“Most of us have two lives: the life we live, and the unlived life within us. Between the two stands Resistance.” —Stephen Pressfield, The War of Art Several years ago, I was given a copy of the above-quoted book, and I’ve given away several copies in the ensuing years. It’s meant so much to me over the course of multiple readings for its ability to do one thing well: to name the forces at work in my life. If you’ve read it, you likely feel the same way. For the last twenty years, I’ve held a total of two jobs—pastor and journalist—and I’ve been driven by the same belief in both avenues of work. Namely, I believe that each person has something unique to offer to the world and that there are forces at work to both nurture and negate that work. Various people of varying beliefs have varied labels for these forces, but I’m not threatened enough to worry about who uses which term. Resistance sounds just fine to me. In fact, it fits quite well. I should know. I feel it all the time. Whether as a church planter and pastor or as a journalist, I’ve gotten quite good at diving into the conversational deep end, so to speak. Both jobs require the ability to dig deep, to unearth the real elements at work in someone’s story, and it’s a real privilege when someone honors you with their story in a meaningful way. Even after twenty years, I’ve never taken that for granted. What I love most about this work, and why I never tire of it, is that I’m constantly finding myself in the stories I write. At this point, I’ve interviewed well over two thousand artists and authors, directors and actors about their craft and in the majority of those conversations, I walk away with as much insight into my own work as their own. As they detail their resistance, I learn about my own. As they describe their struggles, their pressures, their fears, all of my own come to the surface. If they are able to push on in the face of such resistance, then maybe I’m able to do the same. I'm constantly finding myself in the stories I write. Matt Conner For the last few years, I’ve had the idea to launch a podcast, call it The Resistance, and center it around this very idea. I wanted to go in-depth with substantive artists and have them discuss their relationship with the resistance in honest and meaningful ways. I’ve put it off all this time because I’ve felt my own resistance. I’ve been afraid for every reason you can conjure—fear of failure, fear that no one will care, fear of not knowing what to do. Even after I finally decided to physically start this process, I’ve mentally quit a few more times. This work is terrifying. That’s how I know it’s what I’m supposed to do. Right now, we are officially live with the Series Trailer at all normal podcast outlets (Apple, Spotify, Stitcher, etc.) and the first few episodes are coming very soon. We’ve got conversations in the pipeline with Glen Phillips (Toad the Wet Sprocket), Drew Holcomb, Stephen Kellogg, Denison Witmer, Tokyo Police Club, Lowland Hum, and a host of others. I can tell you that these discussions are rich and filled with the sorts of struggles we all face. They’re powerful and personal. It’s the Resistance and we all face it. My honest prayer and hope with all of this work is that the power of a shared story does what I know it can do. I hope that at least one person listens to each episode and feels a little less alone, a bit more hopeful, a tad more motivated to move forward and bridge that gap between the life we live and the unlived life within us. Right now it feels like one of those dreams where you go to school in your underwear. Vulnerable. Afraid. Exposed. I’m pretty sure that means I’m in the right place. Listen to The Resistance Series Trailer below. Visit The Resistance Website to learn more about Matt Conner’s exciting new project. The Resistance will be hosted on the Rabbit Room Podcast Network. Keep your eye out for it!

Click through for this week’s edition of Jonny Jimison’s Rabbit Trails. Click here to check out more of Jonny Jimison’s work at his website.

Click through for this week’s edition of Jonny Jimison’s Rabbit Trails. Click here to check out more of Jonny Jimison’s work at his website.

Click through for this week’s edition of Jonny Jimison’s  Rabbit Trails. Click here to check out more of Jonny Jimison’s work at his website.

Click through for this week’s edition of Jonny Jimison’s Rabbit Trails, featuring original poetry by Lisa Eldred. Click here to check out more of Jonny Jimison’s work at his website.

Click through for this week’s edition of Jonny Jimison’s Rabbit Trails, featuring original poetry by Lisa Eldred. Click here to check out more of Jonny Jimison’s work at his website.

Click through for this week’s edition of Jonny Jimison’s Rabbit Trails. Click here to check out more of Jonny Jimison’s work at his website.

Click through for this week’s edition of Jonny Jimison’s Rabbit Trails. Click here to check out more of Jonny Jimison’s work at his website.

When I was a child, it was so much easier to answer if a grown-up asked, “What do you want for Christmas?” I’m old enough to remember when there was no event like getting the Sears Wish Book in the mail and spending hours poring through the pages, my sister and I circling our desires in the thin, glossy pages, staged photo shoots of broadly smiling children and the coveted toys of the moment. Growing up complicates things. If you believe the ad industry, a grown-up Christmas list is more likely to show off diamond rings, the latest smartphone, a Lexus with a giant red bow. But what if the things we want are mostly signposts aimed at our desires? Do we want the ring, or the rock-solid assurance that someone loves us? Do we want the phone, or something to signal how productive, competent, and needed we are? Do we want the car, or the status symbol, the independence to go anywhere? Do we want the things, or do we want to fill up some lack, to find something wrong in our lives and make it right? It feels a little cliche to say that the things we want most can’t be wrapped up and left under the tree, and yet the older I get, the more true it feels. Imagine me, asking you, “Seriously…what do you want for Christmas?” For a loved one with depression to feel joy again? For the cancer diagnosis to be reversed? A guarantee that you’ll make the rent this month, or scrape together enough money and time off to go home, or just to look at the news one day without feeling hopeless, to end one old year with the satisfaction that it was, indeed, for the whole world, a good year? No more let sins and sorrows grow Nor thorns infest the ground Take heart, because the memory of Paradise sustains us, and the hope for renewal leads the way from winter's bitter sting to spring's gentle rain. The reversal has begun, and with heaven and nature we can sing. Jen Yokel Here we are, at the end of Advent. We have spent the last four weeks gathering our hope, lighting a new candle each Sunday, singing in the face of the longest nights of the year. We celebrate this season of remembering every year, because even though the Christ child came—yes, he came, in a fragile body like ours to show us what God is like, and that is no small miracle—even for all the things Jesus has made right, we are still well aware that we’re living in the wait. Every year, I find myself resonating more and more with the sometimes forgotten third verse of “Joy to the World.” I suppose thoughts of sorrow, thorns, and curses don’t exactly drum up holiday cheer, but something in me resonates when I hear those words. They capture the soul of Advent, the waiting, the intense anticipation for reversal. They hint at a story too good to be true. Jesus has come to make many things right. I believe he did. I believe he still is and that we’re invited to be part of it. But in another Advent season, the wait can be so hard sometimes. He comes to make his blessings flow Far as the curse is found Far as the curse is found. Maybe farther. Hope, renewal, joy, flooding across the nearly-dead earth to drown the weeds. Sometimes, I can almost feel it. The first great curse is that we toil, surviving by sweat and tears and waging battle against thorns and drought and disease. Of course the beauty is there, but our joys and sustenance are tempered by futility, the sense that we can never do enough, or be enough, or win. But take heart, because the memory of Paradise sustains us, and the hope for renewal leads the way from winter’s bitter sting to spring’s gentle rain. The reversal has begun, and with heaven and nature we can sing. Joy to the weary, broken, beautiful world.

On this Christmas Day of 2018, Jonny Jimison presents Rabbit Trails: Holiday Edition, Volume 2. Click through for some high-quality Christmas shenanigans. Click here to check out more of Jonny Jimison’s work at his website.

Jonny Jimison presents Rabbit Trails: Holiday Edition, Volume 1. Click through for some high-quality Christmas shenanigans. Click here to check out more of Jonny Jimison’s work at his website.

We have just the thing to pep you up this Monday morning. It’s a new music video from Slugs & Bugs telling the story of the fifth chapter of John’s gospel. It features Propaganda and a bunch of talented, energetic children from Nashville’s New Hope Academy, St. Paul Christian Academy, and Granbery Elementary. Click through to behold the goodness for yourself. We have some more news for you, too. Today only, the Under Where? CD will be 30% off on the Slugs & Bugs website. This sale will end tonight at midnight. Also, beginning today, Sing the Bible, Vol. 3 is 20% off on the Slugs & Bugs website. For each of the links above, your discount will automatically appear on the checkout page. In addition, all domestic orders over $35 receive free shipping. So get up and get yourself some Slugs & Bugs! Disclaimer: These Slugs & Bugs sales are not happening at the Rabbit Room Store. They are exclusive to the Slugs & Bugs web store. If your discount does not appear automatically at checkout, then type in the code “mexicanrhapsody” for the Under Where? CD and “getup” for Sing the Bible Vol. 3. Video produced and directed by Allan Spiers Choir Direction by Harmonie Reddick

The fifth episode of our new podcast, The Second Muse is now available for listening. In this episode, Drew Miller is joined by his bandmate Janie Townsend and engineer Evan Redwine to discuss the making of The Orchardist’s album People, People—specifically the song “Drink It Down.” Janie and Drew are both founding members and leading songwriters of The Orchardist, whose folk songs are often dressed up in playful chamber arrangements inspired by artists like The Punch Brothers and Sufjan Stevens. Evan is a gifted engineer who excels in finding the very best sounds possible (and will stop at nothing to get them) and gives the song exactly what it needs even when his own opinion is at stake. Former understudy of Shane Wilson and Andrew Osenga, Evan brings unmatched energy and passion to every day in the studio. If you’re new to The Second Muse, here’s the podcast in a nutshell: the title is taken from a Wendell Berry quote in which he references two distinct muses—the Muse of Inspiration, “who gives us inarticulate visions and desires,” and the Muse of Realization, “who returns again and again to say, ‘It is yet more difficult than you thought.'” It is this second Muse of Realization with which we concern ourselves in The Second Muse, specifically in the context of songwriting and record producing. In each episode, Drew interviews a different artist along with their producer about a song that gave them a great deal of trouble, whether in the writing or recording process or both. The song is then explored from the inside out, breaking down the components of the mix and how each element works towards making the song effective as a whole. You can listen to this newest episode of The Second Muse here. Check out The Second Muse on Apple Podcasts here. And click here to visit the Rabbit Room Podcast Network.

A few weeks ago, we asked a handful of our blog contributors and artists in our community to pass along a song that captures the spirit of Advent for them, but in a somewhat unconventional way. The result is The Rabbit Room’s very first Spotify playlist on our brand-new Spotify account—we hope it can provide a useful, imaginative entry point into the remaining days of Advent. Click through to see the choices made by various members of our community, along with their reasons for choosing as they did. Click here to listen to our Advent playlist on Spotify. “I Heard The Bells” by Beta Radio Then in despair I hung my head There is no peace on earth I said For hate is strong and marks the song Of ‘peace on earth, goodwill to men That’s the world we live in today, that’s the world Longfellow wrote his poem in during the Civil War, and that’s the world God’s people waited in at the time of Jesus’ birth. —Chris Yokel “The Trumpet Child” by Over The Rhine Not only is the song an epic about advent and the coming of the Kingdom, but it likens the work of the New Creation to jazz. That’s just awesome. —Pete Peterson “All My Days” by Alexi Murdoch Music and lyrics that give voice to the ache of unfulfilled longing while declaring, as if certain from the start, that the conclusion is worth the wait. —Janie Townsend “River” by Joni Mitchell I relate to the struggle and tension between the cheerfulness of the holiday season and the brokenness of the world and our own hearts. —Hetty White “Everything” by Taylor Leonhardt This song reminds me that time and change are not just great thieves of life, waiting to steal the seasons we love out from under us. Time and change allow us to receive the great gifts of God, even the gift of Himself. —Kelsey Miller “December Days” by Ellery To me, this is Andrew’s Light for the Lost Boy album as sung by the Ghost of Christmas Past. —Jonny Jimison “I Will Find A Way” by Jason Gray & Andy Gullahorn This song reminds me that God doesn’t kick down the doors of my heart or worm his way in through the cracks; He does not deceive or violate, but He finds a way in all the same. —Helena Sorensen “Ravens” by Mount Eerie “Ravens,” the third track on Phil Elverum’s album about the loss of his wife to cancer, provides a desperately honest reminder of the depth of our need and Jesus’ willingness—even eagerness—to descend to those depths to be with us. —Andrew Russell “Sigur 3 (Untitled)” by Sigur Rós The slow build of this instrumental piece encapsulates the feeling of hopeful waiting and yearning for a new beginning. Even as the song crescendos to its climax, it remains gentle: a beautiful picture of the advent of our hope—inspiring Savior as a gentle baby. —Chris Thiessen “Justice Delivers Its Death” by Sufjan Stevens Stevens turns the original Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer song “Silver and Gold” into a song of lament for the commercialization of Christmas and longing for the return of Christ. While he has only added a few new lines, the original lyrics betray themselves when set to a new mournful melody. —Chris Slaten “She Waits” by The Gray Havens This song puts words to the longing, lament, and centuries of holding out hope for God to remember His covenant. —Rob Wheeler “33 GOD” by Bon Iver You don’t comprehend Bon Iver songs with your logical brain, and I have no idea what it’s actually about. But somehow this makes me feel the ache for rescue, the beautiful chaos of waiting, and the spirit of the first dark nights of Advent. (Notice the Psalmist’s cry at the end: “Why are you so far from saving me?”) —Jen Yokel “Hourglass” by Sandra McCracken This song hits several major Advent themes: briskness and urgency (“running on the hillside” in the song’s first line), the sting of longing, and the beatific vision of every good thing restored. —David Mitchel “That Was The Worst Christmas Ever!” by Sufjan Stevens I would not say this is the song that most captures the spirit of Advent to me, but in many ways it symbolizes waiting and being in liminal space. I love the haunting vocals and the juxtaposition between the sad reality for this family at Christmas time and the line, “In time the Lord will rise.” I am always drawn to music that holds the light against the dark. —Jill Phillips “Bristlecone” by The New Empires The bristlecone pine is one of the oldest species of trees still living on the earth. This song enters into the imagined memory of this tree, supposing that it watched all the major developments of the human story. I love that with all this tree has seen, it somehow manages to conclude, “I’ve seen proof that all is not lost.” —Drew Miller Click here to listen to our Advent playlist on Spotify. Have any songs jumped to your mind as you’ve read? Please share in the comments!

Click through for this week’s edition of Jonny Jimison’s Rabbit Trails. Click here to check out more of Jonny Jimison’s work at his website.

Click through for this week’s edition of Jonny Jimison’s Rabbit Trails. Click here to check out more of Jonny Jimison’s work at his website.

In our last episode, we heard Andrew Peterson talk about his love of ghost stories, and today one of my favorite people leads us a little further down that rabbit hole. Long-time Rabbit Room contributor Lanier Ivester is a deep wellspring of talent, insight, wisdom, and grace. She’s an author, a poet, an essayist, a bookbinder, a sailor, a keeper of bees and sheep, and, as you’ll hear, a lifelong chaser of the delightful shiver a great ghost story offers us. So, as a coda to the season of Halloween, we present to you “The Delightful Shiver: Part 2.” Listen at your own risk. Click here to listen to The Delightful Shiver: Part 2. Check out the Hutchmoot Podcast on Apple Podcasts by clicking here. And explore the Rabbit Room Podcast Network here.

Racial diversity is important to me, not only as a member of the body of Christ but also as a mother through adoption, for I have been given the incredible privilege of raising five beautiful children of color. All of them different. All of them fellow members of the Church. Yet, for my family, finding a church (or even a ministry) that represented us, all of us, has proven to be difficult for too many years. I longed for community as it will be in eternity. At Hutchmoot, the atmosphere was blessedly different than anything I have ever experienced. There, I experienced community in its richest form. I relished the conversations I had with fellow believers from all over the nation and world. I watched my thirteen year-old daughter, who had come along for the weekend, find a place where she truly fit in. I saw her become comfortable in her own skin and blossom as the hours passed and she was able to be, fully, who she was created to be in every way: artist, poet, musician, dancer, and daughter of the King. She belonged. We belonged. It was after a conversation with Andrew Peterson that my wheels really began turning. We discussed the diversity we saw in the sanctuary that day and the sincere desire of the Rabbit Room to be known as a place of welcome for God’s children of every race. They are actively seeking to learn and grow in this very important area, but we all know change like this is usually slow and often painful. A few months ago, my family made the difficult decision to leave our old church out of a deep need to give our children godly role models who looked like them, could understand the things we cannot (no matter how much we try), and teach them how to live their lives well as black and biracial children of God. As much as we loved that church family they simply could not provide that for our children. About two weeks after Hutchmoot, I joined a women’s Bible study at our new (and wonderfully diverse) church. The night of the first session I walked into a room of twelve women and I was the only white one. The last time I had experienced that was when I traveled to Ethiopia to adopt my youngest daughter. My heart leapt to my throat, partly in excitement but also in trepidation. What would these women think about me, the only white woman in the room? Would they question why I am here? Would I say something stupid? I was nervous but knew I needed to be right where I was and, most importantly, that I needed to be quiet and listen. Just listen. By the end of the hour I knew that I was indelibly drawn to each of these women. They looked at me with love and acceptance and, for the first time, I realized just how courageous the attendees of Hutchmoot, those who stood out in the room because they were “the diversity,” really are. I returned to the Bible study the next week, looking at the now familiar faces with affection and feeling so grateful for the privilege of sitting among these beautiful women of God. I went home that night and began to write, a poem flying from my fingertips and ideas swirling through my mind. A few days later I began to search the Rabbit Room blog to see what had been written about race within this community I have grown to love. I searched the word: “race.” My screen filled with articles about grace. Together, we are a coat of many colors gracing the broad shoulders of Jesus. Jeanine Joyner My spirit sang with joy because that is exactly what God was teaching me. When we step into a room filled with people from every nation, tribe, and tongue, we learn to live and experience grace in a way that we never could have in a homogeneous group. Because of my children, I have spent nearly two decades seeking and learning for them, to better understand and teach them. But now, more than ever, I see that God wants me to learn the grace of race not just for them, but also for me. In grace we find unity. In grace we find peace. In grace we belong and love well without offense or tension putting bricks in a wall. The Rabbit Room is becoming a more full picture of the community of God because of the brave, beautiful souls who stepped into that church on October 4th and contributed their gifts so freely and beautifully. I, for one, am grateful and thrilled to be part of a community that truly reflects the creative heart of God. We need one another. All of us are vital to the Kingdom work to which God has called each individual. Together, we are a coat of many colors gracing the broad shoulders of Jesus. This poem is the outpouring of my heart. It is with deep gratitude to my courageous brothers and sisters that I share it with you. From the White Woman in the Room You have no idea how much I needed you, how much I needed to be surrounded by the gaze of your dark brown eyes and to hear the rhythmic cadence of your voices as you read the Word of God with such care and grace. You savored each word, inhaling and letting the revelations drive deep into your soul and mine. Head back, eyes closed as your smile lit up the room with joy. The way you looked at me, this woman whose voice speaks of a different experience, a culture removed for too long from yours. The tightness of the hugs you gave me when I tried to express just how much I needed…this. This room full of aged wisdom and youthful dreams. This circle of determination and strength that refuses to bend under the weight of the world’s angry words and the brokenness that threatens us all. That threatens the Bride. Me, this sponge soaking in the faith you share. This mama who tried to find diversity in community but only scratched the surface. God gave me one friend like you, then three, then five but still not enough. Not enough for the pieces of my heart who needed to be immersed in the waters of a culture I cannot give them. You, beautiful ones, offer rich life. You, with your bright smiles and knowing nods, who love without judgment and embrace without walls, you take us in and love us hard and I sit in awe. Me, this sponge soaking in the wisdom you so freely give. You have no idea how much I needed you. Click here to read more of Jeanine’s writing at her website.

Click through for this week’s edition of Jonny Jimison’s Rabbit Trails. Click here to check out more of Jonny Jimison’s work at his website.

In case Jonny Jimison’s last edition of Rabbit Trails didn’t quite get the point across, click through for its sequel. Click here to check out more of Jonny Jimison’s work at his website.

Good news: Jess Ray is releasing a new album called Parallels & Meridians, and she began with its first single last week. I had the opportunity to talk with her about this record a couple months ago, and I was deeply compelled by the idea behind it—songs that represent lines of communication both horizontal and vertical, between fellow humans and between humanity and God. If you are familiar with her previous record, Sentimental Creatures, you know that Jess excels at writing songs of vertical communication with God. But the idea of bringing those two trajectories together and witnessing their points of intersection, just like on a globe—that’s something worth geeking out about. And that’s just what we did in the interview below. Read on to watch her perform her first single and learn about how she understands the intertwining of songwriting, community, faith, and the safe haven of the recording studio. Drew: How did you get into songwriting, music, and then pursuing it as a career? Jess: Well my dad plays guitar and sings, so in middle school I started learning guitar from him. When he first played “Blackbird” by the Beatles, I knew I had to learn how to play acoustic guitar. I would have him play different chords and I’d write down charts for myself to reference. I probably could have saved myself some trouble by reading a book or something, but I had my own system! So I was inspired by him to play guitar, and then I started writing a lot of bad songs. I played a lot of events and was given a lot of good opportunities as a beginner. That’s always what has gotten me to where I am: people pouring into me and supporting me. I continued on that path during college and discovered that I love recording—I feel like I’m addicted to it. So that became a big interest for me as well, just shaping songs into their final form in a studio. The funny thing is that I’ve always wanted to be a professional musician, but it’s only been the last three years or so that I could actually call myself that. It just took that much work on the front end—a good ten years or so—to get to a place where I could really start to see that happen. Drew: So tell me about this time before it became a profession, before the last three years or so. Jess: One of the biggest questions I’ve been asking myself over the years is what does it even look like to make music for a living these days? You have more control than ever. But in other ways, I can’t make a ton of money from CDs or from selling actual music. Yet at the same time, I can reach people who care about exactly the type of music I’m making without a label doing it for me. So there’s more accessibility than ever but it’s an entirely different game, as well. Drew: That’s been the story for several years now, but it feels like every year the content of that story changes so rapidly that the only constant is how much everything is changing. Like, do people even download music anymore? Jess: Yeah! That change was super recent, wasn’t it? It’s shifting all the time. At a certain point, you just have to decide what you’ll get on board with and stick to it. Drew: If you’re addicted to the process of recording, what do you love most about it? Jess: Seeing a song go from its rawest form to its full potential. When I hear someone play a song on acoustic guitar, I love imagining where it can go. And I’m an introverted person, so I’ve learned to make the most out of playing live, but at first I just hated it! I felt so uncomfortable on stage. I’d do okay singing, but speaking behind a microphone has always been weird to me. That’s still the hardest part. So studio time contrasted sharply with playing out, especially earlier on. The studio meant collaboration with others and working towards an end, but not in a live setting. I play a good amount of instruments in a very mediocre way, so I don’t want to perform live on drums or trumpet or something! But I know enough about these instruments that I can enjoy using them to shape songs in the studio. Drew: Is the studio more of a safe place to be curious about sounds? You’re not performing—you’re exploring what you can get out of various instruments. Jess: That’s exactly it. And on this new record I’ve allowed myself to collaborate even more—even if a song isn’t becoming what I thought it would be, I’m trying to let myself go down those unknown roads, trusting my friends and their ideas. Not taking my own ideas too seriously, being more open. Drew: That’s a huge, vulnerable thing to do. Jess: In some of my earlier projects, I didn’t know what I wanted my songs to sound like and I didn’t understand what the producer had in mind, either. I wouldn’t be able to define those things, and the result was that I was often unhappy with the outcome. But the more I know the sounds my friends make and the sounds I’m meant to make, I can loosen up and be less controlling of the music. For me it’s all about being in a safe place with people I can trust and daring to walk down paths I wouldn’t have dared walk down before. Drew: Was Sentimental Creatures your first full length experience of collaboration with others and molding songs into finished recordings? I have made what I feel to be the best music I've ever made, and the truest to who I am, in the past few years. And that has happened in conjunction with having the most community surrounding me. Jess Ray Jess: Yes. And when I showed up with the demos for that record, the guys producing it with me told me we just needed to replicate the demos. I had already added lots of percussion, trumpet, layers of synth, and such, so they sounded like lo-fi versions of finished recordings. So between our low budget and the work I had already put in, it ended up being me and my producer friend Jacob Early tag teaming to bring those demos to life. I would hop around instruments and lay down tracks, and he had faith in my ideas. I shared the role of producer with him and realized that I really loved it. That’s what Sentimental Creatures was. And I made it three years ago—there’s plenty I would go back and change if I could. But the most important thing is that it’s the first project I’ve ever done where I can go back and listen and say, “that sounds like me.” Drew: So you’re producing Parallels & Meridians as well, with Jacob Early? Jess: Yes. In these past three years I’ve become more and more capable of recording by myself, accumulated more recording gear and everything, but I’m so glad I didn’t decide to do that. The checks and balances of teamwork, even the friction of it, is so important. I’m super glad that I got Jacob in on this one. We met together in a studio in Nashville called the Art House. And this was the first time I ever tried to make an album in a set amount of days—we were there for ten days and got about three quarters of it finished in that time. Drew: So tell me about the idea of Parallels & Meridians. Jess: It dawned on me that a lot of the songs, even more than previous projects I’d done, were me talking to other people in my life. Like horizontal lines. But about half the songs were more like Sentimental Creatures, too—dialogues with God. So Parallels & Meridians is a succinct way of summing up those two directions of communication. We’re still digging into all the ways to explain that, but even as I’ve thought about it so far, I’ve been amazed at how much it comes down to the first and second commandments to love God and love your neighbor as yourself. When those two intersect, it forms a cross. The way Jesus is this perfect point between humanity and God, this intersection of horizontal and vertical—there’s so much there. Drew: That’s such a rich framework. It feels like the kind of thing that’s going to keep giving you more iterations of itself. So are there any instances of convergence on the record, where the horizontal and vertical lines come together in one song? Jess: There are a couple songs where people might think I’m singing to my husband, but I actually wrote them addressed to Jesus. I think that ambiguity can be valuable and I’d love for people to interpret the songs however they fit their story. With my writing, it’s often surprising that I’m talking about God—it usually sounds very intimate. At certain times I’ve been worried about how deeply intimate my music sounds, but you know, when it comes to relating to our Creator, is any language really to be reserved only for human relationships? I don’t think any language can be too strong to sing to God. Drew: It’s cool how Jesus being a person allows a conversation with him to be both horizontal and vertical. It’s tempting to categorize God and people cleanly apart—that’s all we’ve ever wanted to do as humans—and the name Parallels & Meridians in some ways sets you up to think those two avenues of connection can be completely distinct. But then— Jess: Psych! Drew: Yeah! They’re totally interwoven. No way to separate them. So one more question, and this is sort of the Rabbit Room question: the whole idea that art and community nourish one another, that they exist within the context of each other—I’d love to hear anything you have to say about how you’ve experienced that to be true. How have you seen those two relate? Jess: I have made what I feel to be the best music I’ve ever made, and the truest to who I am, in the past few years. And that has happened in conjunction with having the most community surrounding me. It doesn’t take dozens and dozens of people, either—five years ago I felt completely alone in Raleigh as an artist. But then I met Christa Wells, and she put me in touch with Taylor Leonhardt. Those two changed that whole story for me. I’ve gone from watching Taylor play open mic nights and thinking, “she’s got such a great voice and some great songs,” to hearing new songs she’s written and being completely blown away and overwhelmed at the depth of what she has to say. It’s not that there are that many of us in Raleigh doing this, but the key is that we’ve become friends who share with one another. And that has become a real focus for us in Raleigh. There wasn’t really anything like that, but now we are that thing! So we get the honor of asking, what can we do to welcome others into this? You can learn more about Jess Ray at her website by clicking here. And be sure to follow her on Facebook, Instagram, and Spotify.

Chances are, if you’ve been hanging around the blog, you’ve seen something about our new Podcast Network. Needless to say, we’re elated about this new avenue for sharing meaningful conversations—this network will be home to several promising podcasts, including The Artist’s Creed (bringing creativity into dialogue with the Apostles’ Creed), a best-of past Hutchmoot sessions compiled into Hutchmoot: The Podcast, and even The Membership, a podcast centering around the work of Wendell Berry (oh yes we did). Well, one of our new podcasts, led by Drew Miller, is called The Second Muse: How Songs Become Songs, and a new episode has released today. The title of this podcast is taken from a Wendell Berry quote in which he references two distinct muses: the Muse of Inspiration, “who gives us inarticulate visions and desires,” and the Muse of Realization, “who returns again and again to say, ‘It is yet more difficult than you thought.'” It is this second Muse of Realization with which we concern ourselves in The Second Muse, specifically in the context of songwriting and record producing. In each episode, Drew interviews a different artist along with their producer about a song that gave them a great deal of trouble, whether in the writing or recording process. Episode One featured Andrew Peterson and Ben Shive discussing Andrew’s song “Maybe Next Year”—in this newest episode we get to know another formidable artist-producer duo: Jordy Searcy and Lucas Morton. Jordy Searcy has graced us with his presence at two Local Shows here in Nashville, and in no uncertain terms, he brought the house down both times. He is an artist who seems to have it all: an outstanding voice (both literally and as an artist and writer), sharp lyrical wit, silky smooth guitar riffs, and the sort of stage presence that compels all within earshot to listen. His EP Dark In The City, thanks to the gentle and seemingly infallible musical intuition of producer and friend Lucas Morton, embodies Jordy’s punchy style with an ease and joy that is evident from the recordings. This summer, Jordy and Lucas sat down with Drew to discuss the song that most quickly hushes any crowd: “Explaining Jesus.” Jordy reflected on the role spirituality has played in songwriting, Lucas described the way that their choice to record to tape influenced the final track, and all three discussed the instrumental components of the track, soloing various elements and commenting on them along the way. You can listen to Episode Two of The Second Muse here. Episode One with Andrew Peterson and Ben Shive is available here. Check out The Second Muse on Apple Podcasts here. And click here to visit the Rabbit Room Podcast Network.

[Editor’s note: This year at Hutchmoot, John Cal not only fed us with delicious food; he nourished us with beautiful stories, providing context for each meal and what it meant to him. What follows is the first of his speeches, given a week ago today—we will be posting the others, one by one, over the next couple weeks. Enjoy.] I had been to New York three whole times, but this was my father’s first time, and he was clearly out of place. He was afraid, from the first second he stepped off the plane, to ride the subway, to get in a cab. The streets were too crowded for him as we walked down 5th Avenue. He worried about pickpockets and street performers and people dressed as hot dogs handing out pamphlets. Meals were hardest. At restaurants, he tried to get me to order for him—a request for help which, in my snobbery, I refused. So he eventually just started saying, “I’d like a steak,” when the server would come to take his order. No glance at the menu, which posed its own sort of problem. “Well done,” he’d say, hoping there weren’t any follow up questions. “I want it gray and burnt,” he’d sometimes add. I was so annoyed with how uncool my father was. At the time, I was living in a cabin and working at a youth camp deep in the middle of the Deschutes National Forest. Besides a few others who also lived on campus, the nearest human beings were twenty or more miles away, so in my twenties I had gotten in the habit of going to New York once a year as a respite from the solitude and loneliness of the woods; a place to remember who I was, that I grew up in a high rise, that I thought myself a city kid, to feel sidewalk beneath my feet, to revel in the smell of metal, and gyros, the sound of high heels on pavement, the pulse of the S Train beneath my feet. But while New York was a comfort for me, a reminder of who I was (or who I wanted to be), for dad it was all new, and different enough that the peculiarities are what stuck out compared to his life in Hawaii. For my father it was an adventure—new, unbridled, and yes, sometimes scary. So he ordered steak, over and over, maybe half a dozen times over the week we were in Manhattan. On our second to last night in the city, I reserved a table at Les Halles, an easygoing French bistro on Park and 14th, which was, oddly enough, known for their steaks. But shortly after we were seated, in classic New York fashion, tiny tables and elbows just barely grazing the people sitting next to you, my father was confronted with a plate of food. His eyes perked and his head turned as it followed the scent across the dining room. “What is that?” he asked in wonder, the order going to a party a few tables down from us, but still in eyeshot. Somehow, so often, it begins with a meal—the Civil Rights Movement, a year at Hogwarts, Jesus's first miracle; a little sustenance to make us brave, something delicious to fuel us for the challenge ahead, something comforting to remind us that we are surrounded by friends. John Cal It was cassoulet, braised pork and chicken, stewed for hours with tarbais beans and tomatoes. Cassoulet in French refers to the deep earthenware vessel in which the dish is cooked. Cassoulet, a casserole, comfort food from across the sea, was for my father pure risk, pure adventure. It is a meal for the comforts of a languid Sunday afternoon, a cold January evening, a gathering, a coming home. But also adventure: chicken or goose or duck confited with bacon or mutton or sausages from Toulouse, lingot, haricot blanc, herb de Provence—flavors and ingredients that don’t often frequent our tables. We skirt this line at Hutchmoot: comfort and adventure. You each come to the table with something different, a different hope, a different expectation, but we all chose this: to come here, to be together. But in the end, my father didn’t choose to order it. In mid-September 1960, four college students, three black and one white, sat down at a segregated whites-only lunch counter in Louisiana. The week before, over bowls of gumbo, they planned their protest. “Gumbo makes people braver,” said chef Leah Chase of what came to be known as the CORE 4. “It satisfies the soul and gets you talking.” Their challenge to social convention was to enjoy a meal together at McCrory’s on Canal Street in New Orleans, but in their defiant act of friendship they were charged and convicted of criminal mischief in a case that would eventually go all the way to the Supreme Court. “All I wanted to do was have coffee with my friends,” said Sydney Goldfinch, one of the four arrested in what is noted as a key moment in the fight against segregation. Somehow, so often, it begins with a meal—the Civil Rights Movement, a year at Hogwarts, Jesus’s first miracle; a little sustenance to make us brave, something delicious to fuel us for the challenge ahead, something comforting to remind us that we are surrounded by friends. And how privileged we are, to be able to sit at this lunch counter together, to sup and be satisfied, to not only see that the Lord is good, but to, as the Psalmist writes, taste that He is good as well. But I was too busy being pretentious to enjoy the company, to revel in the togetherness with my father. I inadvertently chose segregation instead. “Cass- Cass- Cassoulet?” he said as the waiter took our order. “Excellent choice, sir,” the waiter replied, dressed in a pressed white shirt and pin-striped waist apron. “Cote du beouf, bernaise—on the side, frites, and frisee salad for me,” I said—my usual order at Les Halles when I was in my twenties and the annoyance of my pretension was at its peak. Then as the waiter began walking away, my father called out, “Does that come with rice?” Rice. Medium grain calrose rice, granularily speaking. We have it so often in Hawaii, with nearly every meal. With scrambled eggs, and spam, and teriyaki chicken, yes, of course, but I’ve also seen it just as easily come alongside pancakes, or spaghetti. “Uh, no sir. It doesn’t come with rice,” the waiter replied, confused at the request. “Would you like a side of rice pilaf?” It was a nice gesture, but it wasn’t the same, and in the confusion and panic, my father called out, “Steak. Never mind, I’ll just have a steak, well-done. Gray and burnt,” he added. Now, years later, I wish I had helped. Les Halles was Anthony Bourdain’s restaurant. In his book Kitchen Confidential he wrote: “For a moment, or a second, the pinched expressions of the cynical, world-weary, throat-cutting, miserable bastards we’ve all had to become disappears, when we’re confronted with something as simple as a plate of food.” So let us begin Hutchmoot with a meal, one to make us brave, one that connects us to the grand continuum of one another. Cassoulet, for my father: braised chicken and pork from the South of France—a taste of home from across the sea, comforting and adventurous, full of possibility and risk. Comfort or adventure; choose what you will. Either will do. I hope that this meal reminds you to help one another navigate all that’s ahead. I hope that as we sup together these next few days, as we are confronted with something as simple as plates of food, that you find yourself in awe of the many tastes of our great and mysterious Lord. I hope that however you came, whoever you are, whatever the reason you are here, even if, heaven forbid, you’re a bratty twenty-three year-old desperately pretending to be a New Yorker, you are able to, if only for a moment, or a second, remember that you are loved and welcomed; that as you drink from the well, your thirst will be satisfied.

Since the inception of the Rabbit Room community, we’ve believed that real relationship requires more than merely an online exchange of ideas. The last decade of creative work has taught us that an exchange of ideas needs to be accompanied by shared laughter, by the satisfaction of a shared meal, by the joy of friendship. We’ve realized the power of bringing big ideas into three-dimensional space inhabited by flesh and blood people. In other words, we believe in the importance of place. To that end, we’ve dreamed of the day when the Rabbit Room would be embodied in a physical space of its own, moving these hopes from theory into practice. And now we have that opportunity. Imagine, just south of Nashville—a city brimming with authors and artists and musicians—a beautiful farmhouse on four acres. There’s a group of writers meeting every Tuesday. On Thursday nights there’s an intimate concert. On Wednesday evenings there’s a Bible study with a potluck dinner. When theologians or authors pass through town there are symposiums and lectures, open to the community. Some days people drop in to browse the library and sit on the porch. It’s close enough to Nashville to be part of the community, but just far enough away to provide a real sense of peace. From an operational standpoint, the Rabbit Room is bursting at the seams. With more than thirty books published by Rabbit Room Press, we need storage and a shipping office. With the Local Show and Hutchmoot and the Podcast Network and all the other spokes on the wheel, we need office space for staff and room for growth. After researching the area, the board determined that renovating North Wind Manor, a 130-year-old farmhouse, was the best and most financially responsible way to accomplish all these goals. The house has been our base of operations for three years now, but after dealing with plumbing disasters, leaks in the roof, an utter lack of insulation (you can actually see your breath in the winter), and an insurmountable list of repairs, the board determined that the only way to make it work was a deep renovation. When we’re finished, the house will not only be a tremendous help from an operational standpoint (saving money on storage and leasing office space); it will help us fulfill our mission to foster spiritual formation and Christ-centered community by hosting an array of events and providing hospitality. We interviewed several contractors and landed on Israel Holladay, a Christian with a passion for the Rabbit Room’s ministry. Because the Rabbit Room is a 501(c)(3) nonprofit ministry, your contribution to the renovation of North Wind Manor is tax deductible—and not only that, a very generous anonymous donor has offered a matching grant of $160,000! That means every dollar is doubled until we reach $320,000. The Lord has led us to this place. We’re ready to get to work. We’re ready to open the doors and be a blessing to the community. We hope you’ll consider helping us build something that will last, something that will serve the Kingdom for years and years to come. Click here to contribute to the renovation of North Wind Manor.

Let us now collectively exhale. If you’ve taken three or four spontaneous naps since this weekend, please know you’re not alone. I write from North Wind Manor after our weekly staff meeting—I believe all our eyelids are a little heavier than they were a week ago, but our hearts are full to overflowing. The Gray Havens shared some delightful brand new songs with us, one of which involved us finding out that Dave Radford can shred the trumpet. We joined in celebration of our beloved Ben Shive, who was awarded the first ever Resonator Award. Andrew Peterson led us in singing of Christ’s resurrection. The Tokens Show taught us about the sacraments and their role in daily life. John Cal blew our minds repeatedly, both with his delicious food and his profound stories. Andy Crouch delivered a stirring call for artists to forgive and love the church. Dave Trout introduced us to amazing new music (he’s very good at that!). Stephen Trafton truly brought Paul’s letter to the Ephesians to life, reciting it not only from memory, but from the deepest resonances of his heart. I love to pay attention to themes that arise of their own accord, from sessions and songs and stories. This year I picked up a lot of discussion around “immortality projects” and the ways that we humans try to outlive ourselves and make our marks on the world—bringing these coping mechanisms to light in dialogue with the gospel and what it has to say about death. Did you pick up on that as well? What else did you pick up on? Now is the time to share your stories. There are already several blog posts about this year’s Hutchmoot going around Facebook—please link to them here in the comments! We would love to hear from you about your experience of this weekend, what made an impact, and where you sensed renewal of life throughout our time together. So comment away, and thank you to everyone who came and who prayed for those who came. It was such a gift to be with you. Photo by Mark Geil