Combing through an old notebook of ideas one day, Lucy Maud Montgomery came across this entry which she had copied from a newspaper clipping: “Elderly couple apply to orphan asylum for a boy. By mistake a girl is sent them.” And from this “mistake” came one of the most dearly loved heroines in the English language. Anne of Green Gables has no formal plot; it’s mostly comprised of Anne prattling away to Marilla about her scrapes and daydreams and impressions of their neighbors in the village of Avonlea. But there’s such a magic about Anne and her world that for well over a hundred years, readers have fallen into the pages of that book and never wanted to leave. Montgomery herself said that Anne was so alive it was as if she had actually danced into the room with her as she was writing. Anne was rejected by five publishers—after which Montgomery put the manuscript away in a hatbox, and with it, all hope of ever seeing her winsome, red-headed chum in print. And there it lay for a number of years, until, cleaning out a closet one winter day, Maud came across the fated hatbox and its nearly forgotten manuscript. She leafed through it once more, confiding later in her journal that, perhaps, it wasn’t “so very bad.” In a last daring effort, she sent Anne out one more time. And the rest is history. Maud wanted to be a writer from a young age; she said that her first literary attempts were writing biographies of her cats. Lanier Ivester To date, Anne of Green Gables has sold more than 50 million copies and has been translated into 20 languages. And Anne Shirley has become, in Mark Twain’s words, “the dearest and most moving and delightful child since the immortal Alice.” I’ve spent a lot of time attempting to name the particular kinship that exists between the lovers of L. M. Montgomery’s books. We’re an impassioned lot, marked by a loyalty that transcends nationality, time in history, and even gender. Montgomery herself liked to remind people that her readership was not limited to women and young girls—even though her novels have been classified as “domestic romances,” there are quite a few notable men in history who have not been ashamed to confess themselves among her fans—from Tibetan monks to prime ministers of England. And at the outset of WWI, Montgomery received a touching letter from a young Englishman, informing her that he was taking Anne of Green Gables to the front with him as a reminder of all the goodness and sanity in the world he was fighting for. We delight in Jane Austen’s witty heroines; we admire the impassioned and independent creations of the Bronte sisters; we quake a little before the titanic humanity of George Eliot’s characters. But when we talk about Anne, and her literary sisters Emily, Pat, Valancy, Jane and the others, we’re not just talking about “people in a book,” but personal friends.  I find this camaraderie so fascinating, particularly in light of the fact that important friendships were a major theme in Montgomery’s books. Who can hear the words “kindred spirit” without thinking of Anne Shirley and Diana Barry, and their immortal vow “over running water”? But I think that Montgomery described her own fan base in Anne’s House of Dreams with Miss Cornelia’s evocative descriptor of a true friend. She identifies a kindred spirit as one who is “of the race that knows Joseph.” A dreamer of dreams. According to Montgomery, those of Joseph’s race “share our taste in loves and jokes,” and are recognized as “‘kindred souls’ as soon as we meet them.” I think that’s at the heart of L. M. Montgomery’s appeal: in the midst of a hard-nosed, heartbroken old world, idealists recognize our own kind, both in her books and in the lovers of them. A friend once described the writings of Montgomery as a warm fire around which dreamers couldn’t help but gather. It’s true; I can’t tell you how many significant friendships in my life have originated in a “what—you, too?” moment of connection over Montgomery’s novels. Elizabeth Rollins Epperly summed up this sense of connection in her introduction to The Fragrance of Sweet-Grass, a scholarly treatment of Montgomery’s heroines, when she says, “L. M. Montgomery’s writing changes peoples’ lives.” I couldn’t agree more. I absolutely would not be the woman I am today were it not for the influence of Montgomery’s books in my youth. I’ve read them and re-read them as an adult until some of them are actually falling apart, and, I’m telling you, they have not lost an ounce of their magic. I’ll never be able to read Pat of Silver Bush again for the first time; I’ll never have that agony of unknowing over who Emily Starr would marry; I can’t ever feel quite as sorry for Jane Stuart’s early unhappiness, because I know that Lantern Hill is waiting for her by the sea on Prince Edward Island. But every single time I revisit these books I find something elemental rekindled deep within, some primeval spring unclogged, some “first, fine careless rapture” regained. Psychologists have all kinds of wonderful tricks for helping people snap out of unhealthy thought patterns or identity crises. But the very swiftest, surest way for me to remember who I am, to remember my fairy birthright as writer, romantic, and lover of beauty, is to look up a favorite passage in an L. M. Montgomery book, or to dip into one of her short stories. I need her to remind me that a snowy tea cloth and a jug of wildflowers matter; that it’s always better to poke fun at human nature than to judge it; that ideals are just as real as experience. And the more I’ve learned about Lucy Maud’s personal life and some of the fearsome challenges she faced in bringing these books into existence, the more I love and look up to her. But who was she? For a bit of background, Lucy Maud Montgomery was born in New London, Prince Edward Island (PEI), on November 30, 1874. Her mother died when she was less than two years old, and with the exception of one year with her father in Prince Albert, Saskatchewan, her entire youth was spent in Cavendish, PEI, now known and beloved to the world as Avonlea. Maud, as she liked to be called, was raised by her maternal grandparents, but she was surrounded by a colorful cast of aunts and uncles and cousins who all fed into her story with their quirks and distinctions. Prince Edward Island was, and is, a storytelling culture, and Maud’s grandfather was one of the very best. He prided himself on his ability to tell a spell-binding tale—everything from local history to fairy stories from Scotland, the “old country.” Lucy Maud grew up listening to her grandfather captivate anyone within earshot; it’s likely she developed much of her sense of storytelling, the timing of suspense and resolution, the essential romance of everyday life, from watching Alexander Macneill in action. He elevated an anecdote into an art form, and young Maud was paying close attention. Maud wanted to be a writer from a young age; she said that her first literary attempts were writing biographies of her cats. She also wrote poetry and short stories, and when she was fifteen, she had her first work published in the Charlottetown newspaper. Her career had begun. Lucy Maud’s youth was a marked combination of liveliness and loneliness. Her Cavendish schooldays were the happiest of her life, and she constantly drew from them in her fiction. But while her life was comfortable, it wasn’t easy: essentially orphaned, she knew that she was going to have to make her own way in the world, and that education was an absolute—albeit expensive—necessity. She fought her way through teacher’s college, as well as a year of English Literature at Dalhousie University. She taught school for a few years after that, until her grandfather’s death, when she returned to Cavendish to help her grandmother manage both the old homestead and the post office they ran out of the kitchen. Yet for all that, she continued to write. So much so that by 1901 she was able to say that she was “making a livable income” by her pen. In 1906 she was secretly engaged to the Presbyterian minister, Ewan MacDonald—secretly because she had promised her grandmother she would stay with her as long as she lived. And when Lucy Macneill died in 1911, Maud married Ewan and left the Island, never to return except on visits. She mourned what she called her “exile” from Prince Edward Island, but she continued to write about it for the rest of her life. In all, she wrote 22 novels, including the recently published The Blythes are Quoted; 530 short stories, 500 poems, and 30 essays. In 1935 was made an Officer of the Order of the British Empire. By the time of her death in 1942, she was a household name, not just in Canada, but all over the world. So, how did she do it? To be continued…

In Brazil this week, the Olympians are busy olymping. Most of us are busy sitting on couches watching them olymp (not to mention watching the Rogue One trailer over and over again.) And meanwhile, all the important stuff is going on in the RR Forums. Here’s the rundown: @mattgarner started a great discussion on the nature of violence in storytelling. What’s appropriate? What’s not? And why? Catch up on the conversation here: “Violence.” We’re still wrapping up our reading group discussion of Slow Church. If you’re just now finishing up the book, pop over and let us know what you thought. Even if you haven’t had time to read along, there’s a lot of great conversation for everyone. Were you in line on release day to get your copy of Harry Potter and the Cursed Child? What did you think? @chrisyokel and @jroseyokel want to know what you thought. If you want to talk spoilers, this is the place to do it. We recently launched Site Digest feature. If you are logged in, click your name to visit your profile page and you’ll find a summary of all the recent activity on the site: forums, comments, podcasts, events, blogs–all in one easy to read spot. Let us know what you think of it. Diana Glyer is our Hutchmoot special guest this year and we know a lot of you are reading, Bandersnatch, her latest book. @richtuttle started a forum thread to discuss it. The book is available in the Rabbit Room Store, and the forum discussion starts here: Bandersnatch. Don’t forget to subscribe to threads you enjoy in order to get notifications when there are updates to the discussion.

I’m somewhat familiar with the feeling, but I’ve never made the decision. There was a period in my mid-twenties when I felt completely undone. I’d hit rock bottom all on my own, an embarrassing and overwhelming string of poor decisions resulting from, what was then, my complete lack of character, integrity, or long-term planning. The domino effect left me not only broke and umemployed but confused and depressed. The days and events spiralled until I began to think the worst. I was alone. I had no hope. I could see no single reason to go on living. This morning I read about a man who felt the same. It was apparently not the first time he’d entertained such thoughts, given his prepatory work. The short story: a year or so prior, a horrific prank went wrong that nearly killed his wife. Four young men were throwing rocks from an interstate overpass when one struck a car with this man’s family inside. In an instant, his wife turned into a dependent with “severe head injuries” including the loss of her eye. One year later, this 55-year-old man decided he’d had enough. He made his preparations. He said what he needed to say. Then he took his own life. I can’t imagine the cycle this man was in. Anger at the teens whose antics stole his life as he knew it. Frustration at this new set of daily challenges he confronted as a caregiver. The likely guilt he felt detesting his new role when his wife was the actual victim of the crime. In an instant, his identity had been stolen. Beyond the new set of demands, he was also dealt a slew of traumatic emotions and experiences to process and live with. Try as I might, there’s no way I can understand the ongoing pain this man has endured, the ongoing hopelessness he must have felt. Another rehab appointment that only left her frustrated. Another med that didn’t quite work. A course of action or treatment that failed to yield the dividends hoped for. A realization that any mutual enjoyment of their four adult children and the assumed future grandchildren in their twilight years would now be a solitary venture. He needed to talk. *** Yesterday a friend came over to drop off some boxes. We’re knee-deep in the loathsome activity of moving, which means any and all boxes are appreciated. But it was clear that’s not why he really came over. For the last few years, he has assumed the role of caretaker. Ever since the words “she has cancer” were said, his life was forever changed. His role as husband and father took on new dimensions: new stresses, new levels of responsibility, new emotions to process. Through it all, the entire family has provided witness for an unexplainable peace, a contagious joy, an inspirational courage, and a Godward focus. We didn’t speak for long. I was sick that evening and had just woken from a short nap to find him at our house. We talked about his wife’s most recent treatments, the local school system, the pains of moving, the end of summer. Inconsequential? On the surface, maybe. But at the core, we all need to talk. *** This morning, my eyes watered when I read of this husband/father who’d had enough. I thought of the hell he must have endured up to the point when he pulled the trigger, sitting alone in his car. I thought of the likely overwhelming sense of loneliness and anger at the life he should have had — the life he did have — versus the one he was living. I also thought of the lack of someone — anyone — to speak to in his life. Would his kids yell at him if he even admitted that taking care of their mother was a chore? Would his family stop speaking to him if he floated the idea of seeking some outside care? Did he carry the weight of every unasked question since those rocks were heaved over the side of that overpass? I don’t know that I’m so different. I don’t know that any of us are different. This morning, while reading the article, I realized that the only thing that separated my own story from this news headline is the community around me — friends who asked the hard questions, friends who didn’t care if it was awkward to bring it up. I also thought of my own attempts (that often feel so lame) to be that person for someone else scared to admit that they’re in over their head, that their circumstances are overwhelming them. *** This afternoon I called a close friend who’s been there for me in some of my darkest moments. His life is now stressful on all fronts. Work. Home. There’s little respite from the incessant demands for his attention. Provide for this. Gear up for that. Keep your head up. Hold out hope. Rinse, repeat, despite the circumstances. He is a champion in all respects to me. He’s a model of love and patience in the midst of trying times. He’s even reached out to me amidst his own crises, wondering how I was doing when he has every reason to focus solely on himself and his family. Hey, what’s up? Nothing much, man. I just figured you might need to talk.

In Part II, we considered how imagination is the harmonious piecing together of images that rouse longings powerful enough to move us to faith in a “Maker of heaven and earth, of all that is seen and unseen.” The imagination also urges us to go beyond right belief by rousing the sentiments that make us more capable of right action. Can it then be a mere coincidence that Russell Kirk’s concept of the “moral imagination” comes from a quotation by Edmund Burke in 1790 that includes the very “image” of longing that C. S. Lewis is best known for? All the decent drapery of life is to be rudely torn off. All the superadded ideas, furnished from the wardrobe of a moral imagination, which the heart owns, and the understanding ratifies, as necessary to cover the defects of our naked shivering nature, and to raise it to dignity in our own estimation, are to be exploded as a ridiculous, absurd, and antiquated fashion.[1] Through this metaphor of a wardrobe (!), Burke references humanity’s innate desire for the transcendent (“superadded ideas”), which he describes as the clothing that covers our “naked shivering nature” and raises us to greater dignity. In this wardrobe hangs everything that separates humans from beasts—all the symbols and signs which assure us we are not animals only, but spiritual beings made in the image of God. And yet it is through the concrete, physical world of culture that our spiritual nature is made known. Art, philosophy, storytelling, music, ritual, poetry, the virtues and customs passed on from one generation to the next—these are the fur coats Lucy must pass through and touch in order to enter a world that is at once more magical and more real. Brevity may be the soul of wit, but it isn’t typically the soul of mystery. Ashlee Cowles Burke wrote these lines in reference to the most extreme factions of the French Revolution, who sought to do away with “antiquated” custom. As a result, any reasonable motivations for reform were swallowed up by bloodlust and tyranny—the forces that always fill the vacuum that results when the wardrobe of the moral imagination is stripped bare and little remains of man but a brutal creature consumed by selfishness, hedonism, and the instinct to survive at all cost. Kirk, in his interpretation of Burke’s passage, highlights empathy as the crucial imaginative power that separates man from beast, making the other “fur coats” of culture in the wardrobe possible. “By the ‘moral imagination,’” Kirk writes, “Burke meant that power of ethical perception which strides beyond the barriers of private experience and events of the moment.”[2] For Kirk, the moral imagination is our empathic ability to perceive universal truths—both about humanity and the world—that transcend our own narrow experience and the historical age we happen to have been born to. This imaginative power is awakened not only by poetry, literature, and song, but by any image that incarnates a deeper mystery. Third Conclusion: The imagination, then, is our unique human capacity to empathize with the other, the enemy, and the least of these; it is our ability to find the universal in the particular. Final Conclusions Brevity may be the soul of wit, but it isn’t typically the soul of mystery. Perhaps the imagination itself is a mystery, and as such, it is difficult to summarize in a simple, one-sentence definition. If Christ, the ultimate Mystery, is one who “plays in ten thousand places,” then the spellbinding power of the imagination—one of the most wondrous earthly mysteries He’s given us—surely requires at least a thousand words. C. S. Lewis and Russell Kirk believed the imagination’s dominion was neutral—it “can raise us on high, as did Dante’s high dream,” or “draw us down to the abyss.”[3]—but it is a power and should be treated as such. Throughout their careers, Kirk and Lewis called for and contributed to a renaissance of imagination, anticipating that the culture-maker, not the cultural critic, would be the voice “increasingly heard” amidst the noise of the modern world, and perhaps the prophet most capable of opening our eyes to “the great mysteries once more.”[4] Read Part I Read Part II [1] As quoted in Russell Kirk’s “The Moral imagination” in Literature and Belief Vol. 1 (1981), 37–49. Accessed July 29, 2016. http://www.kirkcenter.org/index.php/detail/the-moral-imagination/ [2] Ibid [3] Kirk, “Rediscovery of Mystery.” [4] Ibid.

No one has a simple story. For reasons I imagine Jason Isbell never intended, when I listen to his music I sometimes find my mind drifting to friends and ministry colleagues who have seemingly lost everything due to choices they’ve made or afflictions that have come to them.  As I listen, I remember that what’s happened to them could just as easily happen to me. When a public figure falls, we, who know nothing of the actual details or circumstances, can be so quick to think we see the situation with panoramic clarity when, in truth, we only see a sliver of the full story—just a speck. It takes everything in us not to fill in the details, and even more to hold back that subtle sense of glee when we do. A life in ruin is a sacred place—something to be respected, not ridiculed. Russ Ramsey Jesus warns us against making much of the speck we see in a brother’s eye. A life in ruin is a sacred place—something to be respected, not ridiculed. The more we learn about someone’s particular catastrophe, the more we should be moved to compassion and sobriety of heart. The particular details bring the thing down from the clouds to the ground on which we ourselves stand—and only then does it touch us. It is a holy moment when God topples our best-laid plans—our Babels. C. S. Lewis and Pipe Bombs In his raw and beautiful work, A Grief Observed, C. S. Lewis writes, “If my house has collapsed at one blow, that is because it was a house of cards. . . . If my house was a house of cards, the sooner it was knocked down, the better. And only suffering could do it.” Almost as if he’s continuing Lewis’s thought, Jason Isbell, in his 2016 Grammy-winning song “24 Frames,” wrote these words about his addictions and the marriage he lost as a result. This is how you make yourself vanish into nothing And this is how you make yourself worthy of the love that she Gave to you back when you didn’t own a beautiful thing This is how you make yourself call your mother And this is how you make yourself closer to your brother And remember him back when he was small enough to help you sing You thought God was an architect, now you know He’s something like a pipe bomb ready to blow And everything you built that’s all for show goes up in flames In 24 frames In that lyric, “this” refers to what you have to do after your world gets leveled. When asked about comparing God to a pipe bomb, Isbell said, “I felt like that was the most insightful line in the song. It’s about assuming that you have control over the things that go on in your life—and you know, you really don’t.” What Isbell Has to Tell Us Isbell’s last two albums, Southeastern (2013) and Something More Than Free (2015), are often referred to as his “sober” records, since they were made after he got clean. His journey through addiction to sobriety is well documented, so I won’t rehearse it here except to note we sell Isbell way short if we think this is the only story he has to tell. As with Flannery O’Connor and Ernest Hemingway, Isbell brings a certain darkness to his work that helps us see the light. Russ Ramsey Isbell’s suffering has produced an awareness with the full range of complexities common to the human experience—insight he shares with both humility and humor. As with Flannery O’Connor and Ernest Hemingway, Isbell brings a certain darkness to his work that helps us see the light—a sinking sorrow that makes true joy buoyant. Song after song, Isbell offers details to help us see the layers and textures of complicated things we might otherwise regard as simple. Though his work is certainly autobiographical (whose isn’t?), he is neither the hero nor the villain of his songs. His records are full of stories—parables with characters and richly orienting details like you find in Bruce Springsteen’s Ghost of Tom Joad. His characters are like us, and like the people we all know. Some are refined, some are rough. Some use salty language while others pray for decency. Some are young and invincible and others are dying of cancer. Some drink too much, take drugs, and pretend it won’t catch up to them. As a result, some get beat up and some overdose. And the people who loved them weep. No One Has a Simple Story This is the world I know as a pastor. I’ve been down in the trenches with people whose lives were in the process of falling apart. I’ve taken calls where hollow, grieving voices on the other end of the line tell me they lost a loved one to drugs, or that they have cancer, or that they just lost their job, or their marriage. The people who waltz in and out of Isbell’s songs are beautiful and grotesque at the same time. But Isbell uses them do the heavy lifting of the truth-telling. They sow and they reap. They laugh and they grieve. They try to be carefree and self-indulgent but end up reflective and repentant. They flirt with the shadows and end up lost. They’re sought by love and found. But none of it is simple—and that, I find helpful. We don’t help each other when we ignore the pain or dismiss the grit and gurgle of affliction, addiction, self-centeredness, and secret destructive appetites. Isbell has a gift for unfolding these sorts of stories with accessibility and detail that make us want to lean in to hurting people with compassion and humility. And that, I find honest, because no one has a simple story. (This article was previously published at The Gospel Coalition.)

In Part I, we considered how the imagination is the part of us most concerned with transcendent concepts, virtues of “the chest,” and pursuits that are good ends in themselves. As artists, we use our imaginations whenever we attempt to incarnate one of these “unnecessary” goods in an image—whether that image be a painting or a poem. C. S. Lewis famously described his own creative writing process as one sparked by pictures (“of a Faun carrying an umbrella”), not by characters, themes, or plot. Russell Kirk also believed the effective storyteller was a master of images, not merely a master of language. “Images,” he asserts, “are representations of mysteries, necessary because mere words are tools that break in the hand, and it has not pleased God that man should be saved by abstract reason alone.”[1] In a rare reference to his own creative process as a writer of Gothic fiction and classic ghost stories, Kirk reveals that his muse had much in common with Lewis’s: When I write fiction, I do not commence with a well-converted formal plot. Rather, there occur to my imagination certain images, little scenes, snatches of conversation, strong lines of prose. I patch together these fragments, retaining and embellishing the sound images, discarding the unsound, finding a continuity to join them…Unless one has this sort of pictorial imagery—Walter Scott had it in a high degree—he never will become a writer of good fiction, whatever may be said for expository prose.[2] Spells are used for breaking enchantments as well as for inducing them. And you and I have need of the strongest spell that can be found to wake us from the evil enchantment of worldliness which has been laid upon us for nearly a hundred years. C. S. Lewis Here Kirk refers to his imagination as an ability to “patch together…fragments,” creating a new, harmonious whole. Elsewhere, he describes the imagination as a power we are lured into—similar to the experience of “falling in love”—rather than a weapon we self-consciously wield. Lewis would likely agree, as he believed the imagination draws us into its delight, working on us in subtle but profound ways that enable us to experience true joy. In his sermon “The Weight of Glory,” Lewis notes how the imagination ignites in us a profound longing for “the scent of a flower we have not found, the echo of a tune we have not heard, news from a country we have never yet visited”—in other words, a longing for our eternal home.[3] Lewis then asks his audience a question, one that illustrates how he believes the imagination functions: Do you think I am trying to weave a spell? Perhaps I am; but remember your fairy tales. Spells are used for breaking enchantments as well as for inducing them. And you and I have need of the strongest spell that can be found to wake us from the evil enchantment of worldliness which has been laid upon us for nearly a hundred years.[4] Under such a spell of imaginative grace, humans experience a foretaste of our ultimate home and become capable of heroic virtue as we walk our earthly pilgrimage. Second Conclusion: The imagination, then, is that part of us most perceptive to enchantments; it is the wonderstruck child we must keep alive as we grow older, since it is what makes us most susceptible to the “good spell” of the Gospel. Read Part I here. [1] Russell Kirk, “The Rediscovery of Mystery.” Imprimis. 1977. Accessed July 29, 2016. https://imprimis.hillsdale.edu/the-rediscovery-of-mystery/. [2] Ibid. [3] C.S. Lewis, “The Weight of Glory,” Theology. 1941. Accessed July 29, 2016. http://www.verber.com/mark/xian/weight-of-glory.pdf [4] Ibid.

Check out the story behind Jason Gray’s song “Death Without A Funeral.”

For one glorious year, I was blessed to live as a Residential Fellow at the Russell Kirk Center for Cultural Renewal in northern Michigan, where I worked on my novel and researched Dr. Kirk’s understanding of the Moral Imagination. As a result of this experience, I feel relatively comfortable when it comes to making distinctions between the “moral,” “idyllic,” and “diabolic” imaginations. Yet it wasn’t until a student recently asked me a straightforward question—“What exactly is the imagination?”—that I realized I didn’t have a simple definition of this whimsical “thing” we storytellers love to reference (and as a result, I’m pretty sure I just mumbled something about creativity). So what is the imagination? To answer this question, I turned to the two writers who have most influenced my understanding of the relationship between imagination, faith, and story: C. S. Lewis and Russell Kirk. Both men wrote extensively on this dynamic, serving as “translators” who not only sought to preserve the Great Tradition they had inherited, but to breathe new life into its ideas through writing that appealed to both reason and imagination. In this three-part series of posts, I will focus on defining the imagination, concluding each segment with a statement that hopefully helps elucidate what we mean by this word. Lewis and Kirk both recognized that the Western world had left what Kirk called the “Age of Discussion” and entered an “Age of Sentiments,” where rational discourse was not, by itself, all that persuasive. Kirk foresaw that in this age …there will survive some serious periodicals, and some decent books, and here and there obscure comers where a few people earnestly discuss some matters that cannot well be swept into oblivion. Yet this remnant of genuine thinkers and readers and talkers may be very small. The immense majority of human beings will feel with the projected images they behold upon the television screen; and in those viewers that screen will rouse sentiments rather than reflections. Waves of emotion will sweep back and forth, so long as the Age of Sentiments endures. And whether those emotions are low or high must depend upon the folk who determine the tone and temper of television programming.[1] In the absence of deep discussion, the danger is that we “sink into an era of secular propaganda, unthinking conformity, and mass manipulation.”[2] Kirk did not live to see our own “age of the Internet” or “age of Netflix,” but most of us can acknowledge the validity of his concerns. The supremacy of sentiments opens us up to propaganda and manipulation, yet Kirk also acknowledged that it makes us postmodern people—who do not value cold rationality quite like our Enlightenment forefathers—more receptive to the subtle whispers of the imagination. The immense majority of human beings will feel with the projected images they behold upon the television screen; and in those viewers that screen will rouse sentiments rather than reflections. Russel Kirk Lewis also appreciated the potential of sentiments—worthwhile passions such as courage, love, honor, and a healthy patriotism—and wrote of this power of the “chest” in The Abolition of Man. He recognized that the rational justification of why we should or should not do something does not “enable a man to be virtuous,” for without “the aid of trained emotions the intellect is powerless against the animal organism.”[3] Yet if our emotions are trained out of slavery to our most basic desires, they may well become enamored with all of the “useless” things that matter most, which Lewis describes in The Four Loves when he says, “Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art, like the universe itself (for God did not need to create). It has no survival value; rather it is one of those things which give value to survival.”[4] Philosophy and art? Perhaps these things have little value in our 21st century economy, but when it comes to education and parenting, Lewis insists that if we sacrifice the imagination in favor of more “practical” pursuits in order to produce a generation of “college and career ready” test-takers, we will end up with “men without chests and expect of them virtue and enterprise.”[5] After all, human beings are not merely rational, which is why society—no matter how scientific or technologically advanced—needs the poet, whose “route to our emotions lies through our imaginations.”[6] First Conclusion: The imagination, then, is that part of us most concerned with transcendent concepts, virtues of “the chest,” and pursuits that are good ends in themselves. [1] Russell Kirk, “The Age of Sentiments,” Redeeming the Time (Wilmington: ISI Books, 1996), 134. [2] Russell Kirk, “The Age of Discussion,” Beyond the Dreams of Avarice (Peru: Sherwood Sugden & Company, 1991), 44. [3] C.S. Lewis, The Abolition of Man (New York: Touchstone, 1996), 35–37. [4] C.S. Lewis, The Four Loves (New York: Harcourt, 1960), 71. [5] Lewis, The Abolition of Man, 35–37. [6] C.S. Lewis, Studies in Words (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013), 319.

Rembrandt’s David Playing the Harp to Saul is a painting of a kingdom being torn in two. It could be your kingdom. It could be mine. Light comes in from the upper left, showing Saul looking down with suspicion on the young man who has come to play his harp to soothe the king’s anxiety. Saul was a cornered man. The look of distrust on his face and the spear in his hand signal what is about to happen. We know that on at least two occasions, Saul threw that spear at David as he played (1 Samuel 18:10, 19:9). King Saul is large and imposing, armed with his spear, draped in layers of regalia, and adorned with gold. David is hidden, represented only by his hands and his harp—which is to say, David’s presence is represented here as the music he is playing. Saul is the robe and spear. David is the song. Saul summoned David to play his harp because the music calmed the king. What troubled Saul was the fear of losing his throne. This was why he needed to be comforted. The irony here is the young man who played the soothing melodies would also be the one to depose the troubled king and assume his throne. King Saul must have been a deeply frustrated man. He had the title and the power, but he did not have the Lord’s blessing or the people’s hearts. Saul wore the robes of power, but David was the song creeping into Israel’s heart. Did David’s music ever lull the king into a sense of resignation that his reign was already over? To Saul’s ear, did David ever play anything but sad songs? I can think of few situations that trouble the heart more than being in a position we know is passing away— a role not meant for us, a season that is not ours to keep. Such frustration can turn a desire to serve and love into a desperate scramble for control. I relate to Saul. I have never governed a literal kingdom, but I am always trying to build one. And I know the kingdoms I am most inclined to construct are the sort God will oppose. I know what it feels like to adorn myself in what I hope will command respect. But under those robes trembles a frightened child who is terrified of losing what he has tried so hard to build. The music floats in the air, a lilting tune that softens the creases in my brow and eases the tension in my shoulders. The melody becomes familiar— even known. And it comforts me. So why, then, does my grip still go tight around the spear? About the Art: Rembrandt van Rijn (1606-1669), David Playing the Harp to Saul, 1629, oil on panel, 50.2 x 61.8 cm, Private Collection. Rembrandt would have been 23 when he painted this.

Dave and Licia Radford of The Gray Havens are hitting the road this fall and raising the bar for a standard folk/acoustic concert. They’ve chosen college and university campuses for their main venues, and will be touring with a full band and string section (for most shows). Whoa. If you’ve been listening to their new album, you’ll understand immediately why they’ve gone this route. The rich production behind songs, like “This My Soul,” “A Living Hope,” and the title track, demands a more epic soundscape than a single guitar or piano. Dave is currently working on string arrangements with producer Ben Shive and says “it’s been really exciting putting everything together for this tour. The goal is to play through Ghost of a King as it sounds on the record. We’ve never really played with a full band before, so with up to fifteen players a night, we’ll be like kids in some kind of sonic candy store. Can’t wait!” Besides offering shows with a full band and strings, the tour roster also includes several regular duo dates and shows that are more stripped back (check with the venue for details). For specific information on what cities they’ll be visiting, or how you can purchase tickets, visit their Bandsintown page. More show dates are rolling in, so check back frequently if you don’t see your town listed. Also visit The Gray Havens on Facebook for further tour information (and fun extras). Here’s the lyric video for the title track to their new album, Ghost of a King.

For the last month or so I’ve been up to my eyebrows in various writing and editing projects. I just finished a round of edits on Walter Wangerin, Jr.’s new book (due out from Rabbit Room Press later this year). I’m busy writing a short story set in Aerwiar for Andrew Peterson’s forthcoming Wingfeather Tales. I’ve been my wife’s sounding board and source of editorial feedback for her story for the same project (her contribution is amazing!). I edit Rabbit Room posts almost every day and work with writers on the development of those posts. And on top of all that, I just finished the third draft of an original stage musical (The Battle of Franklin) that will premiere this fall. Whew. That’s a lot going on at once. In the midst of all these processes, it’s come back to me again and again how important it is for a writer to understand that his work is broken into two distinct parts. First comes the work of creation. We sit our butts in a chair and write. We beat our heads against our desks until words trickle out onto the page (or screen), and then we bemoan their insufficiency. Some of us sit down feeling like we’ve been handed a glorious vision and bear the terrifying responsibility of translating that vision into actual words. Others sit down feeling like empty vessels from which nothing of value is likely to be poured and work under the crushing fear that that feeling will prove true. But eventually we wind our way through the gauntlet and end up with something complete-ish. That’s the first part of writing. You’ve got something written. Something to work with. Something to show for your time (though you probably shouldn’t show it to anyone yet). Now it’s time for the real work. This is writing folks. Writing is revising. And make no mistake, revising is a learned skill. Pete Peterson The second part is revision. And this is where the exciting stuff happens. Once you’ve got that raw material to work with, that’s when you can start shaping it into something useful—something readable. And it’s important to realize that while, yes, you worked and slaved over that first draft and filled it will every great idea you could muster, your first ideas are rarely your best ideas. Once you begin the process of serving your work, rather than merely creating it, you’ll begin to see how those first shapes and scenes and characters will suggest other more exciting, more vibrant shapes and scenes and characters. Do not be troubled! This is where the real magic is happening. Go back. Excise, rewrite, rework, reimagine. The best writing is rewriting. Believe this. An example: I wrote the first draft of The Battle of Franklin (a Civil War musical) in about two weeks. When I was finished, I thought, Huh, this is pretty good. So I sent it off to the director for some feedback. We met and discussed it and his basic reaction was a hesitant “Huh, good start.” This was not my hoped-for reaction. So I took a look at what wasn’t working and studied it a while. Then I took a hard look at what was working and studied that a much longer while. Time to revise. Exciting new ideas emerged. I combined characters. I cut others. I reimagined entire scenes. I rethought the underlying structure. I gave lines from one character to other characters. And so on and so forth. A couple of weeks later, a much better draft emerged. I thought this draft was good for sure, so my wife and I read it aloud. Not bad, but back to the drawing board. Revise. Revise. Then off to the director again. This time we scheduled a reading with actors. Nothing will point out the flaws in your work like listening to another person read it out loud. (I recommend reading aloud everything you write: fiction, poetry, non-fiction—everything). The reading went well, but it shone a light on a lot of serious issues. No problem. Back to the writing chair. Add new scenes. Cut broken scenes. Rethink everything. Ask hard questions. Why does this character exist? What does this character want? What is this scene accomplishing? How does this metaphor illuminate the theme? I just finished a third draft last night, and today I’m 100% sure the writing is done. The characters have real meat on their bones now. The conflicts are clearer. The staging is simpler. The resolution is more satisfying. Oh, and I’m also 100% wrong. It’s not done by a long shot. It’ll sit for a little while. Then I’ll read through it again. The director will read through it again. Others will read it. We’ll all poke holes in it, and eventually I’ll go back to the desk and start on a fourth draft. But when I look back at the development, I’m astonished by how far the story has come. When I wrote the first draft, I couldn’t have imagined the complexity of the third. And that assures me that the fifth will reveal something I haven’t yet imagined. This is writing folks. Writing is revising. And make no mistake, revising is a learned skill. You have to practice it, study it, study others, and hone your ability to draw out the good and excise the not-so-good. It’s harder than it sounds. It requires that you trust other people to reveal to you your blind spots. And it requires that you learn to mistrust yourself, or at least to mistrust your initial sense of the completeness of your work. As an editor, I can tell you that the best writers are those who listen rather than those who insist. That doesn’t mean a writer has to think his editor is always right, but it does mean that a good writer will consider the possibility and doubt his own certainty before he makes an editorial decision. So love your writing, but learn to be truly passionate about your rewriting. Your readers (and editors) will thank you. (Note: This post revised four times.)

Recordings of J.R.R. Tolkien thought to have been lost have been rediscovered in the BBC archives and will be broadcast on BBC Radio 4 on Saturday 6 August. The recordings survive from an interview Tolkien gave for Tolkien in Oxford, a documentary first broadcast on BBC in 1968. See below for more information. BBC to broadcast lost Tolkien recordings

As a gardener, I’m aware of how many things are necessary for success when you “put your hand to the plow.” Some of my knowledge was gained by growing up next door to my great grandfather’s farm, and some through the countless hours of summertime chores helping tend our family garden. However, much of what I now know and practice came through the study of scientific information. Data. Facts and figures compiled by those who have firsthand experience with events that point to the truth. I have to live with the consequences of my actions, both in gardening and in life. Gina Sutphin Nature so closely mimics our everyday lives. I find the more I pay attention to it and apply it to life, the more I grow on a personal level. But sometimes we just get side tracked. We lose our focus on the specifics due to surrounding circumstances. We forget the things we know and then wonder why our lives and relationships aren’t growing. Last fall a gardener friend gave me some seeds she’d gathered from her native wild flower beds. Many of these seeds need to go through cold stratification. This is a process in which the seed must endure a specific number of days in winter temperatures before it can begin to grow. Being busy, I got behind schedule and forgot to plant the seeds in time to ensure enough cold days before spring. Since nature could no longer provide what they needed, I put them in my refrigerator. This would keep them at a consistent temperature long enough to trigger germination when planted. As I watched the calendar fly by, planting day arrived in the middle of many other things needing my attention. Hastily, I forced in time to work in the flowerbed. I ripped out weeds and even pulled up some beneficial plants. I didn’t have time to transplant them to another location. I prepared the soil and calculated the growing areas for each seed based on the color pattern I wanted to create. I hurriedly got the seeds in the ground and hustled on to my other tasks. I even felt a little irritated towards an activity I normally enjoy very much. Every day after that, I ran toward the deadlines I was facing, until I finally reached the finish and allowed myself to collapse and rest. I ventured out into the yard where I could be free to just wander with no looming pressure to dash off to responsibilities. And there was my little flowerbed. Just dirt and some straggling weeds. Not even a hint of a seedling starting to grow. Confused and disappointed, I couldn’t understand what went wrong. Did I not give them enough days in the cold? Had I not chosen the location correctly for the amount of sun they needed. Nothing made sense because none of my seeds grew, even though I planted more than one variety. Over the next few days I wandered past, shaking my head at the investment of time and work that yielded no result. Then one day I stopped. I wanted to really look at that empty bed with frustration. And it dawned on me. I never took the time from my busyness to water the seeds! The most basic of all needs—water—had been neglected in my overly scheduled days. Not only had my efforts been lost but also the effort of my gardener friend who had given me the seeds in the first place. As I stood there staring at the dirt, again I realized how much nature is like life. When I am worn down and tired, I forget to love. I forget to offer a kind word instead of a critical thought. How many times have I looked at someone and thought: Why won’t you grow? You’ve been placed at the right depth and location for where you are at in life. And I have even spent my own precious time ripping out your weeds! And yet there they stay, withering because they are drought stricken from lack of love. When we allow ourselves to become overloaded with the tasks of life, we lose track of the most basic things we know to do. Things that should be second nature, that maybe we’ve known since childhood. Things we’ve spent our time and devotion studying, like the words of people who had firsthand experience with events that point to the Truth. Plants need water. People need love. This summer, that bed will most likely stay bare. I water it daily in hopes that a few seeds have survived my harsh treatment. Even if any did, they will surely never reach the potential they originally held. At least not this season, or the next. I have to live with the consequences of my actions, both in gardening and in life. Some seeds and relationships can be saved but may take a great deal more nurturing to see them flourish. Sometimes you are just left with patches of dry dirt and weeds when all that was needed was a little water, a little love. I won’t feel the joy of my flowerbed overflowing with blooms this year, but now I will remember to reflect on the basics. If I can do that, there will be many more opportunities in life for the seeds I plant to blossom.

Eric Peters’ Far Side of the Sea is a unique concept album, with each song inspired by an object in a photograph taken by the artist himself. But with its haunting honesty and surprising sound, it’s also a fascinating case study on the symbiotic relationship between artist and producer. With producer Gabe Scott (Andrew Peterson, Bebo Norman, Crowder) at the helm, Far Side is a brand new sonic adventure for Peters. We got a chance to ask Gabe a few questions about the process of making the album. This album sounds decidedly different from some of Eric’s past work. How comfortable was EP with “stretching” musically? Eric and I had a conversation early on where we discussed possible directions for the music and the overall sound of “Far Side.” One of those possibilities was to try taking a spin outside of his wheelhouse or comfort zone. Considering it was his tenth album, maybe we could attempt to mark it with a noticeable shift. Music and story each seem to have this powerful effect of conjuring imagery and visuals in our imagination. A song is the marriage of both. Gabe Scott That possibility is where we landed, and the noticeable shift became affectionately known as the “left turn” during the making of the record. Basically, any time we found ourselves doing something that felt really obvious or comfortable for Eric, we would make a left turn. We’d try to find a different way to say something or sing something. We’d hunt to find instruments or textures that would lead us down a new path. It was sort of an exercise in roadblocking his instincts, and that is a lot to ask of someone. He was not only a great sport, but at times, he even led the charge when I was feeling a bit timid about how sharp the left turn might be. He was committed to following through on the vision. Near the end of the project, I think we both found comfort in having a guideline like that in place. It was something to hold us accountable. However, it’s definitely not something we wanted to come out sounding totally unfamiliar. Eric has his signature, and it’s magic. There is no way in the world we wanted to lose that. The intended final destination was still “Eric Peters.” We just wanted to change up the scenery. How much fear or worry is present when the left turns are particularly sharp? Artists don’t just define or become who they are overnight. I don’t suppose anyone does for that matter. Artists, along with their art, are continually evolving and in some cases cycling back around to someone they may have been previously. I think the role of a producer is to help remind the artist who they are and at the same time, maybe give them a small shove—just enough to knock them a little off balance. There is always this push and pull between who you were maybe three years ago and who you might be now. Thoughts like “My last project really seemed to have an effect on people, so maybe I should try to replicate that emotion or direction again but that’s not really where I am anymore” can plague. There can be a real struggle between being loyal to your audience and being genuine with your art. It’s probably one of the trickiest lines for an artist to walk. If they are feeling restless or inspired, they want to let that lead them. It may lead to someplace new, but what if their audience doesn’t want to follow them there? Eric and I had countless conversations about this. What if the audience doesn’t embrace the change? But in the end if art isn’t coming from a genuine place, it can quickly lose its impact. So we pressed ahead with the “left turn” because that’s where we were at the time. We gave the best we had at that time and place. And now, we hope. We hope that the familiar still shines through amidst the new surroundings and finds a home in someone’s heart. Did you get a chance to see the photos that inspired each song? Did they affect your production ideas? At the very beginning of the process, Eric came by the studio to play through the songs for me—just on acoustic guitar. I got to see each photo in conjunction with its corresponding song as he went along. It’s quite a unique situation to have a true visual reference for a song when you’re hearing it for the first time. Music and story each seem to have this powerful effect of conjuring imagery and visuals in our imagination. A song is the marriage of both, which allows it to produce extremely vivid and real pictures and emotions in us. They might not even be the emotions or visions the writer was aiming for when they were composing. That’s one of the beautiful things about art. There is plenty of room allowed for interpretation. And varied interpretations aren’t right or wrong, they’re just different perspectives. Best of all, they are personal to the receiver. So getting back to Far Side of The Sea, I had the opportunity to actually see the target so to speak; the picture or vision that Eric was aiming for. Then I was able to sit back and listen to him play the song and gather those pictures as well. That was the only day we looked at the physical pictures but we talked about them quite a bit. The photos informed the songs. So it was inescapable (in a good way) that the photos would breathe into the production. Now that I think about it, maybe we could’ve hung each picture on the wall as we were working and we could’ve referenced it for inspiration. Now I’ll be prepared for the next project I produce that has accompanying photos for each song! Do you have a favorite song on the album? Why? I’m really bad at picking favorites for pretty much anything in life. For some reason, I usually see things as apples and oranges as opposed to great apple, good apple.  Maybe it’s just an excuse for not wanting to make a decision! I’ll say this though, there is a moment on the opening track (“When the Lightning Strikes”) where everything comes down in volume and gets small. Then it transitions with a big timpani roll into the final chorus. When that last chorus hits, we have Eric singing these high oohs overtop of his lead vocals. There is something about those oohs that feels so lonesome and at the same time somehow triumphant. It gets me every time. Maybe he should’ve titled the album “Triumphantly Lonesome.” [Click here to listen to Far Side of the Sea and grab a copy for yourself.]https://rabbitroom.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/06/01-When-The-Lightning-Strikes.mp3

Have you ever looked at an actual Rembrandt? I mean really looked? I have. And it is exhausting. Why? Because Rembrandt was a master. If you are willing to look, he will show more than you can take in. This is what masters do. The Dutch painter Rembrandt Harmenszoon van Rijn (1606-1669) is widely regarded as the greatest painter Europe has ever produced. Even while he was alive, people called him “the master.” Eager, rising artists would study under his watchful eye in his studio. They wanted to learn how to reproduce his technique and form. German art historian Wilhelm von Bode joked that the unintended consequence of this sort of mentorship was that “Rembrandt painted 700 pictures. Of these, 3,000 are still in existence.” Rembrandt Harmensz. van Rijn 1606 – 1669, The Adoration of the Shepherds, 1646, oil on canvas (97 × 71 cm), Museum Alte Pinakothek, Munich Aside from his technical skill, Rembrandt was also a masterful visual storyteller. Every inch of a Rembrandt is filled with intentionality. His use of light to show you what matters (like the radiance coming out from the manger in The Adoration of the Shepherds) and his application of shadows to raise questions (like the dark figure in the upper left corner of his The Prodigal Son) serve as a sort of silent narration. His ability to capture furious motion a single frame (see Storm on the Sea of Galilee) plays like an optical illusion. I’ll leave you to discover the great Dutch master on your own. For now, I want to focus on something Rembrandt said: “I can’t paint the way they want me to paint and they know that too. Of course you will say that I ought to be practical and ought to try and paint the way they want me to paint. Well, I will tell you a secret. I have tried and I have tried very hard, but I can’t do it. I just can’t do it!” Rembrandt knew he was a great artist, no question. But he also knew he wasn’t limitless. And one of his limits (a limit we all share) was his inability to be what people sometimes wanted him to be or to do what people sometimes wanted him to do. This must have been very frustrating at times. Surely there were days when he would have loved more than anything else in the world to be exactly what others wanted him to be. I have those days. I bet you do too. Rembrandt Harmensz. van Rijn (1606 – 1669) The Prodigal Son, c. 1669, oil on canvas, 262 x 205 cm, The Hermitage Museum, St Petersburg He was so incredibly gifted and for this history will never forget him. But when he tried to train his hands to create another man’s vision, he just couldn’t do it. Neither can I. Neither can you. He was destined to paint Rembrants and Rembrandts only. He had to train his hands. He had to have started somewhere. It’s hard to imagine, but surely there once existed some pretty terrible Rembrandts. Early works. False starts. Work where he was clearly trying too hard. Too self-indulgent. Undisciplined. What’s not hard to imagine, however, is a solitary figure in a lamp-lit room mixing his oils, preening his brushes—thinking and painting and thinking and painting. For what? For mastery. And why? For joy, because the mastery of something leads to a greater enjoyment of it. Singers, musicians, painters, writers, athletes, and artists of every sort know this. The harder we work at something, the more we are able to enjoy it. Rembrandt knew this too. He said, “Practice what you know, and it will help to make clear what now you do not know.” Annie Dillard said it another way: “Who will teach me to write? The page, the page, that eternal blankness.” Rembrandt Harmensz. van Rijn (1606 – 1669), Storm on the Sea of Galilee, 1633, Oil on canvas, 160 cm × 128 cm (62.99 in × 50.39 in), Whereabouts unknown Rembrandt Harmensz. van Rijn (1606 – 1669) Rembrandt Harmensz. van Rijn (1606 – 1669) All Rembrandt could do was paint and paint and paint. He couldn’t be a different painter. Only Rembrandt. And this is what he sought to master. For this he trained his hands. When I stand before a Rembrandt, my senses come alive and I know I am in the presence of greatness. I am a fool if I don’t at least try to understand the joy that comes from mastery. I’m a fool if I don’t regard myself as his student in those moments when we’re in the room together. His slow patient work of mastering a skill brings me joy. How much more joy must it have brought him to not only stand in front of one of his paintings, as I have, but to then also know that he was the one who created it. A couple hundred years after Rembrandt’s death, there came another student of the Dutch master, the poor and lovely Vincent van Gogh, who said, “Rembrandt is so deeply mysterious that he says things for which there are no words in any language. Rembrandt is truly called a magician… that is not an easy calling.” Mastery doesn’t just produce stories. It considers how to tell them, and occasionally even provides new language when there are no words. The canvases Rembrandt left us do so much more than illustrate scenes. They are like the picture of the Dawn Treader that sucked the Pevensies and Eustace into an adventure whose goal was to reach the end of everything in the hopes that beauty would be all that remained. What are you mastering? What are you practicing in order to make clear what you don’t yet know? If you’re anything like me, I’m sure you reach points where you begin to wonder if it might just be easier to plateau. And if not plateau, then quit altogether. Don’t. Please. This world is short on masters, and consequently short on joy too.

My buddy Don Clark, former Demon Hunter guitarist and creative genius behind design firm Invisible Creature, reached out to me a while back to see if I would be interested in contributing to a special charity this Christmas. The charity is Heartwork, an annual project with the goal of raising money to fund the art room at Target House in Memphis. Target House is a long-term St. Jude facility which provides beautiful lodging for families of children requiring care exceeding 3 months. Each year, Heartwork pulls together some of their favorite artists, who each create a unique piece of art with a common theme of Hope. A very limited run of fine art prints are sold, and the proceeds go to purchasing art supplies for the children to use while staying at Target House. For many years I have felt a tremendous pull to use my talents in some way to benefit children and their families who are fighting cancer. Naturally I was honored and excited to take this project on. If you follow my sketches on Instagram you won’t be surprised to see that my piece will include mice!

I wrote “Right Where I Am” in a K-Mart parking lot. No lie. 2014 was a heck of a year for me and I was lost in an ocean of shame, heartache, and grief. My friends encouraged me to write about what I was going through and I tried, but it was a struggle. Still, before I knew it, there were a pile of songs laying around that I had no idea what to do with. Eventually, I decided to go to my friend Will’s studio to record some basic demos for these songs. On the way to the studio, purely on a whim, I pulled into the K-Mart near his house and I got out my guitar. I was a little early, so I did have some time to kill. About 20 minutes later I had this new song, scribbled on some loose paper I found in the back seat. As soon as I got to the studio I recorded a take of the song—just me and my guitar. Will asked, “When did you write this?” “Oh, like 20 minutes ago in the K-Mart parking lot,” I said. Listening to the song now I hear the deep desperation and brokenness of that summer. I’m so thankful to be down the road a bit, to have received a new measure of healing and strength. This song stands as a marker for me in the valley of sorrows. I trust you, Lord, right where I am. #ArthurAlligood #IntheRound

From what I can remember, my first experience of Wes Anderson’s work was watching The Royal Tenenbaums. I don’t remember exactly how long ago this was, or the circumstances, but I do clearly remember that after it was over my response was pretty much, “Well, that was weird.” The film felt stylized and artificial, like life held at arm’s length, and slightly off rhythm, the characters acting as if in a pageant. Still, there must’ve been something that drew me back, because I kept watching (I recently figured out that previous to Moonrise Kingdom I had seen every Wes Anderson film other than Bottle Rocket and Fantastic Mr. Fox). Any further interest in Anderson’s films should have been quickly scuttled by Rushmore and The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou, whose main protagonists came off as obnoxious jerks. Then Moonrise Kingdom arrived in 2012, and my skepticism was somewhat melted by the nostalgic young love of Sam and Suzy. But it was The Grand Budapest Hotel that really did it for me. It may have had something to do with Ralph Fiennes’ inspired performance as the charming, arrogant, prim, and at times fragile Gustave H. For the first time I was able to truly see the humanity in Anderson’s work—that his films, with all their stylish quirks, are about real, often deeply broken people. In rewatching his films, I’ve come to realize, as Jeffrey Overstreet puts it, “There’s a beauty to the way Anderson, movie after movie, finds the missing piece in every character, portrays them compassionately as they seek to replace that piece with the wrong things, and then offers them grace after the damage is done.” While much is made of the surface of Anderson’s films — the retro look, the carefully arranged shots, the quirky behaviors and obsessions of his characters — what’s happening under the surface is just as important, for it is most often out of their deep internal brokenness that the characters act the way they do. Take for example, Max Fischer, the protagonist of Rushmore. He comes across as narcissistic, petulant, and out of touch. This is how I perceived him the first time I saw the film. But a closer look reveals all sorts of clues as to why he acts the way he does. Rushmore is an elite prep school, but Max is there on a scholarship. That he is probably ashamed of this comes across in the fact that he continually tells people his father is a neurosurgeon, when he’s really a barber. Max is also an outsider at the school; his only friend is a younger student, Dirk Calloway. But Max tries hard to make himself an insider with his plethora of extracurricular activities. These clues reveal a deeply insecure 15 year old kid who is masking his insecurities with braggadocio. This is not Max’s deepest issue though. We learn throughout the film that Max has been profoundly affected by the loss of his mother to cancer when he was 7. We find out that it was his mother who got him into Rushmore by showing the headmaster a play he wrote in 2nd grade. He continues to write his plays on a typewriter with the words “Bravo Max! Love, Mom” inscribed on the case. At his lowest moment in the film, he sits by her gravestone as he converses with Bill Murray’s character Herman Blume. And finally, at the end of the film he dedicates his latest play to the memory of his mother. The death of his mother also contributes to his obsessive, quasi-romantic relationship with the new first grade teacher, Ms. Cross. In part I think he seeks to fill the void of motherly affection that has been lost to him. When he finds out that Ms. Cross has lost her husband, he also perhaps hopes to form a common bond over their shared losses. None of these revelations excuse Max’s behavior, but they reveal that his actions are, as Matthew Dessm says, “a calculated campaign of distraction from genuine pain” Though Max never directly comes out and addresses this pain in his life, he comes to realize how much his actions have hurt others, and in the climax of the movie, his Vietnam War based play seeks to bring together all the characters and honor the memory of those who have passed. Bill Murray’s oceanographer Steve Zissou is another Anderson protagonist that totally turned me off initially, but that I’ve come to love over time. At the outset of the film, Steve’s problems are a little more obvious than Max’s. In the first half hour of the film, we learn that his longtime collaborator and friend Esteban was killed by a mysterious shark on his team’s latest expedition, his marriage to the much more talented and wealthy Eleanor is on the rocks, he hasn’t had a hit documentary in 9 years, Kentucky pilot Ned Plimpton (Owen Wilson) may or may not be his son from a former lover, and a bond company stooge and a beautiful pregnant female reporter (Cate Blanchett) doing a cover story on him will be accompanying his upcoming revenge expedition to find the killer shark. In the ensuing trip, Zissou veers between arrogance and childishness as he engages in an on-again-off-again love triangle with Ned and Blanchett’s reporter character, and he recklessly leads his crew through pirate-infested waters after the shark. In front of the crew he puts on a brave face, but in private moments he wonders, “What happened? Did I lose my talent? Will I ever be good again?” Like Max, his off-putting exterior betrays deep inner hurt. As Ryan Reed writes, “On the surface, Zissou is a washed-up asshole: envious of his would-be son; blatantly rude to his deep-sea skeleton crew; emotionally distant from his wife, Eleanor (Anjelica Huston). But beneath that hard exterior is a vulnerable child…” As the expedition begins to spiral out of control and the consequences of his actions become more severe, Steve says to the ever present crew cameraman in a humiliating moment: “We’ll give them the reality this time. A washed up old man with no friends, no distribution deal, life on the rocks, people laughing at him, feeling sorry for himself.” Toward the end of the film, after the tragic death of Ned, Steve finally faces up to who he is. After reading the reporter’s story, he admits, “Well, at first I was a little embarrassed. Obviously people are going to think I’m a showboat and a little bit of a prick. But then I realized that’s me. I said those things, I did those things. I can live with that.” In the film’s climactic scene, Steve and the rest of the characters finally descend to the ocean depths to see the elusive creature that has haunted him the entire film. I’ll let the scene speak for itself: Watching Wes Anderson’s films, and meeting and getting to know some of his memorable characters, has taught be something about empathy. I’m reminded through them that sometimes the very people who are rubbing me the wrong way may be going through the worst of hurts. That, in the words of the famous saying, I should be kind, for everyone I meet is fighting a great battle, whether that be a 15  year old kid struggling with social exclusion and personal tragedy, or a washed up oceanographer longing for the glory days.

If you were among those paying attention to Josh Garrels’ rotation of free goodies on NoiseTrade, then you likely downloaded the one-year anniversary edition of his most recent album, Home. Available for a limited time, this particular edition of Home included a brand new single, “Hiding Place,” that was never previously released. You can now order “Hiding Place” from any and all typical outlets, including iTunes and Amazon. The song is also streaming over at Spotify. Of course, we also have the song for you below. It feels a bit like a throwback to Love & War & The Sea In Between. #JoshGarrels

The language of division tries to get enough people hostile toward enough other people so that the provocateur gains power. Too many in the political class, too many faith-based leaders and faithless skeptics, too many wealthy bosses and elite technocrats speak this language of division. Far too many average citizens speak it, too. If it goes on, eventually each person will have gained just enough power to be everyone else’s enemy. We must not tolerate such a hell on earth. There is a better language out there. People are using it and flourishing. Rather than division and power, it seeks out unity and love. We need to rediscover that language and speak it with urgency and power. Who is speaking this better language? It is happening right here among the Rabbit Room community, where C. Christopher Smith and Robert Pattison are discussing Reading for the Common Good at the Art House. It is happening on the pages of national news, where Michael Gerson is calling average Americans to step up and be the leaders they wished they had. It is happening on stage, where Switchfoot and Lecrae are “Looking For America.” That is such a minuscule list of examples of the language of hospitality and grace. There are thousands more stories about authors, songwriters, preachers, educators, and average folk speaking empathetically into the world’s current tense moment. The Civil Language Project is an idea. It percolated here in the Rabbit Room forums, originally inspired by a speech David Brooks delivered to leaders of Christian colleges and universities. Brooks told those assembled, “Everyone, religious or not, is on a road to a holy place. You guys have the language. The rest of the world needs it.” By extension, “you guys” clearly includes Rabbit Roomers and any Gospel-infused user of language in the public square. The Civil Language Project is an attempt to respond to the challenge, “the rest of the world needs it.” But do we need another movement? Doesn’t Q Ideas and First Things and the Christian Makers have this covered? Probably. Though something that personally strikes me is the ease with which I can comfortably hand off cultural engagement to the pros. The movers and shakers and influence makers can handle it. I will just cheer them on. Who can predict if the Civil Language Project will turn into much? Here is the hope. Be it few or many, some amount of people will respond. You? You will write, sing, preach, teach, and converse in a manner that seeks pathways to unity. In the weeks to come, myself and some others will be reflecting on this project. Not only on the Rabbit Room. (Elsewhere, I wrote about Confession Instead of Accusation.) Look out for the hashtag #SpeakUnity and feel free to use it yourself. Like Gerson suggests, “While waiting for leaders, perhaps the most practical and hopeful path is to become them.” May we do so with grace and hospitality. #CivilLanguageProject

Giovanni Paolo Panini (1691 – 1765) was an artist and architect who specialized in painting vistas of ancient and modern Rome. He was known as a vedutisti, a “view painter.” As a young artist, Panini studied perspective and topography, which he applied to his renderings of Roman architecture. Over the years, Panini repeatedly painted many of the various landmarks and ruins of Rome, and from many angles. One historian wrote, “To satisfy tourists’ demands for his paintings, Panini regularly repeated subjects yet always retained his spontaneity by varying composition and details.”[1] He shows more than a world which has these places in it. He shows us a world that is home to creatures who can learn to do what he has done. Russ Ramsey Panini’s art had a function— to depict Rome as she was, and as she had been. His modern work was very precise and true to the Rome the people of his day knew. His paintings of ancient Rome, however, were more embellished and nostalgic— imagining the ruins in their better days. Panini produced so many scenes of Rome that he could paint aspects of the Parthenon, Michelangelo’s statue of Moses, the interior of Saint Peter’s Basilica, and many other places in the city from memory. The volume of art Panini produced is hard to imagine. His Modern Rome and Ancient Rome, however, give us a hint. They depict the artist standing with François de Choiseul-Stainville— the Duke of Choiseul, who commissioned these two paintings— and several others, in a spacious gallery filled with a large collection of pictures of Rome. Modern Rome and Ancient Rome are what we might, these days, call “meta.” They are paintings of paintings of sculptures and architecture— art which depicts art which depicts art. Much of today’s art is expressive— work designed to evoke a feeling, communicate an idea, or stir a thought. But before these days of photography and technology which allow us to see the world from a screen on a phone we carry in our pockets, people relied on artists like Panini to capture a place and it’s beauty so that men and women across the continent could see more of the world they inhabited without having to travel. His work is functional art. Brilliant, functional art. Panini doesn’t try to manipulate our emotions through drama, facial expressions, or suggestive interactions between the figures in his paintings. He lets the confounding intricacy and technical precision of what he has created do its work on us. He shows more than a world which has these places in it. He shows us a world that is home to creatures who can learn to do what he has done. Consider what Panini had to learn in order to perform this service. And here’s a question if you want to interact: what are some examples of functional art today? About the Art: Giovanni Paolo Panini (Italian, Piacenza 1691–1765 Rome) Modern Rome, 1757, Oil on canvas, 67 3/4 x 91 3/4 in. (172.1 x 233 cm), The MET, New York City. About the Art: Giovanni Paolo Panini (Italian, Piacenza 1691–1765 Rome) Ancient Rome, 1757, Oil on canvas, 67 3/4 x 90 1/2 in. (172.1 x 229.9 cm), The MET, New York City. [1] Giovanni Paolo Panini Biography, Encyclopedia Britannica.

Welcome to Week 3 of reading and discussing Slow Church together. Here are a few questions to add to our list. Feel free to choose one or two to answer, or you can pose your own to the group. “Scarcity impedes our imaginations, compelling us to conclude, ‘We could never do that.,” (p.160) “It’s a failure of imagination when we get locked into the scarcity mentality and can’t see the resources God has provided for us.” (p. 169) How do you see the concept of scarcity (as it relates to community and church) show up in your own life? How does ‘failure of imagination’ play out in your particular example? “Gratitude and ingratitude are at the heart of justice and injustice.” (p. 180) “If lack is the root of injustice, then gratitude is the root of justice. How can we hoard what isn’t ours?” (p.182) How would you unpack that idea to someone who may not agree? What examples would you give them? “What would it look like for us to incorporate gratitude into our life together?” (p.189) Have you seen gratitude incorporated into the DNA of a church or community? How did that happen? What does it look like lived out? “The world is God’s and everything in it. We live by divine hospitality. And yet we are given the opportunity – even the command – to offer hospitality to God by caring for the people who are the most vulnerable.” (p.198) “The words translated as ‘hospitable’ in the New Testament are often variations on the Greek philoxenia, which literally means ‘love of the stranger.’” (p.199) Where do you see opportunities to extend this type of hospitality in your community? “God longs for the transformation and redemption of all creation, which begins in the people God has called. As we slow down our lives and mingle together around the Eucharistic table, and as we deny ourselves and become increasingly attentive to the super-abundant gifts of God in our community and place, we will taste the delectable fruits of God’s kingdom. We will come to know the abundant life of shalom for which we were created.” (p.221) What stirred in you as you read this? Which aspect of a “slow church” community do you most long for? What’s one step you can take to move in that direction? If you’re just joining us, you can catch up here: Slow Church Reading Group Introduction Slow Church Reading Group Week 1: Ethics Slow Church Reading Group Week 1.5 Slow Church Reading Group Week 2: Ecology Slow Church Reading Group Week 2.5 Whether you’re reading along or not, feel free to step in and visit the conversation happening in the Rabbit Room forum.

We’re pleased to announce that Audrey Assad will be our special musical guest at Hutchmoot 2016. We’re big fans of Audrey and her music and are especially excited to welcome her to Hutchmoot this year. If you aren’t familiar with Audrey or her work, here’s a quick rundown. She’s an author, speaker, producer, and critically lauded songwriter and musician. She releases music she calls “soundtracks for prayer” on the label Fortunate Fall Records, which she co-owns with her husband. She is also one half of the pop band LEVV, whose debut EP peaked at #17 on the iTunes Alternative chart. Her first solo album was released by Sparrow Records and was awarded the iTunes Christian Breakthrough Album of the Year in 2010 as she went on to be nominated for two Dove Awards. That same year, she sang her song “Winter Snow” on Chris Tomlin’s certified Gold record “Glory in the Highest.” In 2013, Audrey set out on her own. Thanks to a devoted and tight-knit fanbase, she raised over $40,000 in 50 hours for an independent record on Kickstarter. The resulting album, Fortunate Fall, received many accolades and quickly became a fan favorite—with songs such as “I Shall Not Want” being featured in the New York Times by David Brooks. In 2014, Audrey released an EP, Death, Be Not Proud, which reflected on her recent encounters with loss and suffering—including her husband’s journey through cancer and chemotherapy. The album released just a few weeks after the birth of her first son. In the time since, Audrey has spoken about art, faith, womanhood, justice, and, most notably, pornography addiction at Catholic and Evangelical events such as Q Ideas, Focus Conferences, and more. She has performed many solo worship events, as well as at the IHOP One Thing conference with Francis Chan speaking, Mass at St Patrick’s Cathedral with Timothy Cardinal Dolan presiding, and alongside Matt Maher during the Papal Event “World Meeting of Families.” She has also written reflective and devotional entries for the likes of Christianity Today, the Magnificat, Blessed is She, and more. She has most recently released a collection of hymns and original songs called Inheritance. So if you aren’t already a fan, get ready to become one. Audrey will perform our Friday evening concert during Hutchmoot 2016 on October 7th @ 7:30pm. If you are attending Hutchmoot, your admission is included in the price of registration. If not, there are a limited number of seats available to the public. Click here to get yours and help us welcome Audrey Assad to the Rabbit Room. Also check out the Facebook event. RSVP if you’re coming, and share it with your friends.

Have you entered the Dragon Lord Saga yet? Part epic fantasy, part slapstick comedy, the saga follows brothers Martin and Marco Millar in their encounters with talking horses, cloaked bandits, cursed satchels, royal conspiracies, dangerous desperadoes and, of course, dragons. Order volume one in the Rabbit Room store and check out the first act of volume two online! And now, without further ado, a side story starring Martin and Marco:

Last year in Nashville I bought some pumpkin and caramel scented candles. For the next few weeks our home was filled with a smell that, in my mind, will forever be associated with Hutchmoot. While I burned my candles mercilessly, my daughter saved a small one and kept it in her room. A few weeks ago she burned it for a couple of hours, blew it out and then accidentally knocked it over, leaving a pool of thick amber wax to spread across her desk. As the oils seeped into the tiny cracks in the wood the fragrance filled the entire room, pouring out into the corridor and down the staircase. For days, every time I walked past her room, regardless of my mood, my task or the time of day, the waves of caramel pumpkin swirl involuntarily drew my thoughts to Hutchmoot. There is a link between memory and smell that is impossible to override. The faintest perfume of a certain flower can transport you instantly back to your childhood. The sharp, sterile blend of disinfectant and warm air drags you against your will to a hospital room you would rather forget, awakening pangs of anxiety or sadness you have tried so hard to bury. Even in the hardest hearts and the darkest moments the right scent is powerful enough to awaken longing. Heidi Johnston Some days there is nothing more comforting than opening my parents’ front door and finding myself cocooned in the smell that is particular to their house. Maybe it’s the blend of washing detergent, my Dad’s aftershave, the constant baking and the subtle lingering presence of furniture polish. Whatever it is, it smells like home. This deep, involuntary link between smell and memory is something we cannot switch off. Over-riding choice, it bypasses our stubborn, cynical defences and compels us to remember. I wonder if this is why God’s design for worship in the Old Testament was always such a sensory experience? Nauseating, metallic blood pooled around the altar. Acrid smoke rose from the sacrifices. Thick, heady incense burned continually in the tabernacle. Each of these strong, distinct smells created associations in the mind of the Israelites, blending to form an inescapable call to worship. Whether they liked it or not. In the Gospels we read about another time when worship and fragrance went hand in hand. Just a few days before his crucifixion, moved by overwhelming gratitude and love, Mary broke a priceless jar of perfume and poured it over Jesus. John 12 v 3 tells us that the smell of the perfume was so strong that it “filled the house.” There is great debate about this incident, if in fact it was just one incident, but one thing is clear: as Jesus left the house the perfume went with him. Once the concentrated oil soaked into skin and hair and cloth the smell would have lasted for days. I don’t know whether Jesus would have changed or washed His clothes in the short period between this intimate anointing and the time of his arrest and crucifixion. Either way, I don’t think it’s a wild overstatement to suggest that the smell of the oil continued to cling to him as he entered Jerusalem on the donkey. Like kings before him, his triumphal entry was perfumed by the smell of spikenard, immediately conjuring up pictures of kingship and majesty in the minds of onlookers, creating a sensory echo of their shouted proclamation, “Hail Jesus, the King of the Jews.” Perhaps even in the garden, mingled with the olives and the warm night air, the scent of the oil was present. As the soldiers moved in to take hold of Jesus, did the familiar smell cause their minds to wander for just a moment to something greater than their own short-lived authority? Is it possible that even as they stripped and beat him, his torn and bleeding flesh still carried the faintest scent of royalty? Even in the hardest hearts and the darkest moments the right scent is powerful enough to awaken longing. I have been wondering lately whether there is a way to harness this deeply instinctive connection. A way to tie our inner selves to memories of God’s word, to his faithfulness and to worship, in a way that is gentle yet intentional. I’m not sure how it would look practically but I can’t help wondering what would happen if our times of intimacy with God, whether alone, as families or even in our churches were in some way linked to fragrances that, in darker times, would draw us back to the memory of intimacy with God. Would stubborn children, drifting far from the things they learned at home, deaf to the pleas of heartbroken parents, find themselves broken by a familiar smell and the wave of longing that came in its wake? Would we, in our days of self-satisfied arrogance, be reminded of the God who once filled our hearts to overflowing? Maybe I could choose to have the same flowers regularly in the place I tend to go to meet with God? Could it mean choosing to burn a particular scent of candle in the background at times when your family sit around God’s word together, so that the chosen fragrance becomes a marker farther down the road? Some of you may already have your own well-established rhythms in this area. I know that in some traditions fragrance and scent play a larger part than they do in my own and I’d love to know how that works. Does it impact you? Is it something you are consciously aware of? Are there particular fragrances that stir up memories for you? Has a certain fragrance ever triggered a memory that has stirred you to worship? I’m captivated by the possibility of setting in place these invisible markers for my future self. Of reaching forward to gently touch my children’s hearts with a familiar hope. I don’t know if these links between scent and memory can be intentionally formed but if God has planted this deeply rooted connection within us then perhaps it’s worth considering?