This week on The Habit Podcast, Jonathan Rogers talks with political and cultural commentator David French. French is senior editor at The Dispatch, a contributing writer at The Atlantic Monthly, and the author of several books, including Divided We Fall: America’s Secession Threat and How to Restore Our Nation as well as the French Press newsletter. He’s the co-host—with Curtis Chang—of the new podcast, Good Faith. In this episode, Jonathan and David discuss persuasion in a polarized and ideologically super-charged climate. Click here to listen to Season 4, Episode 4 of The Habit Podcast. Transcripts are now available for The Habit Podcast. Click here to access them. Sponsorship on the Podcast Network Are you interested in teaming up with us to support the work you love? Send an email to our Head of Development, Sarah Katherine, at sarahkatherine@rabbitroom.com if you are interested in becoming a sponsor of our Podcast Network. Rabbit Room Membership Special thanks to our Rabbit Room members for making these podcasts possible! If you’re interested in becoming a member, visit RabbitRoom.com/Donate.

Jonny Jimison is back with a special, Creaturepedia-themed edition of his beloved comic, Rabbit Trails. Click here to pick up a copy of his latest, full-color graphic novel, The River Fox. And click here to visit Jonny Jimison’s website.

When I was a kid, my favorite thing to do was to play pretend. My friend and I created an entire town in her backyard. Our house was inside a meticulously de-cobwebbed corner of her crawlspace. The market area stretched around her back deck. The battlefield where we fought bloody wars against the tyranny of the king was the sprawling woods beyond. I was always good at playing pretend; I could see the town and hear the voices of our comrades in battle. The clashing of swords and the tang of fear were all real to me. I was so good at playing pretend that when I realized my imaginative thoughts would not be valued during discussions in school, church, or other “serious” settings, I simply pretended I wasn’t imaginative whenever speaking. In time, I wasn’t even imaginative when thinking of ideas while in those settings. I put my imagination in a box, only to be taken out under proper circumstances. As I grew older, those proper times for imagining grew fewer and farther between until eventually I forgot who I truly was. I pretended a part of myself away, but the problem was that no matter how good I was at pretending, that part of me was never truly gone. It was doing puzzles with my mom during my high school years that began to reawaken the part of me I had locked away for so long. Credit does not go so much to the puzzles themselves, but the movie we watched as we worked, Anne of Green Gables. From the moment Anne named the Barry’s pond the Lake of Shining Waters, I knew Anne’s heart was kindred to mine. By the fourth puzzle my mom and I undertook, I realized that Anne Shirley was the person I knew myself to be in my heart—a person whose imagination is shamelessly free instead of crammed inside a tiny box. Anne awakened in me a restlessness that I loathed but could not ignore, a deep knowing that I was so much more than the prevarication I pretended to be in order to gain assurance that I would be valued and loved. To ease the restlessness, I started writing stories, giving my imagination free rein to create whatever worlds and joys and tragedies it saw fit. When I got a little braver, I began exploring the imagination academically, looking at how the imagination can be an agent of healing when a person creates or consumes art. But still my imagination and my thoughts on God remained carefully separate. At least, they did until I wandered into a plenary session during Hutchmoot 2019. “Imagination and the Voice of God” was hosted by Helena Sorensen. Waves of people crowded into the room as the start time for the session approached. I ended up sitting my 4’11” frame on the floor beneath a white board because there was no more room for chairs. I had only been involved in the Rabbit Room for three years, and though I was comfortable with my imagination as a writer, I had no idea how imagination and God could mix. Everyone in my church growing up was clear that the Bible was all we needed for our faith. Scripture left nothing for me to imagine; at least that’s what I always pretended I thought. When Helena began speaking, though, it was like she knew the secret longing of my heart. The imagination, she said, is our way to enter the unseen realm—it is the way we commune with God. And with that one idea, the last of the true me was set free. We’ve spent an awful lot of time interpreting Scripture and arguing Scripture and learning and teaching and trying to rightly divide. But some of you know about a contemplative practice called “entering the scene.” How many divinity doctorates do you need in order to imagine yourself on the hillside with Jesus? You might not come out of that encounter with a systematic theology, but you’ll come out changed. —Helena Sorensen, “Imagination and the Voice of God” Have you ever had a secret that you felt would lead to questions about how much you love God? I did for a long, long time. I don’t feel connected to God when I pray. Oh, I’ve begged for lives to be saved and pleaded for the safety of the ones I’ve loved. I’ve even tried having a prayer closet with notecards full of prayers taped up on the walls. No matter what I try, I just feel like I’m saying words that God hears. I’ve never felt the intimacy—the presence of God—that others describe when they pray. But sit me down with a pen and a story swirling in my head—that’s prayer for me. Give me my wounds laid out in verse before me—that’s how I feel I was purposed to commune with my Creator. Or give me a cloudless day where the sky is such a rich blue that I just want to swim in it until the rest of the world disappears—that’s when I feel God right beside me. Or give me a book that makes me feel known, that speaks in a language only my soul knows—that’s when I know I’ve been praying. I’ve never walked away from one of these moments with any new theological insights, but I always walk away changed. I walk away knowing more of who God is, who I am, and how I am to love the world around me. I walk away, and my restlessness is gone. Why must people kneel down to pray? If I really wanted to pray I’ll tell you what I’d do. I’d go out into a great big field all alone or into the deep, deep woods, and I’d look up into the sky—up—up—up—into that lovely blue sky that looks as if there was no end to its blueness. And then I’d just feel a prayer. —L. M. Montgomery, Anne of Green Gables We squeeze every ounce of mystery we can out of faith because we so desperately want to know we're doing okay. But when we deflect the weight of mystery, we toss away chances to experience God more deeply. Hannah Mitchell As I began to explore imagination as a spiritual practice more in my own life, this moment just after Anne Shirley comes to Green Gables kept coming to my mind. Why do people kneel down to pray? Why must my prayer be like anyone else’s to be more “right”? I’m sure there are plenty of verses people can share with me as to why prayer must look a certain way. But I think, at its core, we want prayer to look a certain way because it is easy to know if we are doing it right. The existence of God alone is a lot for our rational brains to handle, so we cling to any benchmark that lets us know we are doing this whole faith thing the way God wants. We say the “sinners’ prayer” to be saved. We go to church on specific days of the week. We get baptized or we don’t. We search only in the places we know God ought to be to find God’s truth. We squeeze every ounce of mystery we can out of faith because we so desperately want to know we’re doing okay. But when we deflect the weight of mystery, we toss away chances to experience God more deeply. Mystery is who God is, and we will never know God as fully as we might unless we allow our imaginations to freely rest in the tension of the unknown. This resting in Mystery allows us to ask the secret questions of our heart, like, what if we create art not to praise God, but to be healed by its making? Does God not glory in the lessening of our pain? What if God does not demand perfection or even excellence from our battered souls, but is simply thrilled that we exist in this big, wide world of light? As we lean into the tension of these questions, they lead us to hope. Hope that one day we will no longer be afraid of the person we are in our hearts. Hope that maybe God loves all of who we are—that maybe it wasn’t God, but people, we were pretending for all along. Hope that we will be brave with our love so that no one will ever feel they have to pretend for us. There’s a lyric in the penultimate song of the musical Waitress in which the main character sings, “And I know in due time every right thing with find its right place.” Whenever the weight of the time I wasted forcing my imagination into its box presses in upon me, this lyric’s truth rings in my heart. In due time, my right self found its right place. And as those who speak so loudly of loving God and loving people, we must be brave enough to help others find their right places as well. Somewhere our worthy pursuit of sound theology morphed into an unspoken spiritual hierarchy: the truths we learn from works focused on theology are of more value than those that are not. We learned early on that a study of Mere Christianity is of more spiritual worth than a visit to Narnia. More than that, though, we learned that those who prefer to commune with God among Narnia’s rolling hills are less serious in their spiritual pursuit than those who prefer to dive into Miracles. People put the things of childhood behind them, leaving Narnia so that their adult faith can grow. But by fleeing Narnia’s hills, they close the door on some of the truest ways to experience God. They pretend until they forget the deeper, truer way they once knew. They pretend until all but a shell of their spiritual self is gone. How many people have missed deeper truths of themselves and God because they fled back through the wardrobe? How many people have felt cut-off from God because we decided which ways were right and which ways were wrong? How many people may yet stop pretending because of our choice to live boldly and to love bravely? We must swallow our fear of the spiritual imagination’s mystery and lament the pain and loss we have caused. We must talk without shame or fear of the truths of God found among the brushstrokes of a painting or the score of a song. We must lift up the theologians, the artists, and the dreamers, because for so many, the courage to imagine empowers us to see the fullest image of God. Click here to read “Imagination as an Agent of Healing (Part 1 of 3)” and here to read “Imagination & Kubo and the Two Strings (Part 3 of 3).”

While we celebrate the diverse witness of God’s people year-round, February offers a special opportunity to listen to and learn from Black authors and musicians—both those who have gone before us and those who are sharing the Good News today. If you don’t know where to start, check out these books and albums in the Rabbit Room Store.

We’re excited to share that Every Moment Holy, Vol. 2: Pocket Edition is now available in the Rabbit Room Store—the complete second volume of Douglas McKelvey’s book of liturgies, at a fraction of the size and cost of the original. In the season of Lent, we devote special attention to the ache of incompletion, suffering, and trial. Lent begins with the dust of mortality on Ash Wednesday and ends with the broken bread of the Last Supper on Maundy Thursday before leading into the great hope of Easter. Lent is considered a season of “prayer and fasting,” and it’s into this tradition that we release the pocket edition of the second volume of Every Moment Holy: Death, Grief, and Hope. This collection of prayers and liturgies reminds us that while darkness is ever present in the moments of our days, it does not have the final word. The final hope of Lent is that by acknowledging the depth of our ache, we are led to greater depths of joy through resurrection. Every Moment Holy, Vol. 2: Death, Grief, and Hope is a book of liturgies for seasons of dying and grieving, including “A Liturgy for the Scattering of Ashes,” “A Liturgy for the Loss of a Spouse,” and “A Liturgy for the Wake of a National Tragedy.” These are ways of reminding us that our lives are shot through with sacred purpose and eternal hopes even when—especially when—suffering and pain threaten to overwhelm us. Every Moment Holy, Vol. 2: Pocket Edition is now available in the Rabbit Room Store.

Rabbits have always only been incidental to the scope and purpose of our organization. After all, we weren’t the ones who named that fateful room where the Inklings regularly met in the Eagle & Child pub “The Rabbit Room”—we were merely the ones to name our organization after it. And while we at the Rabbit Room feel no particular antipathy toward the bright-eyed and bushy-tailed among us, we’ve acquired a certain reluctance over the years regarding the rabbitification of all our organization’s doings. Quite frankly, it’s become all “rabbit this” and “rabbit that.” Can you honestly say you’re not tired of encountering that joke that begins “A priest, a minister, and a rabbit walk into a bar…”? Well, believe us—we are. We’re tired of that joke. In addition, as we’ve sought to understand the kind of messaging and metaphor which most compels Generation Z to join in the work of a nonprofit like the Rabbit Room, one resounding lesson has reared its bunny ears time and again: they don’t like rabbits. Why? We’re not sure. But one thing we do know: they like frogs. Our organization’s new logo Now, you may react with the same skepticism and distaste as we did at first: Frogs!? Are frogs really a step forward from rabbits? And we’re here to say: absolutely they are. In fact, they’re an enormous leap forward. But in order to understand this paradigmatic shift, it’s crucial to be reminded of what an unsung-yet-influential role frogs have already played in the life of the Rabbit Room. The Rabbit Room team has decided to take the biggest leap yet in our young organization's history—the leap from the cabbage patch to the lily pond. The Ribbit Room While it may not be immediately obvious to you, dear reader, the amphibians among us have contributed significantly to the growing body of literature and art which constitutes the Rabbit Room canon. In Kenneth Grahame’s The Wind in the Willows, for instance, we’re presented with Toad, a character whose thirst for adventure embodies our organization’s core conviction that both leaving home and returning home are indispensable facets of narrative storytelling as well as humanity’s spiritual journey. Chris Wheeler summed it up quite well in his 2019 blog post: “Say what you will about Toad (and there is plenty to be said), but his motivations begin and end with longing—the longing for adventure and the longing to return home after said adventures.” Or take the most famous green, slippery friend among us: Kermit himself. Given the search for a figure emblematic of such values as an unwavering commitment to collaboration in the face of seemingly impossible circumstances; love of theater and storytelling; and, perhaps most of all, legendary songwriting as glimpsed in his culture-defining “Rainbow Connection;” who could possibly find fault with the Rabbit Room’s choice to finally associate itself with such an upstanding figure as Mr. the Frog rather than the very paragon of frivolity and sabotage, Bugs Bunny? Click to listen. Those who have been following the Rabbit Room’s work closely will surely find themselves remembering in this moment the legendary performance of “Rainbow Connection” by Rabbit Room collaborator Jeffrey Overstreet at Hutchmoot in 2013. The wisdom of frogs has long been with us. If the examples above are not enough to win you over to our side of the pond, consider the parable of abiding commitment to relationship that is the Frog and Toad series; the old fantasy trope that when a princess kisses a frog, the frog becomes a prince, revealing to her the authenticity of her true love (a highly honoring portrait of the amphibian according to the most accomplished of literary critics); or even, on a more lighthearted note, the playful dance of Warner Brothers’ Michigan J. Frog—an enduring icon of classic cinema (and, we might add, a noteworthy early example of frog employment in the entertainment business). With all of these considerations in mind, the Rabbit Room team has decided to make the biggest leap yet in our young organization’s history—the leap from the cabbage patch to the lily pond. In an effort to more equitably represent all of God’s creatures, we are changing our name from The Rabbit Room to The Ribbit Room. Who knew that a single vowel could make such a world of difference? In celebration of this long-overdue shift, we will be announcing over the course of this year several new offerings from The Ribbit Room. For instance, we will be launching the Ribbit Room Lilypadcast Network, a new arts conference aptly titled Toadmoot, and the upcoming Andrew Peterson album, Metamorphosis Letters, Volume II. But we are perhaps most excited to share with you the first book to be published by Ribbit Room Press: Every Amphibian Holy, a book of new liturgies from Douglas McKelvey, specially written to support the life and faith of frogs. Examples include “A Liturgy for Beholding the Lilypads of the Pond,” “A Liturgy for the Transition from Water to Air,” and “A Liturgy for when Being Green is No Longer Easy.” What an exciting transition this will be! We can’t wait to have you along with us on this journey from rabbit to frog. Stay tuned for more pond-side announcements as we leap ahead and metamorphose into an entirely new phase of this organization. Sincerely, Content Developer The Ribbit Room

Coming up one week from today, Andrew Peterson’s Resurrection Letters show will be livestreamed in celebration of Easter Monday, and you’re invited to tune in! Read on for more information and to purchase tickets. Click here for tickets.

April is upon us, my rabbity friends. And boy, do poets love to start long poems by mentioning this month! In the opening of The Waste Land, T. S. Eliot writes: April is the cruellest month, breeding Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing Memory and desire, stirring Dull roots with spring rain. Geoffrey Chaucer takes a more sanguine view of April in his Prologue to The Canterbury Tales: Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote, The droghte of March hath perced to the roote, And bathed every veyne in swich licóur Of which vertú engendred is the flour… But for those of us in the Society for Galahadic Study and Emulation, commonly known as “Galahoodlums,” this month is significant not for its rainshowers, nor for its mixing of memory and desire, nor yet for bathing every veyne in various licóurs. No, for us, April means the parturition of a work over which we have labored for these many months. I refer, of course, to The Lost Tales of Sir Galahad, a collection of recently discovered tales about the adventures of Sir Galahad in the Wild Forest. It was truly a consuming process to discover, reassemble, translate, annotate, and sometimes tentatively lick these ancient texts to see if we could figure out what on earth those stains were. The final publication represents many sleepless nights, many pots of mediocre coffee, and many trips to the facilities as a result of drinking too much mediocre coffee. But I digress. I had the honor to work on a couple of small texts in this book, so I thought it fitting in this joyous release month to share some reflections on one of them, entitled “Sir Galahad and the Ruin.” I should start with a disclaimer: Much of my life has been spent among ruins of various sorts. As a boy, I loved exploring abandoned cabins and outbuildings left behind by early Kansas settlers. I still occasionally dream of ancient doors creaking open and wolf spiders scuttling to find shelter under rotting, dust-layered floorboards. In high school, I sacrificed two weeks and about thirty percent of the skin on my hands to dig out a dirt-packed basement under the 19th-century limestone home that housed our county genealogical library. Then, in my sophomore year of college, I came to realize that I’d spent my entire life immersed in perhaps the greatest ruin of them all: the English language. For years, I’d been plagued with questions like: Why does literally every single English-speaking child need to be instructed that “goed” isn’t the past tense of “go”? Why does “island” have an “s” in it? How can “tough,” “trough,” “though,” and “through” possibly sound so different from one another? I began to find answers to these questions as I studied the history and structure of the language. Most of the answers were some variation of: “Because this language is like an old junk drawer full of things that were once useful to someone.” And for a while, those answers were satisfying. But as I gained more knowledge, my obsession grew, claiming more and more of me until it finally drove me to the unthinkable: graduate school. There, in a class on the Anglo-Saxon language, I encountered yet another ruin: a poem fragment from the Exeter Book, entitled “The Ruin.” It was truly a consuming process to discover, reassemble, translate, annotate, and sometimes tentatively lick these ancient texts to see if we could figure out what on earth those stains were. Micah Hawkinson The poem became a fragment because it’s located near the back cover of the book, and at some point about a thousand years ago, a drowsy monk dropped a firebrand onto it. The fire was quickly extinguished, but not before partially ruining “The Ruin.” Which is pretty appropriate when you think about it. And believe me, people think about it. You can’t sneeze without hitting an Anglo-Saxon scholar saying something like, “So, you see, ‘The Ruin’ is actually something of a ruin itself!” Even in its present state of disrepair, “The Ruin” remains lovely. It begins, Jewel-like is this wallstone,    Fate-broken. The castle burst;    its giant-work crumbles. Roofs have fallen,    towers lie in ruin. The frostgate is riven,     rime on lime, The storm-refuge in shards,    shorn to disaster, Eaten from beneath by age.    Earth’s grip holds The castle’s mighty makers,    withered and gone. —from my own translation of the poem I had not read this old poem in more than a decade, but the text of “Sir Galahad and the Ruin” brought it back to mind instantly, for the following reasons: It is clear at a glance that both texts are badly damaged. The Galahadic tale was not burnt by a clumsy monk, but it has been ravenously nibbled upon, as well as slathered in butter and a mysterious substance that might be blood, or possibly pork gravy. Both texts tell of a mysterious ruin, built by a people long gone, yet used for a time by others after them. Upon closer reading, many specific details of the two works are also quite similar. Perhaps almost… too similar. But you needn’t take my word for it. The proof of the pork-gravy blood pudding, as the saying goes, is in the eating. So here are some specific examples to sink your teeth into: The Castle Gates “The Ruin” poet writes, “Oft this wall endured, / Lichen-grey and red of hue.” “Sir Galahad and the Ruin” begins, “Deep within the forest, Sir Galahad came upon a ruined castle of enormous size. Its gates were layered in grey lichen, its granite face was stained with ancient rust, and its turrets were all but hidden behind a cape of thick ivy.” The Castle Makers The poet writes, “The castle burst; its giant-work crumbles. / Roofs have fallen,    towers lie in ruin.” In the tale, Galahad speculates about the ruin’s origins: “Perhaps the builders were giants; he’d heard rumors of a lost city inhabited by that monstrous folk.” The Castle Rooms The poet continues, “Bright were the castle-halls, many bath-houses, / High treasure-horns, great troop-sounds, / Many meadhalls, full of men’s joy … A wall surrounded it all, / Its bright bosom, where the baths were, / Hot in its heart. That was convenient.” Again, the Galahadic tale seems to echo these features: “He passed a cavernous mead-hall, an indoor bathhouse whose cracked pools emitted steam from a hot spring, and a room that must have been a treasury, though it now contained only a few forlorn vessels of lead and tarnished silver.” It is hard to deny the parallels between these descriptions. They suggest three possible explanations, which I list here in order of likeliness: Sir Galahad happened upon the same ruin described in the Exeter Book’s poem, or The writer of “Sir Galahad and the Ruin” was familiar with the poem from the Exeter Book and used it as a convenient setting, or The similarity between the texts is merely coincidental. Having personally reassembled and deciphered much of the Galahadic tale, I must say I do not think its writer had read the Exeter Book (or indeed, much of anything beyond “the Catte Saith Meow”). Is it possible that the writer of the Galahad tale merely happened to imagine so many of the same features mentioned in the Exeter Book’s poem? Perhaps. It is also possible that Sir Reginald Overbottom is correct about his ridiculous hypothesis regarding the stains on this manuscript, but I shall graciously withhold all judgment on that matter. One thing is certain, dear reader: If you do not immediately order The Lost Tales of Sir Galahad, you will be unable to arrive at a fully informed conclusion on this vital matter. And you’ll also be missing out on some pretty good stories. So why are you still here, reading this? Get thee to the Rabbit Store! Click here to orderThe Lost Tales of Sir Galahad in the Rabbit Room Store.

This week on The Habit Podcast, Jonathan talks with children’s author Mitali Perkins. Mitali Perkins has been a nominee for the National Book Award. She was born in India, but has lived all over the world. So it comes as no surprise that her books for young readers all explore the crossing of borders of one kind or another. Her newest book, Bare Tree and Little Wind, is a picture book that tells the story of Holy Week. In 2021, she published her first nonfiction book for adults, Steeped in Stories: Timeless Children’s Novels to Refresh our Tired Souls. In this episode, Mitali and Jonathan Rogers discuss the benefits of being an outsider, the transmission of morality and hope, and literary “aunties and uncles.” Click here to listen to Season 4, Episode 15 of The Habit Podcast. Transcripts are now available for The Habit Podcast. Click here to access them. Sponsorship on the Podcast Network Are you interested in teaming up with us to support the work you love? Send an email to our Head of Development, Sarah Katherine Woodhull, at sarahkatherine@rabbitroom.com if you are interested in becoming a sponsor of our Podcast Network. Rabbit Room Membership Special thanks to our Rabbit Room members for making these podcasts possible! If you’re interested in becoming a member, visit RabbitRoom.com/Donate.

[Editor’s note: For this year’s Passion Week, we share an oldie and a goodie from Russ Ramsey, which originally appeared on the blog ten years ago. In this post, Russ outlines the narrative arc of Passion Week one day at a time, from Palm Sunday through Good Friday and into Resurrection Sunday. We hope Russ’s words bring you closer to the story, and we encourage you to revisit them throughout this week.] (Passion Week is upon us. We ran this post last year, and it occurred to me—a little late this year, I’m sorry to say—that it might be a good one to run again as we prepare our hearts to celebrate Easter. As a pastor, I have the honor of putting together and leading not only an Easter worship service, but also a more contemplative Good Friday service for our congregation. That Good Friday Tenebrae service stands as a sober reminder that the greatest gift God has given his people came at so great a cost. The daily readings below, which reflect my best estimates concerning what happened during the last week of Jesus’ earthly ministry before the cross, take us deep into the drama, the hope, the violence, and the unmatched mercy unfolding in God’s answer to our deepest need. I hope these readings help to immerse you in that story this week. —Russ Ramsey, March 25, 2013) In John 10, Jesus said, “No one takes my life from me, but I lay it down of my own accord. I alone have the authority to lay it down, and the authority to take it up again, and this charge I received from my Father.” This is a statement worth testing. Does the Scriptural narrative tell the story of an inspirational man martyred because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and simply couldn’t avoid capture? Or do the last days of his life tell the story of someone intentionally offering himself up, on his own terms, by his own authority? As we approach Easter, have you ever taken the time to really examine what took place on each day of the week from Palm Sunday to Resurrection Sunday? Here’s a daily reading guide for each day of Easter Week. Palm Sunday (See Matthew 21:1-11, Mark 11:1-11, Luke 19:28-44, John 12:9-19.) When Jesus rode into Jerusalem perched up on a colt on Palm Sunday, it was the first time since raising Lazarus from the dead that he’d shown his face in the city. The story of Lazarus’ resurrection had circulated so that even those who only heard about it later regarded Jesus as a celebrity. Everyone wanted to catch a glimpse of Jesus. They went out to meet him and received him like a king, because they heard he had done this. (Jn 12:18) Jesus said Lazarus’ death would end in the faith of many, and in the “glory of God—that the Son of God may be glorified through it.” (Jn 11:4) But the glory he had in mind was even more glorious than his triumphal entry into Jerusalem. In fact, he wasn’t referring to the glory these people gave him at all. Lazarus’ resurrection would steel the resolve of the religious leaders to hand Jesus over to a death he would freely accept—a death he would conquer. That was the glory he meant. As he rode into Jerusalem, the people cried, “Your King is coming!” They praised his victory over Lazarus’ death. But the irony was that he wasn’t coming to claim his crown on account of Lazarus’ death and resurrection, but on account of his own. Monday (See Matthew 21:12-22, Mark 11:12-19, Luke 19:45-48.) If Jerusalem was a beehive, with Jesus’ triumphal entry the day before, Jesus had hit it with a stick and you could hear the buzz grow as the anger within got organized. With that kingly arrival, he made a strong declaration about his authority over all the conventions of man. On Monday, he returns for more, this time to declare the failure of his own people to live up to the covenantal mandate God had given them to be a blessing to the world. Much of what the Gospels tell us about Monday centers on the theme of Jesus’ authority—both over the created world and in his right to pass judgment over it. Everything Jesus did, he did with authority. So when he woke his disciples Monday, saying he wanted go back into Jerusalem to teach, as risky as it sounded, it wasn’t surprising. But everyone sensed something stirring, as if Jesus had rounded a corner and his end was coming fast. He was a marked man. Tuesday (See Matthew 21:23-26:5, Mark 11:27-14:2, Luke 20:1-22:2, John 12:37-50.) If Monday’s arrival in the temple was marked by Jesus’ all-inclusive, living parable of cleansing God’s house, Tuesday’s entrance is marked by a direct, verbal confrontation with the appointed leadership. After Jesus makes the point that he refuses to regard these leaders as having any authority over him, he elects to spend the rest of the day right there in the temple so that he might teach the people the word of God. But Tuesday afternoon would be the last time Jesus would publicly teach in the temple as a free man. His words on this day would be his closing argument—his manifesto. When Jesus left the temple that Tuesday, “the chief priests and the scribes were seeking how to arrest him by stealth and kill him.” (Mk 14:1) But they couldn’t take his life from him solely on the strength of the charges they meant to bring—not if he defended himself. But he would not. Instead, by his silence, he’d offer up his life for a world of blasphemers and traitors and liars who so desperately needed to be upset. This was what he had come to do, and as he left the temple that Tuesday afternoon, he knew he would do it soon. Wednesday (See Matthew 26:6-16, Mark 14:3-11, Luke 22:3-6.) The past several days have been a rush of tension and anger for Jesus’ opponents and of unflinching resolve for Jesus. Words have been his currency, and he has spent piles of them. But on the Wednesday before his death, Jesus was still. He was in the home of Simon the Leper, a man known by what was wrong with him. During their meal together, Mary of Bethany, Lazarus’ sister, (Jn 12:3) came to Jesus with an alabaster flask of perfume. She had been saving this perfume, worth a year’s wages, for this very occasion. (Jn 12:7) She began to pour the perfume on Jesus’ head and feet, which required breaking open its container. (Mk 14:3) Like popping the cork on a $20,000 bottle of champagne, this was a very intentional act. She was there to deliberately offer Jesus everything she had. By giving to Jesus her most valuable possession, she was expressing that she knew what he was about to give of himself was for her. What Mary did was beautiful and Jesus wanted everyone to know it. She was preparing him for burial. There was honor and kindness in her gesture. He returned the honor by saying history would never forget her act of beauty. And we haven’t. Thursday (See Matthew 26:17-75, Mark 14:12-72, Luke 22:7-71, John 13:1-18:27.) The Thursday prior to Jesus’ crucifixion fills many pages in Scripture. It begins with John and Peter securing the upper room. There, Jesus washes his disciples’ feet, explaining he was there to make them clean. As they begin to eat, Jesus announces one of them is about to betray him. Each wonders if he means them. Then he dispatches Judas to do what he intends. During this last supper, Jesus sets apart the Passover bread and cup and reassigns—or better, perfects—their meaning. The bread is his body. The cup, his blood. This meal will no longer primarily remind them of God’s deliverance from the external tyranny of Pharaoh, but rather from the internal tyranny of their own guilt and sin against God. Jesus prays for these his friends and those who will come to know Christ through them—that his Father would make them one. (Jn 17) Then Jesus and his friends leave for the Mount of Olives to pray. (Mk 14:33) But he isn’t there only to pray. He is also there to wait. Soon a line of torches snake their way toward him in the darkness. This is what he has been waiting for. Good Friday (See Matthew 27:1-61, Mark 15:1-47, Luke 23:1-56, John 18:28-19:42.) On Thursday night in Gethsemane, Jesus was arrested—betrayed by one of his own disciples and abandoned by the others. The Chief Priests and the Sanhedrin called for secret trials in the dead of night, and the verdict handed down was that Jesus would be crucified. This was something the Roman Prefect, Pontius Pilate, would have to execute. And reluctantly, he did. After a severe beating, Jesus was nailed to a cross where he’d remain for six hours until dead. Never in human history, before or since, has more been lost and gained at the same time as at Jesus’ crucifixion. The world gained the atoning sacrifice of Christ. But for those present, either the significance of the moment was lost on them or their hearts broke because the one they believed to be the Savior of the world was dying at the hands of Rome. They couldn’t stop it and they didn’t realize it was for them. They hoped in him, and though he had told them he would suffer many things and rise three days later, (Mk 8:31) how could they have possibly known this was what he meant? Saturday: The Forgotten Day (See Matthew 27:62-66.) The Saturday following Jesus’ crucifixion might be the most unique and overlooked day in the history of the world—the day between Jesus’ death and his resurrection. Less is written about this day than any other in the scope of this week. Yet what makes it so unique is that this is the only full day in history when the body of the crucified Christ lay buried in a cave. The day before, he was crucified. The following day, he rises from the grave. But what about Saturday? Though we may not make much of this day, when we look at the few verses the Gospels give us accounting for it, we find this was by no means a forgotten day to the Chief Priests who had handed Jesus over to death. During his earthly ministry, Jesus said many times that he would die in Jerusalem at the hands of the Chief Priests, but on the third day rise again. (Mt 12:40, Mk 8:31, 9:31, 10:34) Of course, the Chief Priests scoffed at this. But they didn’t forget it. On the day between Good Friday and Easter Sunday, Jesus’ prediction preoccupied their thoughts such that they simply couldn’t leave it alone. Matthew 27:62-66 tells us the strange story of how they couldn’t seem to simply dismiss out of hand the possibility that Jesus might have known something they didn’t. Resurrection Sunday (See Matthew 28:1-20, Mark 16:1-8, Luke 24:1-53, John 20:1-21:25.) Early on this Sunday morning, some of Jesus’ friends set out to his grave to anoint the body of their friend and teacher. But when they arrived, they were greeted by what one of the Gospel writers calls “a man dressed in lightning.” He tells them Jesus is not there, as he said. He is risen. In the week leading up to his death, Jesus, the Good Shepherd, went out to meet the wolves of judgment, sin and death, and he did so with all authority. One might wonder, what good has it ever done anyone to die for some cause? This is the glorious beauty of the Gospel: Jesus didn’t die as a martyr for a cause. He was never in the wrong place at the wrong time. He was never at the mercy of anyone. He lived, died, and was buried because he meant to be. No one took his life from him. He laid it down. For who? For his flock, his people. And he laid it down only to take it up again. The point of the cross was not to die, but to die and rise again, defeating the prowling wolves of sin and death themselves. He said, “I have authority to lay my life down, and I have authority to take it up again.” And this is just what he did. Easter says of Jesus, “He meant it! He meant to lay down his life for you! And as sure as he has taken it up again, he knows you!”

This evening at 7:00pm CDT, Andrew Peterson’s Resurrection Letters show will be livestreamed in celebration of Easter Monday, and you’re invited to tune in! Read on for more information and to purchase tickets. Click here for tickets.

Tickets are now available for Rabbit Room Theatre’s production of Corrie Ten Boom’s The Hiding Place! Opening night is June 30, 2022. The show will run through July 17, 2022 at Christ Presbyterian’s new Soli Deo Center in Nashville, Tennessee. Visit RabbitRoomTheatre.com for ticketing information. WORLD WAR II. DARKNESS HAS FALLEN OVER EUROPE. The boots of the Third Reich echo through the streets of Europe, but on a quiet city corner in the Netherlands, some choose to resist. Corrie Ten Boom and her family risk everything to hide Jewish refugees by the hundreds and ultimately face the consequences when they are discovered. The Hiding Place is their story—a story of faith, hope, love, and forgiveness in the face of unthinkable evil. Adapted by A. S. “Pete” Peterson, directed and designed by Matt Logan, this is the first production of the Rabbit Room’s newest program: Rabbit Room Theatre. Mark your calendars. Gather your friends. Secure your seats. Join us for our presentation of this remarkable true story. Yes! Group pricing is available for anything from a circle of friends to an entire church congregation: When buying 10+ tickets, an automatic 10% discount will be calculated during checkout. When buying 20+ tickets, an automatic 15% discount will be calculated during checkout. For purchases of 30+ tickets, contact boxoffice@rabbitroom.com. Click here to purchase tickets at RabbitRoomTheatre.com.

The Faerie Queene is an epic poem written by Edmund Spenser in the late 1500s. This pioneering work of world-building inspired writers like William Wordsworth, John Milton, James Thomson, Alfred Tennyson, John Keats, George MacDonald, and L. Frank Baum, and it was a favorite of C.S. Lewis. In fact, Lewis thought all teenagers should read Spenser’s poem on a rainy day, in a large, illustrated volume because Faerie Land is chock full of rich characters, wild lands, and grand adventures. Adults who fell in love with these stories as children also reread them over the course of a lifetime, finding more and more meaning at every pass. Sadly, however, The Faerie Queene is not as well known as other Renaissance works by Shakespeare or Marlowe. (At least not yet.) This is, in part, due to the language Spenser uses—diction even more archaic than the period in which he was writing. Many adults cannot understand the poem, let alone teenagers. So, I’ve spent the past four years working with Renaissance scholars to create a line-by-line, text-faithful prose rendering of Spenser’s work. I’ve included many footnotes referencing Spenserian scholars while offering a version of the text that allows readers to move easily through the plot. My goal isn’t to replace Spenser’s original work—that would be impossible—but to provide a transitional work that gives modern readers the confidence to tackle the original. Art wizard Justin Gerard has illustrated this project, and we will soon release the three-volume work through Sky Turtle Press. I’ve recorded a brief video introduction to Spenser’s work here. It isn’t necessary for you to view this before our session “She Slays in Mysterious Ways” at Hutchmoot, but if you’re new to Spenser, it might help orient you before we jump into exploring a single character. For more detailed information about The Faerie Queene, as well as an explanation of our work rendering a text-faithful, modern prose version of Spenser’s work, you can visit our website here.

It’s been months, maybe even a year or more since I’ve written anything of substance. I sit down at the computer and I stare at the screen. I’ll be at a coffee shop with my notebook, pen in hand, and stare at the page. I might scribble a sentence down, maybe two before shutting the cover and diverting my attention to my latte instead. My journaling is sporadic. A paragraph here and there over the last two or three years. The last entry in it is from July 22: Oh Great Mystery – help me pay attention to the rhythms inside me and the rhythms around me. May 12 before that: In Portland. Feels ghostly. Both the city itself and my memories of it. A bullet list from a year ago October: You don’t seem like you’re stuck. I don’t think you’re stuck Sometimes you need a mirror and a dolphin. Once you leaned back and crossed your legs Exhale. In the 30 or more years I’ve been writing for fun, and the more than a decade or so that I’ve been writing professionally, it’s the worst writer’s block that I’ve ever experienced. A few years back, I started writing a project of my own: a collection of essays centered around a year of travel I did around the U.S. with my dog Lucy in a camping trailer. It’s the closest I’ve ever come to finishing a book. About a year ago, I told my friend Casey, a writer buddy of mine, “I think I’m two or three months away from being done.” “That’s awesome,” he replied. “Yeah, but I don’t wanna jinx it. So I’m just taking it slow. It’s not about getting it done. I don’t want to force myself to do it. It’s about the writing. I still have to like the writing,” I said. A year later, and I’m still 2 or 3 months away from being done. When the world started to change in the early part of 2020 more rapidly than I recall experiencing in my lifetime, something in me clicked into survival mode. I remember packing up a friend’s car with his computer and boxes of office supplies from work late one night because he wasn’t sure he’d be able to go back to the office the following day. “Should I get the plants?” he asked. “Yeah,” I said, “this could be months.” At home, I took inventory of the applesauce I had canned the summer before. “20 quarts left,” I remember counting. “This’ll last two-and-a-half months if we ration it to two jars a week,” I thought, and while it hasn’t quite been the post-apocalyptic world from a book by P.D. James or Cormac McCarthy, it has been hard and different. I stopped running, or exercising altogether, really. I gained 50 lbs. As a person of color, I began to tense up when a police car passed me on the road. I avoided walking my dog past the house on my block that had a huge political sign for the candidate I didn’t vote for. I got let go from my job for lack of work, and subsequently rehired after business picked up again, then agreed to work overtime for weeks and months in a row, so afraid it would all go away again without notice. I jiggled windows at night to make sure they were locked. I kept recounting the jars of apple sauce. I know this wasn’t everyone’s experience. Some people baked more bread. Some people adopted a dog. “I’m reading more,” my friend Scott told me, “more than ever before.” I, on the other hand, haven’t finished a book for the last two and a half years. Some people believed that so many of the changes weren’t real or that we were all overreacting, and maybe we were—maybe I still am overreacting. But with whatever did or didn’t change, it’s very palpably true to me that when I pick up a pen or turn on my computer, something in me is different. Something in me has changed. Last spring I started seeing a therapist with the express goal of working through my writer’s block. “What do you do for fun?” she asked during our first appointment. “What brings you joy?” I shared with her that I’ve always been so skeptical of fun, or joy, unsure of their purpose, unsure of their importance. “I just want to work through whatever I need to work through to get me writing again,” I told her. Often the art, the creating, is so intangible, so wily. You can’t do much to control how it manifests, but you can, with some practice, control the life around your writing. John Cal “There’ll be lots of time to talk about that,” she said. “And it’s going to be really hard, and we’re going to have to process some things, and it’s going to be a lot of work. So I want to talk about fun and joy first to make sure that when you go home after we do our work here, after you’re emotionally exhausted, you have a way to regain your strength.” We’ve been seeing one another every other Wednesday since March, and I’m still not sure if I believe her, but I want to. I’m trying to believe that joy could help me write again. I borrowed a bird-watching book from the library. I sat on a bench down the street and identified the juvenile robins as they imitated their parents flying to and from their nest. I learned new music on my ukulele: “The Pretender” by Jackson Browne and Simon and Garfunkel’s “The Only Living Boy in New York.” I went to the garden store. I bought seeds. Casey, that writer buddy of mine, calls it “the life around your writing.” Often the art, the creating, is so intangible, so wily. You can’t do much to control how it manifests, but you can, with some practice, control the life around your writing. Casey’s writing life often includes making dinner for his wife—burritos or veggie bowls—or walking their dog Finnick. He likes the challenge of a good escape room and is possibly the most prolific podcast listener I know. I still haven’t written much (if anything) lately, and I don’t know how I’m doing with the fun or joy, but I do believe I am getting better at living the life around my writing. I finished a pint of ice cream the other day — rum raisin, my favorite flavor — with satisfied incredulity and with very little guilt. I read a chapter most mornings out of a book I have sitting on my nightstand in conviction and hope. And while I haven’t started running again, I did buy a new pair of socks for whenever I muster up the desire. Last night, I went across the street to spend some time with Jeff and Sharon, neighbors my roommate Arthur and I met when I first moved to Washington three years ago. “Come over for a glass of wine on the deck,” Sharon said one day while out walking her dog. We kept putting it off. The world was changing so fast. It was hard to keep up with it all. I don’t know what finally made us get around to it, three years later. Jeff and Arthur texted through the details. They’d get snacks. We’d bring something to drink. I bought a bottle of non-alcoholic grapefruit soda for those that needed to abstain. I, myself, don’t drink very much, maybe a glass or two of something a month, sometimes less, but since this meeting was three years in the making, I splurged on a bottle of my favorite red – a reserve Trivento Malbec from Argentina – and a bottle of my favorite white – a perfectly chilled Zaca Mesa Viognier. I brought a loaf of bread as a gift, and as soon as we crossed the street between our houses, walked the short path up to their front door, and knocked, we were welcomed in with as much boisterous enthusiasm as when we sporadically encounter them about the neighborhood either one or the both of us walking our dogs, and I got a huge hug from Sharon for the loaf of bread. I still haven’t written much (if anything) lately, and I don’t know how I’m doing with the fun or joy, but I do believe I am getting better at living the life around my writing. John Cal In the house, Sharon sidled up next to a bowl of plums and sliced them onto some mixed greens for a salad. She fussed with a few errant vegetables on her counter and then invited me to walk out with her to the garden to pick more tomatoes. “They seem to be spoiling on the vine this year,” she said, indicating mysterious brown bottoms on most of the red fruit she was picking. “We better enjoy them while they last.” When the food was ready and out on the deck table, we passed the garden salad, poached shrimp with cocktail sauce, bowls of toasted pistachios, glasses of wine, and dark chocolate truffles. I learned that Sharon was a writer, is a writer, and that she wrote a book called “Curse of the Seven 70’s,” a vampire comedy about falling in love. “It’s also about forgiveness,” she said, “like when Jesus says to forgive seventy times seven.” I’m not so good at forgiveness, especially when trying to forgive myself. In the last year or so, Sharon got cancer. I don’t know what kind. I didn’t ask. I just noticed her walking around the neighborhood in baseball caps and artfully tied scarves, and then over at her house, a bare head covered in soft peach fuzz. “I have such a hard time writing these days. The chemo makes me so foggy and tired,” she said. “Maybe, next year, I’ll get back to it.” She shared some about how much harder her life has been lately but had much more to say about how much she loves when her friends visit and how she and Jeff are wanting to remodel the kitchen, and how she can’t wait to get back to New York to wander around the Met. She kept pouring me much too full helpings of Viognier and beckoned us all to raise our glasses before toasting. “To neighbors,” she said. I often forget that I am not just a writer, or perhaps I should say, I am not only a writer. I am also a neighbor, a friend, a son, a musician, a chef, a baker, and someone who is doing his best to allow just a little more fun and joy through the cracks in his armor. We sat on their back deck for nearly four hours. Talking a little about how we were having such a hard time writing, yes, but even more, about how good the company was, how much fun we were having, and how the lives around our writing were just starting to get a little bit better.

Today, with a mixture of sadness and joy, we announce that Drew Miller is stepping away from his position as Content Developer for the Rabbit Room. Our sadness is the natural result of waving goodbye to a teammate, and the joy is our right and proper acknowledgement of the many ways we’ve seen him grow while he’s been with us and our hope for what the future has in store for him. Drew Miller stands boldly in a wood. For the past five years, Drew has diligently worked behind the scenes of the Rabbit Room. He’s not only crafted, curated, and edited content but has gleefully cultivated the huge community of writers who contribute to our website. And since the launch of the Rabbit Room Podcast Network, he’s been the producer behind many of our shows, including The Second Muse, The Artists Creed, The Habit, Call It Good, The Hutchmoot Podcast, The Molehill Podcast, and more. But most of all, he’s been a beloved part of our team, a willing partner in all manner of shenanigans, a ready chortle when a pun is loosed, an invaluable ally in brainstorming, a purveyor of befuddlement, an insightful voice in vision-casting, and one of our favorite songwriters. It’s been a great five years. And here’s to the years yet to come. If you’ve been blessed by any of the content the Rabbit Room has put into the world since 2017, join us in saying, “Thank you, Drew.” We can’t wait to see what’s in store for him next.

“Sure, okay, let’s say for argument’s sake God is always present and at work in my life…what difference does that make? What about all the times I can’t feel God’s presence or see God’s work? You telling me all this feels like a taunt; like something I’d wish were true but I can’t find any way to access that truth in my life!” My friend, Bernard, was dealing—not holding back. He and I had been meeting for a few weeks to chat about his life that was careening out of control. One kid was constantly in trouble at school, another never left their room, and his marriage was tanking. He felt powerless and hopeless, and all data points in his life indicated he had failed as a father and husband. What do we do when we want God to move—when we know we need God’s presence and power—but it seems like nothing is happening? Or worse, when it seems that the opposite of what God would want is all that keeps happening? If we’re honest, this question isn’t just for when all hell breaks loose and our life hits the fan. This question could be asked about mundane, ordinary moments as well. How do I know what God is doing, where God is working, when I can’t seem to discern him anywhere? Learning how to meet God in our messy reality—right where we really are—is an ordinary practice that will transform us over time. Matt Tebbe Bernard was angry and sad, but we spent most of our time discussing how he wished things were different. A breakthrough came for him when he decided to meet God where he really was: angry and disappointed. Here are three pitfalls we can encounter when it comes to meeting God in our everyday life: Pitfall #1: We try to get God to show up and do things we think are good rather than have the courage and humility to meet God right where we really are. It’s much easier to design outcomes we think are good and recruit God into those schemes than it is to befriend our anger and just be angry with/at God. There are a couple of reasons this is hard. First, some of us have been taught it’s wrong or unfaithful to ever get angry at God. Additionally, most of us don’t like being angry or sad, so we create bypassing strategies to distract or deny unwanted experiences. So for Bernard, he felt anger at God and sadness over his family wasn’t faithful or good. He worked hard to hide and change his anger and to deny and conceal his sadness. We kept dealing with external realities when God was knocking on the door of his heart. But what if that anger and sadness weren’t obstacles, but opportunities? What if they don’t need to be eliminated or bypassed, but faced and befriended? Pitfall #2: We fail to realize how important things like anger and sadness are in the Kingdom of God. How many times in Scripture do we see God’s people crying out to God? Tears or rage at suffering and injustice and violence and greed. We can’t pray with the saints of Scripture if we don’t treat our human responses to evil as a meeting place with God. I’m a lot like Bernard; I work hard to minimize and silence my unwanted emotions and reactions. I’ve learned that when I express my anger, it doesn’t always go well. Sometimes I hurt people, and other times I look foolish. More often than not, I say something I regret. Sadness, too, is treated like an unwanted guest in my body. Somewhere I picked up the message that “sadness is wrong,” so I treat it as something to avoid or get over quickly. But even in, and especially in, a life situation like Bernard found himself in, we can start right where we really are, taking agency and responsibility over our bodies and facing God’s presence there. What if anger and sadness don’t interfere with our life with God but are portals into the Kingdom? Maybe God’s presence and power are most available to us when we decide to be right where we really are. God is so real that he most fully meets us in reality. Are you angry that your family isn’t turning out as you wanted? Frustrated at yourself and others for making bad decisions? Sad that you can’t seem to make amends or make things right with your spouse? God is waiting to meet you in that messy reality, but many of us don’t know how to do this. Pitfall #3: We don’t know how to be where we really are with God. In the book I co-authored with Ben Sternke, Having the Mind of Christ, we talk about how to settle down into the silence and intimacy of our bodies via the breath. Being present to God who is present and at work starts with being present to that which God breathed into us: our very life. Each breath is a token, an embodied prayer, of God’s very life animating us. Let’s say we are in a similar place to Bernard today. I am. This past week, I lost my father-in-law suddenly to an illness from which we thought he’d recover. But he didn’t. I feel the ache of loss, anger toward death, and the sadness of losing such an important part of my life. Here’s all I have, even as I type, to meet with God in this: 1. Breathe 2. Be present to how the loss, anger, and sadness come online for me in my memories, in my body, and in my emotions. 3. Just tell God what I’m feeling and what I’m thinking. It doesn’t have to be a ‘prayer’ or proper or presentable. It’s just me trusting my pain to God with whatever words I can muster. 4. Be patient and sit in it for a bit. To do this, some of us may need to walk or journal or put on some music. The important part of this is giving God access to what’s actually going on, consenting to his presence in what matters the most to me. Learning how to meet God in our messy reality—right where we really are—is an ordinary practice that will transform us over time. It’s nothing less than an invitation to God to be with us where we need love, healing, and salvation the most.

Editor’s Note: This year’s return to an in-person Hutchmoot gathering also allowed our favorite chef/writer John Cal to bless us with his thoughtful essays before each evening meal. What follows is his Friday night pre-meal address from Hutchmoot ’22. You can read his opening night essay here. Needle and Thread by Sleeping at Last When the world welcomes us in We’re closer to heaven than we’ll ever know They say this place has changed But strip away all of the technology And you will see That we are all hunters Just hunting for something that will make us okay Here we lay alone In hospital beds, tracing life in our head But all that is left Is that this was our entrance and now it’s our exit As we find our way home And all the blood and all the sweat That we invested to be loved Follows us into our end And we begin to understand That we are made of love And all the beauty stemming from it We are made of love And every fracture caused by the lack of it “You were a million years of work” Said God and His angels, with needle and thread They kissed your head and said “You’re a good kid and you make us proud So just give your best and the rest will come and we’ll see you soon All the blood and all the sweat That we invested to be loved Follows us into our end And we begin to understand That we are made of love And all the beauty stemming from it We are made of love And every fracture caused by the lack of it Caused by the lack of love He said that he and his mother just finished prayer meeting, and somewhere along the way he lost his wallet. He had already asked a handful of people, all of whom had said no. “Who is so cruel as to leave people stranded after a prayer meeting?” he said. He just wanted gas to get home. I had $3 in cash in my wallet and offered it to him, but he said that wouldn’t get him far enough. “I’ll Venmo you the money once I get home,” he said as he handed me his business card. It had his picture on it, a real estate broker, it said. “Sure,” I said. “$20, okay?” he asked. “Just want to make sure I get all the way home.” I stuck in my debit card and punched in the PIN number. He looked away as I did, and then began to pump gas into his Toyota. I was there to get gas myself when he approached me. The indicator light had been flashing now for over 30 miles, and I was beginning to get nervous. I pulled into the Kroger to fill up, and that’s when Aaron Martin, the man on the business card, approached me. I have a complicated relationship with beggars. When I was younger, my mother was in nursing school, and for one of her papers, she studied the effects homelessness has on human development. As an adult, I understand this, but as a five year old, it was strange to see her stop and talk to vagrants. Even after her research was over, while walking through the park, or the mall, or at the beach, she’d see someone she recognized from her study and strike up a conversation. Often, she’d buy them a little food, or slip a five-dollar bill in their pocket when my father wasn’t looking. During lunch or on the drive home, she’d recount their stories, like Ken, for instance, has a son who’s a dentist, or that Peter became a vagabond after his wife died. “LuAnne lost her job when the hotel closed,” mom prattled, “and there wasn’t anything else she was trained to do.” I didn’t know it at the time, but it was making them humans. They weren’t just beggars or transients, but they were people. They had names: Ken, Peter, LuAnne. When I lived in the mountains near Sisters, Oregon, there weren’t many beggars. Winter saw to that, chasing most of the homeless population away come December. A woman from town created a little camp of sorts outside the city limits, and you could occasionally see her hauling a cardboard box or bags of groceries on her derelict bicycle from place to place. Gladys, I think her name was, but even she would disappear from November to April. Portland was different. In Portland, while I lived in a fairly safe and very gentrified neighborhood, just a few blocks away were many of the city’s service organizations—soup kitchens, overnight shelters, city churches, methadone clinics. Walking downtown or driving over the Burnside Bridge, you’d see clusters of dozens of men, women, and families waiting for services to open, or just biding their time, spending their days in limbo. Further up on Glisan Street, towards Kings Heights where I lived, you could feel removed from the fervor of downtown. Less city bustle, more neighborhoods, the homeless population dwindled in my corner of Northwest Portland except for a few regulars that most in the area could distinguish as part of the backdrop of our locale. There was the man who was always checking the parking meters for forgotten change. He wore a scruffy black beard and tattered converse. The woman with the blue backpack was known to steal food from the grocery store down the street—just walk in and grab a loaf of bread or an apple or two and just walk back out. I remember hearing a produce manager once said of her, “What’s a lost banana every now and then?” And the man who was often outside the coffee shop down the street, tapping you on your way in, asking you if you had any spare change, or if you’d be willing to get him a cup of coffee too. Then there was Wheels. Wheels wasn’t his real name of course, and I don’t think anyone else in the neighborhood called him that, but it seemed an appropriate moniker because he was often riding on the back of a large grocery store shopping cart like a skateboard, or a scooter, or sometimes even like a soap box derby car. Wheels would travel around the Alphabet District in Northwest Portland and fill his cart with aluminum cans and glass bottles that he’d find on the street or deep in trash cans, before taking them down to the neighborhood recycling center for five cents apiece. And how much more lavish the love of God to bless us, even when He is never fooled by our deceptions, even when He already knows how we intend to misuse his gifts. John Cal You could tell he was young, in his late twenties or early thirties maybe, young but weathered, his skin made leathery by the sun and the cold. His fuzzy blonde hair stuck up at odd angles in light wisps of sand-colored candy floss circling a tan patch of shiny scalp. He wore army green cargo pants (yes, of course, he did), a black multi-pocketed freezer coat that suited him, and the most pleasant, often smiling, demeanor. I know how trite that detail sounds in an essay about a homeless man, but it’s true, he was, so often, smiling. Wheels never asked for money, never asked for anything—food, a cup of coffee. So many of the other neighborhood regulars were aggressive in their panhandling, being able to distinguish between the neighborhood locals and tourists or weekend suburbanites coming to the city to do some shopping. And in the middle of seeing a poor unsuspecting Californian in town just wanting to experience the hipster Portlandia magic get harassed by a beggar, you’d turn only to see Wheels coasting down the street, weaving in between traffic on his shopping cart, going about his businesses picking up cans and bottles. Before I continue on, I’d like to apologize to you (and to Wheels, really) for insensitively using the terms beggar, homeless, panhandler, vagrant, and vagabond somewhat interchangeably, even when I was trying to profess our shared humanness. It’s easy enough to feel like we’re all part of some sort of community, some family of faith, that we’re all sons and daughters of Adam and Eve when it suits us, when the labels compliment who we are, or rather, who we hope we are, but then someone falls on some hard times, or is dealing with mental trauma. They steal a little food, or harass the tourists, or have their main source of income from collecting bottles and cans. I want to believe that we’re all equal, that God is fair in his dealings, that both the lamb and the scapegoat have equal chances with the Lord, but then I see Wheels, or Ken, or Peter, or LuAnne, and whether it’s my fault or theirs (who even needs to think of fault in times like these?!), the facts of the story seem much less palpable. I gave him a box of cans once. Wheels, I mean. I saw him pushing his cart just uphill from my apartment building and told him to wait if he had a minute, and I’d go get him the recycling from under my sink. It was a good-sized box and quite full, as I am a lazy recycler, and Wheels was ever so grateful. “Here, I want to give you something,” he said happy and flustered, his hands darting in and out of his many pockets. “Oh, here, take one,” he said, as he produced three links of warm unwrapped salami from the depths of a coat pocket. “No, thanks. Those are yours,” I said, trying to keep a straight face despite the distinct smell of rotting meat. “Well, these cans are yours,” he said. “No, those are yours too,” I said. “Well, thanks man,” Wheels said before loading up his cart and rolling down the hill. “If you change your mind about the salami, just let me know.” I guess you give what you have, and hope that most days that’s enough. But of course, Aaron Martin never sent me the money on Venmo. He sped away in his car before I could input the info into my phone to find that there was an error. The phone number didn’t work when I sent a text to it either, nor when I called it. Anecdotally, we all know stories like these, when giving worked out for the good, and when we were lied to and got shafted out of $20 at the Kroger gas station. After Jesus is done preaching the Beatitudes, he continues his sermon, talking about murder, adultery, and divorce (I know right? Yes, this was directly after he preached the beatitudes). Then he gets to fairness and giving. “If someone wants to take your shirt, give him your coat as well.” “Give to the one who asks you, and do not turn away from the one who wants to borrow from you.” “He causes the sun to rise and fall on the good and the evil, and causes the rain to fall on the sinners and the saints.” I often find it so fascinating that we needed murder explained to us. Why wasn’t, “Murder: Don’t do it” enough, as found in Exodus 20? But then it wasn’t clear enough, I guess. And if we don’t comprehend the ramifications of murder, what hope do any of us have in comprehending grace? I constantly need to be reminded, like I needed to be reminded that day that it wasn’t really my $20 that Aaron Martin ended up using for gas. Perhaps, I was its steward for a while, but so often I forget that everything here is freely given—the air we breathe, the sun that rises and sets on us all, the rain that brings refreshing and flood. Yeah, even that $20 was, as the hymnist Stuart Hamblen puts it, “only borrowed for a while.” And while, yes, it didn’t feel honorable to lie to me to get some gas, just as I feel anxious when I hand over a few dollars to someone asking on the street, more often than not it’s not really about the money. The hurt comes from the shame that I was swindled, that I was foolish in believing the lie. And how more lavish the love of God to bless us, even when He is never fooled by our deceptions, even when He already knows how we intend to misuse his gifts. He does know after all what it’s like to be human, to be tempted, and all it takes to overcome that temptation, which most days I find myself lacking, when I forget that’s how grace works, that we are lavished with the unconditional love of God, and how silly of me to make the distinction of his love being unconditional. For if it is love at all, there is no other kind. If it is conditional, then it isn’t really love. I asked my mother about Ken recently. It’s one of the most palpable memories of my childhood. I was five and he was sitting on a bench at the mall across the way a little from a Mcdonald’s. My dad held my hand and we stood at a distance while they chatted, while my mom slipped him a little money, and went into the McDonalds to buy him a burger. Later that day in the food court, while sitting at the table to my own meal, my own burger, my parents tried to explain to me what a homeless person was, and I cried. Five-year-old me just couldn’t comprehend that homelessness exists in a world with such abundance. As an adult, it’s easier to gloss over that sort of pain and injustice. “He had a good job at the dairy,” my mom said over the phone, “before he became an alcoholic.” “His son is a dentist and lives in Manoa,” she continued, Manoa being one of Hawaii’s most affluent neighborhoods, “and his son would be happy to let his dad live when him but he keeps refusing because of all those mental health issues.” The tone in her voice glazed with a thin veneer of what I perceived as judgment. “Then why’d you keep doing it?” I asked. “Why’d you keep giving him money and food when he was just going to keep making bad choices?” “Because none of that matters,” she said without pause or hesitation. “None of that matters when someone needs to be loved.”

Editor’s Note: This year’s return to an in-person Hutchmoot gathering also allowed our favorite chef/writer John Cal to bless us with his thoughtful essays before each evening meal. What follows is his Saturday night pre-meal address from Hutchmoot ’22. Click here for his opening night essay and here is his Friday night essay. Sing with me. Father Abraham had many sons And many sons had Father Abraham I am one of them and so are you So let’s all praise the Lord RIGHT ARM! Father Abraham had many sons And many sons had Father Abraham I am one of them and so are you So let’s all praise the Lord I always hated that song… I thought it was so weird with the arms and the flailing and the kicking. Maybe there is a short time in elementary school when all that flapping about is kind of fun, but by middle school, you’re spending so much time and energy trying to be cool that there isn’t anything left in you to consider Father Abraham let alone any of his sons. I wasn’t always a Christian. I didn’t grow up one. We didn’t not believe in God in my house, but we didn’t pray before meals, or have the right bumper stickers on our cars. We didn’t go to church, not even on Christmas, and so that added a layer of silliness to the music. I did grow up going to a private Christian school, one of the non-Christian kids. I had to sing the songs I didn’t believe were true. I had to say the prayers when I didn’t think anyone was listening. I memorized the verses from the ancient Hebrew texts like all the other kids. We had to say them before they excused us to lunch. And just to clarify, I was a pretty good non-Christian kid—never smoked cigarettes behind the gym, was on the honor roll, and was in advanced math. I was the yearbook editor, then the newspaper editor. I was freshman class president and represented my school at the state geography bee two years in a row. The one time I remember swearing at school was in the second grade. It was the F-word, and Miss Nomi turned around, immediately making eye contact. Without another sound from either of us, I walked back into the classroom, quietly put my head down on my desk, and voluntarily skipped the last twenty minutes of recess. So when I did, on my own, decide to become a Christian in high school, there were all these layers to peel through: Like in the fifth grade when they asked all the honor roll kids if they wanted to be baptized, but not the kids who were getting regular grades, or like when the other kids pointed out that my dad was a lawyer and that lawyers are liars and that liars go to hell, or like in the eighth grade when I was asked to pray and told I was doing it wrong, that I wasn’t being reverent enough. “I thought we’re supposed to talk to God like he’s our friend,” I remember asking Mrs. Cobalt. “Yes, He is our friend, but not that kind of friend,” she said, “and we don’t talk to Him like that.” I understand that childhood is easy for almost no one, and still, there’s something unsettling and perverse about a kid feeling like they’re on the outside of Christianity. When I decided that I wanted to be a Christian, I was fourteen, old enough to have very clear memories of so many firsts. I remember responding to my first altar call, and whether or not it was the Holy Spirit or just peer pressure, it felt like I was sitting on a fire compelling me to stand. I remember the first Bible text I ever studied, the story of Zacchaeus. “Some scholars think the cross was made of sycamore wood,” Pastor Gary said, “and so when Jesus is telling Zacchaeus to come down from the tree, it’s almost like he’s telling us to let go of our burdens and He’ll pick up the cross for us.” I remember the first time I heard contemporary Christian music. It was the green double disced WOW 1999 album with such classics as “Testify to Love” featuring the 4 part harmonies of Avalon (number four on the silver disc), and “The Devil is Bad” by Ska and Swing Revival Band, the W’s (number eight on the green disc). And it’s a very palpable memory to me the first time I went to church as a Christian, even after all the years at the school with the songs and the memory verses and the prayers, and being at church for school programs or with a friend’s family after a sleepover. There’s something about choosing something for yourself, about setting out on an adventure all on your own. There was a church in the same denomination as my school less than a five-minute drive away from my house, but I wanted to go to the church on the far side of the island—45 minutes away, where more of my friends went. I thought it prudent to wear my best, and as a 14 year old deciding to go to church for the first time without the supervision or prodding of his parents, it meant the coolest clothes I owned or at least the clothes that I thought were the coolest. It was 1998, the era of garish color-blocked patterns and stainless steel jewelry. That morning I put on my favorite pair of canary yellow chinos and unironically (because I grew up in Hawaii) a teal flower print Hawaiian shirt. I slipped on a coordinating yellow bucket hat, yellow terry cloth flip-flops, and a pair of orange round-framed glasses. I looked awesome. Maybe you feel it coming, a slip-up, the not belonging, someone saying something awful to the kid who doesn’t quite fit in. And the trouble is, the way we fit in in church, and in circles of church people, is different than the ways we do or do not fit in everywhere else. If you grew up in it, it’s just normal. You learned with time and through osmosis, through little learned proddings. And even within the language of the culture of Christianity, there are so many sects, so many tribes with different dialects. It can make us distinct, but it can also separate us. It’s both blessing and baggage. I didn’t know it at the time but the church where I decided to attend was the sort of tribe that exclusively used the organ and the piano for singing, even used the little placard with interchangeable numbers to indicate which hymns would be sung, not an overhead projector for indication or lyrics. It was the kind of church that sang all of the stanzas in each hymn. There was never a one, three, and four announcement. We all raised our hymnals together in unspoken choreography. You could identify those who had been in the tribe for more generations, because they could close their hymnal and quietly begin putting them away in the back of the pew in front of them before the hymn was even over, having memorized all the words and all the prescribed appropriate emotions. There’s a story in our ancient scriptures of a man who had two sons. Both he and his wife believed they were too old to have children. In fact, when the Lord appeared to him and told him his wife would get pregnant, she laughed at God. “Why did you laugh?” God asked. “Is anything too hard for me?” The wife tried to walk it back, “I didn’t laugh,” she lied because she was afraid. That’s how so many lies start, to God, to others, to ourselves, because we’re afraid of what might happen. In her fear, the wife took her handmaid, an African slave woman, and asked her husband to lay with her. The handmaid had a son. Then years later, just like God promised, the man’s wife also had a son—two sons from two different women, but when the man’s wife saw her handmaid’s son making fun of her son, she turned to her husband and said, “Get rid of that slave woman and her son. He is not going to share in the inheritance.” So often it happens this way, someone hurts us and our instinct is to hurt them back, to hurt someone, anyone back, when we know the way to redemption is to turn the other cheek, to go the extra mile, to give to the one who asks, to love one another. I arrived at church too early that day. I didn’t know what time any of it started, and in the days before texting and the internet, I didn’t know a good way for me to find out. The doors to the sanctuary were locked. The youth room was empty. There were a few people milling about the grounds doing I’m not sure what, but not knowing what to do I just took a seat in the courtyard on a little stone wall in my coolest outfit, feeling silly and alone, like I had gotten it wrong. Across the way were two older men, in their sixties or seventies maybe, sitting on two folding chairs by the entrance of the courtyard. “You visiting today?” one of the men asked. “Youth group doesn’t start for thirty minutes,” the other one said. “You can come sit by us,” the first continued. “You don’t have to wait by yourself.” I wonder if we just treated each other with dignity and kindness and love, real love without conditions, I wonder if the other things would slowly begin to work themselves out. John Cal I don’t remember much of what we talked about. I think they asked me about my parents, what high school I went to, and if I knew any of the other kids in the youth group. But it helped me be less afraid—to not be alone. We sat there for the next half hour, keeping each other company, and against our better judgment, contrary to all our fears of what might happen, we discovered that maybe we could belong to each other. Author and scientist Michael McHargue defines creativity as nothing more than the ability to make unexpected connections, to take two things that seemingly don’t belong and make them relate to each other in ways that other people may not see. You begin to see it when you start to look closer at the stories of creation—the unexpected—stories that just don’t make any sense, like when a Samaritan saves the Jewish man beaten by the side of the road, or when the widow’s tiny offering is the one that is most treasured. Like when the vineyard workers, who only toiled a short time, get the full blessing from the master, or when a baby was sent to save the whole world. You also see the pain that is caused when we choose to stifle the creativity of redemption, like when Hagar was cast out when Sarah didn’t want their sons to share in the blessing. Moses writes in Genesis that Abraham gave Hagar some food and a container of water and sent her away with their son, his own son, and she wandered aimlessly in the wilderness of Beersheba. When the water was gone, she put their son in the shade and sat down at a distance, alone. “I don’t want to watch my son die,” she said, as she started to cry. “But God heard the boy crying,” Moses continues, “and the angel of God called to Hagar from heaven, “Hagar, what’s wrong? Do not be afraid! God has heard the boy crying as he lies there. Go to him and comfort him, for I will make a great nation from his descendants.” God showed Hagar a well full of water. Seems like such a small thing to us when we can just turn on a tap, but that’s how privilege works, in the words of Ani Defranco, “like fish in the water who do not know they are wet.” Hagar fills her water container and gives her and Abraham’s son a drink. The boy lived, and Ishmael grew up to become a skillful archer. He settled in the wilderness of Paran. He married a woman from Egypt, his mother’s homeland. Beyond that, our ancient texts don’t say much about what happened to Ishmael, but I want to believe that our scriptures are true, that God keeps his promises, that He too made Ishmael the father of a great nation. As it got closer to 9:30, and more kids started showing up, my two morning companions turned to me and said, “Looks like youth group is going to start soon. You better head in.” It was the Manoa-Japanese Seventh-Day Adventist church that I first attended when I started going to church, where many of the members who grew up in Hawaii or elsewhere in the U.S. were interned in concentration camps under executive order 9066, signed by Presidents Franklin D. Roosevelt, who also established Social Security and a National Minimum Wage. Roosevelt was the first to take action against employment discrimination, moves at the time that had a huge impact on the lives of African Americans, Catholics, and Jews — I guess even the best of us can sometimes make mistakes. Colonel Karl Bendetsen said of the ordeal, “I am determined that if they have one drop of Japanese blood in them, they must go to camp.” More than 100,000 Japanese women, children, and men were imprisoned, men so very much like Mr. Tamanaha and Mr. Fukutani, who lived through a time when people kept telling them that they didn’t belong. Maybe someone told you once that you didn’t belong. Maybe you’ve felt like you were sent out into the desert. It’s easy to keep passing this pain on, to retaliate with more and more bitterness. Stephi Wagner, MSW, once said, “Pain travels through families until someone is ready to feel it.” “You staying for potluck?” they said to me as I got up and began heading to the youth room. “Yeah,” I said, waving back at them as I got up to join the rest of my friends. After youth group, after the singing of hymns, after the sermon, after the parts of church that I used to believe were the most important, I walked back into the courtyard and was confronted with six large tables covered in creativity, six tables that to the naked eye were covered in things that didn’t belong together, but were connected through the beauty of community. Like Helen Uechi’s Chawanmushi, or Linn Madsen’s Manju. John Obata would always bring a big green salad. Mrs. Tamashiro would bring her homemade granola bars, and Ree Hiatt, who was the secretary to the head of the Dole Plantation, would always bring a huge bowl of pineapple. It’s easy enough to have an idea of what church looks like, what community looks like, what our lives look like when we picture it in our imaginations. If we got to choose these things—the perfect home, the perfect spouse, the perfect family, if you got to design the perfect meal, very few of us would put Jell-O salad next to green bean casserole, next to Cool Ranch Doritos, next to leftover chili, next to a bundt cake, next to a bucket of KFC. But then people show up at a table together, real people. Breathing and full of entirely irritating flaws—sometimes irritating because they’re the opposite of yours, sometimes irritating because they’re flaws you share. I can start to resent the imperfections in the system unless I remember that I am people too. I wonder if we just treated each other with dignity and kindness and love, real love—without conditions, I wonder if the other things would slowly begin to work themselves out. Maybe I’m naive. Maybe that’s too simple, but it was enough that day for John Tamanaha and Saichi Fukutani to treat the scared little boy in the yellow bucket hat with a little bit of kindness, to help me find the water. I hope you’ve experienced some of that belonging at Hutchmoot. Sometimes it can feel like the rest of the world is a vast empty desert, and there’s so much water here. Sometimes it’s easy to give up when you feel like you’re alone, but I believe that our God is the sort of God who keeps His promises, who blessed Father Abraham and his many sons, and many sons had Father Abraham. I am one of them, and so are you. So let’s all praise the Lord.

If you are a writer or artist of any stripe, chances are you know a thing or two about disappointment. Perhaps, like me, you have found yourself blinded with false visions of breakthrough—publishing deal, critical acclaim, virality—only to stub your pride on the doorframe of reality. I’m an avid dreamer, so I hobble around with serious bruises thanks to my artistic ambitions. Writing, like other crafts, is not an easy vocation to pursue. But today, I don’t want to throw a pity party for writers—I think there are enough of those already and I am partied out. Instead, I’d like to offer writers and artists of the church a reminder: we have a responsibility to steward our disappointments. Disappointment is a norm in the post-fall world, not just for writers and artists. When Adam and Eve reached out and made their sinful choice, they planted the seed of disappointment in each of our hearts to grow and bear fruit for ages to come. Disappointment is now sown into the soil of our reality; it has perverted our nature. To neglect this is to cave into one of the most fundamental lies that the enemy tries to convince us of, that we live in the garden today, that our world is as it should be. Believe this, and you are bound to slip into a spiritual passivity that will corrupt your soul and further poison the ground around you. When I talk about “stewarding disappointment,” I do not have a mind to denigrate or minimize our grief in any way. Grief is grief. Our sorrows do not always have to be justified, explained away, or made use of. There are moments when we should simply take grief for what it is, to cry and experience the weight of our sadness. Jesus himself, when standing before the tomb of Lazarus, bent down and wept. Are we too proud to weep with him? This is one of the most powerful ways to steward our grief—to simply experience it rather than flee, hide from, or neglect it. But there are other ways to steward it too, ways that we might not always have the strength to muster. Sometimes God orders our disappointments in ways that meet others in their disappointments. If I, in my pain and isolation, could reach out and grab hold of the hand of a neighbor who is also enduring their own form of grief, could this perhaps partly remedy what is ailing both of us? One of my dearest friendships was formed and given its depth during a time we were both experiencing the pain of heartbreak and our paths collided. I sat with him in his confusion and loss just as he sat with me in mine. Those who have strength amid their troubles should strive to keep their eyes open for whom God might ask them to share their disappointments. Deep community forms not in the absence of troubles, but when individuals, in the midst of their troubles, band together to bear each other’s burdens. The world doesn’t need people who live without disappointment. The world idolizes such individuals—celebrities, self-help gurus, spiritual sages. These people hide their disappointments by putting on masks; they conceal the truth, calling evil “good” and good “evil.” In doing so, they lead their flocks blindly into ditches. What our society needs instead are people who stand boldly and honestly in their brokenness because they understand that the power and grace of God are most clearly demonstrated there. For us, disappointment is no longer our defining reality. Imagine this scene: The disciples hide in an upper room. The other Jews hold them in contempt. They have brought shame to their families. The words they spoke and the lives they led the last few years have proven empty all because their Messiah has been crucified on a tree, utterly humiliated. To say they are disappointed would be an understatement. Isn’t it remarkable that God would use one grievous disappointment as a means of liberating us from the disappointment that characterizes our lives? Jesus’ death frees us from sin; Jesus’ resurrection gives us the hope of new life. In Christ, all our disappointments can be redeemed. That is not to say they will not leave their mark, but even the holes in Jesus’ hand demonstrated the legitimacy of his new body. Indeed, the resurrected Christ demonstrates how we ought to properly steward our disappointments. We are wounded and killed, but by God’s power, we rise again. So we do not have to lose heart when a manuscript gets rejected, when our hearts get broken, or when we face the death of a dream. When Jesus said, “Behold, I am making all things new,” He meant all things. He intends to incorporate every sad and stinging disappointment into the great melody that our lives will sing in Christ. When we submit our disappointments to Him and steward them for His glory, we can trust that He is fulfilling His purposes for us, both in us and through us. He alone is our hope.

Tanka is a cousin to the popular poetic form of the haiku. The word tanka translates to short song. Originating in medieval Japan, it is a free verse poem consisting of 31 syllables. Early Japanese writers composed these in one unbroken line; contemporary Japanese tankas are now written in three lines. English tankas are also 31 syllables but in five lines and a 5, 7, 5, 7, 7 syllable/line pattern. Like a haiku, a tanka focuses on one thing; but it is different from a haiku because it is not just about capturing a moment in time and in nature. A tanka describes something in a stirring or profound way while also holding onto something universal. Key to a tanka is the emotional response starting around the third line. A Trilogy of Advent Tanka Poems was written in December 2021. While reading several passages in Isaiah and ruminating on a series of Advent sermons, I challenged myself to write one tanka a week. Hope in Christ’s return, the final fulfillment of our salvation, and the renewal of creation tug strongly at my heart and imagination during Advent season. I tried to bring that into these poems. Annunciation “. . . and the stillness the dancing.” -T.S. Elliot As if Mary’s yes opened the dark skies for the light to appear and then blink along smooth waters, while kingfishers and herons sat still, waiting for the dawn. Isaiah 35:1 A fir tree’s fresh scent— a hint that one day streams of living water will flow through the wilderness and the deserts will blossom bright. Matthew 1:19-25 This time of year I often remember Joseph giving up his life for Mary and also how you follow in his footsteps.

“If we want everything to stay as it is, everything has to change.“ This is one of the great insights of the Sicilian aristocrat, Giuseppe di Lampedusa, in his great, but only, novel The Leopard. I’m pretty sure he wasn’t thinking about Hutchmoot exactly when his character Prince Tancredi utters this pearl, but he might as well have! It is entirely apt. As the first international offspring of Hutchmoot Nashville, Hutchmoot UK has so far taken place twice in Oxford (in 2019 and then 2022) to great acclaim and rejoicing. But for various reasons, we are moving in 2023 to Derbyshire. St Andrew’s Church in north Oxford was the perfect venue to launch and establish the event but we have quickly outgrown it (quite apart from the fact that being a lively and active local church, we are restricted to the few windows in their hectic calendar). So we’re stepping out in faith to build on what we have done so far and are very excited to see what will come of it. There are a lot of benefits of moving to Swanwick. The Hayes Conference Centre is a huge site, in which we’ll have exclusive use of half the space (including performance and exhibition spaces, breakout rooms and lounge areas). Expect all the regular features of HMUK like: Music in the round and concert performances Scores of Seminar sessions on all kinds of topics related to the arts and creativity, Christian discipleship, and spirituality. A keynote address and plenary gatherings Plenty of time and space to relax, meet and chat with friends, take time out, do as much or as little as you would like to do New for HMUK 2023: Exhibition space at which attenders can display and sell artwork Opportunities for writers, musicians, and artisans to sell merchandise The chance to meet Rabbit Room friends from your area in the UK and beyond. The Derbyshire countryside is glorious! The Peak District National Park is on the doorstep, and wonder that is Chatsworth House is only 40 minutes away. We are acutely conscious of the economic pressures that many are under this winter and one major factor in moving is the fact that Oxford is an incredibly expensive city at the best of times. So while the price of tickets may seem initially greater, by the time you factor in full board and lodging it actually works out considerably cheaper. So our hope and prayer is that few will be prevented from coming for financial reasons. Details of speakers and performers will be released as they are confirmed – but save the date and spread the word! Tickets go on sale Wednesday, January 4th at 7am in the UK (that’s the middle of the night in the US). Visit www.HutchmootUK.com for more information. #semifeature

If you’ve followed along with the Rabbit Room over the last few years, or have been on the lookout for meaningful music, you’ll likely recognize the name (and potentially the tunes of) John Tibbs. Not only have we featured him here on the blog in the past, but he’s been a guest at The Local Show as well. The last few years have served as a real turning point in John’s life with significant life events occurring alongside the seismic global changes that have marked us all. In the aftermath of it all, John says depression set in and the future seemed uncertain and it took some time for the music to come back around. “After the Night” was the first song to “reappear,” a hopeful sign that there was more for the Midwestern native to say/sing. He recently detailed the story behind the song for us here at the Rabbit Room. Check out the song below and John’s explanation in the text below. I wrote “After the Night” in the fall of 2021. It was the first song I’d written since COVID began. My wife and I found out we were expecting our first child one month before the pandemic hit. The inability to tour for 15 months, the stress of pregnancy and birth in a world sheltering in place, the ongoing political and spiritual turmoil, and the adjustments of being a dad … it all felt like too much. Like a square peg being crammed into a round hole, my new world no longer felt in sync with my old one. I wanted to write, but I didn’t know what to say. I wasn’t the same person anymore and writing felt like the old me. How was I supposed to just sit down and write a song? Becoming a father made me feel, more than ever, a deep need to make every single moment count. Was songwriting really how I wanted to spend this gift of the present? In the face of so much sickness and death, in the midst of so much political and social unrest, I am supposed to just sit down and write a song? A song about faith, no less? What do I have to say that hasn’t already been said? Who am I writing for? For most people, the fall of 2021 began to feel like normal again, but I fell into the worst depression of my life. I was figuring out what it was like to be a father, trying to get touring back off the ground, and navigate the small and large details of both of those things. It felt like a bridge was being built between the old and new me. Building a bridge is not easy. Sometimes it hurts. And then one morning in my living room, this entire song showed up in my mind and it was written in just a matter of minutes. It surprised me, a lot like hope does. It caught me off guard. I still had something to say in this new world. In fact, more than ever I now know the importance of hope. Sure, it’s a simple message: Hope is and is to come. But to me, it’s a necessary one, and one that I need to sing. I hope that whatever season you find yourself in today, that you will see the good that is on the horizon and “just keep walking.” Much love and peace to each of you on your journey. Check out more about John Tibbs and his music here. Matt Conner is a former pastor and church planter turned writer and editor. He’s the founder of Analogue Media and lives in Indianapolis.

In the spring of 1758, as the pale yellow primroses trumpeted their arrival, a young pastor sat down to write some poetry. Robert Robinson, a twenty-three-year-old pastor serving at the Calvinist Methodist Chapel in Norfolk, England, had lived his early adult years running away from the haunting guilt of his sin. But God, in His great mercy, had saved this young man, and Robert had decided to give the rest of his life to the ministry of the Gospel. On this particular spring day, Robert labored to pen what has become one of the most well-loved hymns of all time: “Oh to grace how great a debtor, daily I’m constrained to be,” the song of “Come Thou Fount” declares. In one of the verses, he wrote: Here I raise my Ebenezer; Hither by Thy help I’m come. And I hope, by Thy good pleasure, Safely to arrive at home. Jesus sought me when a stranger Wand’ring from the fold of God; He, to rescue me from danger, Interposed His precious blood. If you’re anything like me, the mention of the word “Ebenezer” brings to mind a picture of a silver-haired Scrooge with a hooked nose and a snarl across his lips. But that couldn’t be farther from the word’s actual meaning. In its original Hebrew form, the word “Ebenezer” literally means “stone of help”. Robinson borrowed from the Biblical portrait of Samuel and raised his own Ebenezer of verse, bending a knee to all God had done in his life, and all he believed God would continue to do. This Biblical symbol and perspective come from 1 Samuel 4–7, which unfolds a rollercoaster of events for God’s people. Israel had again rebelled against God, and then suffered great defeat and humiliation. Not only had they lost in battle against the Philistines, but they had witnessed the capture of the Ark of the Covenant. They returned home, mourning their loss and grieving their sin. After much repentance, prayer, and fasting, the people of Israel cried out to God for help. And under the guidance of Samuel, the people set out again for battle, this time listening to God and trusting in His Word. The resulting conquest of the Philistines was complete the next time around; God had given the people a triumphant victory. In memoriam to what God had done in that moment, Samuel set up a stone in the place of victory “…and called its name Ebenezer; for he said, ’Til now the LORD has helped us.’” (1 Sam. 7:12) The wise prophet Samuel knew human nature. He knew that, as humans, we forget to remember our sin. We forget to remember God’s help. We move on past our triumphs and internalize the glory for ourselves. Samuel’s Ebenezer forced the people of Israel to stop and remember that it was God who had given them victory in trial. His hand was the initiator, victor, and sustainer of their success. An Ebenezer illuminates God as the hero of our stories. Jodi Hiser Robert Robinson used the words “Hither by Thy Help I’m come”. These words have a connotation of looking into the past while also looking into the future. Samuel did this well. He looked into the past and remembered Israel’s defeat and anguish. He wanted to memorialize their repentance, prayer, fasting, fighting, and victory. But by erecting the stone of remembrance, Samuel also looked toward the future, wanting to remind the next generations to look at that stone and remember God’s faithfulness and power when the next tough trial came their way. The book of Samuel is not the only place in the Bible where we see the memoriam of an Ebenezer. Jacob set up a stone to mark the place where he heard the word of the Lord in the night (Gen. 28:10–19). And Joshua set up a group of stones at Gilgal to mark the place where God parted the waters of the Jordan River (Josh. 3:14–4:7). But before you begin to conclude that the concept of Ebenezer is limited to simple stones, think about Moses, who, while nearing death, was told by God to compose a song to commemorate all that the Lord had done for His people in the wilderness (Deut. 31:19–22). Think about the authors of the Biblical narratives, known and unknown, who were commissioned by God to write their stories, commemorating the events as God had ordained them. Whether by pillars of stone or song or story, we see evidence that the practice of Ebenezer runs throughout Scripture. This is because we need it. An Ebenezer, in all of its forms, grounds us in truth and identity, reminding us that all of our strength, hope, weaknesses, and successes are rooted in the powerful, loving, sovereign hand of God. An Ebenezer illuminates God as the hero of our stories. The necessity of naming God as the hero of our own personal narrative is the very reason we still need this practice today. Through our art, our songs, and our stories, we remember specific acts that God has done in distinct moments of our lives. In fact, God gave us copious amounts of creativity and imagination to mark His hand in many artistic ways. Certainly an Ebenezer is not limited to these forms. It can be any way in which we record the Lord’s mighty deeds, hailing our testimony of God’s faithfulness to His people. It can be any creative marker that commemorates the trials, sufferings, weaknesses, journeys, hope, prayers, help, and successes that we experience. Let’s allow the concept of Ebenezer to be an inspiration in the manifold expressions of artistry that God gives to us. And when we experience a monumental moment in the story of our lives, let us not allow it to pass without marking it and naming it after the Lord. This practice brings not only beauty but purpose to our art as it collectively looks backward in remembrance and forward for the next generations. Our Ebenezers of today can be visual, musical, and literary memories of God’s steadfastness, granting courage for the next generation to believe that God will do what He has always done, and be Who He has always been.

Hutchmoot UK is only a few weeks away, so to celebrate a weekend of conversation about art, music, community, story, and the Great Story, we wanted to do something to include you in a small part of the festivities. We are going to bring you a sneak preview of, “The Psalm Code: Genesis Imagery in the Psalms,” one of the lectures that Andy Patton is giving at Hutchmoot UK. Andy is on staff at the Rabbit Room and is a former worker at the English branch of L’Abri Fellowship. You can find more of his writing at the Darkling Psalter (Andy’s Psalm poetry project), Three Things (a monthly newsletter of three good food-for-thought resources), and BibleProject.com. Though only our members can participate in the discussion live, the lecture will be available to our Rabbit Room Community in the coming months. The Psalm Code: Genesis Imagery in the Psalms Have you ever wondered why God fights with sea monsters (Psalm 74:13, 14), why there are trees in the temple (Psalm 92:12-14), or why God is so often compared to a cliff, a mountain, or a fortress? (Psalm 18:1, 2)? It all goes back to Genesis 1. Genesis is the fertile soil out of which all of the core biblical images grow and the Psalms are the trellis that spreads their fruits out to the sun. We’ll be looking at the Sea of Chaos, the Mountain of Refuge, and the Garden of God. Sign Up for the Lecture Lecture Details—When, Who, and Where Date: Thursday, May 4, 2023 Time: 6:00 pm, Central Standard Time Where: We’ll have the lecture on Zoom. Who Can Join: The lecture and discussion will be posted for free for the whole Rabbit Room community in the upcoming months, but only members get to join the discussion live. Let us know you’re coming by filling out this Google form. How to Become a Member: To become a member, just go to our member portal and follow the instructions. What is Membership at the Rabbit Room? Rabbit Room members make it possible for us to do all the things we do. Membership is about coming together as a community in common belonging and purpose. It’s made up of those who feel called to this mission and people, who recognize that they have a place in this work and want to share in its stewardship. Members get to: Support the mission and help make the work possible. Get backstage updates and advance notice on Rabbit Room happenings. Connect with staff and other members. Share your creative work at monthly Zoom meet-ups. Give input or assistance on current projects and needs. Receive our gratitude through gifts like the annual Member Mug, Hutchmoot Audio Archives, and Quarterly thank-you gifts.

If you’re like us, then you’ve got a weathered copy of Watership Down somewhere on your shelves. The classic adventure novel by Richard Adams has been an important read for 50 years, and now we’re excited to see the book receive a beautiful new graphic novel adaptation featuring the work of a two-time Eisner Award-winning cartoonist James Sturm and our good friend and illustrator Joe Sutphin. Today is the official cover reveal for the book and it makes us even more excited to see the final work in full. You can check out the new cover below and pre-order the book here from the Rabbit Room store. And our own proprietor Andrew Peterson has already taken a look and loved what he saw. “I’ll never forget the first time I picked up a copy of Watership Down. I read a blurb on the back that said, ‘I announce, with trembling pleasure, the arrival of a great story.’ I was immediately hooked, and as I turned the last page and sat in the glow of Richard Adams’s masterpiece, I heartily agreed. Translating a great story like Watership Down into a great graphic novel would require a truly great illustrator, and I believe Joe Sutphin has proven to be just that. I’ve walked the real Watership Down, wandered through the churchyard, and stood at the river where Hazel and Fiver and their company escaped—and I can honestly say the next best thing to being there is savoring every frame of art Sutphin crafted for this story. His attention to detail, his dogged determination to capture the look and feel of the English countryside, the care with which he designed the characters we know and love, are all expressions of his dedication to the craft, his respect for Adams’s tale, and his towering talent. I don’t think there’s another artist alive who could have pulled this off. And so I’m thrilled to announce, with trembling pleasure, the arrival of a new and beautiful adaptation of a great story.”