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Eric Peters‘s body of work addresses a diverse range of topics, but hope is a recurring theme that gently percolates in the midst of it all. And yet,somewhere between the 2001 masterpiece Land of the Living, and Scarce, the flavor of hope that Peters’s work emits has evolved closer to a tone that is more resolute than what came before. And though the complexion of hope has a broad range, the lyrics from Scarce–while intermittently contrite and timorous as in previous efforts, are now strengthened and bolstered by roots that have grown deeper, radiating an underlying grit and secu rity Vaguely reminiscent of the lyrical tone from “Every Breath You Take,” from The Police, Peters opens the project with “Radiate,” a sparkling little pop jewel. This sing-along showpiece, laced with paradox and clever wordplay, is an optimistic, devine ode to the past, present, and future. The tune begins sparsely, with a choppy guitar, embellished with some fanciful Ben Shive keyboard tinkles. Then, with a Ken Lewis drum flurry leading the way to the emerging chorus, producer Brent Milligan employs some production sleight-of-hand. Like an aural avalanche–a wall of sound, if you will–we ride a glorious sonic wave, like a runaway roller coaster. With split second precision, the musical canvas seems to multiply from four to 24 tracks as the slightly built Peters belts out the indelible chorus with the amplitude and intensity of a much larger man. One passage from “Radiate,” “Like a radio song stuck in my brain,” could easily be a tribute to Peters’s own captivating work. Indeed, he’s an artist that carries more hooks in his toolbox than Babe Winkleman. Examing the songs in Peters’ discography, it’s obvious that Peters is a serious student of rock and roll history. But while Peters borrows liberally from diverse nuances of popular music, unlike some carbon copy indie artists, his songs share one consistency–the ubiquitously contagious hook. Even those Peters songs that creatively flirt with enigma–like “Wiseblood” from Bookmark and Land of the Living or “Kansas” from Scarce–we still discover an urgent and arresting passage which clings to our leg like a child with separation anxiety. As usual, Scarce is rife with junctures where lyric and music intertwine, reverberating truth with an endearing emotional rush; enraptured listening moments in which dopamine flows like the white water rapids of a raging river. “The Storm” features at least one such moment. This evocative composition artfully spotlights the eternal “I AM,” with Old Testament allusions and a medieval ambiance that earnestly support the project’s theme. The great paradox of Christianity is that one discovers strength and victory when he most intimately understands and accepts his utter weakness and inability to please God through his own misguided and misplaced efforts. So when in solemn bearing Peters sings, Drenched in mercy and dripping holy tears / Dressed in kingly garments from my toes to my ears, my inner being is inspired and shimmers with a graceful reverence for the gospel’s transcendental, elegant, assured outcome wrapped in a glorious celestial vision. “Save Something for Grace,” features soaring, ethereal background vocals. It’s the nexus of the entire project, masterfully providing thematic linkage to the rest of the songs. Like Chuck Girard in the early Jesus Music song “Tinagera,” Peters creatively personifies a lyrical angle by employing a women’s name. The first verse of “Save Something for Grace” calls to mind Andrew Peterson’s “High Noon,” itself inspired by the classic western of the same name. Ironically, in Peters’s twist from this main street showdown, we face none other than … ourselves: “Quiet eyes in a blaze of shame, like a beast of burden you could never tame.” The line We try to be holy without being human first, in one agile motion, indicts synthetically pious believers, a category to which most of us intermittently slide. It’s a place where looking good counts for more than being good; where our glory is more important than God’s glory. At the same time, Peters reminds us of the ultimate helping hand in the breathtakingly beautiful bridge: We live as though mercy were frail And forgiveness merely a tale We condemn ourselves to a fault When we fail, when we fall We find we’re human after all “Kansas” leads us from thoughtful pondering to the middle-aged version of head-banging, with yet another patented and memorable Eric Peters refrain. In the transparently melancholy tradition of “Yesterday,” “Bridge Over Troubled Water,” and “Hold Me Jesus,” enter Peters’s magnum opus “Tomorrow.” This song has the ring of an instant classic, an austere arrangement providing a musical spotlight for the keyboard wizardry of the quickly emerging Ben Shive. The tender dance of Brent Milligan’s cello fused with Shive’s organic piano is a moment of pure, elegant beauty, one of the standout instrumental slices from the project. Like a jigsaw puzzle, nearly every component of Scarce contributes to the whole. Conversely, unlike such a puzzle–each piece of Scarce is exhaustive enough in beauty and thematic consistency to virtually stand on its own. Even the title conveys something meaningful and thematic. While the average title of the average recording often seems like an afterthought, I’ve come to expect something deeper from Eric Peters, because that’s what he consistently delivers. For fun, look for an ’80’s guitar lick or two, reminiscent of The Outfield or The Hooters. Introduce yourself to Mollie Garrigan, lending blue-eyed soul seasoning and spot-on harmony to In the Meantime. Notice the infectious Turtles-like 60’s pop extract that tags “Metropolis.” Discover the latest bag of ear candy that Peters and producer Milligan sprinkle generously through this project–those embedded sugar coated musical moments leading from one musical passageway to another. Certainly, Scarce is worth having for these frivolous, incidental moments alone. Still, there’s a far more exalted and noble reason for making this CD part of your collection: The opportunity to discover Eric Peters, the man–and by extension–that which seems to inspire and galvanize the man’s work, a hope that is not of this world. His work and this project in particular, help integrate the seemingly contradictory elements of that curious paradox–the seemingly intractable tension between those two other “h” words–human and holy. If God chose the weak things of the world to shame and confound those of us that are superficially strong, and if weakness represents a place to find a glimpse of God–it’s quite worth navigating the apparent ambiguity-as it becomes the secret key–indeed, the only key to majestic treasure. Put differently, the denotation of the word “scarce” is two-pronged, with what seem like ostensibly contradictory definitions. While “scarce” is often defined as “Insufficient to meet a demand or requirement,” it also means, “Hard to find, or rare.” Decidedly far removed from trivial, it’s the blending and bonding of these two disparate definitions that marks Eric Peters’s Scarce as stately and grand. ——————————— From the Proprietor: Eric is a contributor to the Rabbit Room, and we’re pleased to offer his two most recent records for sale in the store. Be sure and visit his website at www.ericpeters.net.

If you’ve ever tried to paint a self-portrait, here’s what you find—only the truth will work. In school I was given this art assignment, and as I went back and forth from the mirror to the paper, I tried to draw what I saw. The thing is, I also wanted to improve upon what I saw—brighter eyes, a more chiseled nose, greater definition in my cheekbones. Here’s what vanity got me—a portrait of someone who didn’t really look like me and a B-. But one of his self-portraits stands out to me and has a lot to do with my fascination for this Dutch post-impressionist. It is “Self portrait with Bandaged Ear.” He painted it in 1889, the same year he produced Starry Night and the year before he took his own life by tragically and poetically shooting himself in the heart. Back in those days, psychological maladies were simply called “madness.” Debilitating depression? Madness. Paranoia? Madness. Acute epilepsy? Madness. Cutting off your ear and sending it across town? Madness. He was officially labeled “mad.” Add to this the fact that van Gogh was also something of a growing celebrity in the art world. So along with his madness he now had a mountain of humiliating shame to go with it. So what did he do? Lay low? No. He painted. And at least twice, while in the asylum, he painted self-portraits. And in both of them, the bandaged ear is on display, facing the viewer. What is truly fascinating about this portrait is how the artist was willing to capture this moment of great shame—not once but at least twice—and paint with the bandaged side showing. Its an incredible indictment of my heart. How willing am I to lead with the fact that I’ve got a lot of things in me that aren’t right? Self-portrait with Bandaged Ear hangs in my office (not the original) to remind this pastor that if I’m drawing the self-portrait wrong, I’m concealing from my congregation the fact that I am broken. My wounds need binding. I need asylum. And if I can’t show that honestly, how will anyone see Christ in me? Here’s some irony: today Self Portrait with Bandaged Ear is worth millions, but what the artist is showing us in it willingly is his own spiritual and relational poverty. He faithfully captures his greatest moment of shame. He shows the bandaged side. And probably no one reading this could afford to buy it now. This is analogous to how I believe God sees His people—fully exposed in our short-comings but of incalculable worth to Him—and it is how we should see others, and be willing to be seen by others.

Having read The Great Divorce many times over the years, I’ve found this classic from the great C.S. Lewis to be full of startling clarity and depth on the differences between Heaven and Hell. The only thing both have in common is that both begin in the human will; we can either let Heaven enter us and rule in us to blossom into love and goodness, or allow Hell to infect and reign in our hearts by the daily refusal to submit to Heaven. Our hearts were created to be indwelt, unified with, and empowered by their Creator; without him we are merely a craving lack, a hunger, a restless need, and we will unsuccessfully attempt to fill that infinite need with the finite world. The Great Divorce is a heart-forming book that clearly delineates what it means to live in union with Christ, and what it means to live and die without him. Heaven can exist in the worst outer circumstances if a human being relies on God in Christ; Hell will be our experience even in the best worldly conditions if we push away the Lover of our souls. This book is is a perfect companion to another Lewis classic, The Screwtape Letters.

Even if you haven’t heard Room to Breathe, its still likely you’ve heard Andy Gullahorn. He’s what I’d call a heavy lifter by trade. He writes lyrics, plays guitar, arranges vocals and adds production help to the work of artists like Jill Phillips and Andrew Peterson. I call him a heavy lifter because he’s often in the fray taking what might be a decent song and making it a great song. Far from flashy, Andy’s steady and artful hand seems to consistently find what fits a song well, and the result is that he crafts structure that holds a song in place. Heavy lifting. Finding a talent like this is rare enough, and Andy, on his website, says he’s happy in the supporting role. Pick up Andy’s record here in the Rabbit Room, or visit his website.

Traveling west on Interstate 40 across the rain-drenched dales of middle Tennessee, my mind is distinctly set in a honing pattern upon home, that cradle necessary as Mesopotamia to ancient civilization. It is a late Sunday afternoon, I’ve been driving for nearly six hours through the rain-riddled Appalachians, and I’m more than a little weary of the pavement and the sunflower seeds I’ve been coddling for some time in an attempt to keep myself both interested and alert to the path before me. At this point in the drive, a mere 60 some-odd miles east of Nashville, the divided 4-lane thoroughfare dissects and criss-crosses the northwestward-flowing Caney Fork River a number of times as nature and man perform a delicate dance weaving across and above one another, each trying to stay out of the other’s way, neither doing that great a job of it. In my journeys along this route, I have often looked out at the river’s disappearing bends and jealously taken notice of fly-fishermen wading into the shallow depths, congregations of cattle knee-deep in the cool waters, and children tubing on the water’s sluggish surface, all of them partaking wholeheartedly, and in their own method, of this naturally scenic venue. On many occasions I have wanted to stop dead in my tracks just to sit and watch the flow and succession of it all, even to wend my way down to its shores. But each time, commerce or a regimented schedule propelled me forward, and succumb to the river I did not. If practicality were not in my predisposition, I suppose those banks would be all-too familiar with my face, fingers and toes already. But I digress; the extent of my practicality is another journal entry altogether…. This afternoon’s sighting of the Caney Fork, due to the day’s earlier dark quenching rains, hinges upon that which remains hidden, less on that which stands visible to the naked eye. The hidden things of earth do not necessarily always submit to those in plain sight; a mistake we often fail to make. A shallow but unmistakable fog, like a reflection of the river itself, hangs over the waterscape obscuring the liquid flesh beneath it, holding it steady and undisturbed as life itself tends to sleep beneath summer stars’ quilting. The dense pall of water droplets are held prisoner to the river’s banks as it coils and curls itself into a slow ghastly hovering, menacing yet possessing no appendages to stretch forth and stake claim to anything tangible. The fog merely levitates over the river’s surface like a visible aroma, quiet, aloof and hanging on for dear life. Now, as if the sky, already too weary from unleashing its pent-up wrath and anger – a hyperventilating child after a long, shaking sob – is beholden to the very images it helped create in this damp, craggy, wooded corner of earth. Everything stands still: the river held motionless and invisible beneath the plumage of mist, I, rapt with attention in sheer awe of this sight gracing my eyes, and the tired, cried-out sky now limp overhead as it passes without so much as a whimper. And what to do but stand still? We spectators can command no more, the scene demands no less. Life, amid all its grunting and groaning, sneaks ahead of us, invisible beneath our blanket of stalled being and colorless habit. We float its delicate surface and criss-cross the alluvial boundaries attempting to stay out of its unhurried way. But, occasionally, by breaking the surface tension, we seek to remember and cling to the vitality of life that exists above, below, outside and within ourselves.

Sometimes I must admit I wish the opposite were true. I wish I could look forward to vast treasures and great wealth. Instead, Randall nailed it on the head when he spoke of the importance of relationship, specifically speaking the idea that “the closest thing we have to Jesus on earth is one another.” Many Sundays contained within my mental recesses of childhood (it’s really all one big ‘recess’) were spent at my grandparents. They were, and still remain, the perfect Baptist, Bible-belt grandparents. The small, country Baptist church boasted a 90+ year-old worship leader and the choir would take whoever wanted to sit up there. I would tag along with my grandmother, sitting up there just so I could look out over the crowd and seem more important than the other kids (after all, the most important were on stage). Songs like “I’ll Fly Away”, “When The Roll is Called Up Yonder”, “I’ve Got A Mansion” and the like instilled within me from an early age that there was a vast storage of riches in heaven and they were available to the good ones here on earth. When I was nice to a friend, I pictured a new gemstone in my crown, while telling lies reduced the size of my future home. After all, Jesus left to prepare me a new place and it’s certainly the kind super-athletes like Michael Jordan would be proud of. I’ve always kept that childhood mentality until, sorry to say, fairly recently. The N.T. book of Revelation seems to pervade this “vast riches” mentality (as does the Trump-ly ornate TBN set). But something about that seems, well, materialistic. As a pastor preaching sermons each week that touch on the down and out and God’s heart for the oppressed, the afterlife as Uncle Scrooge’s vault seems rather funny – an eternal tease of the poor finally receiving riches when it won’t even matter anymore. In Ephesians, Paul prays for us to understand a few things about God and His Kingdom – one of those being “his vast inheritance in the saints…” That single line made me pause and seemed to flip everything around, suddenly causing miles of other passages to make sense (at least to me). The riches are His people. The inheritance to come can be found in the people being saved around us. Indeed, God’s most prized creation – man and woman – is indeed the treasure that Heaven will be full of. I’m learning this changes the way I view the world around me. Building privacy fences here on Planet Earth keeps me away from the future treasure I was so looking forward to (and which my grandparents still sing about). We’re not leaving this ole’ world behind to find some lavish resort all to ourselves. We’re fully surrounded by the very treasure and inheritance of God right now and someday the Kingdom of God will be fully revealed and restored and we will be made new, but we will still be all around each other just as we were before. Only we will be completely who we were made to be. Thus, you are my treasure, like it or not. And dreaming of “flying away” only keeps me from appreciating the beauty of you. Eugene Peterson writes about this in Christ Plays in Ten Thousand Places. He mentions people who say they want to get in touch with Creation and then they speak of escaping to mountains or retiring to oceanside villas. But instead, Peterson notes that to get in touch with the Creator, to truly appreciate Creation is to spend time with humanity. “Go to a tavern” or “ride the bus” is Peterson’s recommendation for truly getting in touch with these things. I’m not as inclined to agree as I wish I was. But I’m beginning to understand a bit more…

I nursed my resentments and disgrace like young plants, watering them, trimming back the dead leaves, making sure they got enough sunlight. At times like these, I believe, Jesus rolls up his sleeves, smiles roguishly, and thinks, “This is good.” He lets me get nice and crazy, until I can’t take my own thinking and solutions for one more moment. The next morning, I got on my knees and prayed, “Please, please help me. Please let me feel You while I adjust to not getting what I was hoping for.” And then I remembered Rule 1: When all else fails, follow instructions. And Rule 2: Don’t be an asshole. In this excerpt by Anne Lamott from her book titled “Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith,” she speaks of Jesus as “roguish.” Upon consulting thesaurus.com to make sure it meant what I thought it meant, here are some of the synonyms I discovered, much to my delight, adding more slashy, timid pencil marks to my mind’s always shifting and surprising sketch of Jesus: “scalawag.” “black sheep.” “trickster.” And my personal favorite…”rascal.” Is it possible, just as in a friendship or a romance where one repeatedly uncovers attributes that draw one to another more and more, that I could like Him, love Him, even more? It doesn’t sound like that would be a good or a smart realization…I have this imposing sense that I should already know everything there is to make me love Him. Here in my thirtieth year, shouldn’t I have the laundry list of attributes memorized by now? Feeling very small and elementary, slightly behind the curve, I should be punished by some ugly, wiry-haired teacher sort with “I already love Jesus perfectly” write-offs on the blackboard. I know that I should already love Him as much as is humanly possible…but here is more. How can that be?

This may be preaching to the choir here in the Rabbit Room, but I wrote an article back in early July about the upcoming final Harry Potter book. I thought this would be an appropriate place to re-post it. I know for some it’s old news – most of the world knows the fate of Harry Potter by now – but the article was intended more for those unfamiliar with or suspicious of the boy wizard. Maybe like me, you’ve met people who believe that the Harry Potter stories are “demonic” or at the very least fruitless. But our family has quite enjoyed them and found them worth our while. As I reread this article, methinks I doth protest too much… In my zeal to persuade Potter haters, I might be making more of the Potter books than is called for. Madeleine L’Engle (God rest her soul) said that she read one of the books and thought it was fine, but that there was “nothing underneath” the story. While I get what she was saying and would hesitate to say Rowling is on par with Tolkien or Lewis, we still enjoyed her books immensely and found more in them than perhaps L’Engle did. I guess at the end of the day we thought they were good clean fun. For whatever it’s worth, here are my 2 cents: ————————————— What We’ve Learned From Harry Potter (July 3rd 2007) While our culture braces itself for the one-two punch of not only a new Harry Potter film, but also the final book in the series about the boy wizard, I find myself thinking about what the bible has to say about magic. Right on the heels of the movie version of “Harry Potter And The Order of The Phoenix”, the final book in J.K. Rowling’s enchanting series (pun intended), “Harry Potter and The Deathly Hallows,” will hit shelves. We’ll most likely hear from the usual suspects: literary critics will say the books are lightweight. Librarians will extol the virtues of these books that have got kids reading, well, anything again. And segments of Christianity will denounce the books as endorsing the occult. (Never mind that Rowling’s books are sprinkled generously with potent Christian symbols and values – i.e. in “The Prisoner of Azkaban,” the words that Harry Potter invokes to defend himself against an onslaught of demonic tormentors are “expecto patronum,” which can be translated quite literally to “I look for a savior”. And in case that wasn’t clear enough, it is the image of a white stag – a classic literary symbol of Christ – that comes to Harry’s rescue. Never mind, too, that real life witches denounce Harry Potter almost as much as church folks do. Harry is more resilient than we thought, having survived [thus far] not only the evil Lord Voldemort, but criticisms from almost every corner of popular culture.) Now, don’t get me wrong – having lived with a stepfather who dabbled in the occult, witchcraft is not a topic I take lightly. While I won’t go into great detail here about that part of my history, nor offer a lengthy defense of why our family loves these books, suffice it to say that we don’t feel that enjoying the world of Harry Potter in any way compromises our faith. On the contrary, we read the books together as a family and find them rich with opportunities to discuss our faith with our boys. Take for instance the most obvious theme of magic, which is usually what stirs the ire of Harry’s more religious detractors. Having finished reading the first book, “Harry Potter and The Sorcerer’s Stone”, Taya and I seized upon the opportunity to talk with our boys about what scripture has to say about magic and witchcraft. We explained that in books like Harry Potter – as well as many fantasy books including the Chronicles of Narnia and Lord of The Rings – the author doesn’t necessarily employ magic as an endorsement of the occult, but rather as a literary device that serves to tell a larger story, which in the cases of the stories I just named is less about wizardry than it is about valor, loyalty, and even faith. Then we read 1 Samuel 15:23 together: “for rebellion is as the sin of witchcraft…” And here we got to the heart of it. At its worst, magic in these stories is used to manipulate situations so that the magic user can get what he or she wants. In essence, magic used in this way is saying “my will be done”, in contrast to Christ’s example to live our lives surrendered, praying “not my will, but Thy will be done.” But I suspect this is the very kind of rebellious “witchcraft” that we may be guilty of every day, and this kind of witchcraft should worry us more than the fictional variety in the world of Harry Potter. Isn’t the constant battle of wills between God and the human heart the chief concern of Christianity? Of all the sins we need to be delivered of, isn’t self will the most thorny and persistent? More distressing yet: how many of us if we are honest with ourselves are guilty of using religion and even the precious Word of God to manipulate situations and drive personal agendas? I know I’ve been guilty of it more often than I would like to admit, and I think it’s safe to say that the problems of self will and spiritual manipulation are still among the greater challenges that the church faces today. This kind of subtle witchcraft is much more insidious than any of the hocus pocus that raises the hackles of well intentioned believers who might line up outside bookstores to protest the latest Harry Potter book. It’s this witchcraft that must certainly break the heart of God. If we are going to spend energy protesting the evils of magic and sorcery, it might be best spent by examining the rebellious, sorcerous intentions of our own hearts that daily seek to say “my will be done.” At the time we read the first book, we had been living in a tiny farmhouse that was in pretty rough shape. It was a far cry from the kind of home my wife had hoped for, but the rent was ridiculously cheap and enabled us to stay in the ministry in the early years. Daily she prayed with our twin boys for our own home – nothing extravagant, but something that she felt was her own and that wasn’t overrun by mice (as our rental house was). Closing the book and sitting on the edge of the boys’ bed, we talked about how we could have tried to get a house for ourselves, trying to make it happen any number of ways, to say “our will be done.” Instead, we chose to prayerfully seek God and wait for Him to reveal His will. Within weeks of that conversation, through an extraordinary set of circumstances we were blessed to find a wonderful house that was exactly what Taya and the boys had been praying for all those years. It was a teachable moment in their lives about the virtue of waiting on the Lord and not resorting to the subtle witchcrafts of self-will – A teachable moment delivered to our doorstep by the unlikely Harry Potter. We’ve come to love that boy wunderkind. There is a lot of speculation about his fate in this final book. I’m hoping he survives, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he ended up laying down his life for his friends. Either way, I’m sure it will give our family another teachable moment and a context to explore the rich mystery of what Lewis’ Aslan calls the “old magic” of Christ’s sacrificial love.

The best moments in reading are when you come across something—a thought, a feeling, a way of looking at things—which you had thought special and particular to you. And now, here it is, set down by someone else, a person you have never met, someone even who is long dead. And it is as if a hand has come out, and taken yours. This is a line delivered by Hector, a character from The History Boys, a movie I viewed this week. Despite enjoying this film myself, I don’t particularly recommend it. In fact, that’s not the purpose of this post. But as we peek inside the door—you, me, and all of us—in this emerging community called The Rabbit Room, these words seem to resonat with vigor, almost as if they had been framed and matted on the front door. They are words that seem particularly relevant in the context of what Andrew Peterson has in mind for this place. As I considered some thoughts from The Far Country, shortly after it was released, I remember being astounded by a line which elegantly reinforce the words that Hector uttered in The History Boys. Andrew Peterson/Pierce Pettis from the song More: A thing resounds when it rings true Ringing all the bells inside of you Like a golden sky on a summer eve Your heart is tugging at your sleeve And you cannot say why There must be more Whether dead or alive, when the work of an author or artist communicates that which we intuitively know to be true, it’s as if we have found a kindred spirit. Innermost thoughts which may have simmered for years, vague and undefined—are suddenly given clarity, a voice, and a name. Should we really be surprised when those that do it best are still on our list of favorites—five, fifty, one hundred years or more after their death? As you consider the relevance of the beauty and truth found in the art contained in The Rabbit Room, may it be personal, and real, and may it last.

My flight arrived at 10:30 at night. There were about a dozen of us on the shuttle bus to long-term parking, and I was careful not to make eye contact with anybody, lest I find myself engaged in a conversation. Across from me sat a man with a banjo case. To my right, one of those old boys–a salesman type–who’s always striking up conversations with strangers who would just as soon be left alone. He started egging on the banjo picker to play us a song. To my surprise, the man opened up his case, pulled out the banjo, and played us a ripping rendition of “The Ballad of Jed Clampett.” It was an amazing thing, to be cruising around the airport parking lot in a bus with this banjo picker playing his heart out for us. When the banjo picker packed up and got off at his stop, one of the remaining passengers on the bus turned to me and said, “You know who that was, don’t you? That was Bela Fleck.” I hesitate to provide that detail, lest this story come across as a celebrity-spotting, my-brush-with-greatness anecdote. That’s not the point at all. The music did its work on us just fine without our knowing we were being treated to a private concert by a celebrity virtuoso. But knowing that it was Bela Fleck who played for us only amplified what I already understood: his performance on the bus was an act of generosity. Mr. Fleck was coming off a concert tour of Asia and Australia; if I’m not mistaken, when his plane landed that night, it was the first time he had been home in over a month. And yet he pulled out his banjo and played a song for a dozen people who had no way of knowing what they were getting. Why would he do that? I don’t know, of course, but I wonder if it was because he was the only person on the bus who could do it. The artist’s imperative, at its heart, is to give what nobody else can give. An artist does for us what we cannot do for ourselves.

AP has been hoping and praying for the successful launch of this site for months now, and I’m thrilled to take part. I’ve just finished reading the final instructional email from “The Proprietor,” and aside from a nonsensical and inaccurate comment about besting me in ping-pong, it was a thorough directory and inspiring call to prosaic arms. This quote is pulled directly from his email… “I don’t buy into that “transforming culture by being relevant” talk. As far as I know, Christ never called us to be relevant to our culture. We’re supposed to be relevant to our neighbors. How many Christian artists have been swept up in the notion that they’re to play by the world’s rules by trying to be cool enough to make Jesus seem cool enough to a culture that values coolness above all? The media is a flawed means of communicating the gospel.” I love that, precisely because of how easy it is to lose perspective with all the technological wizardry we have at our fingertips these days. We are the Church, and we are committed to communicating the Gospel, but we forget that the Gospel is most effectively communicated through relationship. After all, that is how Jesus does it! Relationship is how we find life and worth and peace and love and power in Christ. And relationship is how we communicate Christ to others. I don’t care if you’ve got on parachute pants or $80 sandals, there is nothing more relevant than a cold cup of water to a thirsty man. Funny, it suddenly seems ironic to use the internet–the world’s most powerful isolator–to wax eloquently about relationship, but I guess that’s the point. There is a time to be silent and a time to speak, a time for handwritten notes and a time for email, a time for hymnals and a time for Powerpoint, and though all may be appropriate sometimes, none are appropriate all of the time. Only Jesus – and relationship with him – is eternally satisfying, and the closest thing we have to Jesus on earth is one another.

Allow me to preface this by telling you that I am a great despiser of gushing reviews. I’d much rather write (or read) a scathing dismemberment of the latest Brett Ratner film or Terry Goodkind book than suffer through four hundred words of overblown hyperbole about even the best of things. But when asked to write some thoughts on Frederick Buechner’s Godric, no amount of distaste for high praise was able to intervene. I hope you’ll take what I say with the understanding that I do not say it readily or lightly. In my mind, my reading tastes and experiences are sharply divided into what I read before Godric, and what I read after Godric. It is the book that fundamentally altered the way I read and the way I write. It is the novel that moved me to write my own. It is the canon by which I have measured every book read since. Am I gushing? Since reading Godric, I can no longer abide reading for reading’s sake or simple story for story’s sake. I have little tolerance for words that merely convey information. Godric opened a window in my mind that has never shut and, God-willing, never will. I challenge anyone to read this book and not be changed. Thank you, Mr. Buechner.