“If you want to be a writer, be a reader.” This may be the most commonly-offered writing advice of all. And it’s good advice as far as it goes. But encouraging writers to read has always felt to me like encouraging teenage boys to eat three meals a day and maybe a couple of snacks. People who want to write tend to be people who are already reading. I think. Right? So if you want to write and you don’t already read voraciously, you should probably start. But for me—and, I suspect, for many of you—the big question isn’t How do I read more? The bigger question is How do I stop reading and start writing? Or, to put it another way, How do I flip the switch from consuming to producing? One challenge you face as a writer is the fact that you can justify almost anything as part of the writing process. Reading is an important part of the writing process. Staring out the window can be part of the writing process. So can going for a walk. Or taking a nap. But, as you may have noticed, each of these activities is also an excellent method of procrastination. For a few years, I wrote in a home office that had a window communicating with the kitchen. As my wife was rounding up lunch for the kids or washing dishes or otherwise industriously tending to her business, she would often look through the window and see me staring off into space, in apparent idleness. This was not a recipe for marital bliss. But what was she going to say? Staring off into space is indeed a crucial part of the writing process. (On those occasions when I decided a midday nap was an important part of the writing process, I at least had the decency to nap in the corner of the office that my wife couldn’t see while she was washing dishes.) If your goal as a writer is to justify your habits of idleness, I have good news: you can justify almost anything as “part of the writing process.” You call it staring out the window? I call it ideation. You call it napping? I call it hitting the reset button. You call it googling obsessively? I call it research. You call it checking Facebook several times an hour? I call it…actually, even I can’t come up with a justification for that one. But if your goal as a writer is actually to write, you’ll find very little satisfaction in that kind of self-justification. You’ve got to flip the switch from consuming (and/or idling) to producing. That’s not always an easy thing to do. But I have a few thoughts on the subject. First, acknowledge that all of those habits—reading, taking a walk napping, staring out the window, googling the date that dynamite was invented—can indeed be “part of the process.” And while you’re at it, acknowledge that there is plenty of mystery in the process, and it’s hard to know whether a given instance of, say, out-the-window-staring, is helpful or mere procrastination. But now that you have acknowledged these mysteries, draw a clear distinction between “the process” and actually producing. Writing means getting words onto a page. If you aren’t doing that, you aren’t writing. It’s important that you have some time every day when you forget about everything else—including “the writing process”—and put words on a page. I find this very difficult, by the way. When I’m supposed to be writing, it’s hard to resist the temptation to read one more article for context, or do one more Google search to find out some important fact that seems very important at the moment. It’s part of the writing process, I say to myself. The correct response at this point (and I should admit that I don’t often give the correct response) is to say, Yes, that is indeed part of the writing process. When this allotted writing time is over, I may return to that part of the writing process. But the part of the writing process I’m working on right now is actually writing. I should also mention something that I’ve mentioned more than once in the last couple of weeks: in order to stay present in the act of writing—in order to keep the pen moving—you have to give yourself permission to write badly. To wrap up, I will pass along a method that I learned from my friend Doug McKelvey. (Doug is the author of Every Moment Holy, a book you must have…though they sell so fast that Rabbit Room Press is having a hard time keeping them in stock, so you may have to be patient). If you find yourself paralyzed by the self-imposed pressure to produce, try this: Turn off your Internet connection (I use a program called Self Control, which shuts off all Internet, email, etc. for a set amount of time). Silence your phone and put it out of reach. If you need coffee, fill up a large Yeti or something that will keep you from needing to get up for refills or warm-ups. Then sit down at your desk and say to yourself, “For the next hour I will not get out of this chair. I can write, or I can not write, it doesn’t matter. But I can’t do anything else.” If you write, great. If you don’t write, don’t beat yourself up about it. But you have to do it again the next day and the day after that. If you can stick with that commitment not to do anything besides writing during your writing time, I think you’ll find that you’d rather write than not write. You will have flipped the switch from consuming to producing. If you enjoyed this excellent advice from Jonathan Rogers, consider subscribing to his weekly letter, The Habit, to receive lots more.

This whole thing—and by that I mean all of creation, from the outermost galaxies to my kitchen table—swirls around a Jewish man from the first century. He was born of woman, was a refugee, was more or less homeless, and lived a relatively short life. But his presence on the planet all those years ago changed history, and I believe he was the incarnation of God himself. You can pick up Resurrection Letters: Volume I in the Rabbit Room Store and listen to “All Things Together” here:https://rabbitroom.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/05/09-All-Things-Together.mp3

Chances are, if you listen to much Christian music, you’ve come across Christa Wells’ songwriting without even knowing it. (She wrote Natalie Grant’s big hit “Held,” along with songs for Plumb and Ellie Holcomb.) But Christa has been quietly crafting her own singer/songwriter indie pop songs for years, even though she feels most at home behind the scenes. Recently I had a chance to interview Christa for CCM Magazine. We had a great conversation about community, making vulnerable art in the middle of personal struggles, and pushing against the “go big or go home” mindset. Some Advice to Young Songwriters: I would also say on a more philosophical level—because we all tend to be intimidated and think “I can’t do it as well as so-and-so, so why bother?”—remember that we all have a very unique voice. Not just singing or writing style, but your whole life history, your particular knowledge of language. You’re going to intersect with a specific group of people and have a sphere of influence that nobody else has. So, I push back vehemently against the “go big or go home” mentality where there’s one definition of success and a higher value placed on people with a bigger platform. That’s my soapbox for young artists: write what you write, say what you say, and don’t worry about what other people are doing. You just keep making the work and hope it matters to somebody, and find some joy in it along the way. You can read the full interview at CCM. Christa’s new EP Velveteen is out and it’s wonderful. Listen on Spotify, and learn more about her on her website.

God was always reminding the Israelites of the story they were dropped into at birth. The story that began long before they were born, before their people were even a people; the story that would continue long after any individual had reached the end of his or her life span. Old Testament scripture records those repeated remindings of identity, calling, and sacred responsibility, until those scriptures themselves became a perpetual reminder. The New Testament writers likewise spent significant ink to remind the universal community of believers of who we are in Christ, of where our hopes are anchored, and of where our own little lives and this bigger thing called history are going. Apparently, our true names and stories are things easy for us to forget, to lose track of, to walk away from. Perhaps the gift of encouragement mentioned by Paul in Romans 12 is a thing evidenced mostly as a penchant for reacquainting folks with that main narrative and with their true identity in light of it—a perspective that dramatically alters how we experience the potentially discouraging details of our existences. Sometimes the giving and receiving of that sort of encouragement happens naturally and spontaneously. But I would argue that, for most of us, it doesn’t happen frequently enough. It’s easy to let days fade into days while important things remain unsaid, sometimes until a loved one is on their deathbed and we suddenly feel the weight of that accumulated silence. One often hears at funerals words that might have encouraged the deceased had they been spoken days or years or decades earlier; words that might have named them and reminded them of their identity and place and purpose in the bigger story. So maybe we should be grateful (even if begrudgingly) for those special days and milestone events that force us to step up to the plate (or podium) and speak those necessary and life-giving words that we might otherwise never muster enough “gumption” (as we termed it back in East Texas) to articulate. My three daughters participated in a homeschool tutorial from sixth through twelfth grades. The tutorial families together organized annual graduation ceremonies for seniors. Much of it was what you’d expect from a graduation: the procession of scholars, the playing of “Pomp and Circumstance,” the tassels and gowns, the commencement speaker, etc. But the core of the ceremony was a bit unique. Each graduate’s parents would in turn leave their seats in the audience to ascend the stage steps and take the mic, while their child rose from their seat among the other graduating seniors and met their parents center stage. As they moved to their places a quick photo-montage-video of the student (typically stretching from newborn to present day) would play on the overhead screens. There’s something powerful about seeing a life compacted in that way. Maybe because you realize how much hope and hurt and love and heartbreak happened between those two momentous moments of birth and graduation. Or maybe it’s because you’re watching other human beings at the cresting of a fulcrum, blinking and looking back at a whole season of life that is now suddenly gone and over and irretrievable save as memory. Once the video ended, the guy running the sound board would switch on the mic and the parents would have 3 or 4 minutes to address their kid. Oh, and good luck controlling your emotions when you’re facing your own son or daughter in such a moment. In one way it was awkward, yes. Gloriously so. And with such a diversity of parents and styles of parenting you never knew what you were going to get. Over the years we even witnessed a couple of cringe-worthy moments. But most parents recognized the beauty of what that brief little window might be, and took it as an opportunity to speak things that mattered. Things that you don’t want your kid to march off into life never having heard because, well, there was just never an obvious moment to speak them. Things that you’ve gradually stored up in your heart as this human being has grown before your eyes from an infant to a near-adult. Beset by doubts, fears, insecurities and lies of dazzling variety, each of us desperately needs others to repeat back to us our truer names, to remind us of the bigger context we were born into, to bring us back again and again to that wondrous story and to locate us somewhere within it. Doug McKelvey In such moments there are a lot of laughs, a lot of tears, a lot of hugs. For most of the kids, it is clearly meaningful, and the awkwardness of it is actually part of what makes it endearing, even for those participating, because there’s an implicit understanding that the saying of some things matters more than our own passing discomfort in speaking or hearing them. Maybe it’s different for extroverts, but for someone with my duck-and-cover instincts it is no small thing to stand in public and choke up as I peel back self-protective layers so that I might speak truthfully to my daughter of her own story, of things that are born of love and sorrows and hopes deeply felt. My first time taking that stage with my oldest daughter Anastina I had the good sense to know my own limitations and to play to my strengths. I’m not blessed with the ability to speak off the cuff, so I wrote out in advance what I would say to her. I saw it as an opportunity to remind her of her story, to speak to her her true name. To trace for her some of the dominant threads and themes of her life from her earliest years till that moment of graduation and transition. I stumbled into the format by happy accident but, realizing in hindsight that it had been a good thing, when my second daughter Ella graduated two years later, I set out to improve upon what I had done the first time around. And by the time my third daughter Callie graduated this past May, I was tending toward poetry and I think I had found my groove. Unfortunately, I peaked just as I ran out of daughters to graduate. I share these three pieces that I spoke to my girls at their graduations, in the hopes that some of you might be inspired to find appropriate moments in which to remind your own children, or other family members or friends, of their stories, of the redemptive threads woven through their lives. We are, after all, stewards of one another’s stories. And we would do well to see ourselves as such. For such stewarding is a most essential part of what it means to live in community. Maybe as we in the Rabbit Room continue to mature as a community, it’s a mutual service we can find ways to be even more mindful of. Beset by doubts, fears, insecurities and lies of dazzling variety, each of us desperately needs others to repeat back to us our truer names, to remind us of the bigger context we were born into, to bring us back again and again to that wondrous story and to locate us somewhere within it. [2013] Anastina, You were only a few years old when you told us your favorite verse in the bible was: Thus the heavens and the earth were completed in all their vast array. Your heart was already resonating, from the earliest age, with the beauty of the complexity of creation, and with the act of creating it. It meant something to you, that the heavens and earth were created. That there was a loving and creative mind at work who had thought of and made all these things, and who continued making them. It moved you that this was a story we were living in, and the storyteller was crafting it. And oh, how you loved stories and making. A thirst for created beauty and the desire to re-tell that beauty through your own creations was a part of who you were from the beginning. Chesterton wrote: “Happy is he who still loves something he loved in the nursery: He has not been broken in two by time; he is not two men [or young women!], but one…” To see you now as a graceful, intelligent, talented, beautiful young woman, graduating, stepping into the next season of life, moving forward to further hone your ability to serve your Creator and to serve people by serving the kinds of stories that bring life, hope, joy and beauty into a world that has forgotten them but so desperately needs them now more than ever—as your parents and sisters and other family and friends, this brings us great joy. You still love so much of what you loved as a child. That is a great strength. Chesterton also said: “If I can put one touch of rosy sunset into the life of any man or woman, I shall feel that I have worked with God.” You were born to do such work Anastina. You were created and gifted for this purpose. To work with God. To bring the touch of eternal beauty into places where it has been lost, neglected and even forgotten. Believe that. And trust that as God has created you for his purposes, he will also equip and strengthen you and will order your steps. So as one chapter in your own story ends and another begins, go with boldness, humility, and the love of your family and friends. We are with you. Congratulations! [2015] Ella, Chesterton wrote: “When one hasn’t a touch of the poet, one stands some chance of being a poem.” And yet you, dear child, have somehow emerged as both poet and poem. You are a gifted artist. You create beauty. And yet you are, in your winsome and graceful personhood, like a living poem as well. We knew we were dealing with a very creative soul early on. I remember when your older sister came running to us in tears saying you had just slapped her, and you pulled out your pacifier and stated with full sincerity: “I didn’t slap her. I just high-fived her in the face.” We knew we were dealing with a very merciful soul when we saw you at a tender age, up in the rope netting at the zoo, leading by the hand a frightened little girl you didn’t even know, younger than yourself, speaking sweetly and gently to her “It’s okay, don’t cry. We’ll find your parents. They’ll be down here waiting for you somewhere.” You have always been sensitive to both the beauty and the brokenness of creation. The impulse to create beauty and to heal brokenness have always been, for you, like breathing. You can’t not do them. And you do both naturally and reflexively, almost without thinking. Creating beauty and addressing brokenness are like the inhaling and exhaling of the same breath to you. This makes sense, as both are anchored in a love and a delight in a creation that was declared good by its Maker, and is therefore worth the costly work of grieving and of redeeming. The courage of your convictions has also been remarkable to witness over the years, especially in one so young. When you believe something is true or right, it does not remain merely as head knowledge. You immediately and permanently order your life around it. That is rare. That is so rare. Don’t stop doing that. “Seriousness is not the opposite of joy, but of superficiality,” Brennan Manning wrote. And you have been very serious about joy. So serious about it that when you encounter places in the world where joy is overshadowed by sorrow and oppression—places like the Nuba Mountains, or the cell where Miriam Ibrahim was unjustly shackled—you are moved to acts of compassion. Don’t stop doing that either. DO remember that a deep and abiding joy is the only enduring root of active mercy, for nothing else will long sustain against the darkness and the temptation to despair. So cultivate your joy, child, and do not neglect it, that your mercy might be deep and enduring all the days of your life. Go. Create beauty. Extend mercy. Your world needs both. Creating beauty is an act of mercy. And acts of mercy are themselves, deeply beautiful. The inhaling and exhaling of the same breath. Breathe in beauty. Breathe in joy. Breathe in delight. Breathe out mercy and melody and life and compassion. Steward your gifts, and your passions. “This world is dying,” Thomas Merton said, “of a contrived joy.” Go, child, and live—in this world—a life that is a poem about a real joy; a poem of seriousness and delight. And go into this next season of your life knowing that it has been and continues to be a delightful and serious joy to both of us to be your parents. [2017] Albert Einstein said: “I want to know God’s thoughts. The rest are details.” Therein, Callie McKelvey, lies your path from here. You were born into a family steeped in stories and poetry, a family more shaped by words than by numbers. And yet, you came to us without words for those first few years of your life. Specialists called it apraxia. But maybe it was something more than just a neurological condition. Maybe it was preparation for what was yet to come. You came to us without words but with a wild instinct for wonder, a precocious and preternatural ability to concentrate and to consider the world around you, storing up all things that you could not yet speak of— storing them up for later use, as one might deliberately gather stones for the building of a tower one day beside the sea. You made use of your early silence. You became a ponderer, a connecter of the far flung dots, a soulmapper, a hunter of deep order and harmony— and we, your family, did not even know it yet, for you still could not speak of it. You labored intensely for years, mastering speech, learning to give voice to your thoughts, and only then, did we who loved you so in your long silence, also begin to get an inkling of how deep those channels had been carved in your wondering soul, of how deep those still waters now ran. You learned language, and with it, poetry, which you loved as an expression of the eternal yearning— and yet you did not find that poetry expressed only in words. You heard it calling as well from other quarters of creation; you found it in music, you felt it in dance, you heard it whispering from from the night sky and from the balanced equations that described the mysteries of the movements of particles and planets. And once receiving such summons you stepped beyond the frontiers already cleared and cultivated by your parents and siblings. You surprised us, Callie. Sensing that there was that same poetry written in the stars flung across, and brooding in, the depths of that infinite expanse you came naturally to a love of physics as the language in which that poetry was best expressed. You were born into a family more shaped by words than by numbers but you came to remind us that the numbers were also an elegant expression of that same poetry and mystery, and that the great poets and the great theologians and the great composers and the great astronomers were all always reaching for the same thing, whether they knew it or not. Astronomer and theologian Johannes Kepler wrote: “I was merely thinking God’s thoughts after him. Since we astronomers are priests of the highest God in regard to the book of nature, it benefits us to be thoughtful, not of the glory of our minds, but rather, above all else, of the glory of God.” We have loved being your parents, Callie McKelvey, grateful for the privilege to observe and participate in the journey and the story of your life to this point, to see how you have been shaped, by a crafting through circumstance both good and hard; To see the diamond-formed gifts that have now been entrusted to you: the resolve, the empathy, the love of the pursuit of truth and beauty and wonder, the willingness to walk a good, hard path that denies neither the deep joy nor the deep sorrow of life as a pilgrim and a stranger journeying through a landscape shattered, yet in which there remain these scattered evidences of a lost glory and these wild rumors of a fairytale redemption that has somehow already begun and is also yet to come and for which you personally yearn and labor already bearing the tension of the now-and-the-not-yet within your own heart. So let that right and holy tension ever shape and define you in this path. Go and be that astronomer who finds that she can trace God’s thoughts amongst the stars. Go and be that poet, who labors to translate the language of the great mysteries into human expression. Go and be a woman of mercy and creativity and concentration and conviction, leaving behind you across this short span of life, many lamp posts to light the way for pilgrims yet to follow, and many signposts pointing them onwards. Annie Dillard wrote: “How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives.” Go and spend your days, Callie McKelvey. Invest them in the pursuit of the passion and the delight that your Creator has uniquely crafted you to be the bearer of. Do that, and you will do well in this life, dear daughter. But not only will you do well, you will also do good. #GKChesterton #community #milestones #DougMcKelvey #Story #encouragement #Stories #graduation #FaithfulPresence

Click through for the second edition of our new Rabbit Room comic strip, Rabbit Trails. Check out more of Jonny Jimison’s work at his website.

Begin with the end in mind. That’s Habit 2 of Stephen Covey’s Seven Habits of Highly Effective People. In most human endeavors, this is excellent advice. In large matters and small, beginning with the end in mind helps ensure that the steps you take move you in the right direction. I heartily commend this advice to you…in all areas of your life besides writing. This letter is Part 2 of a series about getting started on a new story or essay. Today’s advice is this: Be willing to begin without the end in mind. And if you do have the end in mind when you begin, hold it very loosely. Of the four novels I’ve written, only one ended the way I originally thought it was going to end. You can’t be sure how a story ends until you get into it. As I said last week, you have to trust that once you get the pen moving and the neurons firing, good things are going to happen. Trying to have everything figured out before you get started is often just a kind of procrastination; for me it is, anyway. Your insights grow and change as you write. There are things you can’t possibly see or understand until after you have been writing for a while. Too much figuring on the front end of a story or essay can be a waste of time. At some point you have to dive in and see what happens. As Flannery O’Connor put it, “I write because I don’t know what I think until I read what I say.” And sometimes insisting on knowing the end from the beginning is worse than a waste of time. If you’re overly invested in some particular ending, or in some particular point you want to make, you may be shutting yourself off to your best or truest ideas. One reason to write is to sort out what is true; you don’t always know what’s true (or truest) at the beginning of the writing process. I see this principle at work in a lot of my students’ academic essays. In a five-page paper, a student writer will go along tepidly and uninspiringly for about four and a half pages, and then, around the next-to-last paragraph, she says something brilliant and wise and true. Then the paper is over—just when it was getting good. How does this happen? How is it that the same person can write poorly for four and a half pages, and so brilliantly for half a page? Actually this shouldn’t surprise any of us. You can’t really expect to have brilliant ideas until you’ve written a few pages (maybe more than a few). The student’s mistake wasn’t to write four uninteresting pages; the mistake was to turn in four uninteresting pages. (And the mistake behind that mistake, one suspects, was to start writing the night before the paper was due). Those first four pages of lackluster writing are just a part of the process; they are nothing to be ashamed of. The path to the good stuff often goes through the dull and self-evident stuff. Keep the pen moving, and prepare to be amazed at the ideas that come to you. People ask me sometimes about my “process,” and specifically whether I write from outlines or whether I write from the seat of my pants. I will now answer that question, but with this necessary caveat: describing my process isn’t the same thing as giving advice. When it comes to getting the pen moving, you’ve got to do whatever works, and what works for one writer won’t necessarily work for another. (I find it very difficult, for instance, to compose on a computer. I have to use pen and paper; sometimes I even compose emails with pen and paper before typing them in.) But I digress. Here’s my “process” for getting started: I usually write from an outline. That outline usually turns out to be wrong. So I have learned to give myself just enough of an outline to get the pen moving, but I try not to belabor the outline because I know it will probably turn out to be wrong anyway. So, once I have a quick outline, I start writing. I write until an interesting or compelling idea makes its way out—hopefully an idea that will give rise to other interesting or compelling ideas. Then I reorganize around that idea, often dashing off another outline (which will also probably turn out wrong). I take great comfort and great confidence in the truth that the writer doesn’t make meaning. The writer recognizes meaning and gives voice to it. Sometimes you recognize that meaning before you start writing (sometimes, indeed, that recognition is what sets you to writing). But I encourage you to be open to the likelihood that the most important recognition will happen only after you’ve written for a while. Be willing to begin without the end in mind. If you enjoyed this excellent advice from Jonathan Rogers, consider subscribing to his weekly letter, The Habit, to receive lots more.

I’ve been attending a liturgical church for the last several years, and it rings all my word-nerd bells. The language is so beautiful and rich, and every service rehearses the story of salvation, culminating in Communion. Revelation 5 contains one of the most beautiful and dramatic scenes in scripture, and is centered around the question, “Is anyone worthy?” The resounding answer is, “Yes! And his name is Jesus.” That’s what this whole album is about. You can pick up Resurrection Letters: Volume I in the Rabbit Room Store and listen to “Is He Worthy” here:https://rabbitroom.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/03/08-Is-He-Worthy.mp3

An endorsement blurb from Johnny Cash graces the back side of Nashville Skyline, Bob Dylan’s 1969 album recorded in Music City: “Here-in is a hell of a poet,” said Cash. And for such poetry, a half century later, Dylan would receive the Nobel Laureate for literature. But, really, so what? “What is poetry’s role when the world is burning?” asks no less a poet than Chris Wiman. This question haunts me: When there is so much madness and violence, so much war and hostility and environmental degradation, is artistic expression anything but an indulgent diversion from reality? Ironically, this concern informed Dylan’s early work: “The thing about rock’n’roll is that for me anyway it wasn’t enough,” he says. “There were great catch-phrases and driving pulse rhythms…. But the songs weren’t serious or didn’t reflect life in a realistic way.” Folk music “was more of a serious type of thing,” with “more despair, more sadness, more triumph, more faith in the supernatural…” So, for Dylan, it was the poetry of the Americana folk tradition that gave him a greater capacity to see and understand reality. It was not a diversion from the burning, maddening world. It provided a capacity to see the world more clearly, and to envision new possible worlds. In this way, Dylan is but one more poet in the line of the great poets such as Gerard Manley Hopkins who insisted that “the world is charged with the grandeur of God,” and that “Christ plays in ten thousand places.” From his earliest song-writing days, such a vision of the world—a vision of the world charged with the grandeur of God—seems to have driven much of Dylan’s lyrics, evidenced beautifully in “Lay Down Your Weary Tune.” But the “seriousness” of the folk tradition is more than its sacramentality. The acoustic folk genre would inform an eschatological and prophetic edge to Dylan’s writing, too.  These edges would persist beyond and through Dylan’s electric rock-n-roll conversion, too. Robert Hudson’s delightful new book on Bob Dylan and Thomas Merton plays out this “prophetic” element. In his monastic hermitage in the latter part of the 1960’s, Dylan’s music played for months on The Monk’s Record Player. Merton—himself one of the greatest voices for Christianity in America in the latter part of the 20th century—insisted that “Bob Dylan is one of the most important voices in the country.” It’s worth noting that Merton made such a judgment precisely in the midst of all the burning and lynching and blood-shed of the 1960’s. For Merton, says Hudson, the “prophetic” entails at least two aspects:  one, its capacity to tell the truth in a way that others are either unwilling, or incapable.  Commenting on the Nicaraguan poet Rubén Darío, Merton said: “All true poetic genius tends to generate prophetic insight. The poet cannot help but listen to awakening voices that are not yet audible to the rest of men.” The “prophetic” also entails the capacity to see and speak before its time: “Poets and poetic thinkers,” said Merton, those “who construct myths in which they embody their own struggle to cope with the fundamental questions of life—are generally ‘prophetic’ in the sense that they anticipate in their solitude the struggles and the general consciousness of later generations.” Merton saw Dylan, undoubtedly, as “prophetic” in such ways. And Dylan has been, undoubtedly, “prophetic” in taking up many of the particular themes of the Hebrew prophets of old.  The machinations of wealth and power do, after all, remain persistent through history. Thus Dylan, in both his folk and electric days will bemoan the plight of the poor, in the likes of “Ballad of Hollis Brown,” or “I Dreamed I Saw Saint Augustine.” And yet his visions were not merely moralistic in an individualistic sense. Singing at the March on Washington—when Martin Luther King, Jr. would famously declare “I Have a Dream”—Dylan would lament the assassination of Medgar Evers in “Only a Pawn in Their Game.” But the villain was not simply the wicked choices of one evil man, but the manifestation of systems of hatred that give rise to such violence. Or on war, similarly: Dylan would stand in unflinching judgment upon the military-industrial complex with “Masters of War.” But he had the capacity to see, with the Apostle Paul, that “our enemy is not flesh and blood.” Thomas Merton himself, in parallel, had written in a letter to Bobby Kennedy’s wife: “It seems to me that the great problem we face is not Russia but war itself. War is the main enemy….  Unless we fight war, both in ourselves and in the Russians… we are purely and simply going to be wrecked by the forces that are in us.” Thus in Dylan’s great classic “God on Our Side,” which is first and foremost about the piety by which we justify our warring, the final prayer is to be delivered from war itself: “If God’s on our side, / He’ll stop the next war.” Among these sorts of “prophetic” elements, judgment-laden eschatological strains are woven, too: pointing to some coming reality, desperately needed in the midst of the fires of history. “Blowing in the Wind,” “A Hard Rain’s Gonna Fall,” “Slow Train Coming”—all these evoke a longing for, and an assurance that, the broken will be set right: Dylan insists that there will be some coming judgment upon the burning, and upon those who burn. So we return to the question with which we began—what is poetry’s role when the world is burning? And Dylan reminds us again that such a question is not a cynical one, but a prescriptive one. It is quite possible for our artistic endeavors to be escapist, art that is, quoting Wiman again, “not steeped in the world.” But it is also possible—still quoting Wiman—to do “art better at theology than theology is.” In other words: Precisely because the world is burning is there so much art to be done, so much poetry to be written, and so many songs to sing. On June 7th at Lipscomb University, the first Tokens Show of the 2018 season will be a theological exploration of the work of Bob Dylan, featuring Pulitzer Prize winner and current U.S. Poet Laureate Tracy K Smith, Tobias Wolff, The New Respects, Matthew Perryman Jones, and the writer of this article, Lee Camp. Learn more about the Tokens Show at their website and grab tickets here. Listen to Odessa Settles sing Dylan’s “The Times They Are A Changing” here, or Lee Camp sing Dylan’s “God on Our Side” here.

Sometimes it’s hard to keep track of the sheer variety of work The Rabbit Room is up to. If you want a bird’s-eye view of all that has come to pass in this first quarter of 2018 and all that is in the works for the rest of the year, join Pete and Andrew Peterson for this highly informative, highly entertaining video. News regarding Hutchmoot, Rabbit Room Retreat, Homeschool Conventions, Every Moment Holy, and much more awaits you. If you’re interested in supporting this work more intentionally, consider becoming a member by clicking here.

(This was originally published in The Molehill, but since that’s currently out of print and quite a few folks at this weekend’s Wilberforce Conference asked about it, I thought I’d post it here.) My grandmother asked what kind of books I liked to read. “Fantasy novels,” I said. I probably had a Dragonlance book hidden in my backpack, next to the Walkman with the Tesla tape, the TransWorld Skateboarding mag and the Trapper Keeper with a Camaro on the front. “Isn’t that sort of thing for girls?” she asked. She tilted her head back to better see me through her glasses. “What do you mean? There’s nothing girly about them.” “Hmm.” She went back to her game of solitaire while I tried to tone down my defensiveness. “Granny, I’m serious. Lots of my friends read them, and I don’t know a single girl who does.” “Well, I guess times have changed,” she said with a sad little shake of her head. We went back and forth for a few minutes before I realized that when I said “fantasy” she thought I meant romance, the steamy kind—you know, the paperbacks with the scarlet covers and flowing scripts, always with a ravished woman wrapped in the arms of a blonde dude with breeches and riding boots and no shirt, muscles so big he could snap the ravished woman in half, and from the way she’s looking at him it seems she wouldn’t mind so much if he did. His name is probably Dirk. No wonder my grandmother looked worried. “No, Granny,” I said with relief. “Fantasy novels. Swords and dragons and stuff. The less romance the better.” That wasn’t strictly true, because in Dragons of Autumn Twilight, Tanis Half-Elven and elf princess Lauralanthalasa (I’m not kidding) had a thing going, but they had to keep it quiet because her people mistrusted his half-humanness and it created all kinds of romantic tension, plus the War of the Lance interfered and all. But mostly there were dragons. And dwarves. And magic weapons and dungeons and taverns teeming with thieves and adventurers. I remember Christmas morning 1987 when I tore the wrapping paper off of several Dragonlance books—books that I swore to my dad weren’t the same as Dungeons & Dragons games, though it turned out they were. Almost exactly the same, in fact, but in book form. Even more startling, I didn’t turn into a devil-worshipping delinquent, nor did the books spontaneously combust on the holy ground of the church parsonage. To the contrary, I’m in my forties now and I still remember the warm tingle in my fingers when I first held those pulp paperbacks. I can still smell them. If I close my eyes I can see the cover painting by a guy named Larry Elmore. It featured the aforementioned Tanis Half-elven, Caramon the warrior, Goldmoon the barbarian princess, Flint the dwarf, and Tasslehoff the kender standing in an autumnal vale with a red dragon coiled behind them. The whole gang was looking at the camera, so to speak, as if waiting for me to step into the book and join them. Now it all seems so cliché, but at the time I didn’t know and didn’t care. I filled notebooks with drawings of those dragons, talismans, old stone doorways, and walking lizards called Draconians. I thought about those stories in class, and read them after I failed tests, and talked about them with my brother and our nerdy friends while we built skateboard ramps in the garage. The books lifted me straight out of the mossy pines of North Florida and plopped me down in a magical world, just as surely as Lucy stepped through the wardrobe and found herself in Narnia. My young mind crackled with longing, though I wouldn’t have known to call it that. I merely said to myself, “Man, that’s so cool,”in an awestruck whisper. Not long after that, at my older brother’s behest, I read David Eddings’s The Belgariad, a five-book epic fantasy about a kid named Garion who eventually learns to speak a secret spy language with tiny movements of his fingers. If that weren’t cool enough, he also saves the world by recovering an orb. I wonder how many times an imaginary world has been saved by the recovery of an orb? I loved these books almost as much as I loved the Dragonlance Chronicles. Around the same time I read Stephen King’s It and The Talisman (which he wrote with Peter Straub), both of which ought to be considered fantasy novels, and neither of which are as good as I remember them. My brother also got me hooked on David Gerrold’s The War Against the Chttor series, which launched me over to the somewhat parallel genre of science fiction. The Chttor books raised the bar and lowered it at the same time. Gerrold is, as they said in my neck of the woods, one smart dude. He used the Chttor books not just to tell a story with the usual spaceships but also to philosophize, which is one of the best things about sci-fi. The books explore everything from war tactics to ethics to religion to sexuality—but to my relief, there were also plenty of guns, zombies, and wormy critters that wanted to eat the world. I felt my mind expand a little while I was reading them, but it also sank a few notches into the gutter. Even so, there were moments of bliss when I closed my door at night, switched on the reading light, cracked open the paperback of A Rage for Revenge, and could almost hear the hiss of the pressurization system kicking on as I stepped onto the space transport. Gone were the humid bedsheets and the oscillating fan and the mossy trees of Florida, gone was my nascent fear that I would be miserable for the rest of my life, gone were my failures; I was saving the world, baby, and I might not make it back alive. Then I’d wake on the ugly green couch in my room to the sound of my dad stomping through the house singing “Rise and shine, give God the glory-glory” in full preacher voice. It was time to embark on another day of school, another day of facing what felt like an enormous waste of time—except for those few minutes between failures when I could duck through the trapdoor of my book and emerge into a world of real beauty and real danger, which meant real heroism and the possibility of real purpose. I was hungry for it. Maybe even starving. Every time we drove the thirty minutes to Gainesville, the nearest town with a mall, I headed straight for Waldenbooks. When I got to Waldenbooks I headed straight for the fantasy/sci-fi section, which at the time boasted only a few shelves. Always with a tantalizing fraction of that same tingle I felt on Christmas morning in 1987, I ran my fingers over the spines of all those paperbacks: Anne McCaffrey’s The Dragonriders of Pern, Ursula K. LeGuin’s Earthsea Chronicles, Lloyd Alexander’s Prydain Chronicles, an ever increasing number of Dragonlance books (now there are about two hundred), the D&D spinoff Forgotten Realms (which I never cared for, though the covers were killer), Stephen R. Lawhead’s The Pendragon Cycle, Robert Jordan’s The Eye of the World, Terry Brooks’s The Sword of Shannara, and of course, towering above them all, J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings—a book I hadn’t read, which caused my brother no end of consternation. I had seen the animated films seven hundred times, so I didn’t think I needed to read it yet. (Don’t be angry. Tolkien, for me, came later.) But hobbits aside, I stood in the aisle at Waldenbooks and yearned, I tell you. I was drawn to those book covers like a deer to a salt lick, and like a salt lick they only made me thirstier. I couldn’t get enough. In those days, I was restless without a book in my hands, without the hope of some new story around every turn to enliven my deadening senses. Unlike most of my friends, I didn’t want a truck or a job or a scholarship; I wanted a horse and a quest and a buried treasure. But there were no real quests anymore. Not in my town. So I had to make them up. And that led to a series of hijinks that I’ll write about when I’m old and most of the witnesses are dead and the statute of limitations has run out. But I left out something significant when I told you about my conversation with Granny Peterson: when she asked me what kind of books I liked to read, the prevailing feeling I remember is bashfulness, just a few inches shy of outright embarrassment. I was standing in her front room with my hand on the table where the grownups always played canasta, and I stared at the linoleum floor, wishing she hadn’t asked me that question. Ask me about something else, I thought. Anything else. Skateboarding or girlfriends or grades or Jesus. Leave my stories alone. My craving for those tales occupied a private part of my adolescence; they represented my loneliness, the only antidote for which was the seemingly impossible dream that life could be lived alongside trusty companions and in defiance of great evil. I looked out her window and saw crabgrass, old trucks, clouds of mosquitoes, and gravel roads, a rural slowth that drawled, “Here’s your life, son. Make do.” But my books said, “Here’s a sword, lad. Get busy.” A persistent fear sizzled in my heart, a fear that there existed no real adventure other than the one on the page, and that I was doomed never to know it. Doomed to a life of failure. There’s that word again. I felt called to adventure but saw no way to get there, so instead I read about adventures and kept that dream alive by keeping it to myself. How do you explain that to Granny? How, for that matter, do you explain it to anyone? Sooner or later, I had to abandon the salt lick. I needed water. Sometime between adolescence and my diploma, I discovered music, and music was the horse that bore me safely out of town. Music was the call to adventure, however self-serving and reckless that adventure may have been. It was also the doorway through which the object of my quest entered my heart. In the summer of 1993 I was a foundering young man chaperoning at a youth conference called CIY (Christ in Youth), when one morning on a hillside by the chapel, I watched the sun rise on the green mountains. They were more beautiful than any landscape I had imagined existing in Krynn or Prydain or even Middle-earth. They were real mountains. My CD Walkman was on repeat, and again and again I heard Rich Mullins sing the lines, “I see the morning moving over the hills / I can see the shadows on the western side / and all those illusions that I had / they just vanish in your light.” The sun was rising on me, pushing the shadows of my failure and fear farther and farther away until the whole world was bright and peaceful as only an Appalachian dawn can be when you’re nineteen and weeping with the surety of true forgiveness and true love. What I was looking for all along had found me instead. Not once did I suspect in all my sketching and reading and aching to enter the stories I read that Jesus was calling to me through them. Jesus was mostly an idea. There was church, the life I was supposed to long for, and then there was the life I actually longed for. You see, I was the victim of what I call, “imaginational segregation.” On one hand there was my compulsion to be a Christian—a cultural and familial paradigm that I happily ascribed to and had little reason to resist—and on the other I nurtured a mostly secret affection for what were, more or less, fairy tales. Looking back, the same was true of my obsession with comic books and films and music. In each of those art forms I encountered a world that seemed more vivid than the one I was in. I wanted to enter that beauty. And I decided the only way to engage it, apart from my imagination, was to create it. I could draw, or play the piano, or write. If I could make something beautiful, maybe I could forget for a few moments how drab I was, how useless I felt, how lonely was this dull and lifeless life I had been given—and that dull life included Christianity as I understood it. I was, of course, projecting my disappointment with myself onto everything else—everything but the world in my mind, built out of song and story and that terrible, secret longing. The grass was oh-so-much greener on the Other Side. The mountains were taller and the water was sweeter and the stories were better, too. But that morning when I was nineteen on the hillside in East Tennessee, things were different. Life itself—the one I was actually living—for once outshone the life I had yearned for. The Maker of this beautiful, broken world ambushed me. He had lain in wait for the perfect moment to spring: the perfect song at the perfect hour of the day, the contrition of my hungry heart, the intricate staging of the beauty that had led me to that dewy lawn, and his holy, brooding spirit draped over the valley like a mist. “Drink,” he told me, “and thirst no more.” I’m not saying this was my actual conversion, but it was a salient moment that perhaps marked the end of a season of struggle. When the shadows cast by my disappointment and self-hatred were banished by the light of the forgiveness, the acceptance, and the infinite affection of Christ, I could see the world around me for the miracle it was. I could see myself as a miracle. Scripture tells that when God looks at a Christian he sees Christ’s righteousness—in a similar way, the Christian is now free to see Christ in everything. Even himself. I was gloriously alive, and I was at home in the palm of God’s hand. So I abandoned fantasy. I had no need for it, so I thought, because the world I was in pulsed with loveliness. I was wide awake to God’s presence. I cried when I sang in church. That was a new one for me. The Bible became fascinating for the first time since I had read Revelation at church camp to see how imminent was the apocalypse in order to gauge my remaining party time. Now I read it because it felt alive. I read it to know the God Rich Mullins seemed to know so well. And you know what? It worked. During the first few weeks of Bible college the story of the Old Testament lit up my imagination with stories of battle, espionage, love triangles, deception, failure, heroism, and the promise of redemption; mine was an imagination well-prepared for the invasion of the Gospel story. The soil had been fertilized in my youth with a hundred tales that had taken root and grown but had born no fruit; those old stories withered, then decayed and composted, readying the ground for the life-giving seeds that were coming. I feasted on the meat of the Bible for four years. I don’t want to give the impression that I was a model student, or that I rejoiced in writing papers on the problem of evil or the kings of Judah. In many ways I was still the bonehead I always was. And yet, I no longer felt that awful lack of purpose, which is, I suppose, a lack of hope. Now there were songs to be written. There were concerts to play. I wanted to tell people this story that had changed me, and through the lens of all my newfound hope, the world and every person I met seemed to shimmer with God’s presence. I read commentaries, I read every class syllabus, I read the Bible, I read papers. I was eating meat, meat, meat, and more meat. Then at the beginning of my senior year, with a bit of leftover student loan money burning a hole in the pocket of my chapel slacks, I accidentally bought The Chronicles of Narnia from the college bookstore. I was hunting for the semester’s textbooks when I spotted all seven paperbacks in an attractive slipcase, much like the set I grew up with. I stood in the aisle with an unwieldy stack of textbooks and three-ring binders in one hand, while with the other I experienced a familiar tingle in the tips of my fingers as I ran them over the books that contained the magic of Narnia. I remembered the word I heard that morning on the mountain: “Drink.” The books went home with me, and I showed them to Jamie (to whom I’d been married for about a year). “For our future kids,” I said, but that wasn’t the whole truth. I had read so much non-fiction in college that I was craving something light and non-required. Somehow, during my last semester of school, even though I was doing a steady stream of concerts and I needed to complete an internship and twenty-two hours of credit to graduate, I managed to read C. S. Lewis’s story of Aslan and Narnia for the first time since childhood. I read it all the way from the wardrobe to the last battle. I thought of it as a literary retreat, indulging some of my childhood reading tendencies to give my brain a rest from academia. But instead, I experienced something much deeper. The reintroduction of fairy tales to my redeemed imagination helped me to see the Maker, his Word, and the abounding human (but sometimes Spirit-commandeered) tales as interconnected. It was like holding the intricate crystal of Scripture up to the light, seeing it lovely and complete, then discovering on the sidewalk a spray of refracted colors. The colors aren’t Scripture, nor are they the light behind it. Rather, they’re an expression of the truth, born of the light beyond, framed by the prism of revelation, and given expression on solid ground. My final days in college were spent studying the books of Ezekiel and James in class, writing song lyrics in the margins of my syllabi, and reading, at last, The Lord of the Rings, that exquisite spray of refracted light. And now we come to the point. Tolkien’s story bears many similarities to those I read in high school (mostly due to their imitation of him), including the lure of escapism. In the same way the Dragonlance books had whisked me out of high school, Tolkien’s books transported me out of college for a few precious minutes each day. But whether it was because of my own awakening to the beauty of life through the saving truth of the Gospel or because of Tolkien’s own faith and attentiveness to the Holy Spirit while writing The Lord of the Rings, when his story ended the world around me held more possibility, not less; it was brighter, not duller; my eyes were clearer, not dimmer. Tolkien and Lewis, both in their own way, lifted me out of this world to show me a thundering beauty, and when I read the last sentence and came tumbling back to earth, I could still hear the peal. I hear it to this day. God allowed the stories to lift the veil on the imaginary world to show me the real world behind it—which ended up being, in the end, the one I was already in. Tolkien and Lewis held the fabric of Narnia or Middle-earth in one hand and clutched ours in the other, building a bridge so we could set out for perilous realms and return safely with some of the beauty we found there. The ache we feel when we read about Frodo’s voyage from the Grey Havens, the ache we feel when Lucy hears the thump of solid wood at the back of the wardrobe is telling us that yes, there’s another world. But the stories that awaken us are meant to awaken us not only to the reality to come but to this world and its expectant glory. Too often we retreat into the pages of our longing only to return disconsolate to the kitchen or the classroom—we’re escaping from and not to. A few years ago I dug out a few of the fantasy novels I loved and found them mostly empty. Not only have my tastes changed (the quality of the writing left something to be desired), but they strike me as a way to pass the time rather than enrich it. The accoutrements of fantasy and science fiction still hold their appeal for me; dragons and quests and epic tales are appetizing seasonings, but seasonings don’t make a meal. Nowadays I read more broadly—novels that take place not in Hogwarts but in Iowa (which I have learned is no less magical). I’ve been enraptured by stories about moths and watermelon harvesting and bridge building, and non-fiction about city planning and hurricanes and explorers of the Amazon. There’s so much out there to read that I’d never answer my grandmother’s question with: “Fantasy novels.” If I someone asked me today, my answer would be, “Good books.” The same is true of music: “Good music.” Is that a genre? That doesn’t mean I don’t have a soft spot for dragons. I believe the Lord used those books to pique my desire for another world, to exercise the muscle of imagination (if not prose), and even to comfort a lonely kid. I’m sure God’s doing the same for kids all over the country, even now. I’m not ashamed to admit that when I go to Barnes & Noble I still visit the fantasy section first. I still run my fingers along the spines and study the cover art. And I still feel that 1987 tingle. Sometimes I even read some of those books. I tell myself it’s just for fun, but I’ll let you in on a secret: I’m on the hunt. Somewhere out there, there’s another Tolkien. Somewhere out there, men and women with redeemed, integrated imaginations are sitting down to spin a tale that awakens, a tale that leaves the reader with a painful longing that points them home, a tale whose fictional beauty begets beauty in the present world and heralds the world to come. Someone out there is building a bridge so we can slip across to elf-land and smuggle back some of its light into this present darkness. I’m always looking for that bridge. If you wanted to, I suppose you could call it a quest.

For some years now I have operated under the suspicion that people are lonely most of the time. I may be incorrect, and it would be a pleasant surprise to find the opposite is true. But I tend to hold my supposed rightness about things pretty close, so in any case it will take some convincing. When I sift through the moments in my life where I felt most supported, connected, known or loved by others, or when I participated in such nearness with someone else so they might feel such love, and when I realize the vast number of those moments despite their paradoxical inability to be usefully quantified, it’s unclear to me whether God is nourishing my belief that loneliness is dangerously prevalent and togetherness its cure, or whether He has been thwarting my understanding of reality from the start—or my start, anyway. This past Monday evening He was at it again, either deepening my perception or proving me wrong. If you tuned into my recap of our last Supper & Songs, you may remember it felt like a victory more because the house didn’t collapse and the pasta cooked in time than for any reason related to intimate interactions or mountaintop experiences. We did it, and that was the first rung of the ladder we needed to know we could reach—having done that, this Supper & Songs was a success more because we already knew we could “do it,” and were able to focus with more purpose on our part in the event: extending our songs to one another and to the audience gathered there, and doing it whole-heartedly. Isolation has little power over me at times like these—when beloved characters in my world have opened their home to strangers and friends alike, and their home feels like my home. When one community mingles with another over a meal, and I am reminded what it will be like never to miss anyone or feel the absence of a friend again, when division is a forgotten concept. Then I notice one person sitting alone for a time before some other guests wander over and eat with him, and I wonder if he feels welcome and wanted or if the sensation of being on the outside has taken a toll that can’t be remedied. And there’s one gentleman who doesn’t appear necessarily comfortable when our host prays over the meal, and I see played out in my imagination how healing or how alienating this night might end up being for him. And there’s a young woman who came to the show by herself, and for a heart-stopping second I am perhaps more nervous than she is that she will continue feeling she is by herself. This home and the people I know who are crowding it have made me feel so safe and so cherished countless times before that the thought of someone not feeling they have a place at this table makes me almost too antsy to eat with everyone. And again, I feel the loneliness is everywhere, and we are starved for relief from it. Of course I had no real way of identifying whether anyone felt this way without asking outright, and as the night wore on it became clear that people felt comfortable, a part of something, invited into it. It became clear as they fawned over watermelon and feta salad without reservation, exchanged stories of where they were from and where they were headed, and sang along with songs we taught them. Long before the music ended it was apparent we had succeeded in more than cooking pasta this time around—people were together. We were not alone, even if some of us felt certain we were before the ice cream sandwiches were passed out and the music began. For me, Supper & Songs flies in the face of succumbing to loneliness, which can persuade us that our need for care and closeness with another person or group is too abysmal to be met, so we may as well quarantine ourselves and be spared the ache of unfulfilled hopes. I was reminded on Monday that, whether people feel generally alone or not, coming together is a must. It fights off separation, both manufactured and natural. It celebrates love and spreads life. In feeling connected to others myself last Monday, I stopped my anxious watchfulness and slipped into just being myself, free to be free. We were never meant to be alone, and it’s good (to say the least) to be involved in work that restores that truth to me. I am hopeful that it continues restoring that truth to everyone who comes through the door next time as well. You can learn more about Supper & Songs and The Orchardist here. And learn more about guest artist Jordy Searcy here. Christopher Williams hosted this last Supper & Songs show. Visit his website here.

By now, many of you may know that the Internet blew up last weekend over Childish Gambino’s music video for his new song, “This Is America.” As of the time I’m typing this, five days after release, the video has racked up over 63 million views and probably about as many think pieces. Childish Gambino is the musical alter ego of comedian and actor Donald Glover, known by many for playing Troy on the TV show Community, and soon to hit movie screens as Lando Calrissian in the new Han Solo film. Childish Gambino seemed to start out as a silly side project, but in recent years has gained Glover critical traction with his most recent album Awaken, My Love! which garnered several Grammy nominations and wins. Glover has now capitalized on this positive wave with a stunning video capturing the plight of contemporary African-American life. I should note that I am probably the least qualified person to write this type of piece, in that I rarely listen to rap or hip-hop music. I’ve listened to some Lecrae, and more Propaganda. I’ve dabbled in Kendrick Lamar and Chance and Kanye. Nevertheless, I was stunned when I casually came across the video while scrolling through social media and decided to watch it. I’ve watched the video and listened to the songs multiple times since then, and haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. Note: this video contains some graphic and disturbing violence as well as graphic language. There are certainly many things I could say about this video politically and culturally, but as I mentioned, you can go and read one of the 63 million think pieces already written about the video to delve into that. I want to focus on the ways that Glover tells an excellent visual and musical story. Musical Storytelling In part, Glover is commenting on American culture and our propensity to whiplash between violence and entertainment, and how we distract ourselves from cultural chaos. One of the ways he does this is through the music itself. “This Is America” starts with an upbeat African-style chant and guitar-picking riff while Glover sings, “We just wanna party/party just for you”. The song then abruptly shifts into a growling ominous trap-style bass riff while Glover raps, “This is America/Don’t catch you slippin’ up”. Then the song jumps back into a Gospel choir sounding chorus. The song keeps jumping between these two poles of light and dark throughout, whipping us back and forth tonally. Lyrically, the lighter sounding parts of the song include cliche dance party lyrics, while the darker parts include lyrics like “This how I’m living now/Police be trippin’ now/Yeah, this is America/Guns in my area.” In this way the music and lyrics reinforce each other tonally. Visual Storytelling The visual storytelling of the music video adds a whole collection of other layers to the song. As in the song itself, the video shifts tonally between upbeat dancing and violence, such as when Glover shifts from exaggerated dance moves to shooting a guitarist in the back of the head at point blank range, or when he jauntily side-steps into a room and then mows down a black Gospel choir with an AK-47. Before you have time to even process what’s happened, you’re distracted by Glover and his crew of dancing black school children. Again, the point is to make a comment on how we in America shift from horrific acts of public violence to whatever the newest trend on social media is. The other fascinating thing about this video is that, while we are being distracted by Glover’s dancing, there are layers of storytelling going on in the background of the video. I had to watch it several times to start noticing the added details. The entire video takes place in a vast empty warehouse, so that as Glover is dancing and moving around, we also see a chaotic scene evolving and playing out behind him, a scene which evokes ghetto landscapes, police shootings in recent years, the resulting riots and protests in response to some of these shootings, and the spectre of one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, Death, riding in the midst of the destruction. This is a video that bears, nay, requires repeated viewing to truly appreciate all the important details going on. I am amazed at how Donald Glover has created a timely, powerful music video that speaks to contemporary America, yet stands on its own as a piece of art that doesn’t come off as preachy. One hopes that it will continue to resonate and spark powerful conversations in our divided culture. To delve deeper into “This Is America,” consider checking out some of the articles listed here.

Ben Shive wrote and recorded this one for his first record several years ago, and I told him immediately that I wanted to record it for Resurrection Letters: Vol. I. It’s not only about our resurrection on the last day, but God’s promise to return and make all things right again. It’s such an honor to cover a song by one of the finest songwriters I’ve ever known. You can pick up Resurrection Letters: Volume I in the Rabbit Room Store and listen to “Rise Up” here:https://rabbitroom.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/05/12_Rise-Up-1.mp3

I recently had the pleasure of speaking with Taylor Leonhardt, whose album River House has thoroughly caught the Rabbit Room’s attention with its lyrical subtlety and invitational, spacious production style. Whether you are already familiar with this album or new to the scene, this interview will have something for you. Taylor Leonhardt will be joined tonight at the last Local Show of the season by John Tibbs, Andy Gullahorn, and Jill Phillips, and there are still a few tickets left. You can grab them here at the Rabbit Room Store. Drew: I’d love to get some backstory on how you got into music and songwriting. What’s that story for you? Taylor: Music was always on in my childhood. My parents will say I’ve always had an inclination towards music, and I always loved listening, especially to whatever my dad was listening to. Then in middle school, two things happened: first, I was singing in the congregation one day and a woman leaned over and told me I should be in the choir. That was the first time I realized people liked how my voice sounded. I tried out for church and school choir because of that comment, so that was an essential thing for me. The other thing is that we moved from big city Houston to a small town in Texas, and it took me a little while to make friends. So I hung out at home a lot and my dad would pull his guitar down from his closet and play me Creedence Clearwater Revival and The Eagles, old country like Don Williams, Hank Williams, Patsy Cline, and so on. I would just watch and pay attention, and one day it clicked that if I learned how to play guitar, I could accompany myself. There was also something really compelling to me about listening to words being sung—it occurred to me that I could write my own songs, so I got my dad to show me standard guitar chords, and from there I looked up chord charts for all kinds of songs and figured out how to play my favorites. It was truly a hobby until college, when I started taking it more seriously, and I would play gigs and open mic nights with friends. I was a bit reluctant there, because the performance aspect scared me. I had grown up in choir, but it’s more vulnerable to sing alone. But I grew a little bit of confidence, and then there was one very significant moment when I was leading worship at church and someone said, “Hey, we just went to this thing called a house concert, and we loved it! We really want to host one, and we want you to be our first artist.” So I agreed and played all the songs I had! That night I felt something profound, this deep sense of the delight of God. I felt his pleasure that evening and realized I was connected to something much bigger than me. I was very nervous but it was also such a joyful time. From that point on, I decided to pursue music. Drew: Your story reminds me of conversion stories—some people have one specific life-changing moment they can point to and others speak of it as more of an ongoing process. It’s cool that you had a specific day where your pursuit of music began. Taylor: It was helpful for me to remember later on how I felt that day. At the times when I’ve been less sure of my craft, I’ve been able to think back to how I felt at that first house concert. And I’ve done so many house shows now—every one of them is different, but they always foster deep connection. Drew: So you said five years ago you began pursuing music seriously, then you released your first full-length record last fall. What’s the story between those two points? How have the past five years led you to River House? Taylor: Well first, I was aware that I needed to grow in my craft as a writer, so before I recorded an EP, I set out to discern what I wanted to say and how to say it. I was fortunate to meet some people in Raleigh who are excellent writers, like Christa Wells and Jess Ray. The two of them became close friends and I’ve received so much wisdom from them. Then I recorded an EP and Jess produced it. At first, I merely wanted some demos to have some songs recorded, but not necessarily in a professional way yet. We started recording in this fledgling home studio Jess had set up, then about halfway through we realized it sounded really good. So we decided to put a little more time and money into the project and made the demos into an acoustic EP. As soon as I released that in 2013, it opened the floodgates for me with writing. I got tired of old songs so quickly and all I wanted to do was write new songs. From there, I had a year and a half or so of some pretty intense inspiration. I had about twenty songs I really liked at that point, which we whittled down to what ended up on River House. Drew: It seems that your story is so interconnected with the stories of others surrounding you. I love that because I think that’s really the way it works: when we’re pursuing what we love and learning who we are, that tends to happen in community. I’m sure you’ve heard the Rabbit Room mantra, “Art nourishes community and community nourishes art.” I wonder if you have any specific stories about discovering your voice, where that was happening in tandem with the encouraging voices of others, in the context of friendships and relationships. How have you most powerfully seen art and community interact in this symbiotic relationship? Taylor: I remember telling friends and family at some point that I was working a lot with these two other artists in Raleigh, that we were playing a lot of shows together and such. Because at this point, Jess and I had gone on several tours together where I would open and back her up or vice versa, and the same thing with Christa. I enjoyed that so much because I’d rather get in the car with a friend or two than by myself. I loved it and would tell folks about that and sometimes get the response of, “Aren’t these people technically your competition?” It made me realize that I had never thought to look at it that way, to see others as competition. I had lived a lot of my life with the intuition that everyone can be your teacher. We all have something to give to each other. I have felt that in my friendships with those two women especially, Christa and Jess. There may be times where I take a supporting role with what they’re doing, but then there are other times, like when I was recording River House, when I was deeply supported as well. It was in the process of crowdfunding and making that record that I most felt how people are so happy to be part of what you’re doing. It’s special to invite others in. It’s such a joy to listen back—albums act as these really cool pieces of my life, documenting the help of all the folks who were involved. I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about what it looks like to celebrate other people rather than compete with them. It’s that whole idea of a Kingdom economy—in God’s world there’s no lack. We can celebrate other people and share in their joy because that doesn’t mean there’s less joy, life, or love for us. I’ve seen that fleshed out in my music community here in Raleigh, as well as in Nashville with the Rabbit Room: a real delight in celebrating others and pointing out the good work being done. Drew: One of my favorite professors has pointed out that the very act of singing together almost has to be a celebration of each other. For me to sing, for my voice to occupy the air around us, doesn’t mean that your voice can’t occupy the same air. Our voices help each other and the harmony that’s achieved is more than the sum of its parts. With River House, that was something that struck me as I was listening: there’s a subtlety to the songs and their delivery, on your part as well as on the part of all the musicians involved. There’s so much space, and I think it’s one of the real virtues of the record. Was that purposeful? I know often it’s not at all, then you look back and see it’s there. But did you notice that sense of hospitality and spaciousness developing as you worked on the record? Taylor: That’s so interesting that you’re hearing that, because from the beginning I did want the songs on River House to be all about making space for people and inviting them to reconsider who God is, what they’ve imagined him to be like versus how he’s revealed himself. From start to finish, those songs are very much about God becoming more than just an idea I’ve mentally assented to. When we actually listen for him, we come face-to-face with him and see that he’s real, that his heart beats. One of my favorite lines from a song recently is Andrew Peterson’s “His Heart Beats.” Every time I get to that line, it’s just amazing to think, “he has a beating heart!” I wanted to make space for myself and others to hear God. The songs are invitational in that way. We didn’t sit down at the beginning and try to make the songs musically spacious as well, but I do think the musical form naturally followed what our hearts were after to begin with. We were just trying to let the songs be what they wanted to be. “Spacious” is a word I’ve heard used to describe the record a lot, and I’m very glad it has been that for people. Drew: One song that serves as a great example of this is “Would You Be Well.” I was about halfway through the song when I realized, “This song doesn’t have a chorus!” Not that songs have to have choruses, of course, and if it had any kind of refrain, it would probably just strain the song and make it try too hard to say what it’s saying. But instead, each verse ends and then puts you in this instrumental space afterwards to let those words you’ve just sung sink in. And that’s very effective. Taylor: Sometimes I try in the writing process to squeeze more out of a song than I should, maybe add a pre-chorus or bridge or something, and I do remember wondering if that particular song needed a chorus. I wrote it for someone in my family who had been far from joy for a long time. I wanted so badly to have the right thing to say to him, a solution, but I didn’t. There was no magic word that would make him well, but what I could do was hold that space for him. That song became a prayer. So I think it’s fitting that when you get to the part where you expect a chorus, the words stop. Drew: It works so well. One thing Pete Peterson has talked about, and I think this is a great observation, is that we really neglect the work that comes after releasing a project, whether it’s a book or album or whatever. We put so much effort into the making of it and the releasing of it, but then after that, the shape of the work shifts. It’s not over just because it’s released; you really have to sustain it and fight for it, make sure people hear it. You released River House in September of last year, so it hasn’t been a year yet, but you’re rounding that corner. I would love to know how the shape of your work has shifted since putting this full-length album into the world. Taylor: That’s such a great question. I appreciate it because I think people often jump to the next thing too quickly. I’ve already gotten lots of questions about when the next record is coming out. I’m not there yet at all. I’m still just laying in the middle of this one! When I released my EP I was ready to jump into the next project, but with River House, it’s been around eight months and I still feel like I’m right in the middle of it. We did the release show, and then I really wanted to do a tour, so I planned a fall house concert tour with Carly Bannister. For most house show tours I’ve done, I’ve been more of a supporting artist, so it was new for me to take the reigns on booking. I learned so much and discovered that my songs were really finding a home in people. Then in the spring, I jumped on this International Justice Mission tour with Jess Ray and ForBrothers. The shape of my work has looked like getting these songs in front of people who haven’t met them or met me yet, and it’s been a joy. I also love the way that songs take a new shape after their release. They live in such a specific place in your soul, then when you share them, you give up your rights of interpretation. I love hearing how particular songs are connecting with others in unique ways that I may not expect. I still feel very much inside of River House creatively—I haven’t written very much since. The common fear writers have is, “Have I written my last good song? Are there any more?” So I have glimpses of that fleeting fear, but life has proven so far that there are always new expressions around the corner; it’s just hard to think of them before their time. Drew: Everybody’s always in a certain season of life, and it’s no use trying to live in another one. Taylor: Right. I think the best advice I’ve ever received is to simply be faithful to what’s in front of you. When I worry too much about the next album, how long it will take to put out something new, when I’ll be able to play at larger venues, whatever the thing is that you can target as you look at other people’s progress and compare yourself—not that there’s no place for making real goals—but there’s always such great peace and good medicine in asking what’s in front of me right now, what audience the Lord has given me, what are the songs, and be faithful to that. I love playing house concerts, these smaller, intimate shows we’ve been doing, and I think it will continue to look like that for me for a little while. The shape of my work has felt like going into new living rooms and churches, making friends, and doing it again and again. You develop relationships along the way, come back and visit people, and so on. I like that vision for a music career, and I’m glad to be in the middle of it. You can listen to the opening track from River House, “Everything,” below and purchase tickets for tonight’s Local Show here.https://rabbitroom.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/05/01-Everything-1.mp3

I grew up in the foothills of North Carolina. My childhood was surrounded by winding creeks, endless tobacco fields, and those mystical mountains always on the horizon. I could see it all from the car window on my way to school and from the back deck of my parents’ yard. I could see that the world was big and beautiful; it was wide and deep, full of mystery and wonder. But I could see it—from the car, from the deck, from books and movies and photos—only as others went on ahead of me. You see, I was born with a disease called Spinal Muscular Dystrophy, which renders me disabled and bound to a wheelchair. And while my parents were amazing in giving me unique experiences and being creative with accessibility, there were just some things we hadn’t gotten around to yet, namely those open, endless fields. I shared this thought once with my friend Tom on an early summer road trip. “If I was able-bodied,” I told my friend, “I’d pull my car off the highway and just take off on foot into those fields.” “What then?” he asked. “Then,” I said, “I’d get out to the middle, and I’d stand there. That’s it. Just stand, by myself, out in the open of opens—no interference, no distraction, just the field below and sky above. I think then, maybe—just maybe—I could finally feel free. I could breathe deep, calm my heart, clear my head.” We decided to get a group of guys together and backpack around Europe. The trick, though, was that I was the backpack. Kevan Chandler This was my dream, and I had imagined it a thousand times. The run through a field, the walk through a wood, standing out amid the color green. I had stretched my mind past breaking to set myself there, day after day, night after night, dream after dream. This was the closest I would come, I figured, to that experience this side of eternity. But Tom had something else in mind. Two years ago, he and I had a crazy idea. We decided to get a group of guys together and backpack around Europe. The trick, though, was that I was the backpack. Tom and three other friends carried me in a specially designed backpack for a three-week adventure none of us would ever forget. We danced in the streets of Paris, we explored an ancient monastery off the coast of Ireland, and we even hiked the English countryside. Our host in England was a man named Mike. He boasted a long neck and even longer nose, looking a lot like Wallace from “Wallace and Grommet,” and he had the accent to match it. He was a property manager for his little town, so everyone knew him and treated him a bit like a godfather for the area. As we passed through town with him in the afternoons, he’d shake hands with everyone we met and greet them by name. And when we were out without him, the townsfolk called us “Mike’s friends” with smiles and pleasantries. Mike also volunteered with the National Trust, helping tend to the land around his childhood home, so one morning, he decided we should go for a hike to see the area. A six mile hike that promised woods, hills, valleys, fences, cows, and a pub at the end. So, we set off. We crept through woods draped in gray haze, and I could’ve sworn I saw Robin Hood slip between the trees. We hopped over old fences from one pasture to another. And the guys steadied one another as we scaled muddy inclines, cows watching us from their lounging spots in the grass to our left. Mike, Tom, and two others took turns carrying me in the backpack as we saw the great world of English legend and lore. “Nearly there,” Mike announced as we broke through another forest edge. He pointed to a knoll up ahead. “Just over that hill we’ll head back into town.” I was on Tom’s back for this last leg of the journey. And as we crested the hill, bright and green, Tom paused and looked around. The woods stood at our backs and to our right, fields to our left, and before us, maybe a mile down the hill, stood quietly the town and pub. Above us, the sky was a striking blue with tattered white clouds passing by like driftwood. “This will do just fine,” Tom said. I took a deep breath and agreed. It was a beautiful sight. But that was only half of what he meant. “Guys,” he beckoned, and the others came to help dismount me from his shoulders. They set me, in the backpack, on the ground, feet in the tall grass, my arms resting on my knees, facing the town ahead and the hill country beyond. Then, they left. “Where are you guys going,” I asked as they moseyed off behind me. “We’ll be over by those trees,” Tom called back. “When will you be back?” I asked. “In a bit,” he said simply. “We’re in a field, man. This is your chance.” I was suddenly alone. By myself. In the open of opens. As my friends’ voices trailed off behind me, I settled at last into the truth of where I was sitting, of what I was doing. And it may not have been my exact vision—running into a field and, of course, standing. But I was in a field and I was alone. I took in a deep breath, scanning the horizon, the sky, and even the grass around me. I let my sight sink into the trees, and I watched the clouds like they were passersby on a city street. The town below lay tranquil while beyond it the hills brimmed with centuries of life. And though they were still far off, as such places have been all my life, they were tangible now because I was among them, part of their existence. I was sitting atop one of their number and so I sat atop them all. And on this hillside, my heart calmed, my head cleared, and I felt free. We hope to demonstrate that life is full of possibility and hope, that disability doesn’t mean inability. Kevan Chandler Since returning from Europe, I have been working with Tom and dozens of volunteers to make this experience of freedom a reality for other folks with disabilities. A lot of this starts with redefining accessibility as a cooperative effort, people helping people. An amazing example of this is in the work of a nonprofit called Show Hope. They work tirelessly in care centers to serve orphans who live with severe disabilities, specifically in China. The team and I have the privilege of visiting these care centers this year, in August and September, to spend time with the children and be an encouragement to them, as well as the staff and their surrounding communities. In meeting with these kids and their caregivers, we hope to demonstrate that life is full of possibility and hope, that disability doesn’t mean inability. We all have limitations, but through creativity, courage, and community, we can move beyond those limitations and embrace our full potential. We are excited to take on this new kind of adventure, giving back to others, but we need your financial help to make this happen. Join us by following along on social media and spreading the word. We want you to be part of the experience, part of the story. You are invited to help “carry Kevan” and in doing so, carry so many more. [Learn about about We Carry Kevan at their website here. And click here to visit their GoFundMe campaign and help them get to China.]

“On a scale of one to ten, what level is the pain?” the doctor in the emergency room asks me. “Six?” I say. No, it’s more than that, I think to myself. At least a seven. But it’s not a hot pain, like when I sprained my ankle, or a burning pain, like the time I was stung by a hundred yellow jackets. No, it’s a dull pain that started in the morning and has lasted all day. I didn’t even know I was in pain until I started throwing up. Then I was dizzy and couldn’t talk. *** “How painful is the memory?” my therapist asks me. “On a scale from one to ten.” Damn those numbers. “About a six?” I say. Now I’m just making stuff up. I pick a random number that seems right. How do you rate the pain of a memory on a scale of ten numbers? Could we do five stars instead? How about recommended memories? If you like this one, you’ll be sure to like that one? How about a thumbs up or down? Ebert style. *** In the ER, behind a curtain (because they ran out of rooms) the doctor exams me with a nurse standing by. A ruptured cyst, they tell me. I cry. I blubber all over myself. Not because of the cyst—but because I now know I wasn’t crazy, I wasn’t being a wimp—something was really wrong. Something that is more painful than childbirth, they say. The doctor takes my hand, “I’m sorry you had to wait so long.” Seven hours in the waiting room, trying to not move. Trying to hold perfectly still. Don’t speak. Don’t move. Ignore the pain. *** “Now, how strong is the memory? On a scale from one to ten.” After a session of EMDR. I’m a people pleaser, a middle child—I say a five. I want him to think he’s accomplished something. He’s a kind man. And maybe it is better—the memory. We found a lie and replaced it with a truth. We made progress. We brought people into the scene. Things were said. Stuff was accomplished. *** At a party, a friend and I sit in the corner. “How would you rate your life right now on a scale from one to ten?” I laugh. I laugh because of the question. I laugh because I’m in the middle of writing this essay. In some areas it’s a nine. In some a three or a four. Can I even evaluate my own life? Am I allowed to? How can you rate a life that isn’t finished yet, a life that’s tangled up like the yarn on the underside of a rug? Back at the hospital, after the drugs (thank God for the drugs), they ask me again. The scale. What number. I start to say three, maybe four, but then I say no—it’s about the same—I just don’t care about it anymore. The male nurse laughs. He knows. I feel so good. So at peace lying there at three in the morning in the hospital bed. They can take all night if they want. The pain is so far away. It’s a moon traveling around a distant planet. I can’t even see it with my naked eye anymore. My mind is calm. My headache is gone too—a nice side effect. I’ve never felt this good in my life. People are looking after me. There’s a nurse and a doctor assigned to me. They do scans and give me a prescription and send me home. I call an Uber because it’s five in the morning and I don’t want to be that friend. *** I walk out of the counselor’s office. It’s like we’re digging at a weed that is as deep as the Pacific. I feel worse than when I came in. Isn’t it supposed to be the other way around? *** My friend and I sit in the corner and talk about our lives. We guess at how they are supposed to go, and how they could have gone. I go home. I take the pills. I rest. I watch Netflix. I walk slowly. I try to heal. Jesus didn’t ask for numbers. People came to him broken and left healed. Ten to zero. Instant. Immediate. “The old is gone; the new has come.” Are we allowed to be on a sliding scale of wholeness? Slipping back and forth, up and down, forward two steps, back three. Paul says suffering leads to glory. I wonder what glory is and if it’s worth it. Hetty White Or is the scale a figment of our imagination? Are we perfectly well and just can’t wrap our tiny minds around the brilliant light of our own glory? Already. Not yet. Although it tarries, wait for it. It will not tarry. “What do you do when you are falling apart?” a friend asks me. “I curl up like a baby on my bedroom floor, bury my face in the carpet, and put on music. It’s the only thing I can do.” Paul says suffering leads to glory. I wonder what glory is and if it’s worth it. Job got replacement children for the way he handled his own suffering. He also found God. Will he ever get his first children back? Maybe in the same way that you can’t rate pain you can’t rate glory. Paul says they are “uncomparable”—our glory will so exceed our pain. By ten? By a hundred? By a million? Malcolm Smith (and Jeremiah) says that Jesus entered our pain, became our pain, endured our pain. Our very own unique pain became his. And now we have the Holy Spirit. The great Comforter. We are “in-Goded.” I wonder if the Holy Spirit is like the drugs at the hospital, or like the counselor, digging, digging, digging. Or maybe he’s both. Maybe he knocks us out with love and grace like an anesthesiologist, so he can do his awful surgery undercover. The drug rehab orlando helps victims who fall prey to the abuse of drugs with their expertise. If you asked Jesus on the cross, what level is the pain? I wonder what he would have answered. He experienced all of our pain at once. All of our physical, emotional, and mental pain at once. Off the scale—I think that’s the phrase for it. And does he remember his pain at all, or does he only think of us? He got us out of it. Are we worth it? If so, then surely we don’t know what we truly are and what we will become. I wonder if we will remember our pain at all, or if it’ll be like a strange dream that we once awoke from terrified—screaming and kicking in the middle of the night—but which has long since slipped away from our memory in the brightness of the day. Or like the moon of a distant planet that we can barely make out with our naked eyes.

I’ve gotten a few questions lately about how to start writing a book or story or essay. For many writers, the blank page or blank screen is a terror and a seemingly insurmountable barrier. So how do you get started? There are a million substitutes for starting. You can outline, you can puzzle out plot problems, you can research. For years I’ve been wrestling around with a particularly sticky point-of-view problem for a novel that I “want” to write. I put “want” in quotation marks because if I really wanted to write it, I would be writing it instead of wrestling around with point-of-view problems. So, again, how do you get started? You start wherever you can start. What captured your imagination in the first place? What image or idea made you want to write a particular story or essay? Start writing there, and see what happens. CS Lewis said the Narnia books began with the image of a lamp-post in a forest. He started following that image, and it grew into The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe and eventually The Chronicles of Narnia. When I began writing The Bark of the Bog Owl, I started with a scene near the end. But the scene was particularly vivid to me, while the rest of the story was still a little hazy. That scene was a way into the story; as I wrote what I could write, things started to sharpen up from there. In the case of The Charlatan’s Boy, the first sentence I wrote turned out to be the first sentence of the finished product: “I don’t remember one thing about the day I was born.” I wrote that sentence in a composition book, and the story unspooled from there. But that seems to be the exception rather than the rule. Perhaps the most important thing in writing is to get your pen moving and keep your pen moving. You’ve got to get yourself immersed in the work and trust that good things are going to happen once the neurons start firing. To do that, you have to give yourself permission to write badly. If you sit with your pen poised over the page and wait until perfectly formed sentences present themselves to your mind, you will be sitting there for a long time. Or maybe not; maybe you’ll sit there a short time and then give up and go fold some laundry or check Facebook again. In any case, you won’t write. I’m talking here about coming to terms with the inner critic. You know that voice—the one that says, That sentence isn’t good enough. That idea isn’t interesting enough. Nobody’s going to want to read that. People who give writing advice talk about how important it is to silence the inner critic. I get what they mean, but I think it’s more helpful to say, Don’t let the inner critic silence you. We have a name, after all, for people who have successfully silenced the inner critic. We call those people lunatics. If the inner critic is causing you to experience crippling shame about your failure to write like you want to write, then ok—maybe you should silence the inner critic. Your issue, in that case, goes a lot deeper than writing issues (indeed, a lot of writing issues go deeper than writing issues). But if at all possible, I suggest that you try this: instead of thinking of the inner critic as your enemy, think of the inner critic is a friend who means well but needs to be told to shut up every now and then. To illustrate a healthy relationship between the writer and the inner critic, I composed the following skit: The scene opens on a WRITER tapping away at laptop. INNER CRITIC enters and looks over WRITER’s shoulder. INNER CRITIC That sentence isn’t any good. WRITER (cheerfully) Oh, I know. It’s a disaster, isn’t it? WRITER continues tapping away at laptop. INNER CRITIC That idea is pretty obvious, isn’t it? WRITER (patiently) Well, sure. But I’m never going to get to the brilliant ideas if I don’t live with the less brilliant ideas for a little while. Besides, I don’t see you coming up with brilliant, original ideas. INNER CRITIC (petulantly) That’s not my job, is it? WRITER Precisely. WRITER continues tapping away at laptop. INNER CRITIC Nobody’s going to want to read this, you know. WRITER (less patiently) No duh. Nobody ever wants to read a first draft. INNER CRITIC (sullenly) I was just trying to help. WRITER I realize that. And after I get a few pages written and it’s time to edit, you’re going to be a huge help. But right now you’re not helping. If you’ll just go away for a little while, I’ll bring you a big pile that we can work on together. You’ll find tons to criticize, and probably a few things that even you will like. I love what you do. But right now I need some alone time. INNER CRITIC You love what I do? Do you mean that? WRITER Absolutely. Now, run along. Exit INNER CRITIC, buoyantly.WRITER continues tapping away at laptop. I often tell my students that it’s quicker to write three drafts than to write one. I’m not just being clever. The inner critic is going to make an appearance one way or another (at least you better hope it does). You can wrestle around with the inner critic at the beginning, staring at yawning blankness until a good sentence comes to you, then staring at the next five inches of blankness until another good sentence comes to you, or you can tell the inner critic just to wait a cotton-picking minute while you revel in the freedom to crank out prose that might be terrible or might be brilliant; it’s not your job to determine the quality of the work while you’re writing. You can figure that out later, after you’ve invited the inner critic back into the room (and please, please don’t neglect to invite the inner critic back into the room). Which brings me to a corollary: If you are comfortable writing badly, you also have to be comfortable throwing away bad writing. I know you might have worked hard for that bad writing. I know it hurts. But there’s always more where that came from. Creativity is not a reservoir, but a river. It keeps flowing. If you keep the pen moving, good things will happen. I know it takes faith to believe that. Have faith. Be of good cheer. If you enjoyed this excellent advice from Jonathan Rogers, consider subscribing to his weekly letter, The Habit, to receive lots more.

One of the most meaningful moments of my life was last year at the Western Wall in Jerusalem. I wasn’t supposed to, but I used my phone to record the sounds of the Jews singing as the sun set that Sabbath, marking the beginning of the Jewish new year. I wanted to see the King in the New Jerusalem so badly I literally felt a pain in my chest. At the end of Fiddler on the Roof, one of my favorite musicals, the displaced Jews say to one another, “Next year in Jerusalem.” It’s a phrase often used at the end of a Passover meal, pointing to their longing for home, and it sums up my own longing for the New Jerusalem well. You can pick up Resurrection Letters: Volume I in the Rabbit Room Store and listen to “Maybe Next Year” here:https://rabbitroom.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/05/06-Maybe-Next-Year.mp3

At the beginning of November, I began a weekly habit of posting art to my social media feeds—Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram. I call it Art Wednesday. Every Wednesday, over the course of the day, I post a series of eight to ten paintings based on an artist or a theme. I name each work and usually offer a small comment about each one. I began this weekly ritual before I had a vision for what I was actually trying to do. It started because I had been to The Museum of Modern Art and The Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City, and wanted to share some pictures I took of paintings I’ve loved since my youth. But I found the act of sharing art to be good for my soul. Curating a weekly art series became for me a source of comfort, peace, and even worship. Creating an Art Wednesday series usually involves interacting with Scripture in some way, or at least thinking through some theological truth. I sense the Lord’s presence and His pleasure as I search, sort, write about, and schedule the art. I’ve had time to reflect on why I do this, and I thought I’d share some of those thoughts here. We need to interact with beauty. Life, both individually and collectively, can get dark, and we need light. This can be an ugly world, and we need to be reminded of its wonder and glory. We’re surrounded by the profane, and we need to lash ourselves to the mast of what is sacred. Not long ago, I was doing some research which involved studying Genesis 2-3, in which the Lord tells Adam not to eat from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. If he did, God told him, he would die. The serpent came along and told Adam and Eve that God was withholding something from them—the ability to be like God, knowing good and evil. This fruit, the serpent said, would open their eyes. They didn’t want to go through life blind to reality, did they? So they ate. Both of them. And their eyes were open to good and evil. There are a million profoundly deep theological pools a person can dive into from the platform of this passage of Scripture. I want to highlight one. It is hard on the human heart to know as much as we do about evil—the evil in this world and the evil in us. Because of God’s grace, we only see it in part, as through a glass darkly. For this I am grateful. But still, we see more than we’re made to. I know that for me, the unrestricted access I have to everything that is wrong with the world can be a light so blinding that I lose the ability to see, or the capacity to empathize well, with the real and present struggles and sorrows of those in my own community. Russ Ramsey These are unprecedented times. Anyone who uses social media or is connected to the internet has access to information that is free, immediate, and global. We see a steady stream of all sorts of evil, suffering, and catastrophe in the world. We know more than we ought to know about celebrity marriages and affairs. We have access to stories and hot takes about disgraced clergy and prospering politicians, natural disasters and deliberately crafted genocides, cases of abuse and miscarriages of justice. I want to be careful here, because much good comes from living in an information age. People have done amazing things by using technology to push back against the darkness of social injustice. I am thankful for how technology gives a voice to the defenseless, how abuse victims are able to share their stories and find solidarity with others, how funds are quickly gathered for people in need, and all the other ways evil deeds done in secret are exposed to the light because of technology. With that said, here’s my question. Have you ever wondered if we are built to handle this much knowledge of evil? What effect is this having on the human heart? I know that for me, the unrestricted access I have to everything that is wrong with the world can be a light so blinding that I lose the ability to see, or the capacity to empathize well, with the real and present struggles and sorrows of those in my own community. I don’t want to become a blind and numb media consumer with a three second attention span because my mind and eyes are continually feasting on a diet of evil, cynicism, scandal, and hot takes. And some days, that’s exactly what I am. I started Art Wednesday to introduce beauty into the media stream. I need to be online. My work, family, and life are such that going off the grid is not an option. I need to learn how to live with it and in it. Today, the knowledge of evil is less like a tree and more like a stream, and everyone I know is in the stream. We are surrounded by it, and, to borrow a term from my friend David Dark, we’re soaking in it. In other words, we’re all affected by it. With Art Wednesday, I’m trying to spend time with what is good, and share that knowledge with others. In Confessions, Augustine wrote, “I have learnt to love you late, Beauty at once so ancient and so new! I have learnt to love you late! You were within me, and I was in the world outside myself.” Art Wednesday is an exercise in learning to love beauty. It is an exercise in cultivating an inner hunger for beauty, rather than spending our lives living in the world outside ourselves. It is never too late to learn to love beauty. If you want a dose of weekly beauty to show up in your social media feeds, feel free to follow me on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram. Or maybe you can bring art into your own personal circles of influence. I certainly don’t own the rights to sharing beautiful images and thoughts on social media (or to #ArtWednesday, for that matter), and nothing would please me more than to see others take up the habit of sharing what is true, beautiful, and good in their own way. As of now, I plan to post 52 consecutive Art Wednesdays, one year’s worth, and then reevaluate. I’m over halfway there, and I find that creating each week’s series of posts continues to be a source of joy and worship. I didn’t start doing this to build a following or sell a book (as of now, I have nothing of the sort in the works.) I do it because I like it. It is truly a labor of love. To all of you who follow along, thank you. Every week I get to show and talk about art and beauty with my friends. And this, I know, is very good.

How do you portray a villain like Thanos? When your heroes have faced and defeated the god of mischief, the dark elves, a heartless celestial, an other-dimensional dark lord, and the goddess of death, how do you present your ultimate villain as a threat and not as a standard-model Big Bad Guy of the Week? I wasn’t sure if Avengers: Infinity War could pull it off, but it did. Before we discuss why, though, you should know that there are MAJOR SPOILERS ahead. Seriously, do not continue reading if you haven’t seen the movie. Almost from the beginning, superhero movies fell into a predictable pattern: a hero acquires powers. A villain becomes a threat. The third act is a big battle in which the hero almost loses, but ultimately wins. We grew desensitized to the pattern long ago, and although the powerful villain is still a mainstay of the superhero movie, that’s not why we keep coming back. We come back for the heroes. So how do you portray a villain as powerful as Thanos? How do you deliver on the ten-year build-up of the Infinity Stones? How do you raise the stakes yet again without falling into cliche or hyperbole? Well, defeating the Hulk at the start of the film helps. Ending the film without a victory does too. But Infinity War does something even more radical—something that turned the entire film upside down. This is not an Avengers film. This is a Thanos film. This is the hero's journey subverted; this is a villain's journey, which I didn't even know was a thing. Jonny Jimison Infinity War doesn’t waste time with origin stories, side quests or extraneous story arcs. From the first moment of the film to the last, every scene is about Thanos’ goal: either Thanos acting on it or the Avengers responding to it. Thanos acquires powers. The Avengers become a threat. The third act is a big battle where the villain almost loses, but ultimately wins. This is the hero’s journey subverted; this is a villain’s journey, which I didn’t even know was a thing. We don’t root for Thanos, but he is truly the protagonist of the film. The Avengers are the antagonists, the obstacles in his way. By developing him as a central character and not simply a challenge for the heroes to overcome, Infinity War turns Thanos into the most imposing, compelling, downright horrifying villain in the Marvel Cinematic Universe. But that’s just the external conflict. What about the internal struggle of the characters? What themes does the story explore? What questions do the characters face? This is where Infinity War’s hyper-focus on Thanos’ mission really shines. Thanos has a clear goal: bring balance to the galaxy. He believes he can achieve this through destruction of half the population, so he has no problem sacrificing innocent lives—he even kills the one person that he cares for, trading her life for the sake of his mission. Contrast that with his opposition. Their goal is even more desperate: stop Thanos from committing genocide on an unfathomable scale. But unlike Thanos, they let things get in the way of their objective. Gamora begs Star-Lord to kill her so that she can’t assist Thanos’ mission, but Star-Lord hesitates. Vision insists that Wanda kill him to keep the stone out of Thanos’ fist, but she refuses. As with Hamlet's brooding meditation on mortality or Macbeth's inexorable path of obsession, Infinity War takes a deep dive into a single, troubling aspect of the human condition. The dilemma of the film is summed up by Steve Rogers' insistence that 'We don't trade lives.' Jonny Jimison Gamora weakens when she sees her sister being tortured. Doctor Strange bargains for Tony Stark’s life. Over and over, our heroes are faced with the cost of human lives, and unlike their enemy, they balk. Because Thanos’ mission is the heart of the film, Infinity War becomes a study of his objective: murder for the greater good. Why compare this film to Shakespearean tragedy? As with Hamlet’s brooding meditation on mortality or Macbeth’s inexorable path of obsession, Infinity War takes a deep dive into a single, troubling aspect of the human condition. The dilemma of the film is summed up by Steve Rogers’ insistence that “We don’t trade lives.” Infinity War is many things. It’s certainly not the most accessible Marvel film, relying on familiarity of the past films and ending on an uncertain cliffhanger. Its brutal ending has the potential to alienate the audience or invite despair. But what I found is a film that challenged my thinking in the best way, and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since. I feel certain that there is astounding redemption yet to take place in my life—redemption that I (and the mad titans that ravage me) cannot see in my darkest moments, but that has already been written in the wider scope of eternity. Jonny Jimison If Thanos exemplifies the hero’s journey that I so admire, do I need to examine my heroes more closely? Do I need to examine my own missions and motives? Or do I need to re-evaluate the journey itself? Do I have the commitment to pay any cost for my goals, like Thanos? Or, like Steve Rogers, do I possess the tenacity to commit myself to moral principles even when circumstances call for drastic measures? Standing outside the film, in the real world, I know that several of our dead heroes have sequels in production, so I know that somehow those characters will return. But inside the story, the surviving Avengers don’t know that, and neither does Thanos. I feel certain that there is astounding redemption yet to take place in my life—redemption that I (and the mad titans that ravage me) cannot see in my darkest moments, but that has already been written in the wider scope of eternity. If you mourn for fallen Avengers, mourn away. I mourn with you. Fictional or not, when someone I care about is lost, grieving is the right reaction. Fictional or not, when I witness an act of evil, horror is the right reaction. But grieving doesn’t mean losing hope. There is still redemption to be had in this broken multiverse. If there is a way to undo the damage Thanos has done, you had better believe that Steve Rogers and his team of Avengers will find it. Meanwhile, there has never been a better time for Wakanda to step out of its isolation and share its wealth and technology to aid a devastated planet. And don’t forget, we know something that Thanos doesn’t — Help is on the way.

Like me, some of you are old enough to remember the “funny papers.” There’s not a lot I miss about reading a daily paper, but I do miss the comics, and especially on Sundays. Back in the now-hallowed ’80s we’d wander home from church and sit on the porch ruffling through the full-color pages in search of Peanuts, Calvin & Hobbes, The Far Side, and B. C. while waiting for the pot roast and mashed potatoes to hit the table. I miss that. And what is Silly-Putty even for without the funny papers? I’ve wished for years that the Rabbit Room had its own comic strip featuring a quirky cast of characters, but I was never able to envision exactly what it should be. Then, a few months ago, a light bulb went on. It occurred to me that over the past ten years, a whole community of quirky characters has developed all around me. And maybe, I thought, that was it. Maybe that was the comic. I shot Jonny Jimison an email and laid out the idea—he was in. I’ve been a fan of Jonny’s work for a long time and it’s been a delight to feature his Getting Ethan comic strip here on the Rabbit Room (not to mention his Dragon Lord Saga graphic novel series). So this seemed like a perfect next step. And here we are. I have no idea where this might lead, but Rabbit Trails are, at least, a good place to begin. Enjoy. Take a minute to click over to Jonny’s Patreon page and support his work. And share the comic on your social media feeds!

The Orchardist’s Janie Townsend recently wrote a compelling reflection on our first Supper & Songs show, specifically what it was like to play the roles of host, event organizer, and performer in the same evening, the low-level panic of watching water refuse to boil while anticipating a large swath of hungry guests, and the meticulous, often un-Instagrammable pursuit of community through meal and song. You can read that post here. Meanwhile, we have a video to share with you, a compilation of clips to give you a taste of what our first event was like. It was a challenge and a gift to share that evening with friends old and new. The goal of Supper & Songs in the long run is to sustain a recurring space in Nashville not just for great music, but also for the practices of hospitality, eating together, and getting to know one another. We’re so grateful to The Rabbit Room for sponsoring these events and setting the gold standard for what it means to build community around thoughtful, creative work. We’ll have a handful more of these events throughout 2018, each at a different home or venue, featuring a different guest artist, and serving a different meal. When you attend, you’re not just a member of our audience; you’re our honored guest! The next event will be the evening of May 14th in the Crieve Hall area, and tickets are now available for purchase here. You can learn more about Supper & Songs and The Orchardist at our website. Meanwhile, Liz Vice is excellent at her craft and was a joy to share the (figurative) stage with. You can listen to her music and check out her website here.

My friend Russ Ramsey, who was a pastoral consultant for this album, once preached a communion sermon on 1 Corinthians 11. You can pick up Resurrection Letters: Volume I in the Rabbit Room Store and listen to “Remember and Proclaim” here:https://rabbitroom.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/04/05-Remember-and-Proclaim.mp3

If you wander through downtown Knoxville on a Wednesday or Saturday morning from May to November, you will likely chance upon the Market Square Farmers’ Market, and what a happy accident it will be. Your eye will feast upon a kaleidoscope of homegrown vegetables. Heirloom tomatoes bejewel the boxes and crates, their variegated skins like the cloud-cover of exotic planets. Peppers of all sizes and colors spill out from baskets, drawing the brave and foolhardy with mythic names like Carolina Reaper and Trinidad Scorpion. Greens of every shade festoon the tables. Several years ago, in a fit of either wisdom or brazenness, the market decided to issue its own currency. If you go shopping now with a card instead of cash, you can visit the central tent first and purchase a few stamped wooden tokens labeled ‘Market Money.’ Then you’re all set. You want kale or leeks? Hand your Market Money to the tan-shouldered lady who picked them that morning, and she’ll hand you a bag of fresh produce. Buying some basil plants for the garden? Same deal. I love this system for two reasons. First, I don’t have to carry cash, which tends to burn a hole in my pocket. Second, Market Money lets you know you have verged upon different territory. Like Lesotho or Vatican City, you have left the mere confines of the surrounding country and entered another land. As if the bright arrays of kingly garden fare aren’t enough to lend a sense of place, Market Money puts a full stop at the end of the idea. When we offer the token of kindness to others, especially when they expect an exchange of money, we let them know that they have verged upon another land. Here, their money can buy nothing, but if they offer their need, they can dine on the richest of fare. Adam Whipple I love visiting places that require different money. I took great joy, the times I went to Scotland, in making the changeover before I left. Not only the look, but the feel and the sound of the currency were different. The metal jangled in my hands and pockets with a meatier, more muted timbre than nickels or quarters. The engravings and fonts were curious and beguiling. More than the plane tickets or the looming dates, it was this foreign clink in my pocket that let me know I was no longer going to be in America. Then, upon arriving at Heathrow in desperate need of coffee, I had to remind myself to pull out the correct money. You try and spend a few dollars, and they look at you like you’re an idiot. Your money’s no good. More and more, I’ve found that kindness works in this way. My elderly neighbor asked me for help with his TV speakers. I’m fairly inept with technology, but I toted a mess of cables over to his house to see if I could fix the problem. Long story short, nothing I did worked, but I left him a few likely cords, hoping that if this end were plugged into that jack, and this button pushed, and so forth, he might happen upon the right combination and get sound out of the contraption. He tried to slip me twenty bucks. It wasn’t the first time he had done so. I’m certainly not against being paid for little helps here or there (especially if I’m actually successful at fixing the problem), but if it’s not an official job, I can easily do it for nothing. In those situations, the kindness of laboring for free works like a foreign currency. People get a sense of being in a different place. Let us be honest: we love getting paid. It’s wonderful and blessed to be able to feed one’s family and earn one’s living in this world. There should never be any shame associated with a decent and honest living. Yet that is not the most elemental remission of which we are a part. The Kingdom of Christ and its economy of grace run deeper. When we offer the token of kindness to others, especially when they expect an exchange of money, we let them know that they have verged upon another land. Here, their money can buy nothing, but if they offer their need, they can dine on the richest of fare. If we don't give our needs as tokens of payment, we cannot have what is offered. In the Kingdom's economy of kindness, our old money is no good. Adam Whipple Years ago, the church my wife and I attended helped us patch up our house. With smiles on their faces, our friends scuffled around the crawlspace with me, tearing out molded insulation and spraying chemicals estimated by the State of California to cause unseemly demise. Over the months, they also helped us with childcare when I had to be out of town. They delighted in our help at times too, saying, “Thank you for serving,” something I hadn’t heard before. By degrees, they taught us the barter system of helplessness-for-help, the barter system of Christ. At one point, our friend Michael pointed out a peculiar fact. “The one thing you brought to the congregation,” he said, “was your needs.” That was the other side of the coin. Americans are often great at helping. If you’ve got a natural disaster, we’ll send a team of skilled workers to get you on your feet. If some tragedy befalls you, we can easily show up with extra meals and ready hands. This is well and good. Often, though, the people most prepared to give help are the least prepared to receive it. The other face of the Kingdom economy is accepting grace and mercy. People who cannot accept help cannot be a part of the holy barter system. If we don’t give our needs as tokens of payment, we cannot have what is offered. In the Kingdom’s economy of kindness, our old money is no good. Sally Lloyd-Jones has a great line about Naaman the Syrian in The Jesus Storybook Bible: “All Naaman needed was nothing. It was the one thing Naaman didn’t have.” To participate here, you must bring your need. “Come buy wine and milk, without money and without cost! Why spend money on what is not bread, and your labor on what does not satisfy? Listen, listen to me, and eat what is good, and your soul will delight in the richest of fare.” -Isaiah 55 I know altruism is in vogue these days, but when we can serve others with little or no fanfare, those who get to see it can be well blessed by our work. When kindness is marked by the narrative or fragrance of the Gospel, lending it backstory and depth, it becomes the jangle of Kingdom treasure in the hand, ringing with the sound of a land where we bring our needs and find grace.

Tomorrow night’s Local Show is going to be something special: Randall Goodgame, Buddy Greene, Christopher Williams, and Jordy Searcy. Chances are you’re familiar with most if not all of these folks, but we’d like to take a moment to introduce you specifically to Jordy Searcy. He’s a class act, and an all around excellent songwriter, vocalist, guitarist, and performer. If you crave tightly written lyrics put to catchy melodies, lots of energy coupled with quiet, significant moments, and an altogether smooth delivery of pertinent subject matter such as race, class, and the rapid gentrification of Nashville, look no further. Here’s a video of his favorite song he has ever written, “Explaining Jesus.” Tickets for the show are available here.