RR Note: It feels like every corner of the Rabbit Room is shaped in some way by the meaningful work of Frederick Buechner. As we grieve his bittersweet passing at the age of 96, we wanted to repost an address given by Andrew Peterson to the Buechner Institute from 2016 that pays tribute to his eternal impact. (This was the address I delivered to the Buechner Institute at King College last year. Frederick Buechner’s 90th birthday was just over a month ago, so I post it here and invite you all to respond with your own reminiscences of the ways his work has affected you. For me, it was the comfort of discovering that I wasn’t alone in the most private and painful corners of my life in Christ. Happy birthday, Fred.) All I know to do is to tell you a story. Once upon a time I lived in a world of dirt roads and diamondbacks. Alligators haunted the lakes, four wheelers and hunters haunted the woods, and as Flannery O’Connor famously said, Christ haunted the South. He was everywhere. He was in the Bible verse printed on the front page of the church bulletin, he was in the oddly hyphenated words in the hymnbook, he showed up on the church marquee, he was prayed to before the football games and before meals, he was on bumper stickers next to confederate flags, his name lifted jubilantly from the tongues of worshipers during four hour Sunday meetings on one side of the tracks, and on the other the name of Jesus launched like a rocket from my father’s mouth as he paced behind the podium where the white folks sat dutifully and muttered an occasional “Amen.” Picture, if you will, a skinny kid with a mullet, slouching on the back pew and struggling to stay awake. Picture him scribbling dragons in the margins of the bulletin or writing notes to his brother, constantly aware of his preacher father’s roving eye. Picture the kid’s Levi’s, his Converse high tops, his Michael Keaton-era Batman shirt. That kid is interested in three things: girls, rock and roll, and girls. He is looking for love in all the wrong places. He stays up way too late listening to Pink Floyd records or driving around the dirt roads of the Wildlife Management Area or reading Stephen King novels with a flashlight. That kid, I can tell you, is rotten with longing to be anywhere other than where he is, anyone other than who he is, and he’s willing to do almost anything to feel anything at all. He reads creepy stories not just because he likes to feel afraid, but because he’s up for feeling anything as long as it’s something other than the dull boredom of his adolescence. He listens to an array of music because sometimes music seems to clean the mud from the windshield of his heart, and so he learns to play piano and guitar in an attempt not just to impress the girls and friends and parents, to prove to them and to himself that he exists and is capable of more than being a knuckleheaded fool, but he learns to play because music makes him feel something. He’s discontent with merely listening to songs. No, alone in his bedroom at night he begins to suspect that the chords and rhythms and lyrics and melodies are a secret code, the key to the combination lock that keeps the door shut on what’s really real and holy and true. So he learns the songs, breaks the code, flings open the door, and—as crazy as it sounds—sometimes it works. Sometimes he actually feels something like a flash of warm light on his face and in his heart and for a few minutes he’s a little less lost. That same kid, of course, has to go to church every single Sunday, or else. He goes to Sunday School, followed by “big church,” followed by a potluck dinner, followed by youth meeting, followed by the evening service. That kid remembers being baptized when he was ten, confessed before his little congregation that he believed a homeless Jewish rabbi from Nazareth was the same God who made the galaxies, though of course that baptism happened before the kid discovered Bon Jovi and Lynyrd Skynyrd. But it still happened. It’s an undeniable, unalterable part of the story. And in the story—my story—I’m stuck in a church parsonage in the Deep South, besieged by that holy haunt named Jesus, and no matter how hard I try to ignore him by sniffing like a hound from novels to guitar riffs to girlfriends, I cannot escape the fact that this Jesus cannot be escaped. Frederick Buechner encourages us to listen to our lives, to pay attention to them as the fathomless mysteries that they are, if I remember the quote right. (Side note: I didn’t have to look that up. If I wanted to I could rattle off from memory four or five sentences our friend Frederick composed, each of which I memorized just like I memorized those Zeppelin songs, hoping that if I internalized the thing it might unlock something in my heart. I’ve lost count of the ways Buechner’s writing—his sentences, even—have done that very thing.) Anyway, Buechner says that if I pay attention to the story I hear myself telling about myself again and again, I might just learn something about my family or the truth or about the way the great love of God has been working itself out in my life. So when I pay attention, what do I notice? What keeps coming up? Upon reflection I realize that in nearly every conversation I show all my cards. I blurt out that I’m a preacher’s kid, and not just that, but a preacher’s kid from the South. I’m doing it right now, in fact. I’m proud of it, in the way someone is proud to have survived a hurricane—a beautiful hurricane. The story of my life is as much a part of me as my fingerprint or my DNA. Your story is yours and no one else’s. No one before you can lay claim to the million-million changes and choices and perspectives and revelations you own. For example, I was speaking to my counselor about a particularly dark season in my childhood, and I made a comment about how neither my brother nor my sisters seem to have this same baggage about those dark years. He said that if he spoke to my siblings about our common childhoods every one of us would describe a completely different family. Again, like your DNA, your story is yours, and no other’s. But your story is an even greater mystery because it’s still being shaped, just as my understanding of it is constantly being shaped. It’s a portrait that’s always in flux—not altering, necessarily, but being drawn into continually sharper focus. With each step forward into time, each sentence deeper into the book, we’re able to see the past from a different angle, however slight. And so, as Buechner has shown us, it doesn’t hurt to keep looking. Actually, that’s not true. Sometimes it does hurt to keep looking. But maybe that’s just so something can heal. I wrote a whole album about it, so please visit the merch table after the show. Right now I want to tell you what I’m learning today. As in, what have I learned by listening to my life today, today as I write this—right now, as I read you what I’ve written? I have three confessions to make. The first is this: I have never seriously doubted that God was real. Not really. I doubted that I would go to heaven. I doubted that I had a brain in my head. I doubted that I’d ever amount to anything, or that I’d graduate high school, or that I’d see the Rocky Mountains, but I never really doubted that someone had made this crazy world, and I always thought of that someone as God. The Bible, many verses of which I had memorized since I was little, was too wonderfully strange, too authoritative and ancient and seemingly alive to be dismissed, and so I never really doubted that it meant something, whatever that thing might be. I offer this next part bashfully. I was a nerdy, starry-eyed romantic and I still am. Late at night when I knew my dad was asleep by the sound of his window-rattling snore, I used to sneak out of the parsonage and into the hollow darkness of the church fellowship hall, then up the creepy back stairs behind the baptistery, past the dark second-story Sunday School classrooms, then out the back fire escape where I could shimmy up a drain pipe, edge across a high window ledge, and jump over to the roof of the building. I’d lay on the north slope of the roof with my Sony Walkman and gaze at the stars. There I talked unabashedly to God while I listened to George Winston solo piano pieces. Understand, this was no pious act—I was a sinner through and through. I didn’t want to obey him, or my parents, or my teachers, but neither did I want to be abandoned by him—or any of them. One night at a youth group event at someone’s house in the country, my girlfriend and I were laying on a trampoline and holding hands while we watched the stars. (I told you I was a starry-eyed romantic.) I was consumed with the same passions every high school kid is consumed with when it comes to girlfriends, completely selfish and unconcerned with what Jesus might want me to do or to be. She went inside for pretzels or to watch the end of The Goonies or whatever, and I stayed behind for a little while. I lay there on the trampoline in the humid Florida night, looking up at the spray of stars just like I did from the church roof. Realizing even then how cliché and silly it was, I said aloud, “God, if you’re really there, will you give me a sign?” I know, right? Well, God is no cynic. He’s untroubled by tropes and clichés—they had to come from somewhere, right?—because right after I prayed that prayer, a dazzling meteor hissed across the dome of stars. The only thing more amazing than the fact of what had happened was how quickly my goosebumps faded and I explained it away as mere coincidence. But, just as Christ haunts the South, moments like that have always haunted me. I’m not ashamed to tell you that, whatever the truth of it is, I sincerely want it to be that the rock that God sent hurtling through the dark of space however many thousands or millions of years ago had my name on it just as surely as God has graven my name on his hand. It certainly makes for a good story. So that’s confession one: I have always suspected that there’s someone behind the curtain of this stage. I was a young man losing arguments, and it was Scripture that was defeating me. Andrew Peterson Now, confession two. Somehow that smart-alecky preacher’s kid made his way at last out of Florida to Nashville with a wife, a handful of songs, and a mountain of audacity. And that’s when the real doubts slithered in. Those doubts, however, weren’t about whether God was real, or even whether Jesus was. I have had too many luminous moments of what C. S. Lewis called Joy. Sehnsucht, to use the German word for “inconsolable longing,” was what Lewis felt, and as he listened to his life he saw those moments as almost painful stabs of joy, and they were breadcrumbs on the road to his faith. I’ve had a number of breadcrumbs myself, as I’m sure you do too, whatever you may believe. These new doubts were about doctrine and orthodoxy and what my parents had taught me about God. You see, I found myself on tour buses with lots of other Christians who believed things that would have curled my mother’s toes. I won’t get into the doctrinal issues here, but it more or less boiled down to the fact that I had grown up thinking that our church was right and your church was wrong and yes you might end up in heaven but you can’t be too careful so why don’t you come to church with me sometime and we’ll get you all straightened out? But now I was a young man losing arguments, and it was Scripture that was defeating me. (As it turns out, every denomination just underlines different verses.) My idea of who God was was shifting in deeply uncomfortable ways. Doubt—real doubt—crept in. I lost sleep. I emailed Bible college professors and asked them how to win arguments. It wasn’t that I was after the truth, you see—I was after victory. I wanted to win, and I didn’t. I was learning how little I really knew, and I was learning it the hard way. One particularly bad night on tour, I crawled into my bunk and cried in the dark. It wasn’t, “Are you there, God?” it was “Who are you, anyway?” Now there was no comet zooming across the sky like E. T.’s spaceship. There was no goosebumpy thrill at the sight of a nice sunset. It was as if I had asked the question “Who are you?” and God said, “I could tell you, but let’s face it. It’ll be easier just to show you.” And then he ruined my life as I knew it. Picture that kid again. Picture him touring around the country, trying to raise a family, trying (and failing) to be a good husband, trying to make a bunch of label executives happy, not to mention trying to make listeners happy, trying to make his parents proud—and all of these things are just another case of the same disease that kid had in high school, the one where he was trying to prove to himself and to everyone else that he existed, only now he was playing with the big guns of marriage and children and career. Something happened which caused a massive, bleeding rift in a close friendship, and that kid was heartbroken and angry and confused. “Who are you?” I had asked. The answer, I decided, was, “I am the Great Destroyer.” That was how it felt. I did my share of weeping in closets, sitting listlessly in church, sometimes quite literally shaking my fist at the heavens as I continued to not doubt God’s existence but to doubt his goodness. Every day I woke up doubting God’s goodness. Every night I lay awake doubting God’s goodness, doubting his intentions for me. So let me finish by telling a quick story about God the Great Destroyer, as I thought of him during this dark season. Part one involves a monk. Part two involves a guy named Frederick Buechner. Part one. In 2002 a friend saw that I was in dire need of help and offered me his weekend slot at the Abbey of Gethsemani. You may remember it as the Trappist monastery in Kentucky where Thomas Merton lived and wrote and is buried. I had never been to an actual monastery before, and I spent my three days fasting and praying, reading my Bible and journaling. I barely left my cell except for vespers. My main goal was to prove to God that I deserved an answer for my suffering. I demanded audience with the king. Again and again I asked him why my heart felt abused, betrayed, angry, bitter, hopeless, lost, numb—again and again the heavens were silent. Finally, on the last morning there, I visited the statues. I wandered through the frozen hills of Kentucky for what felt like miles, following trail signs to the statues, whatever they were. My breath fogged the air. The woods waited in the deep silence of winter. The trail led up a hill to a sculpture of three men huddled together in sleep. They were covered with leaves and it took me a moment to realize that it was Peter, James, and John, asleep in the garden on the night the Lord was taken. “Ah,” I thought. “Of course. This is the Abbey of Gethsemani. If I follow this trail around the bend I’m going to see Jesus praying.” I climbed the hill without expecting much. What I encountered was an icon of the Lord’s suffering like I had never seen before. The artist depicted not a pious, romanticized Jesus, but a Jesus whose soul was deeply troubled to the point of death. His back was arched. He looked like he had staggered and fallen to his knees. His hands covered his upturned face and his elbows were splayed out like wings. The way I remember it is this: the statue looked exactly the way my heart felt. Alone. Confused. Hammered with grief. Face turned towards the heavens not in a posture of doubt but of desperation. The statue was not just a mirror of my suffering—it was a window into God’s. I understood in a way that I never had before the profound comfort of the Incarnation. Jesus, the man of sorrows, hurts with us. I was comforted. I wasn’t healed. The pain wasn’t taken away, nor could I have explained what had happened, but as a wise friend once told me, “His presence is to be esteemed more than his provision.” God is with us, and his name is Jesus. At the time I happened to be reading what I think is C. S. Lewis’s finest work of literature, Till We Have Faces. In it, the main character has suffered greatly and has also demanded an answer from the Gods. Towards the end of the book she finally has her audience with them and lodges her complaint. She rants. She stomps her foot. She rages against those she holds responsible for her suffering. When she’s finished throwing her fit she waits for some reply. But the Gods are silent. In the end she understands that the Gods give no answer because they themselves are the answer. God’s answer to me that day at the Abbey of Gethsemani was Jesus himself—his suffering, his sorrow, and his compassion—literally his “suffering with.” Part two. Not long after this epiphany I read my first book by Frederick Buechner. It was called The Eyes of the Heart. I had never experienced this kind of writing before. He could string a sentence together in a way that was poetic and dizzying and profoundly comforting. Then I read The Sacred Journey. Then it was Son of Laughter, then Telling Secrets, The Hungering Dark, The Magnificent Defeat and so on. I haven’t binged like that before or since, with the possible exception of Breaking Bad. Buechner’s way of writing was attractive to me because he so freely admitted what he didn’t know, even as he beautifully proclaimed the love of Jesus. It was, he assured me, all right to aim those questions at the Lord. I once heard Michael Card say that that in all of Scripture God never tells us, “How dare you speak to me that way.” It’s a conversation he welcomes. Jacob wrestled the Lord. Jeremiah turns his sorrow toward God in lament after lament. David and the psalmists accuse God of abandonment. It is within the afterstorm of that sort of painful bold-faced honesty that we sometimes discover what we really think, who we really are, but were never able to admit to ourselves. Just like gratitude tends to aim itself at God, anger and weeping and doubt all follow suit. In the final analysis, all moments are key moments, and life itself is grace. Frederick Buechner But in his book The Sacred Sorrow, a wonderful study of lament, Card describes what he calls “the vav imperative.” Vav is a Hebrew word that means “and yet.” Card says that all but one of the laments in scripture have a vav moment, when after all the anger is spewed, all the accusations are launched, all the sorrow is wailed, the writer says, “vav.” “And yet.” And yet, I will praise you. And yet, your love endures forever. And yet. And yet. Oh, God, we say with all the saints, “I don’t believe in you. And yet, I do.” Before Buechner I had no context in which to admit to myself, let alone to anyone else, that this God, this basket in whom I have deposited every last one of my eggs, was a mystery as much as he was a revelation. Because of Buechner’s frank and persistent admission that he isn’t quite sure about this whole Jesus thing 100% of the time—and lest you get defensive on his behalf, why don’t we all just admit here that it’s just as true of us?—I found myself opening up to a new and deeper consolation than that of surety—the consolation of doubt. The consolation that comes when one traveler says to the other, “I’ve been here before, and I still don’t know where I’m going. It’s a mystery, but at least we’re in this thing together.” And wherever two or more are gathered in his name, even if they’re lost and angry and doubtful and confused, Jesus is in their midst. Maybe especially so. So I confess, I still don’t really doubt that there’s some bright and holy life that made us all and makes the lilies burst out of the snow. I confess that I still get lost along the way, and when I do I still wonder if he loves me. My last confession is this: there is no story I would rather be true than the Christian story. I may be a whiskery forty-year-old with a burgeoning gut, but that skinny little Florida kid is still in here, still watching the sky, still arguing with himself about who God really is and what he’s up to, and still seized, as they used to say, by the power of a great affection—the affection of a God who surrounds you from birth with whispers of another world, who flings meteors across the northern hemisphere, whose light ambushes us in songs and stories, who consoles us with the doubts of the saints just as much as their faith, who guides us gently into the frozen Kentucky woods to remind us that he clothed himself in our sorrow, laid down his life, and then shattered the chains of death. That’s the story he’s telling, with his life, with your life, and with mine. I can’t overstate what a profound shift occurred in me because of the convergence of three things: my dark night of the soul, my encounter with the suffering Christ at the monastery, and the writings of Frederick Buechner, who tells us again and again to pay attention to the fathomless mystery of our lives. Pay attention. “In the final analysis, all moments are key moments, and life itself is grace.” (I didn’t have to look that one up, either.) Someone smart once said, “If you want someone to know the truth, tell them. If you want them to love the truth, tell them a story.” Maybe God wants you to love the truth, and so he’s telling a story with your life. You’re sitting in the middle of a scene this very second, in a story God is telling. “Are you there?” we ask. “Who are you, anyway? Do you care about me?” He gives no answer because he himself is the answer. He could explain it all, but maybe it would be better just to show us. “Behold,” he says in Revelation, “I am making everything new.” #semifeature

Art cannot be divorced from context, so it is the year of our Lord 2021 into which Charlie Peacock’s wonderful new album, Skin and Wind, enters and resides with its lovely melodies and poetic wisdom. It’s an important arrival, to be sure, given the artist’s posture and position in the world. The context around Skin and Wind is as important as the work. This album is a mature musical release, a gift brimming with inspired observations gleaned from a life well-lived. That’s good news, since these are juvenile days. Peacock is an elder statesman, one who nurtures yet nudges us along with this 10-song set. This might all sound a bit flowery, but Peacock’s fourteenth studio album is a remarkable achievement for a number of reasons. It’s rare for any artist to build a catalog so broad that it crests the youthful hills of love lost/gained. Most albums wrestle with the opponents we all face in our earlier periods of life—pushing back against inherited boundaries, exploring interests on our own terms, questioning long-held beliefs about ourselves and the world around us. Those albums are needed. Those releases are necessary. We’ve all been there. The problem is that context changes—or at least it should—but the art often does not. We’re intended to move beyond youthful concerns of what is black and white, in or out. We’re supposed to find our identity and settle into it. We’re meant to move from reactive to proactive. If we’re lucky, we find art to accompany us—or at times even lead us—down that path. This album is a mature musical release, a gift brimming with inspired observations gleaned from a life well-lived. Matt Conner It’s a chicken-or-egg conundrum, but suffice it to say, the context for Skin and Wind‘s arrival shows that we’re stuck. Our juvenile culture is filled with juvenile art and pointing fingers to shift blame is a juvenile exercise. Then along comes Skin and Wind with meditations and musings that summon us toward our better selves—both individual and collective. Peacock’s ruminations from farther down the path invite us to consider such things ourselves. The album title itself, Skin and Wind, points us to the sustenance of the life-giving work of moving forward—the Holy Spirit at work in our flesh. “Skin and Wind is a Mind-Bend” opens the album, the thesis given up front: a body animated by the spirit, a fusion of the titular subjects, is beautiful and mysterious, frightening and majestic. There is a wind, an untitled wind A friend to every color of skin A life-giving hurricane A just and holy rain It’s impossible to listen to these songs and not be struck by the rare space from which they’re sung. What other musician introduces himself like Peacock does on “Call It Destiny” when he sings, “Here I am a man of quiet demeanor / No more lust for spinning plates”? Youthful pursuits are behind him. His storied career, one filled with accolades and achievements from Grammy wins to smash songwriting hits, is well established. He’s now concerned with our own movements, as listeners, through those same portals. He’s an artist on the other side, hoping his own reflections and reminders will help keep the head up and heart strong. On tracks like the acoustic “Sing It Blue,” the advice is heartening. After reminding the listener that “it’s all been decided, the history of love,” Peacock then beckons us all: Lift your voices like sirens Like echoes in the black night of the universe Do your part to be a heart That beats in time with the truth And I will too, sing it blue In other places, the guidance offered is harder to stomach, musically difficult truths spoken from a well of experience. On “Waiting is the Plan,” Peacock’s familiar analogies are deeply felt: “Boat adrift on the water / Wind at the stern, broken sail / Nowhere to go, leave or follow / Stay the course of nowhere now.” The adage that nobody prays for patience is true, yet avoidance is foolish. It takes an enlightened artist to remind us to lean into the unkown. Later on in “The Captain,” Peacock admits “I’ve got the least amount of time that I’ve ever had” and vulnerably describes the tension of being “the captain” of a failing body—the honest side of skin and wind. I’ve got the least amount of time that I’ve ever had My heart is full, my mind is quick My body wants to lay it down I’m a riddle, I’m a puzzle, I’m a quandary all around I’m the captain of a ship that’s going down To be clear, Skin and Wind is not overly serious or downtrodden. Its arrangements range from jazz to pop and back again (with some wonderful Paul Simon-esque touchdowns thrown in periodicaly). Peacock celebrates love and life on several tracks such as the golden “Even When You’re Not” and “Never Be Another One,” while “24 Hour Parade” nods to Sly Stone and salutes the beauty of humanity (“We’re all drinkin’ the same wine / Need the same touch, same love”). Yet it’s also this latter track that reveals the album’s rudder. After listening to Skin and Wind, we can only hope to shed our childish skin and labor in the same direction: I seek to live the righteous dream So deep and wide and beautiful All faith, this hope Love first, let’s go Click here to listen to Skin and Wind on Spotify and here to listen on Apple Music. And click here to learn more about Charlie Peacock and Skin and Wind at Charlie Peacock’s website.

In honor of this year’s Martin Luther King Jr. Day, we’d like to share with you an interactive, animated rendering of his “I Have A Dream” speech, created and shared originally by Stanford University. On this webpage, you can listen to the audio of his speech while scrolling to read its text, augmented by helpful images. We recommend reading and listening on a computer rather than a phone, to do the animations full justice. Click here to read and listen to the “I Have A Dream” speech.

The Habit Podcast is a series of conversations with writers about writing, hosted by Jonathan Rogers. This week, Jonathan Rogers talks with speaker, singer, educator, and activist Ruth Naomi Floyd. Jonathan Rogers and Ruth Naomi Floyd discuss the intimate relationship between truth and beauty, the liberating power of art, and the immense legacy of the African American spiritual. Click here to listen to Season 3, Episode 2 of The Habit Podcast. Transcripts are now available for The Habit Podcast. Click here to access them. Special thanks to our Rabbit Room members for making these podcasts possible! If you’re interested in becoming a member, visit RabbitRoom.com/Donate.

As we approach the release of Every Moment Holy, Vol. II, we thought it would be helpful to give you a peek into the extensive territory covered by its liturgies. The book is broken up into three main sections—liturgies “For Seasons of Dying,” “For Seasons of Grieving,” and “Liturgies of the Moment”—and ends with the benediction “A Liturgy of Praise to Christ Who Conquered Death.” Click through for the full list. Order here Liturgies for Seasons of Dying For When the News is Bad For Hours of Uncertainty For the Feeling of Infirmities Before a Medical Treatment For the Morning of a Medical Procedure For Dying Well For a Time of Widespread Suffering For Those Who Tend a Loved One in Decline Interceding for One Slowly Losing Function For Those Facing the Slow Loss of Memory For Long-Term Care Givers For Caregivers in Need of Rest For the Living of Last Things Praise for This Day of Life Releasing Ambitions & Embracing Christ For Preparing the Heart to Return to God What Is His Seeking Amendment & Reconciliation Stir Courage in a Child Facing Death For a Child Contemplating Heaven For Those Who Will Gather to Grieve For Me For the Dying and Their Friends For Those Who Tend the Sick or Dying A Lesson We May Learn from Death Giving Voice to the Costly Confession For Moments When Dying Feels Unfair For those Enduring Lasting Pain For One Who Lingers in a Long Dying For the Speaking of Meaningful Things One Might Record for Their Own Funeral For Letting Go of the Hope of Recovery For the Weighing of Last-Stage Medical Options 12 Meditations to Anchor the Heart in Eternal Hopes To Begin a Beside Vigil Before Ending Life Support For the Final Hours Momentary Liturgies Intercession Against the Kingdom of Death Liturgies for Seasons of Grieving Lamenting the Passing of a Public Figure For the Wake of a National Tragedy For Grieving a Death Due to Natural Disaster For the Loss of a Close Sibling For the Loss of a Loving Parent For the Loss of a Spouse For Grieving a Death Due to Violence For Those Who Have Suffered a Stillbirth or Miscarriage For One Who Suffers Shame or Guilt after a Miscarriage For the Loss of a Child Grieving the Loss of One Whose Relationship to Their Creator Was Unknown Before Mourning with Those Who Mourn For the Morning of a Funeral I For the Morning of a Funeral II Lament for a Loss Forgiving Unintended Wounds For One Responsible for an Accidental Death For Those Who Feel Abandoned By One Who Chose Suicide For Grieving Well Amidst the Confusion of a Suicide For One Who Suffers Grief & Guilt Over a Past Abortion For Caregivers after the Loss of a Loved One For the Scattering of Ashes For Missing Someone To Welcome Another Into My Grief For a Friend of One Who Grieves Upon Waking from a Disturbing Dream of One Lost Upon Waking from a Comforting Dream of One Lost For the Litany of Regrets For When Someone Thinks You Should Be Over It By Now For Those Who Share a Common Loss To Begin a Family Gathering After Loss For Removing One’s Wedding Ring For Sorting Through A Loved One’s Things For Returning to Daily Life after Loss For a Loss Experienced Anew Daily For the Hardship of Holidays For the Anniversary of a Loss For Remembering the Life of One We Loved For Embracing Both Joy & Sorrow Liturgies of the Journey: I. A Liturgy for Those Shocked By Loss II. A Liturgy for the Pain of Loss III. A Liturgy for Seasons of Frustration & Anger IV. A Liturgy for When the Long Sadness has Settled In V. A Liturgy for the First Glimpse of New Hope VI. A Liturgy for Beginning to Rebuild VII. A Liturgy of Thanksgiving at the Return of Joy Liturgies of the Moment Upon Feeling a Stab of Grief For the Grieving Who Have Lost Direction For Loving Well in Times of Sorrow For the Navigation of Shared Grief Upon Feeling the Urge to Lash Out at Another Upon Feeling Frustration at Others For the Cultivation of Compassion For Anchoring the Heart Upon Feeling a Surge of Sadness For Trusting in Christ’s Abiding Presence For Extending Kindness to One Who Grieves For Charity in Sorrow Upon Learning of a Friend’s Miscarriage For Centering the Heart in the Faithfulness of God For Those Who See No Quick End to Their Grief For Times of Turbulent Emotion For Calm in Times of Storm Upon Learning of an Indigent Death For Navigating Difficult Moments For Difficult Days For a Troubling Hour For the Shaping of My Heart For Comfort in Sadness For Hope Amidst Sorrows I For Hope Amidst Sorrows II For When There are No Words For Caregivers When Hope Seems Far Off For When it Feels Like the World is Falling Apart In the Wake of Tragedy Benediction A Liturgy of Praise to Christ Who Conquered Death

On January 29th we are partnering with The Trinity Forum to host artist and author Mako Fujimura for a conversation around his brand new book, Art + Faith: A Theology of Making. Mako believes that in the act of making we are able to know and experience the depth of God’s being and grace. Mako says, “I now consider what I do in the studio to be theological work as much as aesthetic work. I experience God, my Maker, in the studio. I am immersed in the art of creating, and I have come to understand this dimension of life as the most profound way of grasping human experience and the nature of our existence in the world. I call it the ‘Theology of Making.'” We hope you will join us as we explore the theological work of creating. Click here to sign up for this online event. Those who register for this Online Conversation will be invited to participate in post-event discussion groups to continue the conversation! The discussion groups will be moderated by Trinity Forum representatives and aim to allow participants to more deeply engage with the ideas in the Online Conversation with other viewers. Once registered, be on the lookout for an email from The Trinity Forum with the sign-up for a break-out group. About Makoto Fujimura Makoto Fujimura is a leading contemporary artist whose process-driven, refractive “slow art” has been described by David Brooks of The New York Times as “a small rebellion against the quickening of time.” He is an arts advocate, writer, and speaker who is recognized worldwide as a cultural influencer. A Presidential appointee to the National Council on the Arts from 2003-2009, Fujimura served as an international advocate for the arts, speaking with decision makers and advising governmental policies on the arts. His books, Refractions (NavPress) and Culture Care (IVPress), reflect many of his ideas on arts advocacy written during that time. His books have won numerous awards including the Aldersgate Prize for Silence and Beauty (IVPress). Fujimura founded the International Arts Movement in 1992, now IAMCultureCare, which oversees Fujimura Institute.

When I was 21, I signed a Nashville publishing deal. As a shy teenager I had discovered songwriting as a form of prayer, therapy, and self-expression. Now, given the opportunity to turn my introspective hobby into a career writing material for other recording artists, I figured I’d better make my songs less intensely personal. I began writing lyrics on more generic topics, hoping any vocalist could relate to them. I soon got a call from my publisher. ​“Why,” she asked, ​“are you suddenly writing terrible songs?” That was the day I learned, as a general rule, the more personal something is, the more power it possesses. Any contribution we wish to make holds much greater potential if it’s an authentic expression of who we are. “Authenticity” has become, rightly, a buzzword. We crave it in culture, relationships, churches, and lives. Something is authentic when whatever claims it makes for itself are consistent with its own interior reality. Songs are authentic when they express something their writer actually feels. Mexican food is authentic when the ingredients and recipes used to make it really do come from Mexico. People are authentic when their hidden motivations match the things they actually say and do. What if in becoming authentically good, we actually become ourselves? Carolyn Arends It’s the inner condition of a person that determines whether his or her authenticity is a good thing. The man who leaves his family to be true to himself is being authentic, but not good. Conversely, most of us know someone who is genuinely himself—unmasked and transparent—in ways that are very good indeed. When a person’s inner and outer realities are both healthy and aligned, she becomes a profoundly powerful presence. I’ve noticed a trend regarding authenticity in some of our circles. We’ve rightly rejected an emphasis on an outer appearance of holiness if it doesn’t match the real state of a person’s heart. Instead, we honestly acknowledge our brokenness. A lot. It’s good—it’s essential—to get real about the truth of our condition. But what would happen if we focused less on downgrading our exterior emphasis on holiness, and more on upgrading the interior possibility of it? It scared me to type that last sentence. God forbid I should ever wield the self-wounding sword of legalism. I’m not arguing we harangue ourselves into moral rectitude. I’m just asking what would happen if we let ourselves imagine it is possible to grow—slowly, gently, and with God’s help—into people who are both authentically ourselves and authentically good. To put it the other way around, what if in becoming authentically good, we actually become ourselves? What if we discover that, in the words of C. S. Lewis, ​“The more we let God take us over, the more truly ourselves we become”? I’ve been in dozens of prayer meetings where we’ve used John the Baptist’s cry: ​He must increase, but I must decrease! (John 3:30, KJV). Every time I’ve uttered that prayer, I’ve imagined my own personality receding into a generic state of Christlikeness. But it has started to dawn on me that John only became more completely his confrontational, unshaven, locust-eating self in Jesus’ presence. John actually became Johnier and Johnier—but now all of him was pointing to Jesus. He was authentically holy, but in an authentically John the Baptist sort of way. And this Jesus John was pointing to? He is fully divine, yes. He shows us what the Father looks like. But He is also authentically human. He shows us what it looks like when a human being is flourishing and whole—and He shows us that, with His help, such a thing is possible. The first single from my new album is called “Becoming Human.” Taking Pinocchio and King Lear as its subjects, the lyric is as odd as I am, and nothing like those generic songs I offered my publisher long ago. The song argues the case I hope the album makes—the fact that we are “only human” is not a cause for resignation, but a high and holy calling… and an invitation to become authentically good. Click here to listen to “Becoming Human” on Spotify and here to listen on Apple Music. Click here to buy the full album, Recognition, in the Rabbit Room Store. Parts of this article were adapted from an earlier piece entitled “Authentically Holy,” first published in Faith Today.

I’ve been thinking a lot about a talk given by author and theologian Russell Moore at 2020’s Hutchmoot—the Rabbit Room’s annual conference. The talk was titled “Why We Need Fiction For Moral Formation,” and in it, Moore makes the case (and I’m paraphrasing since it’s been three months since I heard the talk) that so many of us are Biblically illiterate and desperately need a better understanding of storytelling to direct our lives. Moore doesn’t mean that we can’t literally read the words of scripture, rather that we haven’t been sufficiently taught how to see those words as part of a grand picture, a storyline that stretches from the creation of Eden in Genesis 1 to Eden’s ultimate restoration in Revelation 22. We prefer cherry-picked abstractions over overarching plot lines. We treat the Bible like that classic acronym: Basic Instructions Before Leaving Earth. As I’ve reflected on it over the past months, I’ve realized we suffer not just from Biblical illiteracy, but illiteracy (as Moore defines it) across the world of art, story, and music—illiteracy that keeps us focused on abstractions and surface-level observations rather than what’s at the heart of a given work. These thoughts came to the fore of my mind again last week as I observed a Facebook thread beginning with the question: “Is there any Christian music that has a country feel? My daughter loves country, but I don’t love the lyrics or worldview so much.” Let’s park here for just a moment. And so as to not call out this specific poster, let me just say: the assumptions, feelings, and desires of this particular poster are shared with so many within the Church, and especially with parents wanting to guard their children’s hearts. Any critique I offer of this specific question is not to call out a specific person. This question simply serves as a perfect example of what I’ve observed over and over again. With that said, there are a few things at play in this question—some helpful and good, some that are actually quite harmful to our spiritual life and theology. First, I absolutely affirm the desire to provide good, meaningful art for our children. We should always be interested and involved in what our children are interested and involved in, not in a helicopter parent way, but in an encouraging and conversational way. When presented with a song that makes us uncomfortable, we must ask ourselves why. Chris Thiessen What strikes me about this request for country-tinged Christian music, however, are the generalizations. Notice, “Country” has a singular “worldview” that imbues its lyrics, while “Christian music” also has a singular “worldview” that is supposed to be better and safer. As I scroll through the suggestions people offer—Rhett Walker Band, Johnny Cash, Carman, Needtobreathe, Randy Travis—I can tell you with certainty that a plethora of worldviews, theologies, and attitudes are at play within their lyrics. This, like most issues, is not a dualistic issue. And sometimes a song that mentions Jesus or has a guise of wise spirituality but contains poor theology can be far more detrimental to our souls than the exploitation of beers, cigarettes, and women that permeate the vapidest bro-country. Additionally, some topics and themes that may seem vapid, sinful, un-Christ-like—or insert your objectional adjective of choice—require a deeper understanding of story and music to interpret correctly. This is where Dr. Moore’s warning against illiteracy comes into play. “Carrie Underwood has a song about a woman and her husband’s lover who collude to run him over with their two cars,” this same poster later asserts, sharing her concerns about what’s wrong with country music. The song referenced, 2012’s “Two Black Cadillacs,” is indeed a macabre story about marital unfaithfulness, violence, and revenge. However, context should always be a requirement when interpreting music and story. In this case, we must look into the long history of murder ballads within folk and country music to see what’s really at play in Underwood’s revenge tale. The murder ballad is a lyrical folk tradition that stretches back to the 19th century American South (and even further in the British Isles). Often, these songs relayed the events of real murders as reported in the newspapers, and often, these murders were carried out toward women. As C. Kirk Hutson writes in his essay, “Whackety Whack, Dont Talk Back”: Sometimes folksongs portrayed such men in a sympathetic light. Similar to the mass media of the late twentieth century, some folksongs turned them into tragic heroes—brave but misguided characters—not brutal villains. On the scaffold, for example, they typically accepted their fate “like a man.” Often they gave heart-wrenching confessions in which they blamed whiskey or the victims themselves for their downfall. By allowing southern males to shift responsibility for their abusive behavior, the culture trivialized femicide, because the murders were slighted or glossed over. —C. Kirk Hutson, “Whackety Whack, Don’t Talk Back” Traditional songs “Down in the Willow Garden,” “Omie Wise,” “Pretty Polly,” and countless others pervaded Southern culture for over a century, and have led to more recent murder ballads. Jimi Hendrix popularized the rock standard “Hey Joe” in 1966, singing, “I’m going down to shoot my old lady / You know, I caught her messing around with another man.” In 1994, Johnny Cash repopularized the murder story of Delia Green with his rendition of “Delia’s Gone”: First time I shot her I shot her in the side Hard to watch her suffer But with the second shot she died Delia’s gone, one more round Delia’s gone However, in the last half-century, some women in country music have pushed back against the rampant abuse, violence, and exploitation they endure in the lyrics of country music. Wanda Jackson, Dolly Parton, Loretta Lynn, and others trailblazed the way in the 1960s. And more recently, we’ve seen a surge of women in country music who’ve flipped the murder ballad script as an act of defiance toward the genre’s violent history. The Chicks took out an abusive husband with a sly smile on their 1999 hit “Goodbye Earl”; Miranda Lambert did the same in response to a toxic relationship on 2008’s “Gunpowder & Lead”; and on her new record, evermore, Taylor Swift (joined by rock group HAIM) exacts justice on a man who cheated on and murdered his wife with “no body, no crime.” It's important to recognize that presenting a topic or theme is not the same as condoning that topic or theme. Chris Thiessen It’s in this mode that we must interpret Underwood’s “Two Black Cadillacs.” Sure, violence is violence. But it’s important to recognize that presenting a topic or theme is not the same as condoning that topic or theme. “Two Black Cadillacs,” like the other songs mentioned above, are less about revenge and more about the long history of violence, mistreatment, and toxicity that have ravaged country music and the southern culture it reflects. It’s also worth noting that the business side of the country music industry has a long history of misconduct toward and exploitation of women, and that narrative can’t be separated from the angst fueling songs like these. These are not themes to shrug off and turn a blind eye toward. (For further reading on that, please read Marissa Moss’s thorough exploration of sexual harassment in country music for Rolling Stone). Context matters. Learning how to interpret art matters. And believe me, I get it. When we’re presented with something that makes us uncomfortable, when we’re presented with darkness or violence or evil, our instinct is often to shudder and move away from that thing and blame the messenger. However, we must confront the darkness. When presented with a song that makes us uncomfortable, we must ask ourselves why. Often (not always), the artist is trying to show us something broken about our world that we are perhaps a bit too comfortable with. An effect is always preceded by a cause. But if we only spend our time critiquing or avoiding the effect, we’ll miss the whole story and never fully embrace truth. We live in a world full of characters, themes, and plot lines. Not abstractions. So the next time you encounter a woman sing about “colluding to murder a man with cars,” listen to her story. Truly hear her. If you do, you’ll probably find it was never about murder to begin with. Click here to watch and/or listen to Dr. Russell Moore’s session “Why We Need Fiction for Moral Formation” referenced in this post. This post originally appeared on Chris Thiessen’s weekly newsletter, Quarter Notes. Click here to learn more and subscribe.

Now available in The Rabbit Room Bookstore is Jamin Still’s latest work, a collection of deeply immersive stories and paintings called Tales of Hibaria: The Awakening. Click through to learn more about this beautiful project. The twelve stories contained in this volume introduce the reader to the world of Hibaria and the Islands. It is a world of magic and mystery, of dragons and sea serpents, a world where the Sky Lords—the Constellations—can take physical form and walk the land. It is a world in which an ancient evil, long imprisoned, threatens to break free. The central characters in these stories are children and young adults who grapple with fear and sorrow, loss and longing, and who are given the opportunity to choose courage and hope. Their individual stories weave together to begin to tell a larger narrative. This full-color volume is as much a book of stories as it is an art book: it is brimming with richly painted illustrations, numerous supplemental sketches, and finely detailed maps. Here is a sampling of page spreads and images included in the book: Want to hear a sample of one of the stories? Click below to play an excerpt from The Snow Beast. Click here to view Tales of Hibaria: The Awakening in the Rabbit Room Bookstore.

This week, we are grateful to share a liturgy from Douglas McKelvey’s upcoming Every Moment Holy, Vol. II: “A Liturgy for Embracing Both Joy & Sorrow.” And not only is the text of the liturgy now available—Annie F. Downs has shared a special video reading of the liturgy as well. Do not be distant, O Lord, lest I find this burden of loss too heavy, and shrink from the necessary experience of my grief. Do not be distant, O Lord, lest I become so mired in yesterday’s hurts, that I miss entirely the living gifts this day might hold. Let me neither ignore my pain, pretending all is okay when it isn’t, nor coddle and magnify my pain, so that I dull my capacity to experience all that remains good in this life. For joy that denies sorrow is neither hard-won, nor true, nor eternal. It is not real joy at all. And sorrow that refuses to make space for the return of joy and hope, in the end becomes nothing more than a temple for the worship of my own woundedness. So give me strength, O God, to feel this grief deeply, never to hide my heart from it. And give me also hope enough to remain open to surprising encounters with joy, as one on a woodland path might stumble suddenly into dapplings of golden light. Amidst the pain that lades these days, give me courage, O Lord; courage to live them fully, to love and to allow myself to be loved, to remember, grieve, and honor what was, to live with thanksgiving in what is, and to invest in the hope of what will be. Be at work gilding these long heartbreaks with the advent of new joys, good friendships, true fellowships, unexpected delights. Remind me again and again of your goodness, your presence, your promises. For this is who we are: a people of The Promise—a people shaped in the image of the God whose very being generates all joy in the universe, yet who also weeps and grieves its brokenness. So we, your children, are also at liberty to lament our losses, even as we simultaneously rejoice in the hope of their coming restoration. Let me learn now, O Lord, to do this as naturally as the inhale and exhale of a single breath: To breathe out sorrow, to breathe in joy. To breathe out lament, to breathe in hope. To breathe out pain, to breathe in comfort. To breathe out sorrow, to breathe in joy. In one hand I grasp the burden of my grief, while with the other I reach for the hope of grief’s redemption. And here, between the tension of the two, between what was and what will be, in the very is of now, let my heart be surprised by, shaped by, warmed by, remade by, the same joy that forever wells within and radiates from your heart, O God. Amen. Click here to download the full liturgy at the Every Moment Holy website. Click here to watch Kristyn Getty’s reading of “A Liturgy for Seasons of Uncertainty.”

Friend of the Rabbit Room, beloved poet, and honorary hobbit, Malcolm Guite, has just released a new book of poetry called David’s Crown, composed of 150 poems written in response to all 150 Psalms. We are huge fans of Malcolm and want to give you a few ways to connect with him and his work, including an upcoming webinar and a collection of “Spells in the Library” episodes on his YouTube channel. On February 11th at 1pm CST, Malcolm will be joined by David Taylor, Paula Gooder, and Roger Wagner for a special webinar hosted by Canterbury Press in which they will discuss poetry, the Psalms, and much more. Click here to register for free. Meanwhile, Malcolm will be exploring his new book on his delightfully interactive YouTube channel in the coming days. Click here to subscribe. And of course, we’d love for you to order a copy of his book. Click here to buy in the Rabbit Room Store.

The Habit Podcast is a series of conversations with writers about writing, hosted by Jonathan Rogers. This week, Jonathan Rogers talks with songwriter and storyteller Matthew Clark. Jonathan Rogers and Matthew Clark discuss the many facets of Matthew’s mission to “make things that make room for people to meet Jesus,” his tour van that he calls “Vandalf the White,” and human creativity as a posture of synthesis rather than analysis. Click here to listen to Season 3, Episode 3 of The Habit Podcast. Transcripts are now available for The Habit Podcast. Click here to access them. Special thanks to our Rabbit Room members for making these podcasts possible! If you’re interested in becoming a member, visit RabbitRoom.com/Donate.

[Editor’s note: This post first appeared in Jonathan’s weekly Habit newsletter. To learn more and sign up, click the link at the end.] I call this letter (and my podcast, and my membership site) The Habit because, to quote Flannery O’Connor, “I’m a full-time believer in writing habits.” To continue quoting Milledgeville’s favorite daughter… You may be able to do without [habits] if you have genius, but most of us have talent, and this is simply something that has to be assisted all the time by physical and mental habits or it dries up and blows away. Another word for this kind of habit is liturgy. Liturgy works on the principle that our outward actions shape our inward states. Last week the online edition of The Atlantic ran an interview with a couple of friends of mine that illustrates the incredible power of liturgy/habit. Andy Gullahorn and Gabe Scott have been friends for a long time. Both musicians, they’ve been playing Andrew Peterson’s Behold the Lamb Christmas tour together for as long as there has been a tour, since 2000. But they didn’t do a good job of keeping up with one another the rest of the year, in spite of the fact that they both lived in Nashville, a couple of miles apart. We aren't just brains on a stick. We are embodied creatures, and the things we do with our bodies shape our inward realities. Jonathan Rogers So in 2014 they cooked up a plan: once a week they would give each other a high-five. At a mutual signal (delivered by text), Andy would leave walking from his house, Gabe would leave walking from his house, and they would meet at a park equidistant from the two houses and give each other a high-five. Sometimes they play basketball. Sometimes they talk. Sometimes they just turn around and go home. There are different protocols and procedures for the high-five depending on the situation. Gabe and Andy introduced a clap and a snap into the high-five to distinguish it from other high-fives. Andy keeps a high-five journal, which is one of the most Andy Gullahorn things I’ve ever heard of. They’ve been doing the high-five every week, with very few exceptions, for more than six years. But 2020 threw a major curve ball at the high-five. (Was it a curve ball? A monkey wrench? The correct mixed metaphor is escaping me.) Gabe fell ill with a kind of encephalitis that wreaked havoc on his memory. Huge swaths of his memory were just gone. He forgot, for instance, that he was the owner of the highly successful and much-beloved Ladybird Taco, my new favorite breakfast place. When Gabe was recovering in the hospital, Andy stayed with him one night to give Gabe’s wife a break. Here’s what they told the Atlantic interviewer about that visit. Andy: I asked him if he knew anything about the high five, and he said, “No; what are you talking about?” So I told him the basic story. The next morning he got up to use the restroom. At that point, his short-term memory was really, really bad, so he wouldn’t have remembered the conversation the night before. I said, “Okay, Gabe, this probably isn’t going to make any sense, but on your way back from the bathroom, I’m going to walk toward you. I need you to give me a high five.” He was like, “Okay.” … I started walking toward him, and then right before the high five, he did the clap, and the snap, and I just started crying. I said, “I can’t believe you just did that.” He was like, “Can’t believe I just did what?” It just blew my mind. I didn’t expect him to remember anything about it. Gabe: That’s one of the things I love about the routine of it. Not just the mechanics of it, but the friendship part of it is so burned into my body memory that that’s what came out. Gabe’s body remembered what his brain couldn’t remember. That’s the power of habit, of liturgy. Gabe went on to tell the interviewer, Typically, when I think about routine, it means something that comes automatically. And the high five is routine in that we do it every week; we know it’s coming. But the joy and the reward that comes out of it—that’s not routine. Even after six years of doing this, every time I see my wonderful buddy walking down the side of the road toward me, that’s special. We’re dedicated to each other, and we’re showing each other in a way other than just calling and saying, “Hey, I love you.” We’re actually doing something, and that hasn’t gotten old. Isn’t that great? We aren’t just brains on a stick. We are embodied creatures, and the things we do with our bodies shape our inward realities. You really need to read that whole Atlantic.com article for yourself. It’s fantastic. You’ll laugh. You’ll cry. You’ll think about your own habits and liturgies of friendship. This piece was originally shared in Jonathan’s weekly Habit Newsletter. If you’d like your own inbox to be graced with such insight—and with staggering frequency, at that—you can sign up for it by clicking here.

The Hutchmoot Podcast features some of our favorite sessions recorded at our annual conference which celebrates art, music, story, and faith in all their many intersections. Today, it is our pleasure to share Dr. Russell Moore’s session “Why We Need Fiction for Moral Formation” from 2020’s Hutchmoot: Homebound, in both video and audio form. You can watch Dr. Moore’s session below, in which he explores the ways that fiction and story are fundamental and indispensable building blocks in our our understanding of the world, ourselves, and God. In addition to Dr. Moore’s session, today’s podcast episode features Andrew Peterson’s welcoming address as well as his performance of “Many Roads” (complete with a pandemic-themed bridge). Click here to listen to this episode of The Hutchmoot Podcast. For further reading, check out Chris Thiessen’s thoughtful application of Dr. Moore’s ideas in his post, “Black Cadillacs and Murder Ballads.”

The Habit Podcast is a series of conversations with writers about writing, hosted by Jonathan Rogers. This week, Jonathan Rogers talks with Lisa Deam, art historian and author of 3,000 Miles to Jesus: Pilgrimage as a Way of Life for Spiritual Seekers. Jonathan Rogers and Lisa Deam discuss the process of writing as a pilgrimage, the human desire to leave signposts for those who come after us, the infamous “long middle” of the writing journey, and the instructive power of inefficiency. Click here to listen to Season 3, Episode 4 of The Habit Podcast. Transcripts are now available for The Habit Podcast. Click here to access them. Special thanks to our Rabbit Room members for making these podcasts possible! If you’re interested in becoming a member, visit RabbitRoom.com/Donate.

This week, we are grateful to share a liturgy from Douglas McKelvey’s upcoming Every Moment Holy, Vol. II: “A Liturgy for Those Who Have Suffered a Miscarriage or Stillbirth.” You can now view the full text for the liturgy as well as a special reading from Andrew Peterson. Leader: O Christ Who Gathered Children in Your Arms, You know our ache. You know this void no human words can fill. You understand this grief for our little one, lost while in the womb. You were witness to our rising joy. You saw our crumbling hope. Now you behold our sinking sorrow. People: Christ, be merciful, for we are frail. And in our frailty we have suffered such loss. Heavenly Father, see what room our love had already carved out—in our home and in our hearts—for the welcome and the wonder of this child, whose face we had not kissed, and whose tiny hands we had not held, but who had already grown so precious to us. Were we not radiant with anticipation, O Lord, building forward to the day when we would finally meet and cradle our sweet child? Only to be met instead with this cratering heartache of sudden loss, this unexpected death of our little one before birth; and with it this dying of dreams for all that might have been. Christ, be merciful for we are frail. And in our frailty we have suffered such loss. For here we have entered a communion, O Lord, a fellowship none have ever wished to join, of all mothers and fathers and families across time who have wept for their lost children. We lament so much that now will never be. This child we lost will be for us in this life like a song unsung, and a story untold. Christ, be merciful, for we are frail. And in our frailty we have suffered such loss. The petitioners sit a moment in the silence of this grief. And yet, even in our deep loss, O Lord, you have not abandoned us or left us without light and hope. For we remember how you, Jesus, loved and welcomed little ones, touching their heads and blessing them, declaring that the kingdom of heaven belonged to these. And you have told us that your promises are for us and for our children. And this one whom we lost, was this not also our child, O God? Our hearts ache even to ponder such things, but is it possible that when all creation is made new, we will find fellowship there with one we could not hold in this life? Could the redemption of this world’s harms run so deep? So beyond all imagining? Your word says little of such mysteries. And yet, in what is revealed we find good reason to take heart. Christ, be merciful, for we are frail. And in our frailty we have suffered such loss. For even amidst uncertainty, this we know to be true of your works, O Father, and this we will cling to: Your grace, your mercy, your redemption, and your love will extend further and will be more wondrous in their perfection than we have ever imagined. However we might try to conceive of such joys, that conception will be either errant or incomplete, because we, in our finite knowledge and capacity for hope, will limit the picture we paint in ways that you, in your limitless joy and relentless grace, will never be bounded by. However we might envision the redemption of this loss, the actual redemption that you effect will be still more glorious. So let us learn to steward well this holy sorrow, assured that it is in some way the buried seed of a flower that will blossom into eternity. O Christ, be merciful, for we are frail. And in our frailty we have suffered such loss. Indeed, this future hope will not end the pain we feel today. It does not negate the emptiness of the womb where new life stirred. It does not fill the empty cradle. But it does declare that the empty cradle and the empty womb will not have power to grieve us forever, for one day our eternal joys will flow backward in time, even to this broken place. And then those joys will fill every emptiness and every heartbreak the children of God have ever endured. Now, O Lord, we remember your past faithfulness. We receive your present comforts. We await your future redemptions. Let us, in this and in all sorrows, be met by your lovingkindness and consoled by your hope. For yours, O Father, is the kingdom, and the power, and the glorious redemption of all our losses. Even of this one. Amen. Click here to download the full liturgy at the Every Moment Holy website. Click here to watch Annie F. Downs’s reading of “A Liturgy for Embracing Both Joy & Sorrow” and here to watch Kristyn Getty’s reading of “A Liturgy for Seasons of Uncertainty.”

2020 is behind us and 2021 is looking up, but as we plan out the year ahead, there’s still a lot of uncertainty about travel restrictions and limits on gatherings. So rather than take a risk on a Hutchmoot that might run into problems as the year develops, we’re making the decision early on to switch gears again this year to Hutchmoot: Homebound. We had so much fun putting Homebound together last year that we’re excited to dive back in again with more time to plan and a better idea of what works and what to correct. So we’re happy to announce that October 8-10 we’ll once again be hosting Hutchmoot: Homebound from North Wind Manor, and we can’t wait to tell you who our keynote speaker is—but that information will have to wait a bit longer. What’s certain, though, is that you can expect more music, more sessions, more interactions, and more fun. Look for tickets to go on sale in early March. So what does that mean for those with tickets for Hutchmoot 2021? We’re 100% confident that a live, in-person Hutchmoot will happen in Nashville in 2022, so you’re welcome to hold onto your ticket and it’ll be automatically transferred to 2022. We know that’s not ideal for everyone, though, so if you currently hold a ticket for Hutchmoot 2021 (which means you initially purchased it for Hutchmoot 2020), please write to us at orders@rabbitroom.com to let us know you’d like a refund, and we’ll be happy to get your money back to you. We hope you’ll join us from home again this year, and we hope you’ll invite a friend to join you. As information develops, we’ll keep you up to date both here on the Rabbit Room site and at HutchmootHomebound.com.

On this Friday, February 12th, we are once again delighted to partner with The Trinity Forum to welcome award-winning author and professor Diana Glyer to an online conversation. Glyer is intrigued by the creative process, particularly the way that creativity thrives within small groups and creative clusters. She has written extensively on the lives and work of C. S. Lewis, J. R. R. Tolkien, and their beloved community known as The Inklings. We hope you’ll join us as we hear from Diana on the importance of collaboration and the necessity of friendship to the creative process. Especially in our ongoing season of isolation and social restrictions, we want to think imaginatively about how we can cultivate friendships and communities that are generative and culture-shaping. P. S. Diana Glyer is the author of Bandersnatch: C. S. Lewis, J. R. R. Tolkien, and the Creative Collaboration of the Inklings. Check it out in the Rabbit Room Bookstore! Check out her fascinating conversation with Jonathan Rogers on The Habit Podcast.

One of my favorite scenes from Mad Max: Fury Road is when Furiosa learns that “The Green Place” she’s been searching for has long since been destroyed. She drops to her knees and lets out a heartbreaking cry of pain. It’s reminiscent of the scene in Little Miss Sunshine when the teenage kid learns he is colorblind and he will never pilot a plane. He also drops to his knees and yells a slightly more colorful word. Or when Willow and his gang of unlikely heroes finally arrive to Tir Asleen where everything was supposed to be okay, and find that Tir Asleen is no more. These scenes paint a picture of the moment a dream splits in half. There is something holy and awful about the instant you realize the state of the world, the state of men’s hearts, the state of your own heart. The question isn’t whether that moment will come for us, but rather: what will we do with it? In Mad Max, Furiosa (played brilliantly by Charlize Theron) runs away from the Citadel, the place where the evil tyrant Immortan Joe lives and presides, to find “The Green Place” where she was born. The Green Place is the place of “Many Mothers” and is ripe with plants and freshwater, unlike the post-apocalyptic desert wasteland that the story is set in. She goes through hell to escape Immortan Joe, and then to travel far out into the desert with Mad Max to find The Green Place. She finally stumbles onto a few of her old clan in the far reaches of the wastelands who deliver the bad news: The Green Place is no more. They are all that’s left of the Many Mothers. Furiosa kneels in the sweeping sand and screams with all the pain of hope lost. She decides the only thing they can do is to pack up their motorcycles and ride as far as they can across the saltlands, just to see if something is out there. But Max stops her and tells her the way she is going “There is only salt and more salt.” Instead of pushing on into the saltlands, he proposes a crazy idea: go back. Take the Citadel, the place from which she escaped. Ironically, the Citadel is a type of “green place.” It’s set in a mountainside and houses many gardens and a stream of freshwater. But it’s ruled by a cruel lord who distributes the water as a tease to the people who wait at the base of the mountain for one tiny sip. There is a part of me that wants to hop on a motorcycle and ride off into the saltlands dreaming of a place I once knew, never to look back. But what if there is only salt and more salt that way? Hetty White Furiosa knows that it will not be an easy road back and there is a war to fight, but she decides to take Mad Max’s advice. They start the return journey and all hell breaks loose. It’s a crazy ride back and there is a war on the road between Furiosa’s gang and the troops from the Citadel. Many people die, but the story concludes with Furiosa standing in the Citadel as the victor, releasing the stream of water to the thirsty people below. This whole last year has felt like the death of a dream. The dream of everything we once knew. Along with thousands of others, I lost someone precious to me, someone I’m not sure how to live without. There is a part of me that wants to hop on a motorcycle and ride off into the saltlands dreaming of a place I once knew, never to look back. But what if there is only salt and more salt that way? The way back to the Citadel would be a fight, a war. And I don’t mean with others, I mean with ourselves. A war of belief: believing The Green Place is already ours, that it is our inheritance as children of God. But the reward is huge: an endless supply of water that we can freely give to others. It is a privilege that we even have the dream of a green place to look back on. Yes, most of us would like to go back to a time similar to 2019. But not all of us. What about those who grew up in captivity? Those who don’t even know what fresh water tastes like? Instead of the death of a dream, what if this moment is an opportunity to establish a dream for those who have never dreamt one? Taking on the Citadel takes teamwork, and teamwork in a post-apocalyptic world doesn’t come easy. When Furiosa and Mad Max first meet, they try to kill each other. As they slowly earn each other’s trust they begin to realize they are each other’s only hope to take the Citadel. At the end of the film, Mad Max stands in the crowd of people looking up at Furiosa. He nods to her. They have gone through war together and won. I hope some years down the road, we will look at each other with knowing eyes and bump fists (I can dream can’t I?). We went through hell together. But it was worth it. It was worth it to take the green place from our memories and our hearts, and make it a reality, not just for ourselves, but for everyone who is thirsty.

The Habit Podcast is a series of conversations with writers about writing, hosted by Jonathan Rogers. This week, Jonathan Rogers talks with Tish Harrison Warren, author of Prayer in the Night: For Those Who Work or Watch or Keep. Jonathan Rogers and Tish Harrison Warren discuss the difference between true human vulnerability and the “curated” vulnerability of Instagram, writing as an inescapable encounter with one’s own weakness, and the under-appreciated gift of receiving well-placed criticism. Click here to listen to Season 3, Episode 5 of The Habit Podcast. Transcripts are now available for The Habit Podcast. Click here to access them. Special thanks to our Rabbit Room members for making these podcasts possible! If you’re interested in becoming a member, visit RabbitRoom.com/Donate.

Do you ever get overwhelmed by the sheer volume of great music being made and shared? We certainly do. Sometimes it’s hard even to know where to begin. So, as both a practice for ourselves on staff at the Rabbit Room and a tool to help you with your own listening life, we are beginning a bi-monthly blog series called “New Music Roundup.” These blog posts will be designed for simplicity and ease—the idea is to give you a sampling of the new music we’re paying attention to this month so that you can find what interests you and start listening. Let’s begin. Click here to listen to all this new music and more on our Rabbit Room Radar playlist on Spotify. And here to listen on Apple Music. Early Work, Vol. 2 by Josh Garrels Josh Garrels is taking a much-deserved sabbatical from putting out new music this year, but before he does that, he’s…putting out just a little more new music. I can’t say I’m not grateful! And it’s a cool idea, too—re-tracking some of his oldies-but-goodies (such as the truth-bomb of a song in the video above) and breathing new life into them. It’s a great idea for a project, and excellently executed. Thanks for your generosity, Josh. Now get some rest! —Drew Miller Live Vol. 1 by Colony House Someone asked me what I loved about Colony House. Besides the fact that the guys are amazing human beings, I think the first word that comes to mind is “passion.” When you see them play live, it’s astonishing how much heart they put into every note of every performance. Not only are the songs intricate musically, the guys are good enough to pull off these songs on stage—with the added benefit of their fiery hearts on full display. I dare you to not move when you hear this. —Andrew Peterson I Dream of You (Vol. 3) by JJ Heller JJ Heller is back with another volume of cover songs in I Dream of You Vol. 3—which also means that, strangely, two covers of the Proclaimers’ “I’m Gonna Be (500 miles)” are coming down the pipeline (you’ll hear the next one in next month’s roundup). JJ and Dave never fail to deliver quality work and this new album is no exception. —Pete Peterson The Wood Drake Sessions Paul Ranheim and Kirk Sauers became friends during their time living in Nashville. Paul is a minister and songwriter in Colorado, with a particular heart for resourcing the church’s worship and cultivating her leaders. Kirk is a worship leader in Georgia, with a passion to shepherd the diverse and beautiful body of Christ through music. In the midst of the disappointment and divisiveness of a long and challenging year they see a light piercing through the shadows, and hope to bring the worshiping bride of Christ together as one to sing with a renewed hope. They have sought to compose songs filled with ancient truths which invite the human heart to respond in the present. You can learn more about their collaboration, The Wood Drake Sessions, here. —Rob Wheeler Becca Jordan: New Album (Kickstarter) Becca is one of my favorite songwriters: subtle, truthful, and hopeful. When I learned she was teaming up with Jess Ray to make her new record, I was giddy with excitement (still am, truly). And then when I heard this first song they made together, “Autumn Gold,” my expectations were far exceeded. I dare say this album is going to be immaculate, and there are still a few more days left for you to get in on the Kickstarter. Give this song a listen and just ponder the goodness that is to come! —Drew Miller Morgan Brock One of the advantages of having a son who’s a record producer is that you get to hear music a wee bit early. Folks, I put on this new Morgan Brock EP (a precursor to a full-length coming soon), and loved it immediately. The production is sparse, leaving room for her gorgeous voice to fill the space. The songs are tender and intimate, which is a perfect counterpoint to the surprising melodies. —Andrew Peterson Breezewood by Zane Vickery Zane Vickery came out of nowhere this month with a record that gets better with every single listen and rings all my bells. If this is what his first record is like, I can’t wait to hear what’s next. —Pete Peterson Click here to listen to all this new music and more on our Rabbit Room Radar playlist on Spotify. And here to listen on Apple Music.

So here’s what I want you to do, God helping you: Take your everyday, ordinary life—your sleeping, eating, going-to-work, and walking-around life—and place it before God as an offering. Embracing what God does for you is the best thing you can do for him. —Romans 12:1 (The Message) I wish I could tell you that this record is the result of some mysterious, divine calling that came from discernment in the wee hours of the night—a vision, even. However, this record (which is still annoyingly not yet titled) is primarily a decision to embrace what God has done for me in my everyday, ordinary life. My life consists of working full time in a retirement community, singing in my local church, spending time with friends, writing, reading… surely nothing that is fodder for songs—or even worse, certainly not good enough to embrace as God-given. At least, that’s what I thought for a long time. I plodded my way through the darkness of the mundane and accepted my fate as a creative trapped in a day job. I kept looking for inspiration elsewhere—anywhere but exactly where I was. When the pandemic entered the scene, a spiritual formation began to take shape in me, albeit quiet and simple: I had to be still. The privilege of dreaming and longing for fulfillment somewhere else got muted. In the silence, I decided I would finally pay attention. What I found in front of me was everything I needed. And so, it is from this place that I started working on the record. I want it to feel as easy as a good walk and talk with a friend—ebbing and flowing in tone and pace but warm and loving. No midnight visions of mysterious, divine calling here. Only the mysterious and divine calling me in the middle of my sleeping, eating, going-to-work and walking-around-life— and these songs are my offering back to Him, and now you. Becca Jordan The record will begin with “Prologue”: “When all the lights go out / and you are sitting in the dark / pay attention / pay attention.” It seems a bit counterintuitive to encourage someone to pay attention in the dark, but I find this is the exact invitation God has given to me the last few years and it’s the invitation I want to extend to listeners. Something else is at work. Someone else is at work. “All I’ve Got” is a prayer straight from my journal: “Turn my heartache into laughter / let my lonely become love / I give you my anger, may it become / something good / it ain’t a lot / but it’s all I’ve got.” Emptiness isn’t something to be afraid of, I’ve found, but instead a good place to begin. “Daylight” is a letter that I started to my Mom when she was in a difficult season: You see the sun in the sky / you hear me say it’s gonna be alright / you bow your head and cry / because your heart is dark as night.” Sometimes depression can make the days feel like night. Sometimes all you have is those in your corner telling you they love you. “Train Song” is inspired by some time in England and an experience of missing a train. In that moment I felt the eerie similarity that life can feel the same, as if I’m missing out on something—if only I could have another chance! “I want back on that train / please let me on again / this time I’ll find a seat by the window / I’ll ride.” “Memory” is special to me, inspired by one of my residents at the nursing home. Whenever I would sing to him, he would come alive for a split moment. He was no longer a patient but a man with a name. There’s a verse in Zephaniah 3 that talks about God singing over us, and I love to imagine I’m just like my friend with illness that forgets who I am frequently. “When you sing over me / I know just where I am / When you sing over me I belong again.” “Loving You” is my love song with a God I cannot see. “Loving you is never easy / loving you, it always teaches me / who I am and who I want to be.” “Same Old Song” is my ode to folks like me who like to do the same thing expecting different results. I believe that’s the definition of insanity, but I can’t be the only insane person out there, can I? “I’m tired of singing the same old song / oh so tired of singing the same old song / I had what I needed all along.” “Autumn Gold” is the first single from the record we released in November. This song is making peace with the life that God has given me and recognizing that nature teaches me how to accept: by letting go. “I see the autumn colors / I see the autumn gold that’s drifting / falling from the tree.” “Ordinary, Everyday Love” is another song inspired by my workplace. This one details three particular men and how I’ve watched love find them in very normal ways over the years. “Give me eyes to see / who’s standing in front of me / Could it be enough / just ordinary, everyday love.” “Human” is another journal entry song—except it’s more a confession than a prayer. It came from a day at work when I felt like I just did and said all the wrong things, and felt so clearly my need for an interpreter, a field guide, someone else besides me to pave the way towards wholeness. “I set out today with my plans in mind / made up the rules, tried to stop time / raise the bar high and make myself stretch / c’mon, try harder, but I’ve got nothing left.” Jess Ray is bringing her attentiveness and beauty to these songs as producer. If these songs were pencil sketches before, they are being filled in with the most beautiful hues and colors of golden yellow piano tones, moody blue electric guitars, vibey green nylon string guitars, sweeping sunset pink sounds of cello, upright bass and viola, bright red punches of funky drumming, and lots of dreamy warm vocals. I can’t wait for you to see them! Err—hear them. So, no midnight visions of mysterious, divine calling here. Only the mysterious and divine calling me in the middle of my sleeping, eating, going-to-work and walking-around-life— and these songs are my offering back to Him, and now you. I’d love for you to join me in helping this record come to life!

Sometimes, a piece of art emerges out of nowhere and catches you by surprise. For some of us, indie artist Zane Vickery’s debut Breezewood is that kind of record. Built on sweeping piano-pop melodies, heartfelt songwriting, and a deep love for stories (particularly Narnia in this case), these songs feel like the first hints of springtime in the dead of winter, an earnest wrestling with the broken pieces of the past and a longing hope for the future. Breezewood is a record realized in community, partially crowdfunded in 18 days by his circle of friends and lovingly crafted in Nashville with producer Brendan St. Gelais. We are so excited to introduce Zane and his songs to you. I had a chance to talk with him a couple weeks ago about his experience of life, songwriting, and making his musical dream a reality. Thanks for taking the time to chat… I’m excited to introduce you to The Rabbit Room community! First of all, tell me a little bit about yourself and your story. What would you like everyone to know about you? Well, I’m 29. I’ve been married for six years to my wife, Rebecca. We have three kids. I’m a stay at home dad, and my wife works third shift week on, week off. So yeah, for a week I’m riding the parent train solo, and then I get my wife for a whole week. So that is the majority of who I am these days. I live down in Beaufort, South Carolina, which is a great little small coastal community. I grew up in the upstate of South Carolina, outside of the city about 5 to 10 miles on a country road, and lived a very isolated kind of lifestyle out there. You hear a lot of that alluded to in my record. “Breezewood” specifically is the road that I grew up on. It kind of sounds like much of your life has been spent around South Carolina? Starting in 2013, it’s actually quite the opposite. I moved to Washington, DC for a new start, and it went terribly because I didn’t really plan that out, and I didn’t have a ton of support. I really hit just like a rock bottom place of my life—I ended up sleeping in my car and staying in shelters for a little bit. I didn’t have a lot of opportunities in front of me and didn’t really know where my life was headed or what I wanted to do or who I wanted to be. Shortly after that, I moved to Arizona for a short stint. And then after being in Arizona for three months, I got an opportunity to go work for The Navigators, a para-Christian organization based out of Colorado Springs. They run a summer program called Eagle Lake. It’s 12 weeks of kids rotating through week-long stays in cabins, and that was my first exposure to vocational ministry of any kind. Eagle Lake holds a very special place in my heart, so I wanted to feed off of that. I moved back to South Carolina and started working for a church as a student minister for a launching student ministry, and I did that for two years… I worked in law enforcement for two years after that… and during that time my wife and I had our first kid, and she graduated pharmacy school and got her first job here in Beaufort. So I’ve devoted my time to becoming a stay at home dad ever since. I also came to the conclusion that I wanted to write a record, and I knew that that would take a lot of time as well. So that’s the abbreviated version of the last 10 years. Wow, that’s a lot! It’s worse. (laughs) I feel like there’s an interesting conversation to be had about all the different places and vocations you experienced in those 10 years… moving to DC, and going to Arizona, and then ending up in ministry and law enforcement. And I feel like there might be something in there about how all that informs your art. So here’s the question: Where did music fit into this? My first introduction to music other than listening to CDs on my CD player was my 7th grade chorus class. I didn’t get the elective that I wanted, and they threw me in chorus and dance. I was not happy at all. But something really cool happened in chorus. There was a piano there. And also my music teacher taught us to read sheet music and play xylophones. So I went to my parents and I asked if I could get a keyboard because I’d been going to the chorus room and fiddling around with the piano. So they bought me like the standard edition Walmart Yamaha keyboard. No weighted keys or anything, but here’s the really cool part: it had this display screen for a chord dictionary. And if I hit a C note, it would display what a C chord was, and so on up the scale, showing you every chord in the book. I started to realize—because I had no teacher, I had no lessons—that this is all guitar players do. They play chords and they sing to it. And so over the next 5 years, I started doing show choir, and started playing at church in my senior year with the worship band, and I did that into my freshman year of college and throughout college. Throughout the stint in DC, I kept my keyboard in my car, and I never got rid of it. Never pawned it. I never could. Throughout Eagle Lake, I led worship every week. Throughout law enforcement, I’d go play here and there at local coffee shops and venues. Music was always there in the background and it was always calling to me. So Breezewood is your debut album, and I understand it was a long time in the making. What led you to this moment of releasing your own songs into the world? I started working on this half-heartedly in 2012, but I didn’t move on turning it into something tangible for a very long time. It was just always that thing that I was going to do one day. But last year, I went through a big shift around fall of 2019, and I read [Andrew Peterson’s book] Adorning the Dark. I’m not trying to be sentimental, but it really did go down like this: I read the George McDonald quote, “As the fir tree lifts up a far different need than that of the palm tree, so does each human offer up a different need to the common Father.” And then it ends with: “This is that for which each man is responsible, to reveal the secret things of the Father.” I would say that up until that moment, I had never really received a word of conviction to really act on starting the project as I did in that. You have described Breezewood as a “story of stories… inspired by points of intersection between your life and Lewis’ mythic Narnia.” Can you say more about that? Hope looks very different for different people, but I think jadedness and bitterness always look the same. So my hope is that Breezewood will move people out of circles of bitterness and jadedness and help them begin to explore what their hope may be. Zane Vickery I grew up particularly isolated, but I had no lack of literature. Most of my moral framework came from the books that I read. That has always stuck with me, but it became even more alive when I became a dad. My first child, my daughter, came five and a half weeks early, and she was four pounds and perfectly healthy, but we lived in the hospital for three weeks. She was tiny. And I’m a dad for the first time, but my kid lives in a box, and she’s small and fragile and I’m washing my hands for three minutes before I go see her. It was just such a hard time. What I started to do was I would just take Narnia into the NICU and start reading. I went to every feeding throughout the night, would sleep for three hours and come back for the next feeding… that’s really where the official lyric writing began. I’d always wanted to do a loose Narnia concept record. In 2012, my roommate did a series of pictures for one of our friends, a photography student. She gave him this lion mask and put him in a tweed suit with suspenders and made him go run around in the woods. And she got this picture. I remember I saw the picture and thought the Narnia record I’m going to make one day is going to have that photo. I don’t know if this guy is running in delight or if he’s scared and the best thing he can do is put on a mask of a lion. Maybe it’s both. I wrote all of the music first, because if it didn’t sound like the Narnia thing I had living in my head, the words would be useless. Take for example the piano and the intro in the song “Veins.” I was like, I have to find how it feels to be there at the dawn of time with Aslan singing into the void and flowers shooting up from the ground—what does that sound like? I honestly don’t care if anyone else out there gets this, but for me personally, I want to listen to this track and remember this is what it sounded like when the lion began singing into the void. “Amphibian” is my blend of doubt and Puddleglum. At the end of the day, I think Puddleglum is one of the most consistent characters that I’ve ever read, not just in his, you know, doubt, but also in his conviction. So “Amphibian” is this repeating progression. It’s a heartbeat, steady. “Holidays” is my Last Battle song. If we do confront doubt, we have to have a turn because we can’t be there too long. How do I compose the song that feels like a funeral, but doesn’t turn in a cheesy way? For “7×70,” what does Edmund’s regret sound like? As for recording them, I really would love to mention my producer, Brendan St. Gelais. I had absolutely no idea what I was doing here, but working with Brendan was a dream. I really felt like I was making a friend in the process, and he worked so hard on these songs. Like there’s so much you heard that I can’t take credit for because he sat there and came up with these particular parts that made it sound like the way that it did. It wouldn’t be what it is without Brendan and I’m eternally grateful for him. There’s something in the music that feels like hope. It’s the kind of the music we need now in this season of weariness. So I guess my last question is what do you hope people experience and receive from your music? There’s always been the line from Les Mis that sticks in my head, “To love another person is to see the face of God.” The next layer beneath that that I was trying to paint is yes, we are all suffering and it feels hopeless, but there is this joy being found in suffering that I really think true. So much of this album was about closure. In the past there’s a ton of things that are regrettable and misfortunate and sad and awful. And you may be in a place where you’re going to therapy, and you’re exercising, and you’re eating right, and you’re going to church, and you’re checking all these boxes, and life is still a struggle. That is completely normal. Existing and living is very hard, especially if you are transparent with yourself and you love others unreservedly. It is still very hard. But I am a bleeding optimist and hopeful to the fact that all of that stuff comes together for a very unique and beautiful kaleidoscope of things. Hope looks very different for different people, but I think jadedness and bitterness always look the same. So my hope is that Breezewood will move people out of circles of bitterness and jadedness and help them begin to explore what their hope may be. You can learn more about Zane and his music at his website. Click here to listen to Breezewood on Spotify and here to listen on Apple Music.

These last weeks and months have been exhausting. All of us are experiencing strain from the year that was 2020, with what felt like a new crisis each week. For me, and so many other people of color in America, there has also been the undercurrent of constant racial tension. After one of the high profile racial outrages, a friend remarked to me “Man, I can’t wait for all this race stuff to be over so things can just go back to the way they were.” I couldn’t respond. This has been going on for my entire life, not a new thing that just popped up alongside COVID-19. But that isn’t what my friend wants to hear. She only knows the part that she is currently experiencing, and is just ready to have her evening news back to covering “normal” stuff again. For so many people I know, issues of race and justice are an unwelcome intrusion into their otherwise ordinary lives. Our church is hosting a small racial reconciliation group that started this fall. Like many other churches in the south, our membership boasts a pretty small number of minorities and quite a few people who are pretty sure they aren’t racist. So, I was not sure how this smaller group would shape up. I’ve been enthusiastic about it though, because I think it is a good, concrete step in the right direction from a church that to my knowledge has never had a black man preach from its pulpit. I love this community and I love these people. But I would be lying if I didn’t admit to feeling some apprehension alongside my enthusiasm every time our group meets. It makes me confront over and over that often the people who have the potential to hurt me the most are Christians. The threat is inside just as much (if not more) than outside the walls of the church. This struck me anew the other day when I was scrolling through Facebook, thinking again about how much time I waste, when several posts in succession caught my eye. All of them were from “friends” of mine and folks who call themselves Christians, yet I felt myself cringe as I read them. One pictured the base of the confederate soldier statue that was soon to be removed from its post in our town square, except instead of the soldier there was a giant pacifier in its place with a caption insinuating that this would be better for those who want the statue removed. One was a picture of a man saying something to the effect of, “If you just follow the law, the police will leave you alone.” I have read post after post over the last year that makes me question: Who are these “friends” that I have? I’m thinking of refrains like, “When the looting starts, the shooting starts,” “Say AMEN if you only kneel before God and always stand for the ANTHEM!” or “Those Black Lives Matter people, THEY are the ones who are making racism an issue. I say ALL lives matter!” I live in a mostly white community, attend a mostly white church, and married a white man. I have embraced the community that I have grown up in and love these people dearly, but at times like these I wonder if it has embraced me in return. I had several discussions recently with friends about systemic racism and the racial issues currently in the news. One asked in disbelief if I’ve ever even experienced racism. One listened politely to me explaining systemic racism, only to respond by asking, “But don’t you think there are really other factors at work here?” She said it so confidently, and laid out her argument so emphatically, that I didn’t really answer much after my first few responses. Over and over these conversations make me question myself. Do I really know what I am talking about? Could I be wrong? Do I even belong here? During all this, I mentioned to our good friend Josh—who happened to be our minister at the time—that I was struggling and didn’t know if I was strong enough for all the work that needed to be done. He encouraged me and then said he was up for a chat if I needed it. I let that sit for a while before responding. While talking things out would be nice, those conversations with well-meaning white friends don’t always go well in my experience. My desire to talk won out over my reservations, however, so we set up a time to meet on Zoom (because of dang COVID). Original art by Kyra Hinton The day came. Wes and I sat at our bar in the living room while the kids played Minecraft in the den. Grace interrupted multiple times to ask for cereal and cookies. Josh laughed it off and I got to wave at his wife Jenna when she came in to tell him their son wasn’t going to sleep like he should. Finally things got quiet and it was my turn to talk. But where to start? I kind of rambled for a bit, really just trying to explain the tension that I live with everyday that has been accentuated by the current climate and world of social media. I tried to explain what it is like to live as a person of color in a white community and in America right now without over-explaining and sounding like I was asking for sympathy. I talked about wanting to be a peacemaker, to lean into the role that my multiethnic heritage gave me and act as a bridge between cultures. That I want to see change and work for education and healing in a community that doesn’t even always see that it needs it—but also the tension of sometimes resenting the fact that it can make me feel subservient to white people, who half-heartedly work through race issues while using me as their sounding board and confessional for surface change, dumping their guilt and ignorance on me and walking away feeling like they are better for it. I talked about feeling gaslighted by white friends and Christians who listen patronizingly but then talk over me, insisting I am mistaken about my own experiences and those of people like me, and that because they never owned slaves or used the “n” word, racism really doesn’t exist. Who argue with me about racial justice, insisting that it is a distraction and deviation from the real truth of the gospel of a loving Savior (and really, the bible condones slavery, haven’t I read?). Then to have to listen to these same folks have the audacity to talk about the need for unity and reconciliation when what they mean is for me to stop raising my voice, do things their way and just be happy I have the legal right to vote while they get to keep being exactly the same but feel good because they used the buzzwords and made a statement. I talked about feeling homeless, like I don’t really belong anywhere, assimilated to white culture but not completely welcome even though this is where my life is and has always been. About hearing and reading statements from organizations I am an active part of that talk about needing to reach out to those people, the minorities, those black folks and show them love, making me question if I am (or have I ever been?) a welcome or recognized part of these groups. It is so hard to live in a world that wants everyone to be on a side and in a box and with a specific label because I feel like I just don’t fit and I am so tired. I just trailed off, not really knowing what else to say, so I traced patterns on the counter with the eraser of my pencil and we sat in silence. After a forever long moment, Josh cleared his throat and told me that he had spent the day considering what he would say during our conversation. He said he was going to tell me what he felt the Spirit had led him to say. Inwardly I groaned. I tried to keep my face neutral. But I knew of about five times in my life that anything actually helpful had followed the words, “I felt led to tell you this.” I was already regretting being so open with him, setting myself up for more of the same wounds. But then he looked me in the eye and said simply, “I believe you.” Silence. He held my gaze until I had to drop my eyes as the weight of those words hit my heart. “I believe you,” he said again. “I don’t understand everything, but I believe you.” Nothing more. I could feel a knot somewhere in my chest that I didn’t even know was there start to slowly release. Hot tears stung my eyes. He didn’t do all the things I feared. He didn’t rationalize the way people responded to me or what I had seen. He didn’t question or belittle my experiences, or even try to relate to them by telling me of his similar experiences. He didn’t confess doing any of the things wrong I was mentioning and talk about how he was growing. He sat in silence while I talked and then acknowledged my words. He believed me. I wanted to share this because I think the posture Josh chose is so important. To my white friends and family, this is a way we can start and move forward. Listen to us. Believe us. Don’t run off and try to fix the world because you listened to a podcast on racial injustice and now you have all the answers. Take time to really listen to what is going on around you. If you have black friends or people of color in your life who are willing to expend the energy to talk to you, just listen. Because it takes a lot from us right now to even want to have those conversations. I am not saying this is the whole answer to systemic racism or corruption or that all of our problems are going to be solved tomorrow this way. But this is where it has to start. If we are going to have any kind of helpful conversations at all, the posture of the people involved must start here. Nothing productive can happen if we don’t. There is plenty of time for research, discussion, debate, and growth. You don’t need me to help you do all of that—there are so many resources out there to work through. Now, I (and we) need gentleness. I need you to sit and hear and lament with me. Don’t lament for me or rush to tell me all the ways you never did the things I mention. Just make space for me, listen, and believe me. Hear my experiences with an open heart and see if the God of your Bible would sit with me too. I believe that He does and His word has always spoken my dignity and demanded I be seen as His child. This isn't a distraction from the gospel; it is the very heart of the gospel. Bailey McGee For white Christians who read this and wonder what this has to do with you, I beg you to read the scriptures again. Start in the garden created in God’s image, make your way into slavery with God’s people, and then look to that same God for liberation. Read over and over the provisions for treatment of slaves and foreigners in the law and traditions. Hear the prophetic call warning about impending judgment because of the lack of justice. After years of exile and oppression, long for a Savior, a new Moses, who will bring deliverance. Be welcomed into the family of Christ regardless of who you are. Yearn along with all creation for the coming redemption that will see people from every tribe, tongue, and nation praising our Savior. Our God has always been a God of liberation and redemption, of restoration and reconciliation. We as his followers are heralds of his coming kingdom, the very kingdom that began breaking in that glorious morning the women found the tomb open and empty. We now live in the in-between, leaning into a reality we can’t see but are called to make real here. Holding all this, friend, consider again my request simply to listen to what I’m saying. Hear my experiences with an open heart and see if the God of your Bible would sit with me too. I believe that He does and His word has always spoken my dignity and demanded I be seen as His child. This isn’t a distraction from the gospel; it is the very heart of the gospel. And after a year like we have had, a posture of love and submission from the body of Christ would speak volumes to a hurting world. As an addendum, I want to share several resources that I have found beneficial and encouraging. They have given me words when I struggled to articulate my feelings and validated thoughts I have seen dismissed by others. Jemar Tisby has two fantastic books out that I highly recommend: The Color of Compromise: The Truth about the American Church’s Complicity in Racism is a great place to start the conversation. The Rabbit Room did a book study through this a couple of years back, and it was very helpful. His new book How to Fight Racism answers the question that his first book demands: What do I do now? This book has lots of great concrete ideas and suggestions. You can find it in the Rabbit Room Bookstore. Esau McCaulley’s book Reading While Black: African American Biblical Interpretation as an Exercise in Hope is another great resource. It has been a breath of fresh air for me, encouraging me to see my place at the table in my Biblical interpretation and theology. I especially enjoyed hearing the audiobook since he reads it himself. The Lament for Justice playlist the Rabbit Room put together is also amazing. My one request with all of these suggestions is that you spend time just listening. Even if they make you uncomfortable or you disagree, sit with these ideas for a while before you comment or offer your opinion. [Editor’s note: Unkind comments will be deleted, but genuine questions and conversations are encouraged.]

Today we are thrilled to introduce you to artists & —a project created to meet the need for community among visual artists. Because of the nature of our work (sitting alone in rooms, feeling feelings, figuring out how to share them with the world), artists often wrestle with deep loneliness or isolation. And as we discuss in this first installment of “artists & their stories,” there are so many pieces of wisdom we wish we had when we started, and we hope to offer them to you. We want to say, “Hey, we’ve been there, and you’re not alone. And that thing you think only you struggle with? Nope, we do too. Let’s talk about it.” There are so many beliefs and idealized expectations that are associated with being or identifying as a visual artist, and most of these continue the cycle of isolation, even separating artists from each other (looking at you, imposter syndrome). But we want to invite people into our lives and spaces and dismantle these isolating ideals, finding each other in the authenticity of our experiences. To build this community , we will spotlight the stories of artists we know and respect. We’ll look inside artist’s studios and listen to them share about their work and process and rhythms. We’ll have conversations between artists about topics that touch our lives and work. And we’ll have “town square” community discussions where we can all come together to engage in artist-centered conversation. And today we begin. In this first video you’ll see us—Kyra Hinton and Jamin Still—kick this whole thing off by interviewing one another. We’re both painters with, it turns out, surprisingly similar stories. And while that’s certainly fun (and we hope you enjoy it) we can’t wait to introduce artists in the coming weeks who work in vastly different mediums, and whose stories have their own twists and turns and golden threads. We believe the strength of this project comes from the variety of voices celebrated here. And we’re so excited for you to join us . Click here to join the artists & group on Facebook.