It has been interesting for me, over the last ten years or so, to witness the increased popularity of the word “community” in Christian circles. As I have grown up, I have noticed within myself and other millennial Christians a heightened desire for a life shared with and shaped by others. We are finally beginning to see that the rugged American individualism so glorified all these years may be doing more harm than good, and that a Christian faith unaffected by the presence or absence of a community of believers is no Christian faith at all. We are tired of masking our loneliness with our carefully curated social media profiles and “personal relationships with Jesus.” And yet it seems that my generation has not been able to rid themselves fully of the desire for autonomy, because, as I see it, we lack a real understanding of what community actually is. Notice how Wendell Berry, the patron saint of community, defines it in The Long-Legged House: A community is the mental and spiritual condition of knowing that the place is shared, and that the people who share the place define and limit the possibilities of each other’s lives. It is the knowledge that people have of each other, their concern for each other, their trust in each other, the freedom with which they come and go among themselves. Perhaps the most important component of this definition, at least with respect to contemporary needs and concerns, is that it revolves around a shared place. This stands in stark contrast to the kinds of “communities” in which we place ourselves today—artistic, academic, political, theological, and the rest. Community, as we functionally understand it, is a voluntary collection of individuals around a common interest or persuasion. Place isn’t accounted for in this definition, and doesn’t really need to be. And that’s a problem. Any definition of community without a concern for place is incomplete—and ultimately harmful. What is it about a shared place that is so central to community? Andrew Russell Why? What is it about a shared place that is so central to community? There are a few answers, to be sure, but the one I want to focus on here is that a shared place is one of those things in life we don’t get to choose for ourselves (at least at the beginnings of our lives). In the age of highways and fifteen-hour flights across the world, it is easy to forget that we aren’t afforded the luxury of choosing where we are born—and that, for the vast majority of people throughout history, where you were born was where you lived your life. While automobiles, cell phones, and the internet make us feel unlimited, a true community constantly presents us with our limitations. We do not get to choose our hometowns, our families, our neighbors, or our histories. And if we look at the ways in which we’re currently trying to “live in community,” we’ll discover that we’re attempting to get the “pros” of community without any of the perceived “cons.” True, we’ve realized that we can’t live alone, and that we want and need our lives to be shaped by others. But in choosing the specific “communities” we want to be a part of, we are betraying the fact that we still, deep down, want to be the center of our own universes. We only want to be shaped by others in the ways that we want to be shaped by others. And that isn’t community. Rather than being something centered on a shared perspective or idea, community is rooted in place—and, deeper still, shared humanity and history. Community is not an echo chamber for a group of politicians or painters. Community is sitting in the living room with a group of relatives with whom you have nothing in common and recognizing that they are worth your time. It is staying close to home because Dad can’t work as well as he used to. It is tense political conversations, school plays, and funerals. It is a God who identified himself with a people who wanted nothing to do with him, and united himself to them against all odds. Any sort of community that avoids personal discomfort or inconvenience cannot be honestly described by the term. The truth of the matter is we don’t get to decide who our people are—our people are our people. It’s a painful thing. But like all the greatest stories and pleasures in life, pain is a necessary ingredient. And if we are really committed to defying the American idols of independence and self-interest, we must embrace the pain that comes with the pleasure. The unavoidable reality of true community is that we don’t always get what we want—but what we want isn’t always what we need. To choose daily the people, places, and limitations that we have received—this is what constitutes community. This is what makes life worth living. [If you are interested in reading more of Andrew’s writing, as well as that of his insightful seminary friends, you can visit their blog, The Contrarian Collective, here.]

We’ve got a slew of good stuff on sale this weekend, including signed books and CDs, bundles, crazy prices, aprons, and posters—AND every order we ship will get a free CD or book! Here’s the rundown: BOOKS -Book Club/Classroom Bundles of Henry & the Chalk Dragon (specially priced bundles with a copy of the curriculum guide) -Gift Bundles of Every Moment Holy include downloadable hand-drawn quotes from the book formatted as printable (and colorable) cards –Dr. Critchlore’s School for Minions paperbacks $5 –Dr. Critchlore’s School for Minions hardbacks $10 –Word of Mouse hardback $8 –Green Ember Series Bundle $25 –For the Beauty of the Church $10 –Life’s Too Short to Pretend You’re Not Religious $10 –Through a Screen Darkly $10 -A limited number of signed editions of the following books: The Fiddler’s Gun Fiddler’s Green Henry & the Chalk Dragon The Wilderking Trilogy Monster in the Hollows (limited edition hardcover) Wingfeather Tales (signed by Andrew Peterson) The Angel Knew Papa and the Dog Wishes of the Fish King Helena Sorenson’s Shiloh, Seeker, and Songbird PLUS, every book order includes a FREE copy of Ben Shive’s book, Cymbal Crashing Clouds MUSIC -Slugs & Bugs five CD bundle: Slugs & Bugs and Lullabies, Under Where?, Sing the Bible Vol. 1, Sing the Bible Vol. 2, and Sing the Bible Family Christmas $55 (25% off) + 10% off other Slugs & Bugs merchandise -Son of Laughter Bundle (No Story Is Over + Mantis & the Moon) $10 -Christopher Williams Bundle (Gather + The City Makes the Man) $15 –Light for the Lost Boy Deluxe 2 CD set (signed) $8 –Burning Edge of Dawn Commentary Edition (signed) $8 –Far Side of the Sea (signed) $8 -Andrew Osenga CDs $5 -Jenny & Tyler CDs $8 PLUS with every music order get a FREE copy of Ben Shive’s CD Cymbal Crashing Clouds OTHER MERCH -Hutchmoot posters $5 -Rabbit Room Aprons $10

This past Sunday my pastor remarked that people who have been transformed by the gospel don’t say things like “I would never pay for somebody else’s healthcare. They don’t deserve it.” That surprised me, because he almost always steers clear of political topics in his sermons. He surprised me further when he said, “I’m not making a political comment here.” My first thought was, “Well, of course you’re making a political comment.” My second thought, however, was to consider how thoroughly I have bought into the sophomoric notion that “everything is political.” If we choose to politicize everything then, yes, everything is political. And if everything is political—that is to say, if every question is answered in terms of power dynamics and wealth distribution and special interest groups—it’s a short step from the curb into the gutter. I mention these things because for the last few weeks I’ve been listening to No Story Is Over, the new record by Chris Slaten (code name: Son of Laughter). It’s a record in two acts; Act One is set in what Saint Augustine called the City of Man, where we are tempted to seek political solutions. Act Two is set in our truer country, the City of God. The first four songs of No Story Is Over appear to be ripped from the headlines. “Voting Day” is an upbeat reminder that every day is a voting day. Whether we cast shadows, cast doubts, cast out demons, or cast a pot out of clay, we are always casting a vote for the kind of world we want to live in. “Flesh and Bone,” the second song, comments on the insidious influence of identity politics (I shall resist the temptation to digress on the verbal usurpation of that phrase “identity politics.”). “Hurricanes,” if not exactly political in its concerns, at least smacks of current events. It tells the story of a man who is trapped in his house after a hurricane (among a “swamp of chandeliers!”) only to be subjected to a second, inner hurricane when looters arrive. Speaking of current events, “Take Me Down” imagines what it is like to be destroyed by personal scandal: I’m a monster, but I’ve been this way I can’t keep keeping it up every day. Let the questions fire, Let the cameras blaze, Let the microphones aim At the voice of my shame. Each of these first four songs poses the kind of questions to which we often expect political answers. The four songs of the second act, however, remind us that we don’t just live in a society, but in a Kingdom. The first few lines of “The Meal We Could Not Make” feel to me like the linchpin of the whole record: Sit beside me now, There’s so much we have shared— Like the comfort of our doubts And the safety of despair. So many promises have just been tricks. So many remedies have made us sick. Do you even have it in you To savor something new? Good question, brother. The promises and the remedies of a hyper-politicized culture are indeed sickening and disheartening; we cannot help but yearn for something better. In a world where even the purveyors of religious remedies grasp shamelessly at the levers of worldly power, it takes a certain amount of courage to rest in the promises of a King who invites us to sit and eat at a meal we couldn’t make, alongside people we would never have chosen for our dinner companions. Oh, take and eat, All the work is done. Stretch out your feet In the Sabbath sun. With this bread Old ambitions break, And as we pour the wine We feel our hungry hearts awake To the meal we could not make. Look around the table, Behold your company. See the needy and unlovable And many enemies. I know that peace Has never worked before, But this feast Satisfies the thirst for war. For justice has been won, And mercy makes us new. Yes and amen. I’m not going to quote any more lyrics. You need to listen to them for yourself. But I will say that every song on this record offers a better answer to the questions we all seem to be asking. I’ve heard it said that despair isn’t just a sin, but a mistake. Despair says, “This isn’t going to end well.” The gospel says, “No story is over.” That is a truth worth pondering. No Story is Over is a deep draught of gospel hope, a herald of the New Heavens and New Earth. “The Meal We Could Not Make” by Son of Laughter from No Story Is Overhttps://rabbitroom.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/11/07-The-Meal-We-Could-Not-Make.mp3 No Story Is Over is available in the Rabbit Room Store. Also check out Son of Laughter’s amazing EP The Mantis and the Moon. Now available free at Noisetrade.

This animated short has been a long time in the making. Most people wouldn’t believe the amount of work that goes into something like this, and what Andrew and Chris Wall and the team have created here is something really amazing. Every frame is a living painting. Check out the trailer. My heart is going to break if we don’t get to see the rest of this story realized. I want to see the Ice Prairies, the Shining Isle, the Deeps of Throg, the Trolls, the Ridgerunners, the Cloven, and everything else. Spread the word. Share it with everyone. You can help these guys make something awesome. The animated short will be available online December 26th. The Rabbit Room Store just might have something for you a little sooner 🙂

The world is full of audiobook enthusiasts, but I admit I’ve never listened to a single one. (Blame a wandering attention span that likes to reread sentences I missed?) So I can’t speak from experience about the wonders of letting someone read you a story, but Carrie Givens can. As an ardent audiobook listener, she’s got a list of the next great things to read with your ears, and is sharing a sports history lesson in her first contribution to Rabbit Reads… Why we love it: Narrative nonfiction is one of my favorite genres to listen to. When I do, I feel as though I’m taking part in the great oral tradition of storytelling that has been passed down through all the generations from before the time of the written word. The Boys in the Boat is on the list every time I recommend a book, especially an audiobook. Edward Herrmann’s reading of Brown’s telling is the perfect mix of voice and story. (For reference, Herrmann played Richard Gilmore on Gilmore Girls—that’s the voice you get to listen to for 14 hours and 30 mins.) One of the strongest points of Brown’s storytelling is his focus on Joe Rantz. Joe is an Everyman, and the heart of the story. He not only represents the University of Washington’s rowing team, he is the rowing team—a hardworking boy with no family and responsibility thrust on him too soon, whose upbringing in the logging and mining camps of the Pacific Northwest built him into a rowing specimen before he ever touched an oar. Alongside Joe is George Yeoman Pocock, an English boat builder who learned his craft as a boy wandering the banks of the Thames. Pocock serves as a mentor to the young rowers as they learn to become men and a team, neither of which is an easy task. Brown shows how Pocock’s wisdom seeped into the boys whose boathouse sat below his workshop. “The ability to yield, to bend, to give way, to accommodate, he said, was sometimes a source of strength in men as well as in wood, so long as it was helmed by inner resolve and by principle.” I haven’t even gotten to the journey to the Olympic Gold Medal rowing race in 1936, a story that shows the richness of this book. The races are full of excitement, and the journey of this rough college team from the Northwest up against the East Coast Ivy Leaguers and England’s finest University teams is a delightful underdog tale. Then there’s the weight of a team of American working class boys competing in Hitler’s Germany, the country many of them would find themselves fighting against just a few years later. All the pieces together add up to one of my favorite books, and an audiobook worth settling in to listen to.

At Hutchmoot-most-recent I was delighted to join the company of N. D. Wilson and Helena Sorenson for a session on fictional world-building. More comfortable leaning on pre-thought thoughts than trying to formulate new ideas in public, I began by reading aloud a stream-of-consciousness poem penned in an attempt to describe what drives this restless desire to set characters loose in fictional worlds—to set them loose and then to hound and document their steps, searching for what fragments of eternity the turned stones of their passages might reveal. “How to write about conversion if it is true that faith is an unmerited gift from God? How to describe, let alone explain it, if this is the case? When it comes to grace, I get writer’s block.” —Walker Percy, Signposts in a Strange Land: Essays I understand Percy’s lament about grace and writer’s block, and I’ve chewed on that conundrum for a couple of decades now. As best I can figure, the only viable way around that roadblock is to resist any impulse to give cheap and easy answers, even in our fiction, and to let the resulting unresolved tension build unbearably until it finally (hopefully) rushes violently into the story on its own steam and with its own agenda. But here I am, doing the very thing I preach so adamantly against: trying to explain an artistic expression in advance of letting others experience it. Self-chastened, I now recuse myself, and invite you to read on. I have found fiction, the writing of it, to be an experiment in the suppression of the elements of wonder and of the fantastic, and of the fantastic hunger that is the husk of the hope even when the hope is removed the hunger still retains the hollowed shape that hope might fill and hope being hope, it will, it will. I willed in writing to force the hand of God, His Spirit and His breath to the unseen outer edges of a story by banishing his unspeakable movements to the hinterlands to the places just off the edges of the yellowed maps by returning to the Old Covenants by forcing un-locatable Him to occupy the negative spaces around and beneath the story by making him a dweller in the dark soil a nourishment drawn up through the roots of the plants that these few characters would tread upon in the world that they inhabit, sensing in the dew that cools their feet perhaps that there is an author, and a story, and a flow to the days and seasons of their lives. You—and by you I mean I, or at least one of us—You do this in the hope that by denying all temptation to easily—and by easily I mean cheaply— articulate the myriad graces of wonder or the myriad mysteries of the wonders of grace, you do this in the hope that by banishing and suppressing the divine presence by making the Almighty a rim-walker in your world’s weird places, by fixing his movements somewhere just over the horizon, just behind the clouds of storm, just beneath the distant, echoed laughter of a child, somewhere that the text is not currently focused, you do this in the hopes that there placed, there exiled, the divine presence will appear, if perceptible at all, as candles behind thick and clouded glass causing the whole landscape to glow softly so that your characters must sense as they plant and harvest their fields, must sense—whether they acknowledge it or no— that the ground they tread is Holy ground and that what they suffer and grieve is in itself somehow a gift that cannot yet be recognized, one of the holy things that have no carts one of the burdens that must be carried on their shoulders as if they were born to be Kohathites, because the burdens are too holy, are most holy and the holiest things are the things that must be borne for they are the presence of God bearing down upon us shaping the curve of our shoulders the bend of our backs from their long weight, and the weights are the burdens, and the burdens are bait, the burdens are the bait in the trap in which you hope to catch God. You write because you are hunting the incarnation like some magical white stag rumored but doubted and your trick is not to look directly at it, not even to look for it. Your trick is to consciously avoid it especially when you begin to feel its presence, to all but deny its existence in hopes that so denied, it will shatter the very walls of your story, unzipping the air, that it will leap out at you suddenly when and where you least expect it, fully formed, surprising, and terrible in that awful aspect of the majesty and of the love which is more furious and more lavish than the whirlwind of Job. That is your hope that at a certain point you will lose control of the story you started so that it will go where it always needed to go and in looking back now as your ship struggles free of the winter’s arctic ice floes you see that what you were really doing was writing a poem that set up rhymes that did not resolve, and you traveled trembling to the end of that last line and whispered into the void at the end of all you had done and waited to see if some word would come echoing back knowing all along that if it did, it must be a word that would somehow rhyme with everything.

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Earlier this fall, a group of amazing musicians gathered at The Ryman Auditorium to play through Rich Mullins’ A Liturgy, a Legacy, and a Ragamuffin Band, note for note. Andrew Peterson, who pulled the show together asked me to write an essay for that evening’s program. This is that essay. The house lights go down and a restrained whoop goes up. This is the best we Midwesterners are willing to offer, which, for us, is plenty. We take our seats on the cushioned pews as the local Christian radio personality walks to the mic at center stage. The spotlight wobbles on and searches the platform for a half second before getting a bead on the young man with the royal blue polo shirt bearing the station’s call letters. He’s got khaki pants, bright sneakers, a cool haircut, and energy to spare. Rich walks out, alone. He takes a seat at the hammered dulcimer just to the right of the drums. He is wearing jeans and a t-shirt. No shoes. Russ Ramsey The DJ tells us we are in for an amazing night of music and asks if we are excited. We say we are, but he says he couldn’t hear us. We tell him again, yes, we are ready for an amazing night of music. He makes a few jokes, gives away a couple CD’s, and tosses a shirt just like the one he’s wearing into the front row. Then without further adieu, he gives a slight bow to the side of the stage and says, “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Rich Mullins and the Ragamuffin Band!” Rich walks out, alone. He takes a seat at the hammered dulcimer just to the right of the drums. He is wearing jeans and a t-shirt. No shoes. His hair is long. Without saying a word, he picks up the thin spoon-shaped hammers and begins to play the unfamiliar instrument. The audience is mesmerized by the strange, beautiful, percussive sound. Then Rich leans in and sings, “I believe in God the Father, almighty maker of heaven and maker of earth, and in Jesus Christ, his only begotten son, our Lord.” As Rich sings through the rest of the Apostle’s Creed, his band takes their places, unnoticed until they come in at the chorus, where Rich sings “I believe what I believe is what makes me what I am. I did not make it. No, it is making me. It is the very truth of God, not the invention of any man”—a line he borrowed from the beginning of G. K. Chesterton’s Orthodoxy. Simple orthodoxy. Jeans and a t-shirt orthodoxy. This is what Rich brought to so many people. And we needed it. There in the late eighties through the mid-nineties, when Rich was on the road, the American church was struggling to own a simple faith—an honest faith with room for struggle, doubt, and questions. Though I cannot speak for all Christians everywhere, I can say that many of the churches I knew felt a constant pull to present Christianity as the religion of the “put-together.” We wanted to come across as victorious, moral, right, trustworthy, well-dressed, and happy. Except we weren’t. And we were growing weary of the pressure to keep up the charade. Rich was a Scripture-soaked voice crying out in the wilderness, “Drop the charade. Give up on the idea that you can impress God with your conduct. Accept the glorious fact that all you need to know about his affection for you can be found in the gift of his son.” Getting people to admit they were more like fools than sages would take a patient, careful, loving hand. But this was his mission. Russ Ramsey Almost every concert Rich performed was in a church. That was how Christian music worked in those days. Rich seemed to genuinely love the church. As much as he may have wanted to change it, he counted himself part of it. His gracious humor and obvious affection for his audience showed that he understood he was calling for the slow turning of a large ship. Getting people to admit they were more like fools than sages would take a patient, careful, loving hand. But this was his mission. So he showed up to work in his jeans and t-shirt, which I believe was a carefully chosen costume—an ironic put-on to help his audience receive his call to drop the pretense. With every song asked us to embrace a simple faith, read Scripture through the eyes of a child, and wonder at the majesty of God. Enough with the pretending. I was in the room when the DJ welcomed Rich to the stage that night. It was during a time in my life when I was first beginning to own my faith. I was learning what it meant to take the name “Christian” and wear it in public. I looked to Rich for help, as so many others have done. A through-line in Rich’s lyrics was this idea that to own one’s faith was to own one’s struggles. The gospel would make no sense to the watching world if those who claimed to believe it strived to live as though they had no need of it. I needed to hear this message. I needed someone to give me permission to wear my need for Christ on my sleeve. Rich gave it. I was in seminary when Rich died. His 1993 record, A Liturgy, a Legacy, and a Ragamuffin Band, was as important to my education and formation as a young pastor as any book on theology. I still listen to it often—and his other work too. I have not yet mastered the art of authenticity. Or empathy. Or humility. So here twenty years after his death I still return to the music of the bard in the jeans and t-shirt, not just for entertainment, but for help.

The long wait is over. Son of Laughter’s new full-length album, No Story Is Over, is finally here! Visit the Rabbit Room Store to get it today and keep reading to find out what some of our favorite folks have to say about it. “I admire Chris Slaten for so many things, not the least of which is his immaculate beard. But I love his music even more. His guitar parts are wonderfully inventive, his Paul Simon-esque voice soars, and his lyrics are as whimsical as they are literate. Any release of a new Son of Laughter record is cause for celebration.” —Andrew Peterson, singer-songwriter, author of The Wingfeather Saga “I’m not sure I know a songwriter with greater attention to detail than Chris Slaten, a.k.a. Son of Laughter. The new release is just plain beautiful.” —Arthur Alligood, singer-songwriter, national winner of NPR’s Mountain Stage NewSong contest “When we first heard Son of Laughter’s music, an album repeat festival promptly began in our car, lasting for weeks. If you haven’t heard this music, you need to.” —Dave Radford of The Gray Havens “From the first moment I heard Son of Laughter’s Mantis and the Moon, I’ve had an increasing sense of ‘Wow!’ and I’ve anxiously awaited this new record ever since. No Story Is Over is finally here, and the wait was not in vain. Chris has an incredible facility with words and he puts it on full display here in tracks like ‘The Hurricanes,’ ‘Voting Day,’ and ‘The Meal We Cannot Make.’” —Pete Peterson, playwright The Battle of Franklin “With one of the friendliest singing voices I’ve ever heard, Chris Slaten delivers a thoughtful collection of songs in No Story is Over, combining rich theology with a light hearted sound. I will have ‘The Meal We Could Not Make’ on repeat forever and am basically a Son of Laughter fan for life.” —Emily P. Freeman, WSJ bestselling author of Simply Tuesday and A Million Little Ways “I love Son of Laughter’s sound and substance. Chris Slaten is an amazing, insightful songwriter. I find the songs are sweet in my ears, and sustaining in my soul. It’s right in there with my favorite music ever. I’m a fan for life.” —S. D. Smith, author of the Green Ember series “Chris confesses his longings and weaknesses so honestly, it’s impossible to hear his music and remain disengaged. He helps me identify what I need to confess, what I need to believe, where I need to abide. Here are songs you will reference for the rest of your life because they will become pillars of our conversations and dots on our horizons.” —Rebecca K. Reynolds, writer at ThistleandToad.com No Story Is Over is available here.

On Tuesday, November 14th, at 7:30pm at The Well Coffeehouse (on Granny White Pike across from Lipscomb University), we’ll be celebrating the release of Every Moment Holy with a special event. Featuring Jason Gray, Arthur Alligood, Through Juniper Vale, and other friends, we’ll be leading the audience on a journey of liturgy and song. The event is FREE but seating is limited so RSVP ASAP by grabbing a spot via Eventbrite here. If you want to watch from home, the event will be livestreamed on Facebook LIVE via the Rabbit Room Facebook page. You might even want to have your copy of Every Moment Holy close at hand so you can follow along. If you “like” our Facebook page you’ll be notified as soon as the livestream begins. For more information about Every Moment Holy, visit www.EveryMomentHoly.com.

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Sometimes God likes to use seemingly dumb ideas to give him glory, ideas which can take our lives in unexpected directions. For me, it was writing about Christian beards. One morning in the summer of 2010, I looked in the mirror and thought, “Meh. Maybe I’ll shave tomorrow.” Several tomorrows passed, with no razor touching my skin, and suddenly there it was: a nice, big beard. It wasn’t long before I started getting a lot of “Duck Dynasty” comments and having to tell people, “Excuse me. My eyes are up here.” The beard covers a multitude of chins! Bearded Gospel Men A friend introduced me to a website and Facebook page called Bearded Gospel Men, which consisted almost entirely of funny/churchy/beardy memes. “To shave is human, to beard is divine,” read one. “The beard covers a multitude of chins!” proclaimed another. What can I say, they made me LOL and I enjoyed following the page. Thanks to Chuck Norris, hipsters, and the aforementioned Duck Dynasty clan, pop culture was reaching Maximum Beard. A lot of people seemed to be enjoying the beard-centric humour of Bearded Gospel Men, and they were sharing my jokes all over the interwebs. I began to offer content beyond memes, and featured lighthearted biographies of great “Bearded Gospel Men” of history. I also began posting articles that were devotional in nature, articles about what the “Gospel” part of “Bearded Gospel Men” really meant. To my surprise, people began to respond positively to these features, and I started getting messages and emails letting me know that something I’d written had touched someone in a positive way. From time to time, however, I would begin to experience BHF: Beard Humor Fatigue. How many beard jokes can one guy write? So I’d let the site rest for a while, sometimes for months. Besides, I had loftier things to focus on. And wasn’t it silly to think a page about beards was worth all that much to the Kingdom? But I kept coming back to it. The world’s most ridiculous premise for a blog just wouldn’t let me go, and I even began to make real life, flesh-and-beard friends. Bearded Gospel Men was literally changing my life. Through a connection with the site, I was introduced to an author named Jared Brock, who approached me with the idea of turning the blog into a book. I loved the idea. The book would contain 31 biographies of great Bearded Gospel Men of history, from Saint Augustine and Saint Ignatius, to D. L. Moody and Keith Green. Just like the website and Facebook page, it would also feature devotional articles (“Confess Yourself Before You Wreck Yourself”), and of course, plenty of humor (“Beardly’s Beardlieve It Or Not!”). The Rabbit Room’s own (sometimes bearded) Jonathan Rogers tells a story about the very bearded Saint Patrick. My close friend and missionary brother Jimmy Sustar has an entry, as does singer/songwriter/Hagrid-lookalike Bradford Loomis. And the Bearded Gospel Hobbit himself, Malcolm Guite, contributes a poem of epic beardliness. My hope is that through this book someone may discover their new favorite writer. “Say Bill, how is it that you decided to devote yourself to studying the life and writings of Southern raconteur Jonathan Rogers?” “I bought a book about Christian beards.” Does God have a sense of humor? Apparently. Does God have a beard? Considering the bodily resurrection of Jesus, it can be argued he does. (Unless Jesus shaved on Easter Sunday morning. But that seems unlikely.) Does God use seemingly dumb things to bring him glory? Ask Balaam’s seemingly dumb ass and he’ll tell you: Absolutely. And when he does use our silliest and/or dumbest ideas in unexpected ways, it’s usually to help us have a good laugh at his goodness, and to help us glory in godly humility. Is a book about beards going to change the world? Probably not. But in the same way that I hope someone may find a new favorite writer, I hope they may also find their new favorite saint. Learning about a saint you’d never heard of before can be a lot like meeting a new best friend, and best friends change our lives. My prayer is that men (and perhaps the women reading over their shoulders) will be introduced to someone who may inspire them to live the Gospel more completely, more recklessly, than they have before. “Say Jim, where did you first learn about Saint Luka of Crimea, the man who inspired you to sell all you have, go to medical school, become a surgeon to the poor and help topple a Communist regime?” “I read a book about Christian beards.” Bearded Gospel Men is now available at Amazon.com, and will be available in the Rabbit Room Store just as soon as the Canadians get their act together.

Don’t listen to Adam Whipple’s new record if you’re going through something hard. I mean, seriously, don’t. Don’t listen unless you’re ready to work through those complex, deep-down feelings inside you. But, if you are ready, then oh, boy; The Broken Seasons will deeply reward you. A month ago I lay awake at 3 a.m., in a state of lonely, turbulent uneasiness. I lifted prayer after prayer, petition after petition, but I still couldn’t shake the unrest. Our family hasn’t had it easy lately, and it all came to an emotional head that night. My wife was away at a conference, and I was all alone. Still, God found me there, but not in the way you might think. Not by immediately calming my spirit, or guiding me to Scripture. Instead, he reminded me of the music I’d been saturating myself in for the last few days. Fragments of several songs drifted through me, but most gloriously, the second track, “Two Lights,” became the refrain I clung to in the wee small hours of the night. There are two lights on the river, child Two lights on the river They are trying to find each other in the watches of the night Singin’ Glory, Hallelujah Oh, the dawn is fair of face And I’ll lay my broken trophies And my sins upon your grace I was awash in the image of God and I drifting closer together on the water, then finally finding each other in “the watches of the night.” Then, the knowledge that “the dawn is fair of face,” that the sun would be coming up again soon, led me back to rest. I still couldn’t fall asleep, to be sure, but my spirit softened. My runaway thoughts slowed, and I began to feel more whole. Whipple is joined by Adeem the Artist to create what’s undoubtedly a modern day spiritual, and it’s the number one star of the album. You might think this is a heavy record based on what I’ve said so far—one that lays over you like a capstone, but the opposite is true. Whipple provides a bright hopefulness along the way. The album sparkles when he brings to life the mundane and shows God’s place in it. In “Faraway Land,” he treasures even the tedious things of the world, as he longs for its redemption: I pray for my neighbors; I cook for my wife. I sing for my children; I beg for my life. ‘Cause one day I’ll hammer the strings of the chord And the bluesman will sound out his glorious horn Last week, I went to see a movie about an evil clown who terrorized a small Maine town in the ’80s. It’s a good movie, not great, but what’s wonderful about it is the memory it manages to evoke. These kids, these friends, ride their bikes together through the town. They don’t have cell phones or smart watches. They play, make fun of each other, and live that summer together. I left the theater with a longing for something long gone. The Broken Seasons accomplishes a similar feat. Whipple conjures a vision on this record, a vision of a place none of us have seen, but one we all recognize. Whether it’s the communal feeling of “North Town Evening,” with its “bottle-tree summers” and “blue notes strung like a rosary,” or the way Whipple sings about the complexity of God’s grace, The Broken Seasons evokes nothing less than that most basic desire—coming home. A lesser artist would attempt to do so by painting a simple and rosy version of the world. Whipple doesn’t shy away from the ugly parts. Instead, he tells us how God has redeemed even the difficult parts of home, the dark things that, in our fits of nostalgia, we often gloss over. Equal parts Rich Mullins and Garrison Keillor, The Broken Seasons eschews modern, simplistic views of the grace and wonder of God and, in their stead, gives us complexity and a nod to a shared nostalgia that is both redemptive and clear. Contribute to Adam’s Pledge Music campaign here. There are many levels of support, and lots of goodies in exchange for your contribution. Standout tracks: “Two Lights,” “North Town Evening,” “Eidolon,” “Faraway Land” [Adam Whipple is in the last week of a Pledge Music campaign to finish production of his new record The Broken Seasons. Click here to support Adam on Pledge.]

Several years ago some good friends gave me a book. The fact that they gave me a book and not a gift card is evidence of our friendship, because my love language is books. The book I received was Scottish minister John Baillie’s A Diary of Private Prayer, and it not only reminds me fondly of those friends, but it represents my earliest realization that I need help praying. Growing up in a nondenominational church in the American south, I was suspicious of anything that could be described as liturgical, assuming as many do that prayer should be extemporaneous and “from the heart,” and anything less was in danger of becoming rote at best and ritualistic at worst. Baillie’s book is arranged into morning and evening prayers for each day of the month, plus special prayers for Sundays. Our family tried them hesitantly at first, but soon found ourselves reaching for the book more and more, in the end treasuring it so much that I bought copies and gave them to friends. While I love those old prayers, the last few years found me wishing I had new ones. Andrew Peterson Baillie’s words lead me gently but firmly into prayers I would not have otherwise thought to pray. In them I’m confronted by my own darkness—not just of obvious sins, but of the sins that lurk beneath them—as well as the light of God’s great mercy, as the revenant of that Scottish saint takes me by the hand and leads me through the thorny hedges of godly shame and repentance into the wide, golden fields of gratitude for God’s mercy in Christ. “King of Creation” by Ned Bustard (copyright 2017) If you come from a liturgical tradition you may find it surprising that I was so surprised by all this; it may be perfectly obvious to you that there’s a good reason certain prayers have survived for centuries. But the fact is, there are millions of Christians the world over, for a host of reasons, who have never engaged in liturgical worship. For many of us, this old thing is a new thing, and that brings with it some discomfort—but also a heightened appreciation for the ancient rhythms of prayer and meditation which have been more or less absent from our experience. And as much as we may need this new (to us) language for prayer, those who grew up with it may also need our fresh enthusiasm for it to remind them what a profound gift it is to speak these ancient tongues, not just to know but to be reminded by all the saints how wide, high, deep and broad is the love of God in Christ. It is through this great cloud of witnesses that the Lord is teaching us to pray. The fact is, there have always been poets underfoot. God just keeps making them. If Cranmer and Baillie and Oswald Chambers and George Herbert and the puritans who wrote The Valley of Vision had so much of value to say, then aren’t there new voices we should pay attention to? Aren’t there new prayers that we need help articulating? While it’s true that our struggles at their core are the same as those of the saints before us, it’s also true that the world of the 21st century is vastly different than they could have imagined: a world of smartphones and high speed internet and high-tech terrorists and pollution and ubiquitous pornography and selfies and Netflix. There are no unsacred places; there are only sacred places and desecrated places. Wendell Berry Sometimes I look up from reading those old prayers to find myself in a clamorous culture so far removed from the authors’ experience that their words can feel irrelevant. Our lives feel at once too frenzied and too mundane, too connected and not connected enough, too demanding and too sedentary. So while I love those old prayers, the last few years found me wishing I had new ones, prayers that were not just speaking to my current situation, but crying out from within it. Wendell Berry wrote, “There are no unsacred places; there are only sacred places and desecrated places.” In that spirit, this new book of prayers, Doug McKelvey’s Every Moment Holy, reminds us that there are no unsacred moments; there are only sacred moments and moments we have forgotten are sacred. If that’s true, then it is our duty to reclaim the sacredness of our lives, of life itself. And the first step is to remember—to remember the dream of Eden that shimmers at the edges of things, to remember that the madman on the corner was made in God’s image, to remember that work and play and suffering and celebration are all sentences in a good story being told by God, a story arcing its way to a new creation. By remembering the holiness of each moment we banish that old Gnostic ghost and thwart its lie that there’s nothing holy about flesh and bone, soil and stone, work and pleasure and all tangible, tactile, visible things. The resurrection of Jesus sent shockwaves into every molecule of creation, even into this crazy century of ones and zeroes and jet engines. It is our duty to reclaim the sacredness of our lives, of life itself. Andrew Peterson If the Gospel is true, then it matters in all of time and space—from a thousand years ago at the Norman conquest of England to ten minutes ago when I ate a cookie; it matters from the moons of Jupiter to the couch where I’m writing this. Yes, I realize that I just conjured the less-than-flattering image of myself lazing on a couch, brushing cookie crumbs from my laptop—but that’s exactly the point. The Gospel matters even here. Even now. A wise man taught me, “Christianity ought to be as normal in your home as dirty laundry and Corn Flakes.” In the same way that my friends once gave me John Baillie’s A Diary of Private Prayer, we at Rabbit Room Press want to give you Every Moment Holy in the hope that it will become a book you’ll find yourself reaching for again and again. Maybe you’re new to liturgy, maybe it has long been part of your tradition—either way, our hope is that you would let these prayers edify you, reshape your thinking, recalibrate your compass, ignite your imagination, and pique your longing for the world to come. Doug’s robust theology has come together with artist Ned Bustard’s profoundly meaningful artwork (every inch of every illustration is crammed with Christian imagery) to create a book that we hope will live on for generations to come, giving voice to prayers we didn’t know we needed to pray, as the kingdom comes on earth—in every holy moment—just as it is in heaven. [Every Moment Holy is now available exclusively in the Rabbit Room Store. Visit EveryMomentHoly.com for free downloads and more information.]

One of our hopes for Every Moment Holy is that it will be a book that’s not only read and enjoyed but used over and over again by individuals, families, and communities. We’re delighted to see that’s already happening and the book hasn’t even been officially released yet! Early on we recognized that it’s hard to lead a liturgy unless everyone in the room has a copy to read from, and since it’s unlikely that you’ll have a copy of the book on hand for everyone, the liturgies need to be easily accessible and printable. To facilitate that, on the Every Moment Holy website, you’ll find a download page that provides an easy way to print out a liturgy in order to share it with others. Several of the most commonly requested liturgies are available for free. Others are available for a nominal fee ($1). They are all nicely laid out in PDF format for printing on standard 8.5×11 paper. From time to time we hope to add new liturgies to the page, liturgies that aren’t in the book (but may appear in future volumes). And if there’s a liturgy from the book that you don’t see available for download, please request it and we’ll be happy to make it available. Visit EveryMomentHoly.com and let us know if you have other suggestions for how to make the book easier to use. You can preorder the book now in the Rabbit Room Store. Release day is this Friday (Nov. 3rd)!

I posted this a few years ago, and since there are new readers who have gathered in the Rabbit Room since, I thought I’d repost (and revise) it. I hope it’s helpful and edifying. A couple nights ago, as I was in the throes of carving our family’s final jack-o-lantern—feverishly cutting out the stripes of Charlie Brown’s shirt (we usually carve our pumpkins into Peanuts characters)—I caught my wife quietly laughing at me. “I love what you’re doing right now.” “What?” “I love how you’re really digging into that pumpkin.” “Ha, what is it about that that you love?” “Remember when we were first married?” she asked, and then brought our boys into the conversation. “When we were first married, you guys, your dad didn’t want us to have pumpkins, dress up, or even have candy to give out.” “Really, Dad? How come?” Taya continued, “As I recall, you didn’t even want us to have a Christmas tree that first year.” She said with a smile. “Why?” one of the boys asked again. I was having to put my elbows into it now, hollowing out the flesh of the pumpkin so the candle would better show through the carving. “Ahhhh, you guys…” I conceded. “I grew up in a pretty legalistic environment where they believed Halloween was the devil’s holiday, and if you participated in it at all, you were guilty of devil worship. And then because of some obscure verse—in Jeremiah or Isaiah I think—about bringing a tree into your living room…well, because of that I was uncomfortable with the idea of a Christmas, too.” Then looking at Taya I said, “I’m sorry” with a smile of contrition. Returning to the work at hand I said, “I’m glad you hung in there with me.” I guess you could say my convictions on these kinds of things have taken a different shape over the years. There are those from my legalistic past who might say I’ve gotten soft, but in fact it actually feels like my theology on these things has sharpened, helping me better divide between soul and spirit, “judging the thoughts and attitudes of the heart.” For it’s in the heart that’s what’s really at stake comes to light in times such as this. This post would take much too long to definitively state all that could be said about Halloween, and I doubt that I’m qualified to write a comprehensive manifesto. But I would like to offer a personal and, I hope, humble perspective that might make for enjoyable reading and maybe even contribute to a grace-full observance of a holiday that comes with some baggage and leaves some of us with mixed feelings (you know who you are). And it’s not hard to see why, what with all the images of death and darkness that go along with the day. But in my case, most of my personal hang ups concerning Halloween came from the same place that all my legalistic instincts come from: fear. Fear always distorts the way I see the world and tempts me to be reactive—to circle the wagons and take a strident, defensive stance. Fear shrinks my world and can even make me doubt grace and it’s hold on me. Fear that if I listen to secular music, my mind will be darkened and I’ll become a sex-crazed reprobate. Fear that if I have a sip of beer I’ll become an alcoholic. Fear that if I enjoy something it must be inherently bad. Fear that if I go trick or treating with my kids or put up a Christmas tree I’ll inadvertently cast us headlong into paganism. And so on and so forth. But fear is what love intends to cast out, because to act out of fear is very different than to act from love. If fear is reactive, maybe I’m learning to think of love as being pro-active—and this thought excites me. One of the more humbling and awe-inspiring theological traditions is the idea that we are called to be co-creators with Christ. Of course we can’t create as God did, ex nihilo, out of nothing. But God has called us to be re-creative with what he’s already made—and there isn’t anything that exists that wasn’t made by him. Bent and broken as a thing may be, there is the possibility for its redemption, and we get to play a part in the unfolding beauty of this ongoing redemption and reclamation. In this way, I believe that as co-creators with Christ we’re also given the privilege of being co-sanctifiers, or “little Christs” as C. S. Lewis might say—participating in the Kingdom Come, reclaiming what otherwise might be lost, bringing it into submission to the knowledge of Christ. Do you remember the worship wars in the ’80s and ’90s when church people were debating over things like whether or not you could have drums in a sanctuary and everyone was arguing about which style of music was God’s favorite? Well, at some point we had to realize that music is more often than not what we make of it. Heavy metal or easy listening, both or neither can bring honor to God. It depends on the intention of the heart that is driving it. It was the human heart, after all, that lusted for the forbidden fruit, meaning that it was with our hearts more than our hands that we reached to take the fruit and fell. And it is still within the human heart where motives are determined and identities are revealed. An example from scripture: food sacrificed to idols is not necessarily evil when placed in the hands of the true worshipper of God. Purified and repurposed in the heart and conscience of the believer, it is restored to its original state of being simply food. If it’s the heart that defiles or purifies food (1 Cor. 8:7), I guess I’ve come to believe that it’s also the heart that defiles or purifies a certain day of the year. That means a day is what we make of it. So what kind of day will we make of it? My conviction is that if it’s God’s will for me to play a redemptive role in all of this, I want to start trying out for the most beautiful part available to me. Much of my religious formation took place in a milieu of shame, fear, and guilt, leaving me at once affirmed in my self-righteousness, alone in my sin, and burnt out on the holiness-works-guilt treadmill as I tried to prove my devotion to God, to myself, and to those around me. Into that milieu, God visited me with a grace-awakening many years ago through authors like Brennan Manning and Frederick Buechner as well as a renewed filter through which to read my Bible. Texts that once barked their austere demands at me slowly began to whisper and hum with secrets of a love so outlandish and scandalous that I could hardly take it in. Books like Galatians and of course the gospels came alive for me with colors and notes I’d never noticed before. And slowly, ever so slowly, the bondage of fear began to break and the world was given back to me. The difference between legitimate and contrived definitions of sin and devotion began to come into focus, too. In the matter of Halloween, I began to see that my own reservations about the day had more to do with my own baggage than that of the holiday itself. (What I suppose I should mention here is that I take evil and the occult very seriously. A part of my history that I don’t often speak about is the fact that for many years I lived with a stepfather who was involved in the occult. I could tell you stories, but this post is not about that. Suffice it to say that, in my experience, a lot of what gets passed off as “occultic” or satanic has very little to do with the real thing.) Much is made of Halloween’s ties to the occult, though research reveals that a lot of its association with the holiday might be more a matter of hype, opportunism, and aesthetic than anything else. Do distasteful and evil things take place on Halloween night? Regrettably, I’m sure of it. Is it really the devil’s holiday? I don’t think so. It could be, if that’s what you want to make of it, but to say October 31st is inherently evil is maybe to give more power to a calendar day than is warranted. Some of Halloween’s roots, as I understand it, come from the Celtic “Festival Of The Dead” – a day to mark the end of the harvest season as well as the months of extended light before heading into the darker months. It was also a time to remember and even honor the dead. It was believed by the superstitious to coincide with a time when the barrier between the physical and the spirit world was thinner, leading to all kinds of bizarre notions of dressing up in fearsome masks in order to scare away any evil spirits that might have broken through. I’m reminded of the hulking statues of fierce warriors that I saw guarding the gates of the Buddhist temple in Asakusa in Tokyo who were posted there to scare away evil spirits that might want to crash the party and harass devout temple goers. This kind of stuff reveals misguided ideas of good and evil, but is relatively harmless, I suppose—except to the degree that it distracts us from the truth of how the world really works. So it’s not my intent to diminish the reality of Satan and his work—I imagine the devil is pleased when we don’t believe he exists. But I’m sure he is even happier when we are distracted by distorted and misguided notions of who he is and what he’s doing. I’m not convinced that Satan is as determined to recruit worshippers as much as he’s content to influence us to worship ourselves, which is the very thing we are most eager to do. The temptation in the Garden, if we remember, was that we would “be as gods”, that we would be central and in the driver’s seat. Are there those who devote their lives to actual devil worship? Yes, I’m sure. But let me suggest that whenever any of us serve ourselves—when we are self-centered—we serve Lucifer’s agenda and participate, intentionally or not, in the work of the devil. All the hurt, war, poverty, dissension, and deceit that are born of our selfishness has brought more hell on earth than the relatively small number of sincere Satanists, whose religious identity seems more or less driven by a desire to be counter-cultural and empowered, which in the end is more about self-service than genuine religious devotion anyway. Marilyn Manson’s behavior is less a devilish threat than it is a desperate kind of attention seeking. In other words, it’s probable that my misguided attempts at taking a stand against Halloween, rooted in my own fear and self-righteousness, may have done more to distract myself and those around me from the more legitimate and potent works of the devil. One thing I do know for sure is that they didn’t do a thing to make the gospel look beautiful. They probably just made me and my faith look small, foolish, and full of judgment. And this brings me back to the matter of carving jack-o-lanterns. When I was first married, I was reticent about such pagan practices in our home, assuming there to be something inherently sinister about carving a face in the flesh of a pumpkin. When kids would come to our door that first year, I’d awkwardly explain that we didn’t have candy because we didn’t participate in Halloween (until I couldn’t stomach it anymore and just stopped answering the door). And though it pains me greatly to admit this, I will confess in the interest of truth-telling that I may have even handed out some gospel tracts to trick-or-treaters that year. Yep. I was that guy. I’m sure the kids really appreciated that! I’m sure they couldn’t wait to find out more about this stingy Jesus who doesn’t let his followers hand out candy to kids. Score one against Ol’ Scratch, right? A lot has changed since then, and these days my guiding conviction is that my job as a co-sanctifier with Christ is to take what is broken and do my part in reclaiming it, perhaps even making it beautiful, by God’s grace. My earlier attempts of disavowing Halloween were neither redemptive nor beautiful. At best they might have been neutral, but I suspect they did more damage than good. And all the while my wife suffered from my misguided religious zeal! That is, until we had kids. And then she put her foot down. My resolve was beginning to crack by that time anyway, and my first venture back into the world of trick or treating was timid (though I had loved it as a kid). Our twins were two and we dressed them up as Charlie Brown and Linus (it was awesome!) and went to the Barnes & Noble Halloween party where they toddled around asking workers for candy. It was fun, and I even made it through the experience unscathed by legalistic guilt! After that, Halloween become a favorite holiday in the Gray household. I would try to avoid “the appearance of evil” by avoiding costumes that strike me as “dark” or otherwise distasteful, choosing instead to hit the streets as a whoopee cushion, bottle of ketchup, or a ninja warrior, walking the two blocks of our neighborhood freezing in the late October chill. When the twins were little and their hands would get cold, they’d each slip them into my gloved hand to warm them up as we’d walk door to door. It’s one of my most cherished memories of being their dad. Then I’d stand back as they would timidly take the steps of a neighbor’s house, knock, and with little voices say “trick or treat” and then “thank you.” My wife would stay back at our house to greet trick or treaters, handing out copious amounts of candy (everyone knew us as the “gospel singing family” and she wanted to build a reputation of generosity for us. Perhaps she was also making up for the years lost to my legalism) Over time it grew into a Halloween party where we invited friends over and made cookies in the shapes of fingers and eyeballs, and we laughed and enjoyed each other greatly. You see, these days I’m more interested in reclaiming things and repurposing them than I am protesting. All this to say: I get excited about Halloween every year now. I’m excited to have friends and family to our house to laugh with and enjoy. I’m excited to spend time in my community with my neighbors. I’m excited to don our homemade robot costumes. I’m excited to hold my little boy’s hand in the warmth of my glove when his gets cold. I’ve even come to value the way the spookier accouterments of Halloween gives us the opportunity to face our deep rooted fears of mortality and to even poke a little fun at death. It could be that hidden beneath the ragged clothes and garish make-up of our zombie costumes is the universal hope that death doesn’t really have the final say. And I’d be lying if I didn’t also say that I’m excited about finger and eyeball cookies. Of course Paul reminds us that all things are permissible, though not everything is beneficial, and it’s true there is hardly a thing under the sun that we aren’t able to justify if we put our minds to it. Whether Halloween is permissible or even beneficial for you is ultimately a matter to be worked out in your own heart. But as for me and my house, we will serve the Lord as best we know how, imperfectly, with humility, and with friends and family and costumes and candy on October 31st.

A few weeks ago, I had the pleasure of sitting across the table from Christopher Williams to ask him about his brand new (and may I add, positively excellent) album, Gather. If you want to check out the album for yourself, you can find it here. Drew: So you’ve been playing music and touring for twenty-three years. How’s it been? I’d love to hear the story of your career as well as the role that church has played along the way. Christopher: My career began when I was twenty-three and I made my first record when I was twenty-four. It was a big deal to have a compact disc then! Four years in Seattle, then I moved to Boston for eight, then moved here [Nashville] fourteen years ago. I spent my first ten or twelve years chasing the singer-songwriter, folky, coffeehouse vibe. When I moved down here, I grew really tired of that world, still feeling like I needed to prove myself after twelve years. I stepped away from that a bit and moved here for community. I moved to Boston for career, and then to Nashville for community, needing people in my life who knew me, would speak to me and walk with me. I didn’t have that. This whole new record is about celebrating that. So one of the turning points was when I was able to tour with Jars of Clay in 2005. They were doing a hymn record, Redemption Songs. Drew: That record has actually been a big part of my life—my sister was a huge Jars of Clay fan, so I inherited it. We played that particular album all the time. That’s where I first heard “Let Us Love And Sing And Wonder.” What a good song. Christopher: Absolutely. So good. So we did that tour, played churches together, and I would do the exact same thing I did at a club. That opened up the idea for me that I could play pretty much anywhere. The songs I’ve written have always had the spiritual element in them—I’ve always been caught between not being Christian enough for Christian radio, but being too Christian for the folk world. So I’m in this middle space, figuring out where to land. But I’ve made songwriting the most important thing, so no matter what background you’re listening from, you can take it however you need to take it. Drew: Classic dilemma. Christopher: Yes. A good dilemma, requiring subtlety and transparency at the same time. Somebody said about my new record, “This is a record for the church, but you don’t mention Jesus at all.” And I’m like, “Cheers to that!” Drew: So this is an album for the church, but it doesn’t mention Jesus. And you were very glad to hear that. Speak a little bit about that and the purpose of the album implicit in that statement. After my last album, I thought I might be finished with my career. Christopher Williams Christopher: I wouldn’t say that was a completely conscious decision not to mention Jesus. That has been a thread throughout my career. On this record, though, I wanted to touch on universal themes. The whole album grew out of the first track, “Do Not Be Afraid.” After my last album, I thought I might be finished with my career. I was thinking about just being a worship pastor at my church. And I felt like that last record could be a great finish. Drew: It’s such a solid song. You can just lean on it. Christopher: Thank you. It’s really simple, but there’s a universal theme to it—no matter what background you come from, you need to hear this. Drew: Something that really struck me about this entire album was that it feels very sensitive to the fact that we all have stories we carry with us, and they are deeply interconnected. It feels very emotionally intelligent and also collective in voice. You sing from your singular perspective a lot, but it’s never just about you. It’s about us, always. There is this gaping hole in our culture’s public discourse where we don’t know how to talk about us as a group, as brothers and sisters, whether as siblings in Christ or just in a broader, human sense. But as I walked away from Gather after my first listen, I felt like, “Hey, this album cares about me.” Christopher: You know, I wrote most of these songs in about a four-month period, and I was really trying to be thoughtful about supporting that initial song, “Do Not Be Afraid.” Also, in a bizarre sort of way, since I thought I was finished after that last record, I was able to be less concerned about people’s opinions regarding this one. Drew: So you were able to not take yourself too seriously. But maybe in doing that, you were able to take yourself seriously in a more proper way, sober to the purpose of Gather and what it needed to be. ...we’re the most technologically connected we’ve ever been, but we’re the most alone we’ve ever been. Christopher Williams Christopher: Right. And just making this album in light of all the fear we experience as a culture, coming at us from every angle—we’re the most technologically connected we’ve ever been, but we’re the most alone we’ve ever been. We all want to let go of our technological addictions, I think. But we can’t. Or we can, but it’s very hard. I didn’t have words for what I wanted this record to do, but you just described it so well. I love that observation that this album has a collective ring to it. That helps enable me to talk about it, especially in relation to the church, my team of people, and how they have influenced the making of Gather. Drew: Good! Well, tell me about these last five years at Midtown Crieve Hall. What has that story held for you and how has it supported your life? Christopher: I never thought I would love leading congregational music as much as I have grown to. When I was tasked with the job, it was essentially to make Sundays happen. And from the beginning, I knew that this means more than just picking songs. If we’re going to guide a group of people and really plant this community, we need to feel connected. So I backtracked and said, “to get to Sunday morning, we’re going to have to know one another and explore what it means to worship, we’ll need to break bread together and make music together.” All those things needed to happen in order to make Sunday morning happen. A huge piece for me that has affected my writing is a grateful heart. People are giving of themselves and I want them to know how grateful we all are as a body for them pouring themselves out. It’s been a sweet journey of starting out really awkwardly with a bunch of people, and now last year, we were doing these hymn sings where we gathered together, had wine and food, and played music for three hours straight. It was beautiful, so beautiful. I will miss that. I think the importance of feeling connected to one another affects what happens musically, how we hear each other, how we work together, and ultimately how we can carry each other to worship, perhaps even when we don’t want to. I’ve had a lot of conversations with song leaders about what it looks like on Sunday mornings to know in maturity where you are spiritually, where you need to be in order to guide the congregation, and what needs to happen in between. It’s really rich and I wouldn’t trade it for anything. Drew: That discipline of knowing where I am and where we all are, knowing where we need to go as a group—that requires a very specific sort of awareness. I have a hunch that in our daily working lives, we don’t often need to exercise that particular kind of intelligence. Consequently, it seems to me that really knowing each other in the context of church takes a certain kind of growth that isn’t the most popular. Christopher: It involves being aware of yourself but also taking your eyes off yourself, looking at the bigger picture. There are some songs on Gather that address how we’re so habituated to think about ourselves, and we’re so miserable in being stuck in that—both intensely connected and intensely lonely. I want to ask: how do you be sensitive to others, aware of yourself, and also inviting into your space? We’re not a very inviting culture. Drew: Hospitality. This is my space, but I invite you into my space. We don’t know how to do that. Christopher: It’s almost comical when you keep your eyes open to see how we function as a culture, so glued to our phones. This is not how we’re made to be. Drew: How did we even get here? Christopher: Yeah! And can we get out? I don’t know! And I have had so many conversations with people who say they truly want to be free from it. I don’t know what that looks like, but it’s important to encourage people—turn off your notifications. Put it down. First and foremost, the more I use technology, the more scattered I feel. It has stolen my ability to focus. Drew: It’s this loss of the skill of sustained attention. And now, what does sustained attention have to do with this ability to interact with each other collectively? What I’ve noticed with my iPhone is that it shortens and chops up my ability to be focused on one thing. Connecting that back to relationships, what do you see in terms of that struggle and where you’ve ended up? To be able to sit across the table from someone, have a meal, and get lost in conversation—I long for that. Christopher Williams Christopher: I feel like it’s a daily battle of consciously deciding against it. To be able to sit across the table from someone, have a meal, and get lost in conversation—I long for that. And when that happens, I celebrate it. I need to know that I am able to block out everything else. Drew: Sometimes it feels like we’re always either checking the time or getting lost in time. It’s paradoxical: in being so aware of the time, we sacrifice a more substantial awareness of a deeper sense of time. I’m reminded of a couple of your lyrics from the album. One song that jumped out at me were “With Me Now.” When I thought about the album after listening one time through, I saw an image of the twelve steps from the bed to the bathroom, these daily rhythms of life we don’t really see. The way you gave that voice was beautiful. Christopher: That’s a crazy story, actually. Drew: Yeah, go for it! Where did that come from? Christopher: I know I’ve been gone from home too long if I forget that path from my side of the bed to the bathroom. There have been moments when I’ve walked into the wall because I’ve forgotten all the small steps of muscle memory that get me there. I’ve always thought a song about that would be cool, but I didn’t know how to work it in. Then one day that verse came out and I was so pleased with it. Later on, I was looking through an old journal, which I do sometimes while writing to make sure I haven’t missed anything good. And in there I found this dream I had six or seven years ago. I remember it so vividly. In my dream, I repeatedly went into this cave and came out with massive boulders. One at a time, I would drop them, then go back in and come back out with another one and drop it a little further out. The clarifying thing for me about the dream was the word “ebenezer,” which I love in “Come Thou Fount.” It’s kind of a cryptic word—lots of people get confused about the sudden presence of Scrooge in an otherwise perfectly understandable song—but that word means “stone of help,” from 1 Samuel when he laid the stones down and said, “This is how we will remember God’s goodness.” And I thought, “Oh, that’s what my dream was about.” I carry these massive stones out—it’s horrible and difficult and heavy, and my back hurts—but I lay them down, and every time I go back in, I’m able to find my way further back to God by following the stones. And that’s how they become a “living legacy of every hardship,” as I sing in that verse. These stones are all really difficult things from my story, but every one of them is working together to build a trail out of the darkness and into the light. That came out and I knew that song was finished. Drew: What I love about that is that God is not redeeming you in spite of these heavy stones you’re carrying, but rather through the process of carrying them. That’s a holy thing: your back hurting, the pain, whatever emotional difficulty—that’s holy. And how that relates to the first verse with the twelve steps—I feel like I’m talking about AA now, but that wasn’t purposeful. Christopher: Funny you should say that: we thought about changing it for that very reason. It actually is twelve steps from my bed to the bathroom, but we went with ten for a while. I decided not to edit that, though, because it really is twelve. That story has everything to do with walking through addiction though, whether directly or not, so I didn’t want to prevent it from carrying that extra meaning. Drew: Right, and there’s yet another dimension. You were saying earlier that to overcome the numbness of our unconscious connectedness to technology, we have to develop consciousness. Sometimes it’s strangely difficult to maintain that state of real consciousness that allows you to make decisions with full presence of mind, to put down whatever the addiction is. That first verse in “With Me Now” is such a great analogy for this struggle. Do you want to draw some connections there between that image and the larger context of our conversation? We need to remember where we were before and where we’ve ended up. And what I want to tell people, no matter what the destructive habit might be, is simply that it’s possible. It’s possible to rewrite the patterns of your life. Christopher Williams Christopher: It’s definitely a struggle for awareness. I also think we have to engage in a rewriting of the harmful patterns we’ve fallen into. We need to remember where we were before and where we’ve ended up. And what I want to tell people, no matter what the destructive habit might be, is simply that it’s possible. It’s possible to rewrite the patterns of your life. Drew: Even neurologically, scientists are talking so much these days about how the brain can do that. “Spiritual” voices are not the only ones making that claim. Christopher: Right. We’ve gotten ourselves into whatever place we’re in, and we can get ourselves out. In some senses I want to fight for the simplicity I had when I was in my twenties. I used a road atlas. I made phone calls from a pay phone. There was something really tangible and present about those memories that I miss. And it’s possible to regain it. There was a beautiful thing about carrying a pocket-sized notebook to write lyrics in. I used to carry that thing around all the time, and it’s just not the same to jot stuff down in my phone. Drew: How do you think worship rewrites our patterns? Christopher: Great question. I have a friend who teaches at Vanderbilt, and he and I have talked about that a lot. People are coming in with all sorts of stories, and the goal of Sunday morning is to reawaken. So I would look at the service and think about how to take the congregation on a journey. The whole process is taking the congregation, facing them in the same direction, reorienting them slightly, and giving them a renewed vision of who God is in respect to our brokenness in order to send them out for the week. And I can’t make people worship. I can present all the pieces and lay the groundwork, then it’s out of my hands; it’s not my responsibility past that point. But that idea of reorienting, creating that rhythm, that’s why Sunday mornings are so important. We constantly need to reorient, step out of ourselves, remember what’s important and who’s in charge, a letting go of sorts. Drew: I really love how you said there’s a point at which your responsibility in people’s worship ends. You’ve done what you can do. The laying down of our pride involved in that is tough, maybe tougher than we think. Christopher: It’s so hard. It’s really amazing how hard it is to be content with that lack of control. Drew: If you were to zoom out and look at your life ever since you made your first record and started touring, what trajectory would you see? Christopher: I have toured by myself pretty much throughout my entire career. It’s awesome, but also lonely. It used to be more lonely. In the last ten years, I’ve experienced a real shift towards living in community. I feel more protected and cared for. I think differently about why I’m going on the road in terms of priorities. Am I going out to sell records or step into people’s lives? As I’ve become less insecure, it’s changed my perspective. A lot of it has to do with being grateful for provision rather than calculating how I can provide for myself. Drew: Sounds like a relinquishing of ownership, like letting go, or at least holding everything more loosely. Christopher: Yes, and I think this particular record has a flavor that feels like the culmination of that transition. Christopher Williams’ Gather is available in the Rabbit Room Store.

I am not a van Gogh scholar in the academic sense. But following my middle school art teacher’s advice to pick an artist to study for the rest of my life, I chose Vincent van Gogh. This was not hard to do. Even when I was a child, his paintings drew me in. Vincent has been on my radar for over three decades now. I read books and articles about him. I watch films and documentaries. I make every effort to see his work when I visit a city that houses some. I give presentations about his life and work, and he occasionally finds his way into the sermons I preach. Someday I hope to write a book about him. When I saw the trailer for Loving Vincent, I was skeptical. I was concerned that the film makers would sensationalize his life, glorify his suffering, and maybe try to frame his death as a murder mystery, as some have attempted. But even more than any of those concerns, I was apprehensive about how the animation in the film would be used. Loving Vincent is the world’s first entirely hand-painted film. Over 125 artists worked for six years to recreate the south of France in Vincent’s unique style. They painted over 65,000 frames on over 1,000 unique canvases. Every frame of this 135 minute film is done in oils. (If you’re curious about how they did this, check out the film’s website. It is loaded with video clips and articles showing how the film was made.) I went in to the film wondering if the filmmakers were operating on the notion that animating a van Gogh would somehow enhance the experience of seeing one. Van Gogh’s work has plenty of motion on it’s own. It doesn’t need animation to come to life. I feel similarly about 3D movies. Our brains process how we see the world in a multi-dimensional way. When I watch a standard 2D movie, I’m not wishing I could see the depth of each scene. I can see it. Our brains supply the information we need to perceive depth on a 2D screen. The 3D effect just adds a new layer of information the brain must now process—information which often works against what our cognitive process is already naturally filling in. When it comes to 3D movies, rather than enhancing the experience, the cheap glasses and visual information coming at me dimly through them diminishes it. Though Loving Vincent is mercifully not in 3D, I went in concerned the film would employ its animation to try to improve on the effect of seeing Vincent’s work. I am happy to report Loving Vincent does no such thing. This is an amazing achievement in filmmaking. Here are a few things I really appreciated about this movie. First, the film’s use of oil brush strokes creates the same texture you see when standing in front of one of Vincent’s later works. The painters who worked on Loving Vincent are clearly paying homage to Vincent. The brushwork in this film is a labor of love. Second, this film incorporates many of Vincent’s landscapes and townscapes in ways that are clever but also educational. The town and the fields around it are drawn directly from Vincent’s work, and they are arranged to give a sense of their physical relationship to one another. The south of France comes to life. Third, the story the film tells, which focuses on how and why Vincent died, respects the complicated truth that Vincent was volatile and relatively isolated. People love a good conspiracy theory, and there is one that suggests Vincent was murdered by a teenager with a hot temper and a gun. This film explores that theory and others. Without giving anything away, I will say that after all the stories have been worked through, the film lands in a place of simple sorrow over his death and reverence for the beauty he brought to this world. Fourth, the characters in this story are drawn directly from his paintings. Strangely, for people familiar with van Gogh’s art, this is a film of familiar faces. But these people who populated Vincent’s paintings reveal something true and sad about his life. He did not have many friends. The people in his paintings are mostly people he came into contact with by necessity—his landlord, his barkeep, his doctor, his postman, prostitutes he knew, and other artists. Vincent seemed to keep company with the people his routines supplied. This, in and of itself, is not a bad thing. In fact, befriending those who come together to form one’s own functional community is a sign of relational health. But in Vincent’s case, every time we meet a new character—someone immortalized in his work, whose likeness hangs in some fine museum somewhere—we discover that he or she didn’t really know much about Vincent other than that he had a troubled spirit and loved to paint. If you love Vincent, you will appreciate this film. If it comes to a theater near you, check it out. I think you will be glad you did. And if Loving Vincent does not win the Oscar for animated film, something’s up.

Do you know where to find the dream of eternity? Take a good look out of the window. Hear the gospel whisper in your ear: “the kingdom of God has come to you.” (Luke 11:20).Let’s explore.  – Chris Webb, God-Soaked Life: Discovering a Kingdom Spirituality If you ever find yourself lamenting an inability to make time for the truly important in the midst of the relentlessly urgent, I have a proposal for you. Join the Renovaré Book Club. Seems like a bit of an underwhelming solution, I know. But seriously. Do you have a teetering stack of books on your nightstand? Do they whisper plaintively to you as you drift off to sleep? Are your promises to “do more reading tomorrow” becoming increasingly hollow? Here’s my premise. Books—the right books—can be teachers, companions, and even portals into deeper, richer realities. But sometimes days can turn into weeks … or months … or years … and the time to read has still eluded us. Joining a Book Club can be a surprisingly effective tweak. A regular schedule, some great resources, and the opportunity to connect with other people can all add up to a season of deep learning and connection. So why the Renovaré Book Club? Last year around this time I noted a startling kindredness between the communities that gather at the Rabbit Room (where I am a fan) and at Renovaré (where I am the Director of Education.) Several of you ended up joining last year’s Book Club, which was, to use the technical term, way cool. We have even more to offer this year. We will once again be going through four soul-expanding books from the end of October to mid-June. Members get weekly reminder emails, a bunch of exclusive resources from our facilitators, and some rich online community. This year we’re also piloting volunteer-led in-person groups in select cities (83 locations so far and growing). You can check the map on the Book Club page to see if there is an in-person group in your area. If not, you can stick with the online community, or volunteer to coordinate an in-person group yourself. Here are some more particulars: Book One: God-Soaked Life: Discovering a Kingdom Spirituality, written by Benedictine Anglican Priest Chris Webb. Chris himself will be facilitating. Book Two: The Hiding Place, the contemporary classic by Corrie Ten Boom. The facilitator will be Marti Ensign, a long-time missionary to Africa who enjoyed a close friendship with Corrie. Book Three: The Screwtape Letters by C. S. Lewis. Inklings scholar Dr. Robert Moore-Jumonville will be leading us through this lively classic. Book Four: Living Wisely with the Church Fathers written by Renovaré president and patristic scholar Chris Hall. Chris will facilitate this one for us. The first week of reading begins October 30th, but it’s not too late to join. The publisher of our first book has given us PDFs of the opening chapters to tie you over while you wait for your copy to arrive. So, please do check out the Club. The Kingdom of God truly is breaking in all around us. Here’s a chance to look out the window together. Learn more about the Renovaré Book Club.

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The first time I met Randall Goodgame we were sitting on the floor at my brother’s house (in Watertown back then) when Andrew convinced Randall to pull out his guitar and play a song. He played what is still one of my favorites,”Charlie Robin,” and I’ve been a fan ever since. Over the past 15 or 20 years I’ve watched Randall grow and change as a songwriter and I’m always excited about what he’s working on next—well, almost always. Let me explain. Several years ago, once the Slugs & Bugs albums had become a thing, I asked Randall what was next. His face lit up and he said something like “I’ve got this idea, and I think maaaaybe it’s going to be AWEsome” (if you know Randall at all, you can imagine the exact look on his face as he says this). I told him to get on with it and he said, “It’s going to be called Sing the Bible.” Then, with Shatner-like pauses between words, he told me, “and every song is going to be word-for-word Scripture.” At this point I think he bit his bottom lip and pumped a fist at me like he’d just pwned a middle-schooler at ping-pong. I stared blankly for an awkward moment as I tried to figure out what was happening. Thankfully, all that got stopped up in my brain and what came out was “Huh. That sounds great, man.” I don’t know whether or not he was able to read the doubt on my face, but I know it was plainly there. I’m pretty sure this makes me a terrible friend. So a few months went by, and before long he was in the studio with Ben Shive working on the record. In those days Ben and I shared office space, so I was behind my desk in the back corner while the rest of the building was full of music most of the time. This is a super fun way to keep your office work interesting. And as I sat in that little beige room with my boxes and books and shipping peanuts and the oppressive weight of my bad-friend doubt and the crushing burden of my bad-Christian dread of Sunday-school songs, I heard something awe-inspiring being born. The first song I recall hearing was “Two Shirts” and I couldn’t believe how good it was. I found myself enraptured with Randall’s ability to dress Scripture in a musicality that made it, well, sing. In a very real way, he was making the Bible new to me. He was taking Scripture passages I’d heard a thousand times and giving me the opportunity to hear them in fresh new ways, and not only to hear them, but to sing them and memorize them. There are, without doubt, Bible verses that I can quote today solely because of Randall’s music. And with every new track I heard, it just kept getting better. What strange magic was this? Anyone who knows me knows that I’m not wrong about things very often (if you are deaf to irony, turn the dial up to 11 when you read that). But I’m the first to admit that all my doubts about Randall’s Sing the Bible were off-base. In fact, while “Charlie Robin” is still one of my favorite songs, most of my favorite Randall Goodgame tunes are now, you guessed it, word-for-word Scripture. (Somewhere, right as you read that, Randall pumped his fist and made a stank-face.) I’ve pondered this a lot, and I don’t know if I’ve ever actually told Randall, but here’s the really beautiful thing about this whole Sing the Bible idea. Randall is a great songwriter, and there’s a very real sense in which he’s given that part of himself, that part of his gift, over to the Lord as a sort of sacrifice. He, a songwriter, has removed his own words from his songs, and in turn has allowed his gift of music to be filled, literally, with the Word. And in that giving away of himself, he’s flourished in ways that fools like me certainly didn’t foresee. If that’s not the Gospel, I don’t know what is. That’s quite a preamble to what I came here to say today, so let me get to it. If you’ve paid much attention to Randall’s music, or if you’ve known him long, you’re sure to have noticed his love for Charles Schulz’s Peanuts cartoons. It’s part of Randy’s music. It’s part of his humor. It’s part of his wardrobe. It’s part of him. So when you listen to this record, I hope you’ll appreciate how thoroughly Peanuts is a part of this also. I don’t know how he did it, but I swear he’s actually got Peppermint Patty talking on one of the songs. The album has a wonderful way of capturing the feel of those classic Peanuts holiday specials. From the jazz piano, to the children’s voices, to the playful hop in Randall’s melodies, it’s a blend of those old memories with the Gospel and with Randall himself that manages to sound like something new, yet familiar. And dang if he didn’t go and write another of my favorite songs (with a co-write from the Apostle Paul, I suppose) in “When the Fullness of Time Had Come.” I don’t know how he does it. I mean, good grief, who would have thought Scripture would be any good. I’m sorry I doubted you, Randall. I was so very wrong. Thank you for making the Bible sing. Slugs & Bugs Family Christmas is now available in the Rabbit Room Store. “When the Fullness of Time Had Come” by Randall Goodgame (and the Apostle Paul) from Slugs & Bugs Family Christmashttps://rabbitroom.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/10/02-When-The-Fullness-Of-Time-Had-Come.mp3

[Note from Drew Miller: Meet my honorary brother, Andrew Russell. His perspective has brought me life, laughter, and loving correction. I am grateful to introduce him to you. He originally wrote this for his own blog, The Contrarian Collective.] A few weeks ago, my wife and I celebrated our first wedding anniversary—an obvious time for reflection on our growth, individually and collectively, over the past year. This proves to be very difficult, of course. We aren’t always the best judges of ourselves, nor do we always have the best long-term memories. And I, for one, harbor a certain fear of looking back on my past. The reviewing of my shortcomings and failures—many of which have been longtime companions on my life’s journey—is always accompanied by the temptation to use these failures as a measuring stick for my value as a person. But we must have the courage to look back, to look within. We must remember our life stories and share them with those alongside us, and with those who will walk on after we have lost the strength to walk any farther. After all, we Christians are the spiritual descendants of the Jews, a people whose sacred writings are filled with exhortations to remember what the Lord has done for them. The Ten Commandments begin, “I am the Lᴏʀᴅ your God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of slavery” (Exodus 20:2, NRSV). The Sabbath day is not only a day of rest, but a day of remembrance (Deuteronomy 5:15). By remembering what God had done for and amongst them in the past, the people of Israel were able to more clearly recognize what God was doing for and amongst them in the present, and what he would likely do in the future. And so it is with us. We are all, like the ancient Israelites, living within a story. And it is impossible to understand where we are now in the progression of that story without being aware of the motifs established on previous pages. In looking back at my own experience these last twelve months, I am filled with gratitude, not only for the times in which I succeeded, but also for those in which I was forced to reconsider my instincts. Marriage is not only an immensely fulfilling relationship that provides you with a partner for all that life throws at you; it is also a sort of figural classroom, a place where we learn important lessons about what it means to be a human being and to live in a community. In this classroom, the stakes could not be higher. We learn these lessons because we have to learn them, because we now realize that the health and happiness of others depends upon our learning them. We are no longer accountable only to ourselves. In fact, if we think about it, we realize that we never were. This was the first lesson I had to learn. Stephen Sondheim wrote a masterpiece of a musical called Company, which debuted on Broadway in 1970. The main character, Bobby, is a single New Yorker in his mid-thirties who cannot, for the life of him, figure out why he has never gotten married. The final song of the play, “Being Alive,” encapsulates his transformation from selfish bachelor to a man truly ready to settle down. In the opening line, he begins his reflections on marriage by asking, “What do you get?”: Someone to hold you too close. Someone to hurt you too deep. Someone to sit in your chair, To ruin your sleep. Someone to need you too much. Someone to know you too well. Someone to pull you up short, And put you through hell. Someone you have to let in, Someone whose feelings you spare, Someone who, like it or not, Will want you to share A little, a lot. Someone to crowd you with love. Someone to force you to care. Someone to make you come through, Who’ll always be there, As frightened as you, Of being alive. You get someone who is always there. Unlike many of us, Bobby has the wherewithal to realize what a terrifying notion this is. To marry is to agree to have your life invaded by another person. Your chair is no longer your chair; your bed is no longer your bed. Every aspect of life is shared with another person. (At this point, we may ask, how different is this from the way life is really supposed to be in the Christian community?) It is terribly inconvenient, because you no longer have any claim to being the most important person in the room. The funny thing about the way God works, however, is that the richest blessings are always accompanied by the darkest sorrows. Grace is always traced with beautiful, blessed pain. To enter into covenant with God, Abram and Sarai had to leave their home and everyone they loved. Had her husband not died, Ruth would never have found her new home in Naomi and, ultimately, Boaz. To reunite with his beloved creatures, God had to experience their sufferings and the consequences of their sins, and when we partake of the holy Eucharist, we only receive the benefits of the grace found there by participating in the agony of the crucifixion. Love never exists independently of suffering. This is what makes it so meaningful. By the end of the song, Bobby agrees, crying out for this kind of love: Somebody hold me too close. Somebody hurt me too deep. Somebody sit in my chair, And ruin my sleep, And make me aware Of being alive. Somebody need me too much. Somebody know me too well. Somebody pull me up short, And put me through hell, And give me support For being alive. Make me alive. Make me alive. Make me confused. Mock me with praise. Let me be used. Vary my days. But alone Is alone, Not alive. Somebody crowd me with love. Somebody force me to care. Somebody let me come through. I’ll always be there, As frightened as you, To help us survive Being alive. This is what I have learned this year. To be alive is to have your life interrupted by others. To be married is to consent to sacred inconvenience. It is the privilege of recognizing that my wife’s needs are just as important as mine are. It is the sacrament of coming home after a long day of work and scrubbing dried yogurt from the bowl she used at breakfast. It is the blessing of losing the argument over whether or not we should adopt a cat, and the gift of hanging decorations on the wall that I would never have chosen for myself. Each of these is an opportunity to grow in love, the kind of love that God has within himself and created us to enjoy and to pass on. I learned that “What do you get?” is the wrong question to ask. Those of us who ask it, if we think about it, will realize that to ask it means that we are living for ourselves. To ask it is to be ultimately alone. And, as Sondheim teaches us, alone is alone—not alive.

If you’re a fan of worship music, heartland rock and roll and/or Ben Shive, then we’ve got a nice surprise for you. John Tibbs is a popular singer-songwriter and worship leader who has toured with Audrey Assad, Matt Maher, Crowder, and more. Tibbs has partnered with Shive to produce his latest EP, Heartland, a collection of compelling roots rock songs filled with hope and encouragement. Today we’re thrilled to feature an exclusive performance video of “Won’t Let Me Go”, the lead single from Heartland. He also told us a bit about the song’s origin. “I sing this song as a reminder to myself to spend less time worrying, and more time dreaming,” said Tibbs. “I sing it in hopes that it may encourage someone else to be bold and pursue that thing that scares them to death. I think fear is only a sign that our dreams are getting close to becoming a reality.”

A while back, Chris Fabry at Moody Radio interviewed Walt Wangerin about a host of things, including his memoir, Everlasting Is the Past (Rabbit Room Press). It’s a great interview and it’s now available to stream. If you’ve never had the chance to sit down and talk with Walt in person, this recording is a great example of his wit, his wisdom, and his captivating uniqueness. Enjoy. Click to Listen

Probably, it would be helpful if I explained here and now that I’m writing about a fictional character invented by Charles Dickens, and not about the self-esteem sufferings of an actual person. Let me begin by welcoming all classic literature tasters, whether you’re a Dickens enthusiast or one of those who think he’s too self-indulgent to tend his talent well. Admittedly, I don’t play well with readers in the latter category, but I’m sure we can all set aside our differences for the time being. I will also offer a disclaimer warding away anyone who has not actually read or completed A Tale of Two Cities, since I intend to discuss the ending in detail and I couldn’t possibly ruin the conclusion of such an extensively well-crafted drama for any first-timers out there. (Disclaimers and peace-making done, I commence with what used to be a borderline-stream-of-consciousness melee and, for your sake and mine, has recently been whittled down.) When I arrived at college, I quickly discovered one of the quickest ways to make or break friendships was owning A Tale of Two Cities as my favorite book. During my sophomore year I reread the novel, and a classmate announced (with a touch of purposeful insolence just to annoy me) that he especially did not appreciate Sydney Carton. He then added insult to injury by describing Carton as a fussy, pathetic “wimp” willingly opting for hedonistic despair revolting to a modern reader’s eye. Actually, all he really said was that Carton is a wimp. But obviously everything else was implicit. What keeps me coming back to Sydney Carton’s corner is his inexplicable, trademark self-loathing. Janie Townsend I have a persistent tendency to defend Sydney Carton should the occasion arise, which is both useless for me and obnoxious to other people. It wasn’t until a recent reread that I unearthed the source of my affinity for him, and it is the very thing inspiring other readers to criticize and even denounce Sydney Carton as a poor excuse for a man, much less an antihero-turned-romantic-hero. What keeps me coming back to Sydney Carton’s corner is his inexplicable, trademark self-loathing. After Dickens’ decadent style as an author and Lucie Manette’s unrealistic level of perfection, the chief complaint I hear regarding A Tale of Two Cities is Carton’s wildly out of control self-condemnation. Despite his frequently articulated and enduring certainty that his life is a hopeless waste, we don’t actually know why he hates himself so much. Any reader trying to uncover the concrete reason will only be driven to the brink of diagnosable insanity. The question is never answered, not by Dickens, not explicitly. Equally insufferable to many is Carton’s stubborn resignation to his poisonous state of mind. He evades and paradoxically deepens his self-hate by drinking himself into oblivion when he can (which is most of the time), insisting that his life will never amount to any good and that all his potential has dissolved. Throughout the book we learn a little at a time that part of his problem is his way of putting other people before himself in most circumstances, which hollows out his sense of self even more. A reader insensitive to his plight or perhaps just fed up with his so-called whining would respond with impatience and argue that all he has to do to turn his life around is try. They may suggest that if he could simply adjust his self-image it would naturally improve—mind over matter, positive thinking. For us (assuming you, dear reader, inhabit the same country I do), individualist Americans who believe in pulling ourselves up by our bootstraps, someone with great talent and a wickedly sharp mind who insists that he’ll never amount to anything (and therefore doesn’t) is deplorable. Every time he calls himself “a drudge” current readers are prepared to throw the book across the room in response to his melodrama. But Sydney Carton’s ever depleted self-esteem is less dramatic than we may first accuse it to be. Nowadays when folks go on and on about how much they hate themselves, it’s often assumed to be a tactic for drawing consolation or praise, theatrics begging a stroke for the ego. But Carton says he is a lost cause because he actually believes it. He says he is a lost cause because his world is run by dishonesty, and he’s tired of people who lie to themselves about their goodness by insisting their actions are righteous when in reality they’re wrought with self-importance (i.e. Stryver, England’s authorities and judges, Barsad). Carton has given up interest in playing a game of weighing his good against his depravity, because he’s also given up interest in watching everyone else do the same thing only to be blind to their darkness. He sees how twisted good intentions become harmful to others in action, and his sensitivity to this—that is, the imbalanced morality particularly demonstrated by colleagues and English authorities—makes him deeply self-aware but consequently weak against his own self-scrutiny. Therefore Carton, whose grasp of the world’s brokenness leaves him guarded against hope for goodness or healing in any form, openly confesses the grime in his heart instead of clinging to the sightless, selfish idea that he’s above reproach, but he takes this perceptiveness too far in the direction of self-disgust. Dickens tells us precious little of Carton’s history in comparison with just about every other protagonist he writes in his novels, hence every reader’s utter confusion over why Sydney makes himself suffer unceasingly. What’s more bewildering, any flashbacks Sydney experiences convey only the misfortunes and sadness he’s seen during his younger years. No scandals, no blots, no misdemeanors. Nothing worth feeling guilt over. So what has Sydney Carton done? What’s the big secret, the unnamed transgression? Given the evidence Dickens supplies, there may be none at all. And that, I would argue, is exactly the point. Perhaps Sydney’s only real sin is his parasitic shame, a byproduct of infected pride and twisted, swollen self-image. It may sound like an oversimplification, but Dickens doesn’t seem to think any juicy details are necessary in the antihero’s arc, so we’re left believing there is calculated reason for what he does divulge. After all, if Dickens doesn’t require any further details you know something significant is going on. Carton not only mimics the figure of Jesus---dying upon a gruesome torture device, literally taking the place of a condemned prisoner so that his dearest loved ones can live freely ... ---he further exemplifies the redemptive work of God, sometimes murmuring, sometimes thundering its way through our lives according to His good judgment. Janie Townsend What he does think necessary are numerous hints branding Sydney Carton a Christ figure, and one of the most legendary literary Christ figures at that. But our favorite loquacious author does something more as he leads Sydney to a grisly scaffold, something worshipful even. Carton not only mimics the figure of Jesus—dying upon a gruesome torture device, literally taking the place of a condemned prisoner so that his dearest loved ones can live freely, liberated from the histories that have haunted their steps—he further exemplifies the redemptive work of God, sometimes murmuring, sometimes thundering its way through our lives according to His good judgment. Sydney Carton’s shame and guilt lead to no visible repentance or gospel-humility (a term C.S. Lewis and Tim Keller, among others, have discussed and popularized at length, if you’d like some fun, light reading this week). Unruly and unhealthy, they contort him into a man diseased with habitual sin—the sin of turning from God’s just mercy in favor of one’s own laws and standards, of deciding one’s worth for oneself, the devastating sin of pride. His shame and self-loathing, his sickest and most broken place, withheld for whatever reason from God’s healing until the final chapters of his story, are not cured but redeemed at The Guillotine. Sydney Carton’s seemingly purposeless, biting self-deprecation lays him so low as to step into death, saving all other protagonists and searing a depiction of quiet but victorious righteousness in the minds of any savvy onlookers. He performs a wordless act of justice and an irreversible act of mercy, as Christ did for us upon a cruel, now gorgeous platform. But Sydney Carton also demonstrates the process of redemption, a personified picture of how our Creator and Father grips the deepest darknesses of His beloved, crafting those same darknesses into catalysts for unthinkable renewal. From the moment we meet him in the third chapter of the second book, Sydney Carton’s course has been set. His subjectively irritating self-hatred only paves the way, however tumultuous and tragic a way it may be. It leads him from hopelessness in himself to hope for a fuller restoration than he could ever find in his own attempts at goodness, or society’s definitions of success, or marriage to a loving woman. His wandering lands him at the feet of the Lord, his shame and pride turned inside out, his wounds morphed into saving grace. His friends are saved from wrongful murder. He is saved from perpetual entrapment of his own making. It gives me no small amount of peace when I realize the story Dickens wrote for Sydney Carton is our story. Reread the novel and I guarantee, unless you’re one of those people who can’t help detesting Charles Dickens, it will make you believe redemption and justice and mercy are happening for us all the time, all at once. And if you didn’t heed my warning and you haven’t read A Tale of Two Cities, but you went ahead and read this anyway, now you really have to read the book. Because Dickens tells the story so much better than I do.