together allowed a human connection so that when the gear came out (which by definition is a really unnatural context for genuine human connection), we had more of a foundation to build upon. The pandemic was a real challenge as you might expect, but nonetheless, we felt miraculously provided for during that time. Our last shoot for the first film was in San Francisco in March 2020. We had booked tickets from Europe (where our production team is based) earlier in the year, but the US travel ban was announced the same week we were supposed to get to the US. It turns out our flight was literally the last one leaving Europe, arriving within hours of when the travel ban went into effect. Because some of our team are European nationals, they would have had to quarantine for two weeks had we arrived hours later. This would have made the shoot impossible. We filmed for three days, capturing the critical final meal in the film, and then cut our trip short when Europe’s borders were closing. We came back with just enough material to edit together the first film, which I was able to do remotely with our LA-based editor doing the months of confinement. The two years of the pandemic that followed were challenging in terms of my own job situation. I’d hoped to be able to raise funding to keep producing the other films in the series, but apart from being able to edit the first film, the project really came to a standstill because we had no funding and I had to find other work. It’s been a very stretching journey, but I’m so grateful we seem to be emerging from that period. We’re really grateful for the virtual screening events coming up. We’re hopeful these will provide the necessary funding for us to continue producing the series. DM: I love that this docu-series is living out its mission not only in its content, but in the distinctly invitational way you’re choosing to share that content. Tell us about your decision to share this project via virtual screenings, where viewers are encouraged to invite friends and eat together. How do you hope for the sharing of Taste & See to embody its central claims about community and creativity? AB: There were two big influences that led us to release the first film as part of a virtual cinema event. The first was this Rabbit Room community! You all are so community-driven, it’s contagious. When we started talking, one of the first things Pete emphasized was that everything the Rabbit Room does grows out of relationship. It was important for me to come and screen the film for your community as a next step in us getting to know one another. I was also a participant in last year’s Hutchmoot: Homebound, your incredible conference that was moved online due to the pandemic. The team did such an amazing job of making it more than just a bunch of online videos. There was so much intention in the conference design to help build community in connection around the content. As we talked about partnering with the Rabbit Room, the conversation naturally turned to how fostering community could be a part of the experience. So that was one big influence pointing us to design a robust approach to virtual screenings. What does it mean to eat eucharistically? I think it's being mindful of the death constantly required to give us life, especially the life of Jesus given for us. This earth-shattering truth is present in every part of our engagement with food. Andrew Brumme The second influence was the frustrating reality that we had hit a wall. As we looked for a home for this project to get out in the world, we discovered that the mainstream distribution thinks our project is “too spiritual,” but the religious distributors think we’re “not spiritual enough“ for their niche audiences. We’ve been caught in this middle space of thoughtful, spiritually-themed content designed for a diverse audience. We know this audience exists, the Rabbit Room community being a chief example! So rather than wait for distributors to get on board, we decided to bypass the traditional gatekeepers and make Taste & See directly available to audiences through a virtual cinema event. The exciting potential of the virtual cinema event is that the model has allowed us to design an experience that fosters connection, which is a core theme of Taste & See. Eating connects us to the land, to each other, and to God. In essence, the virtual cinema event is designed to be more than just watching the documentary online. Each ticket includes access to the first film as well as a panel discussion with Andrew Peterson, Norman Wirzba (agrarian theologian, and subject in one of our next films), and me, moderated by Lindsey Patton. Beyond the content, we’ve also worked with the Rabbit Room to design an event guide with discussion questions and a recipe inspired by the film. Our hope is that people will watch the film and panel, and then connect more deeply with their family or friends as they eat together, interacting about what they’ve just experienced. I’d love people to really make an evening out of it and gather in person or virtually with a few others to watch and discuss the film, and share a meal. A premise of Taste & See is that mealtime and eating is sacred, and not just at special celebrations or holidays. Every time we come to the table, there is the potential for encounter and connection if we mindfully and prayerfully engage the experience. I really hope Taste & See opens people up to what the table can be, or rather, what the table already is. We just need eyes to see and taste buds to taste the reality of it! DM: What is the most memorable meal you’ve ever eaten? Who were you with? Were you celebrating something together? Set the scene for us. AB: The most memorable meal I ever shared was an amazing meal in and of itself, yet the weighty significance of it was realized only two years later. Three college friends and I were hosted by dear friends, Jason and Michelle, several years after we graduated. They lived on our university campus where Jason worked, and the two of them had a hugely significant spiritual mentoring role in each of our lives. Since graduating, we had dispersed geographically so the four of us being together was unique, and the chance to visit Jason and Michelle together was even more special. We arrived at their Sacramento house after some hours on the road, and as we came through the door our senses alerted us to the fact that something extraordinary was happening in the kitchen. Jason had been preparing the meal for 24 hours. That fact alone was hard for me to understand as a 25 year old who didn’t pay much attention to what I ate apart from whether or not it tasted good. I later learned about a previous chapter of Jason’s life when he was immersed in the Sonoma County food scene and won local original recipe contests. He really was an incredible cook, and I think it all grew out of his deep love for local, seasonal ingredients and his deep love for people. These two loves were woven together as he cooked for us. The table was beautiful, each place set with a lovingly crafted menu card listing the courses we’d be enjoying together. A dual melon soup, gorgonzola stuffed figs with balsamic glaze, a smoked duck pizza, a homemade batard loaf…I know there were other incredible courses, but those were the details we can remember some 15 years later. It pains me now that I can’t remember every detail. Two years later, Jason passed away suddenly at age 36. That meal was the last time I was with Jason in person. My memories of the meal are infused with Jason’s contagious passion for life, which we could somehow palpably taste in that meal. The most vivid moment for me is when Jason served the cold melon gazpacho. I recall a sort of humorous confusion at the very idea of a cold soup, much less a sweet one. Who thinks of such things? I wondered to myself. The yin-yang pattern of the pureed green honeydew and orange cantaloupe was a visual feast before anything even crossed our palate. When it did, I remember a feeling of refreshing delight. The subtle sweetness, the notes of each melon intact and yet perfectly blended, it was the most surprising and wonderful experience. The whole meal was an absurdly extravagant gift from a generous and loving friend to a young man with an unrefined palate. I’m reminded of the words of the main subject in our first film, Shomriel Sherman, who lost her own mother suddenly, and reflects throughout the film on life and death as it relates to eating and the table. She sees mealtimes as serious times, though they are generally fun and joyful. It’s a weighty joy when we feast because there’s never a certainty that we’ll have another meal with these same people. When we screened the film at North Wind Manor, Pete concluded the evening by reading the Liturgy for Feasting with Friends from Every Moment Holy, and it opens with these lines, which I think are an appropriate way to end: To gather joyfully is indeed a serious affair, for feasting and all enjoyments gratefully taken are, at their heart, acts of war.In celebrating this feast we declare that evil and death, suffering and loss, sorrow and tears, will not have the final word. —Doug McKelvey, “A Liturgy for Feasting with Friends,” Every Moment Holy Click here to learn more about Taste & See.

We humbly offer Doug McKelvey’s “Liturgy for Grieving a National Tragedy” in the wake of recent mass shootings in Buffalo and Texas, in case you need words to lean on during this time. You can download this liturgy and others at EveryMomentHoly.com/liturgies or access it in the Every Moment Holy app. Leader: O God who gathers what has been scattered, People: Shelter us now in the shadow of your wings. O Christ who binds our wounds, Be our great healer. O Spirit who enters our every grief, Intercede now for this hurting people, in this broken land. Be present in the midst of this far-reaching pain, O Lord, for we are reeling again, at news of another loss of life that touches us all; news of flourishing diminished; of individuals harmed; of pain imposed, not only upon victims and their families who bear now the immediate brunt of it—but also upon our nation. For we are connected as a people, and this hurt, this grief, touches us all. Engage our imaginations and move our hearts to compassion, O Lord, that we would interact with these casualties, not as news stories or statistics, but as our own sisters and brothers, flesh and blood, divine image-bearers, irreplaceable individuals whose losses will leave gaping holes in homes, friendships, workplaces, churches, schools, organizations, and neighborhoods. Be merciful to those now wounded. Be present with those now bereaved. You do not run from our brokenness, O God. You move ever toward those in need. Your heart is always inclined toward those who suffer. Now let your mercies be active through the hands, the words, and the compassionate care of those who willingly enter this sadness to console and to serve. Be with all who move toward this need: the helpers, the counselors, the first responders, those who offer aid and protection, the pastors and intercessors, those who meet immediate practical needs, those who seek to heal physical wounds, and those who come after to carry on the long, hard work of rebuilding families and hearts and lives and community. Grant each of them wisdom, courage, vision, sympathy, and strength to serve effectively in their various capacities. Even in the shadow of such tragedy, let us not lose hope. Give us eyes to see the rapid movements of mercy rushing to fill these newly wounded spaces. Let us see in this the echoes of your own mercy and compassion— a foretaste of your kingdom coming to earth. And move our own hearts also, equipping us to intercede, to act, and to respond however we are able. Move, O Holy Spirit, in the midst and in the aftermath of this tragedy, in the wake of our wounding, in the shock and the sorrow. Arrest the hearts and stay the hands of any who even now might be plotting further evil and violence against others, O Christ. Turn them from hatred. Turn their hearts to you. You once brooded over the formless chaos of ancient waters and brought forth the order and flourishing of creation. Do so again, O Spirit of God. From the chaos of this tragedy call forth new life and order and flourishing. Take even what our adversary might have meant for evil, and from it bring forth eternal good. You alone have strength to carry this people. Carry us now, O Lord. You alone have wisdom and power to heal the wounds of a nation. Heal us, O Lord. You alone have compassion enough to enter our widespread grief, and turn it to hope. Be merciful, O Christ! Amen. Click here to download this liturgy at EveryMomentHoly.com/liturgies.

We’ve pulled together an incredible group of actors for our new production of The Hiding Place, and today I’m thrilled to be able to introduce you to some of the folks on the team. Conrad John Schuck is Caspar Ten Boom First, it’s an honor to announce that movie, television, and stage veteran Conrad John Schuck has joined us to play the part of “Papa” Caspar Ten Boom. His professional acting career began after college in The Cleveland Playhouse and in regional theaters in Cleveland, Baltimore, Buffalo, and eventually San Francisco. It was there, while acting at the American Conservatory Theater, that he was seen by director Robert Altman who cast him as Painless in M*A*S*H. His association with Altman led to a wealth of roles in other films including Outrageous Fortune, Finders Keepers, and Star Trek IV and Star Trek VI. His first screen kiss was with Elizabeth Taylor, and he has guest-starred in over 50 television shows including Gunsmoke, The Mary Tyler Moore Show, St. Elsewhere, Bonanza, Law and Order: SVU, and (this one is my favorite) Babylon 5. (If you remember the character of Draal, you’ll understand just how perfect he is for Papa Ten Boom.) Theater has always been his favorite type of work and he continues to work regionally as well as on Broadway, where he made his debut in the 1997 Broadway revival of Annie as Daddy Warbucks. On Broadway, he also appeared in Annie Get Your Gun with Reba McEntire and most recently in Nice Work If You Can Get It with Matthew Broderick. In London’s West End, he appeared in The Caine Mutiny Court-Martial with Charlton Heston. Schuck recently completed seven seasons in the national tour of Irving Berlin’s White Christmas. Locally, he appeared in Twelve Angry Men and the much acclaimed The Elephant Man for Studio Tenn. Carrie Tillis is Betsie Ten Boom Next up, in the role of Betsie Ten Boom is one of the most delightful people in Nashville, Carrie Tillis. Daughter of country legend Mel Tillis and sister to country star Pam Tillis, Carrie’s talents and experience stretch beyond the world of country music. Her résumé jumps from opera to Grand Ole Opry and Broadway to big band. After gaining notoriety via performances with her father, she traded his legendary Statesider Band for an even bigger orchestra, performing her first love—Broadway’s American Songbook—in theater and symphony concerts around the world. Leading a regional theater production of Keep On the Sunny Side (the story of country music’s Carter family) was a catalyst for other country musicals like The Tammy Wynette Story, of which she played several tours. Carrie has graced the stages of the Grand Ole Opry and the Ryman Auditorium as a featured artist and with Studio Tenn’s hit Legacy series. Other credits include: Mary Alice (The Battle Of Franklin), Sarah (Guys and Dolls), Principle (Big River), Marian Paroo (The Music Man), and Magnolia (Show Boat). Carrie was a supporting lead in the Kerem Sanga feature film, The Violent Heart, and a guest star on the hit TV series, Nashville. Nan Gurley is Corrie Ten Boom And finally, my good friend Nan Gurley is in the lead role of Corrie Ten Boom. If you saw the Houston production of the show, she’ll be no stranger to you. She was phenomenal in that production and we couldn’t imagine doing it here in Nashville without her. Broadway World called her performance “utterly brilliant” and “nuanced, strong and sincere”—and we can’t wait to see her shine with the new material in this version of the show. In addition to originating the role of Corrie Ten Boom, Nan has been a fixture on Nashville stages in a career that has spanned over 30 years and included iconic roles for Studio Tenn, Nashville Repertory Theatre, Nashville Children’s Theatre, Nashville Shakespeare Festival and more. A singer, actress, and writer, she has performed in more than 50 productions at Tennessee Performing Arts Center and has been a featured soloist with the Nashville Symphony. She’s a two-time Dove Award winner for co-writing two youth musicals, The Race Is On and Friends Forever. She’s also co-written a musical with Bonnie Keen entitled Women Who Dare to Believe, and she co-wrote and starred with Denice Hicks and Clare Syler in Shakespeare’s Case, which premiered at the Nashville Shakespeare Festival in May 2009. Her original one-woman show The Diary of Opal Whiteley was performed at the Piccolo Spoleto Festival in Charleston, S.C., and in several colleges and universities and performing arts centers in the Southeast. She wrote, hosted, and produced an educational television series on the performing arts entitled Front Row Center, which aired on PBS stations nationwide and won the Southern Education Communication’s Best Series of the Year Award. Additional stage credits include: Blanche DuBois (A Streetcar Named Desire), Mama Rose (Gypsy), Dolly Levi (Hello Dolly!), Mistress Quickly (The Merry Wives of Winter), Nana (Tuck Everlasting), Truvy (Steel Magnolias), Golde (Fiddler on the Roof), and Carlotta (Phantom). See what I mean? I’m genuinely baffled that I have the opportunity not only to work with such excellent and admirable folks, but to call them my friends as well. We’ve worked hard to re-structure the script and hone the characters and I’m humbled by the energy so many people have put into this story. I can’t wait for all of you to see the fruits of their labor. The show opens June 30th and runs through July 17th.

This week on The Habit Podcast, Jonathan talks with children’s authors Katy Bowser Hutson and Flo Paris Oakes about their collaborative book, Little Prayers for Ordinary Days. Flo Paris Oakes and Katy Bowser Hutson have been longtime songwriting collaborators through the Rain for Roots collective, which makes singable scripture songs for kids and grownups alike. Both children’s ministry directors, they think a lot and very deeply about the spiritual formation of children. In this episode, Flo and Katy discuss their most recent project, Little Prayers for Ordinary Days, a book of prayers for children which they wrote  with Tish Harrison Warren. Click here to listen to Season 4, Episode 21 of The Habit Podcast. Transcripts are now available for The Habit Podcast. Click here to access them. Sponsorship on the Podcast Network Are you interested in teaming up with us to support the work you love? Send an email to our Head of Development, Sarah Katherine Woodhull, at sarahkatherine@rabbitroom.com if you are interested in becoming a sponsor of our Podcast Network. Rabbit Room Membership Special thanks to our Rabbit Room members for making these podcasts possible! If you’re interested in becoming a member, visit RabbitRoom.com/Donate.

On this episode of the Artists & Podcast, Kyra and Jamin are joined by Tim Joyner and Ella Mine. They talk about creativity and discuss their views on inspiration: what it is, how they foster it, and what they do to move forward when it’s gone. Click here to listen to The Artists & Podcast on Omny, here to listen on Apple Podcasts, and here to listen on Spotify. Transcripts are now available for The Artists & Podcast. Click here to access them. This episode’s guests: Ella Mine With a mesmerizing combination of musical fluency and lyrical vulnerability, Ella Mine divines and names depths of the human experience that often go unnamed, creating a hospitable space where the listener might untangle the mystery of their own emotions. Her debut record, a concept album titled Dream War, weaves a surreal and otherworldly tapestry of poetic melodies and storytelling, sifting the ruins of devastating personal experience for shimmering gems of hope. You can learn more about Ella and view some of her art at her website and on Instagram. Tim Joyner Tim Joyner is an artist based in New England. Working primarily with natural pigments and inks derived from locally-foraged materials, his paintings are an inquiry into the mysterious, inner nature of the raw elements he uses. In elevating the most simple of materials to the status of “fine art,” things we often take for granted—stone, lichen, seaweed—are given voice to remind us of the sacredness of place and the beauty and goodness woven through all living things. You can follow Tim and his work on Instagram. Sponsorship on the Podcast Network Are you interested in teaming up with us to support the work you love? Send an email to our Head of Development, Sarah Katherine Woodhull, at sarahkatherine@rabbitroom.com if you are interested in becoming a sponsor of our Podcast Network. Rabbit Room Membership Special thanks to our Rabbit Room members for making these podcasts possible! If you’re interested in becoming a member, visit RabbitRoom.com/Donate.

Have you listened to the new Jill Phillips record yet? If you haven’t, stop everything and listen immediately. Then, when you’ve finished crying, come back here and read this beautiful interview where Jill asks Ben Shive (who worked with her to produce the record) some questions about the heart of his love for music, the complimentary gifts of writing and producing, the diverse destinies of various songs, and much more. Jill Phillips: I would love to know more about what moves you in a song these days, Ben. What are you focused on in your writing and what do you love listening to? Ben Shive: I had a pivotal moment about ten years ago when I was driving home, passing the Tigermarket on Nolensville Road, listening to a Local Natives record. Every sound was fresh and cool and the melodies were great and I was somehow totally unmoved. Until then, anything cool and indie was interesting to me, but since that moment I couldn’t care less about those values. Alt-rock is still a go-to for me but it can’t just be about the aesthetic. If it doesn’t move me, if it isn’t resonant on some deeper level, I just can’t be bothered. What moves me is truth and beauty and the joy of language. That’s probably why Andrew Peterson and I have always had such a great synergy. Stephen Sondheim is a big one for me because he does that so well. Paul Simon also checks that box. Skye Peterson turned me on to this new Anaïs Mitchell record and it really grabbed me for that same reason. In my writing, if I can find a structure that interests me and get myself into puzzling mode, that’s when I sound like myself. I like to write a line and then turn it over and over and replace one word at a time until there’s as much assonance, alliteration, and rhyme as possible. It’s one of the happiest feelings I know. One time I spent the whole day at a theme park writing a verse in my head where the game was to make every syllable in a 10-syllable line rhyme with the corresponding syllable of every other line so that syllable 1 rhymed with syllable 1 of every other line in the verse and so on. I got it done just before the park closed and I probably had more fun than anybody else. I’m surprised by how often just faithfully solving the puzzle unlocks a truth. I’m looking for an internal rhyme and next thing I know I’m crying because I just learned something I didn’t know I knew. Your work is now focused largely on writing and producing for other artists and I think you are uniquely gifted in this calling. At the same time, I am longing for a new Ben Shive record!  I know you know how much Andy and I loved your albums and I think The Cymbal Crashing Clouds is a work of pure genius. What are your dreams for your next solo project? That’s a good question. After Cymbal Crashing Clouds, I realized in a painful way that I had been idolizing other people’s opinion of me. This resulted in a turning toward home. I was sitting in church and I thought “I would rather be a doorkeeper in the house of my God than dwell in the tents of the wicked.” To me in that moment, that meant I would rather be known by the little flock of my church as a Sunday School teacher than be admired by a bunch of people that don’t even know me and that I don’t have the bandwidth to know and love in return. But I was still in good writing shape from the immense challenge of writing Cymbal Crashing Clouds. I wrote an album’s worth of songs for my family. I’m really proud of those songs. The idea was that these songs were only for their ears. It may have been an over-correction, but the idea of writing an entire album only for the five people I love most in the world appealed to me as a little revolt against my fame idol. The song I wrote for Beth was called “Ordinary Magic.” I got the idea that I wanted to record that one with Ben Rector singing, but when he heard it, he decided to release it himself (as “Extraordinary Magic”), so it has had a sweet little life in the world. I’m interested in recording the rest of the songs. I think it might even be necessary for me creatively at some point. But at the moment I’m raising four teenagers and production demands so much of me that I don’t know how to make it happen. I write best when I’m writing the things only I would even want to write. I don’t want those things to stop being born into the world. It’s just difficult to be human and have very limited capacity. You make sacrifices and you’re never sure when you’re making the right ones. I mentioned Galatians 6:4-5 in the first part of this interview and how I am trying, with God’s help, to make a careful exploration of who I am, the work I have been given, and sink myself into that without comparing my calling to that of others. What is bringing you the most joy in your work these days? What is the best frame for your unique gifting as you see it? I am working with JJ and Dave Heller on their I Dream Of You records. When we’re doing those I get to write for orchestra and it’s a great deal of material, so over the course of three months I’ll write 25 pieces for orchestra. I’m growing in my competence and my arrangements are starting to have a little more elegance about them. I’m also getting faster and more decisive. I just love to feel like I’m inside of a particular discipline and getting to know it intimately. In the process I’ve gotten to do transcriptions of some of the great arrangements of the 20th century—“Snow Snow Snow” from White Christmas, Nat King Cole’s “The Christmas Song,” etc.—so it’s been like getting a master’s in arranging. Working with the Gettys has been cool. I’ve longed for a long time to be a part of a big team. They’ve got this team of ten writers, of which I’m one, trying to give this beautiful gift to the global church. These are brilliant people. Everybody in that room knows all kinds of things I don’t know but I also have my little gift that I bring. It’s been very meaningful. I’m surprised by how often just faithfully solving the puzzle unlocks a truth. I’m looking for an internal rhyme and next thing I know I’m crying because I just learned something I didn’t know I knew. Ben Shive Production is really a good use of my gifts. I like furthering other people’s careers while practicing my craft. More than musical talents, willingness to play second fiddle and go the distance with people are what make me a producer. It took me a long time to see that. I can be pretty hard on myself for being grouchy with my clients but then I step back and go “I’ve been creating with somebody looking over my shoulder all day every day for twenty years.” I can have a little grace for myself and recognize that God has gifted me to be strongly opinionated (enough to get crabby when somebody asks for something I think is a bad idea) but willing to defer and see a different perspective. If you aren’t willing to put up with people, you’re not a producer. This is a different season of life for both of us as our kids are in or nearing adulthood and some are leaving home for the first time. What are you learning and reflecting on in this season? I have teenagers, so I’m learning how powerless I am. When I try to control them it always backfires. I had been feeling sidelined and then I heard an interview with John Eldridge where he talked about giving everything and everyone in your life to God and that has been very helpful. He calls it benevolent detachment and it doesn’t mean you abdicate your role. It means you play your role and recognize you are completely dependent on God to save and bring a good outcome. He also gets to determine what “good” is and I have to trust him. So I’m learning that dance of saying what needs to be said and being present but leaving the outcome to the Lord. There are always great books out in the studio when we are recording. What are the best books you’ve read lately? Are you drawn to particular themes or authors? Honestly, reading has been a struggle! I hate to say it, but it’s true. My circumstances at the moment make any kind of practice very difficult, and I’m poorer for it. My current book club book is The Office: The Untold Story of the Greatest Sitcom of the 2000s and it’s such an enjoyable read. It stirs this ache in me to be a part of something bigger than myself. I have that with Behold The Lamb and that community but I wish my production work wasn’t so solitary. The last fiction book I really loved was A Gentleman In Moscow. I love that book. And my last poetry find was Malcolm Guite’s collection, David’s Crown. There you go. Ask me again in about eight years. Click here to view Deeper Into Love in the Rabbit Room Store, and here to read Part 1, in which Ben interviews Jill.

This week on The Habit Podcast, Jonathan Rogers talks with author Robyn Wall. Robyn is the author of My First Book of Beards and My First Book of Tattoos (Random House Kids) along with a story in The Lost Tales of Sir Galahad. She grew up in Memphis, TN and now lives in New York City with her bearded husband, two daughters, and kitty, Fitzgerald. Click here to listen to Season 4, Episode 22 of The Habit Podcast. Transcripts are now available for The Habit Podcast. Click here to access them. Sponsorship on the Podcast Network Are you interested in teaming up with us to support the work you love? Send an email to our Head of Development, Sarah Katherine Woodhull, at sarahkatherine@rabbitroom.com. if you are interested in becoming a sponsor of our Podcast Network. Rabbit Room Membership Special thanks to our Rabbit Room members for making these podcasts possible! If you’re interested in becoming a member, visit RabbitRoom.com/Member

The Rabbit Room Podcast is your one-stop shop for all things Rabbit Room. Each month, co-hosts Drew Miller and Leslie Eiler Thompson discuss what you can expect from us in the next four weeks, from Rabbit Room Press to North Wind Manor events to our Podcast Network and more. And sometimes, they’ll even talk with a special guest. Be on the lookout for new episodes at the beginning of each month. Click here to listen on Omny, here to listen on Apple Podcasts, and here to listen on Spotify. Transcripts are available for the Rabbit Room Podcast. Click here to access them. In this first episode, co-hosts Drew Miller and Leslie Eiler Thompson discuss what June 2022 holds for the Rabbit Room, from new podcasts to new books to a new documentary series—and even a special Rabbit Room Trivia segment. This is the first of many monthly check-ins, gathering all Rabbit Room news into one convenient place. Show Notes Find Call It Good and the Artists & Podcast at RabbitRoom.com/podcast or your podcast app of choice. Hosted by Matt Conner, Call It Good is a limited series of conversations with authors, artists, and pastors about creative confidence and the invitation before us to join with the Spirit in the act of re-creating the world. The Artists & Podcast is a series of conversations about the visual arts, hosted by Kyra Hinton and Jamin Still. See upcoming North Wind Manor events at RabbitRoom.com/events—lecture nights, film nights, concerts, open hours, and more! Visit Galahood.com—if you dare—and learn all about The Lost Tales of Sir Galahad. Find The Last Sweet Mile and Every Moment Holy, Vol 2: Pocket Edition at Store.RabbitRoom.com. The Last Sweet Mile is a tale of both great loss and enduring faith, demonstrating that love is a refining fire, brotherhood a holy gift, and death itself a doorway to a wedding feast. Learn about Taste and See and get your tickets to a virtual screening at TasteandSee.RabbitRoom.com. More than just a film, tickets to these screenings include a recipe from the pilot film that you can make with your friends, discussion questions to facilitate meaningful reflection, and a panel interview with Andrew Peterson, author Norman Wirzba, and director Andrew Brumme, moderated by Lindsey Patton. Check back in July for more Rabbit Room news! [In addition to monthly check-ins, the Rabbit Room Podcast contains an archive of the 64 episodes of the original Rabbit Room Podcast that aired between 2008 and 2018. This podcast, as it existed for those 10 years, has been retired in favor of the more focused and diverse series that make up the Rabbit Room Podcast Network.] Sponsorship on the Podcast Network Are you interested in teaming up with us to support the work you love? Send an email to our Head of Development, Sarah Katherine Woodhull. if you are interested in becoming a sponsor of our Podcast Network. Rabbit Room Membership Special thanks to our Rabbit Room members for making these podcasts possible! If you’re interested in becoming a member, visit RabbitRoom.com/Donate.

Since completing The Last Sweet Mile in 2015, I’ve always assumed I’d read it again someday. As of this moment, I have yet to do so. In the seven years since I signed off on the final manuscript, I’ve only read one chapter, “Shovel,” which I did for a roomful of gracious souls at Hutchmoot the year after publication. I’m not afraid or embarrassed of what I’ve written. I’m not unwilling to read it. After all, I wrote the book as much, maybe more, for myself than for anyone else. I’m not worried it might trigger something unpleasant. Quite the contrary. It’s just that there is a private ceremony I’ve imagined, and tried to protect, ever since the book was published. I admit it’s a somewhat curious event I have in mind. Here’s how I picture it: I will be old, undeniably old, but still in my right mind. I’ll still be living alone, as I always have. I will set a date, maybe Gary’s birthday or a July 22nd or some holiday, and spend a week in preparation of its arrival. I’ll pull out old family pictures, comb through photo albums of trips he and I took together, and read through old sermon notes or letters he wrote during his years abroad. It will be a joyous immersion. On the chosen date, I’ll lock the gate (if I’m able to walk that far), cloister myself away from any disturbance, say a prayer (maybe read Doug McKelvey’s wonderful “Liturgy for a Purposeful Gathering”), and open the book. I’ll return to, and walk down, the Last Sweet Mile. Reading will begin during the early evening hours. I’ll pour a glass of port and sit in a favorite chair near the fireplace, in the light of a single lamp. At that moment, my brother—and all that is contained in the pages of the book—will stir to life. I anticipate laughter, tears, and surprise. “Oh, yes, I’d forgotten all about that!” I expect I’ll sense a mixture of gratitude for the far-behind and longing for the up-ahead. Most of all, I will feel what I felt when I first wrote these pages, not long after Gary’s passing, when my heart was still tender, my memories clear, and my emotions alive in ways I’d never known before. All the bittersweetness of that year will come to life in a way that might well leave me dazed for days. Dazed in a good way. And so, when my dear friend Pete suggested I reread the book to make edits and corrections, I flinched a bit. His aim—for correction, clarity, improvement—made perfect sense, but I was reluctant to deprive myself of the curious ceremony I hope to carry out someday. I was relieved when the decision was made to reprint the book “as is.” Right or wrong, I’ll only be able to feel once what I think I’ll feel when I read it for the first time. It will be a joyous immersion…I expect I’ll sense a mixture of gratitude for the far-behind and longing for the up-ahead. Allen Levi Presumptuous? Undeniably. The moment I am protecting so vigorously might never arrive, or might arrive after my poor brain is addled with age. I might forget who I am long before I try to recapture who Gary was. Still, I guard the possibility. At least for awhile longer. In the meantime, I don’t need a book or ceremony to bring Gary to mind. At present, the thousand blueberry bushes he and I planted on our farm years ago are lush with ripening fruit. I was in the patch this morning and thought of him. He would be pleased with this abundance. Sitting last night on the porch of his empty house (which has a splendid view of the rising moon) brought him vividly to mind. The recent re-learning of a song about caregiving reminded me of sleeping night after night on the floor beside Gary’s bed during our final days together. It was hallowed ground because he was there. Everyday. Everywhere. Reminders. Might I beg your indulgence? And ask your forgiveness for any uncorrected passages, for things I could have said more eloquently? The words I wrote in 2015 were written at a time when grammar and rules of writing were secondary to me. Not unimportant, but not most important. I was attempting the impossible feat of squeezing my heart through a cartridge of ink. The results were sure to be a bit messy. I hope what I wrote makes sense and paints, however dimly, a worthy portrait of my brother. In the best version of my ceremony, I finish the book, say my prayers, lay down to sleep with the windows open, and wake up on the other side. At the wild continuous party. With Gary. Click here to view The Last Sweet Mile in the Rabbit Room Store. On June 24th at North Wind Manor, Allen will share some songs and read from The Last Sweet Mile in celebration of its release in paperback form. Click here to learn more and purchase tickets.

Have you listened to All the Wrecked Light yet? It’s a gorgeous, collaborative album of music, a lyrical exposition of Psalm 90, and a meditation on Holy Saturday, all in one. Wait until it’s dark outside, light a candle, put on some headphones, and press play. And then, when you’re ready to dig deeper, read this interview. As you’ll soon see, creator and lyricist Hannah Hubin is full of insight and eloquence, and her observations here will assist you in savoring All the Wrecked Light for all it’s worth. Drew Miller: What initially drew you to Psalm 90 as a creative foundation? Hannah Hubin: That “drawing” was about four years in the making, starting the night before my high school graduation in 2017. I remember sitting down with my Bible on the couch in my parents’ living room, wanting to write a prayer for the next segment of life. The verse “teach us to number our days” came to mind, but I didn’t know the reference. Google got me to Psalm 90, and once I read through the whole Psalm, I was pretty sure those seventeen verses captured what I wanted to take with me into four years of college. So I wrote a prayer based on the whole Psalm. Over that summer, I compiled a liturgy of sorts, moving through that prayer, along with different psalms and prayers from folks like Augustine and St. Patrick and the Book of Common Prayer. It works through invocation, repentance, reconciliation, assurance of pardon, praise, prayer for vision, and benediction all in about fifteen minutes. It’s so strange how the same use of fifteen minutes, over and over again, can help me remember how to talk to the Lord again. Seems like I forget how to pray every day. But the repetition helped me get the conversation off the ground. My college met in an old antebellum church, and I’d take that liturgy into the chapel in the mornings before my first class—not everyday, but often, and through all four years. As many folks know, All the Wrecked Light started as my college capstone project. When I got to the end of those four years, it just seemed natural for me to end where I began with what had, more or less, been carrying me through each week. Walk us through the way that All the Wrecked Light interacts with and draws meaning from the liturgical seasons of Lent and Eastertide, as well as Holy Week in between. What’s happening narratively in these songs that situates them within these particular seasons, and what kinds of themes and phrases should we be listening for? After the psalm reading and two songs that orient us to the world and our place in it, Ella gives our hearts the weight of Ash Wednesday in “Dust”—”dust you are and to dust you shall return”—and with it the priestly promise in the grit: that he remembers our frame, knows that we are earth. This idea of dust and ash makes its way through the whole production, along with the Lord breathing life into man, then removing his own breath when he returns him to dust. Saint Dawn in Slumber moves us most of the way through Lent in their instrumental piece, so that by the time we come to Wild Harbors’ first song, we find ourselves at Good Friday: “All our days are just a holy loss / I staked it all upon a man / Who’s staked up to a cross / All upon a man who’s staked upon a cross.” The silence of God does not equal the silence of man. Hannah Hubin And then, well—the majority of this album takes place on Holy Saturday. From Good Friday, we move through a whole eight tracks, and after all that we’re still left “standing still here in the midnight / in the darkness of God’s sacred sight / in the tomb of my Lord dressed to die / in the tomb of my Lord dressed to die.” This feels ironic to me because I’ve always associated Holy Saturday with silence. But the silence of God does not equal the silence of man. I think sometimes God’s silence gives space for our questions, doubts, praise, and voice in a way that his speech doesn’t. I really believe he wants a relationship with us, and relationships require conversation, and conversation can’t be one-sided. I really don’t think God wants to be the only one talking. He’s a listening Lord. I don’t know what all the followers of Christ were up to that Holy Saturday, but I have no doubt there was a holy ruckus, in their hearts if not aloud. I think Justin’s song about Jodi, the poetry I read, Caitlin’s juxtaposition of man’s apathy against God’s holy anger, the flooding imagery of “Years,” and Ella’s questions and grief—all these capture that ruckus. Some liturgical traditions keep an Easter vigil on Holy Saturday, waiting until midnight for the heartbeat in the tomb. If you hit play on the album right around 11:13 pm Holy Saturday, you’ll come to the resurrection moment of “breath out” right at midnight Easter morning (give or take a few seconds). When Christ breathes in “all the ash I’ve ever been,” the image is of our Lord choking to death on our sin. But then, his breath out is not his alone, because he’s breathing into us again—the first fruits of our resurrection, recreating us in a manner not unlike the creation of Adam in Eden. All that’s left in the album after that is what’s left for us after resurrection: the joy of the new creation breaking through and the continuation of life here in the church as a new world makes its place in the old. How did you come to name this project All the Wrecked Light? Could you elaborate on that phrase, its context, and what it means in relation to Psalm 90? “All the wrecked light” is a line from Cardiff State’s second song and the penultimate track of the album: And I’ll tell old stories of all the wrecked light The memory just like a crack In the walk on a Saturday night And the breath come to dusty bones And I’ll tell of how a world on loan Was made into a footstool to a throne The whole album is organized by artist, according to chiastic structure: the first song connects to the last, the second to the penultimate, etc., with “Jodi” in the (almost) center as a specific, human microcosm of the album’s narrative. This method of pairing songs is important. Cardiff State’s first song is a creation song and their second is a re-creation song. We’re told in a familiar Scripture that: In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God. All things were made through him, and without him was not anything made that was made. In him was life, and the life was the light of men. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it. —John 1:1-5 The story of the album is both the story of the created light of Genesis being “wrecked” in the fall, which we acknowledged in Lent, and the Light himself—Christ himself—being wrecked on Good Friday. On the other side of the resurrection, though, in the new creation, both wreckages are “old stories” we tell of what is real but past, for ours is the resurrected Lord and the resurrected world. Over the course of the last several years, you’ve seen this album through many phases: extensive research, writing, collaborating with various artists to put lyrics to music, crafting a live production, and finally recording an album. How has your vision for All the Wrecked Light evolved with each of those steps? I think the primary shift has been from the content to the form. I started the project very interested in Psalm 90, very focused on the lyrics I was molding, and very excited and honored to be working with musicians who could add to that content and present it to the world. I really wanted the truths of Psalm 90 to be communicated—and I still do. But as the collaborative elements of this project have grown, I’ve heard the testimony of folks who have been drawn to the piece less by the ideas surrounding Psalm 90 and more by the collaborative act. The story of the album is both the story of the created light of Genesis being 'wrecked' in the fall, which we acknowledged in Lent, and the Light himself—Christ himself—being wrecked on Good Friday. On the other side of the resurrection, though, in the new creation, both wreckages are 'old stories' we tell of what is real but past, for ours is the resurrected Lord and the resurrected world. Hannah Hubin I knew going into the college project that I was beginning something I couldn’t finish, simply by nature of not being a musician. Seeing fourteen research assistants and seven artists step up and breathe life (in that same image of the creating Lord) into this project was a massive testament to the body of Christ as Paul talks of it—making and being made, all in the image of God, all needing each other and each other’s work. By the time we made it to the first live performance, I had about 50 folks to thank for pulling it off, and I was already feeling like I was part of something I barely started and certainly wasn’t finishing; I was on the edge, watching. The album project brought in another 20 artists. Even that doesn’t include the 307 Kickstarter supporters without whom we would never have been able to record the album. That means this album is a collaboration among nearly 400 folks. It may be an exposition of Psalm 90, but it also might just be the greatest image of the body of Christ I’ve had in my life. What was it like to bring your lyrics to life with different musical artists? How did that creative process differ from artist to artist? I’d love to hear a couple examples from specific songs. The extraordinary part of it all was that these artists were willing to jump on board this crazy idea with a college kid many of them had never met. We did all the writing in the thick of the pandemic (the first performance was masked and distanced), so many folks I didn’t meet in person until rehearsal night before the live show. I had all the lyrics drafted before I reached out to artists, so they could know what they’d be working with and could see the scope of the whole project. They’re songwriters; I’m not. I wanted them to choose the pace and work in whatever method was best to them, and all I could do was be available. I trusted every single artist on this project, and I knew that whatever they did would be intentional, thoughtful, and unique to them as musicians. These are all people who work to understand poetry, so I knew they’d try to be true to the lyrical intent; they are also all people who love Scripture, so I knew they’d try to be true to the purpose as well. I worked exclusively over FaceTime with Wild Harbors and Cardiff State; they’d play a bit for me, ask a few questions about lyric changes, then set up a time for another check-in a few weeks later. It was similar with Ella and Isaac, except that I’ve known them for years. Justin and I actually worked in person, by convention of being in school together. We were meeting each week to work on Greek noun paradigms for finals, and we finished “Jodi” during study breaks. When Christ breathes in 'all the ash I’ve ever been,' the image is of our Lord choking to death on our sin. But then, his breath out is not his alone, because he’s breathing into us again—the first fruits of our resurrection, recreating us in a manner not unlike the creation of Adam in Eden. Hannah Hubin Carousel Rogues’ pairing was the hardest to nail down. I was down to the wire on getting an artist to compose for them. I didn’t even know what genre I wanted. The two songs were juxtaposing and confusing pieces, and I was confused about them. I sent a message to Caitlin via Facebook between classes one day. Caitlin asked for a coffee date, we met, and she blew me away with how invested she was in the project as a whole and how excited she was about the “Wrath” pieces. Honestly, I was still pretty unsure about those songs, though. When she sent me the voice memos, I remember feeling a little confused, and it took me way too long to realize that she had done, in that, exactly what needed to be done. Dennis Parker sent me voice memos and told me he would keep working on the songs and praying about them until he was satisfied with them. He didn’t tell me until I met him for the first time at rehearsal that he lived in Alabama. I had no idea he was going to be driving to Tennessee for the show. See what I mean? The body of Christ. One challenge inherent in any collaborative project, especially one with as many creative voices as All the Wrecked Light, is to retain cohesion throughout the work while also spotlighting the uniqueness of each voice. How did you navigate that balancing act? Honestly, Caitlin is the mastermind behind that for the album. Her arrangements and production are extraordinary, and I’ve loved watching her navigate knowing when to engage more and craft more and when to step back and watch the craft just happen. She’s brought it all together into a cohesive whole I never imagined and certainly could not have ever brought about. In trinitarian theology, she’d be the holy ghost of the album, I think. For the original performance, I certainly wanted to write the lyrics as one story. Working with the idea of chiasm and song pairings helped with “spotlighting” whatever was to come from the artists. I prayed about it a lot. As the final notes of this album ring out, what do you hope listeners come away with? I kicked off work on the project with my first research meeting, an interview with Dr. Ross Blackburn, the founding rector of an Anglican communion in North Carolina. I remember he prayed over the project there at the start with the words of Isaiah 55:11—that the Word of the Lord would go out and not return empty, but that it would accomplish that which he purposes and succeed in the thing for which he sends it. For a project based upon the Word and brought to life by God’s people, that’s my hope, and I still pray that verse over the album. I want it to bring folks nearer to the Word. Click here to visit the official website of All the Wrecked Light, here to listen on Spotify, and here to listen on Apple Music.