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[Editor's Note: Théa Rosenburg has edited a new volume of the late Leslie Bustard's selected works. Pick it up at Square Halo.] "I feel like I just got it— I just got what it really meant to rest in Jesus. Rest in Jesus. He really is trustworthy . . ." In the weeks after Leslie Anne Bustard—my good friend, mentor, and collaborator—awoke on mercy’s shores, I opened a new document and pasted those words at the very top. Though they eventually became her book’s epigraph, at the time I didn’t know if they would stay or if those words were just there for me, to orient my thoughts as I read and reread her work, determining which pieces would become the pages of the book itself. And as I read, I revisited those words often. He really is trustworthy. Leslie only began to publish in earnest after she was diagnosed with two different forms of cancer, but her gift for hospitality immediately shone through in her writing. She invited readers into her journey the way she’d been inviting people into her home for years: she didn’t wait until things were perfect; she didn’t let fear of what readers might think keep her from sharing vulnerably about her life as a Christian, a mother, a wife. Instead, she shared the fears that rose up around her as she faced cancer, as well as the beauty she found even in the midst of suffering. Her path led to the shores and there, in the hospital, in her last weeks, she said, He really is trustworthy. Recently another friend of mine was diagnosed with cancer, and when she shared with me which books had already blessed her as she prepared for the uncertainty that accompanies all the tests and treatments, I realized that many of them were written by cancer survivors—writers who had faced and then written eloquently about their experience with cancer, with the wisdom and distance of one who has emerged from the other side. But that is not Leslie’s story. She wrote about her experience as it was happening, and then left an abundance of beautiful writings behind her—so many that it quickly became clear that only a fraction of them would fit into this book. She did not write as one reflecting back upon her experience or as one able to edit and revise those raw thoughts before publication. No, Leslie wrote from within the storm, when the path out was still obscure. And even there, she could call the Lord trustworthy. I write about her fight with cancer here because it is the reason you’re hearing from me as the book’s editor rather than from Leslie herself, but hear me say this: Tiny Thoughts That I’ve Been Thinking is not a book about cancer. It is a book about beauty and the Lord’s goodness, about art and hospitality and family life and marriage and poetry and grace and good food. Her essays on art and her poems invite us to look and look again and to praise the Lord for his beauty and goodness. Her personal essays and recipes invite us into the Bustard home, to savor and enjoy their traditions and to, perhaps, allow her stories to spark new traditions within our own homes. Her prayers reveal to us a heart that longed to please God even in the most wrenching circumstances. And the last half of the book—a selection of online journal entries written by both Leslie and her husband, Ned, throughout her cancer treatments—show us how to live our last days well, and how to walk our loved ones right up to those final shores. That is the true power of Leslie Bustard’s writings: through her words, she doesn’t just tell us how to live—she shows us. How to love our people well, how to enfold them, how to pause and praise God for a bare branch backlit by the winter sky, how to say—up to the very end and beyond—Rest in Jesus. He really is trustworthy . . . Tiny Thoughts That I’ve Been Thinking: The Selected Writings of Leslie Anne Bustard, from Square Halo Books, was released on February 27. To learn more about the book and about Leslie, please join us at the 2024 Square Halo Books conference, Return to Narnia—Creativity, Collaboration, and Community, on March 8–9, where—among a full schedule of excellent lectures and events—Théa Rosenburg will lead a panel discussion about Leslie’s life and work. Théa Rosenburg lives with her husband and four daughters in the Pacific Northwest where, when the wind blows from the right direction, she can smell the ocean from her front yard. She served as co-editor for the book Wild Things and Castles in the Sky: A Guide to Choosing the Best Books for Children, and her work has appeared on Story Warren, Risen Motherhood, and in Every Moment Holy, Vol. III. You can find her at Little Book, Big Story, where she reviews children’s books, or at her Substack, The Setting, where she writes about everything else. If you’ve enjoyed this post or other content coming out of the Rabbit Room, you can help support the work by clicking here. Our weekly newsletter is the best way to learn about new books, staff recommendations, upcoming events, lectures, and more. Sign up here. Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

Editor’s note: This is the first in a series of interviews between Ben Palpant and important contemporary poets. Interviews with Luci Shaw, Mischa Willet, Jeremiah Webster, and more are coming up on the Rabbit Room Poetry Newsletter. Subscribe to get them emailed directly to your inbox. Make me to awaken daily with a willingness to roll out readily, accompanied by grateful smirk, a giddy joy,the idiot's undying expectation,despite the evidence. —from "Idiot Psalm 2" by Scott Cairns Scott Cairns lives in a modest house, the house of his childhood, a house his father built. It is as unpretentious and welcoming as those who call it home. Standing together in the kitchen, gazing at the Puget Sound, I am struck by the spirit in this place, the same spirit that infuses his poetry—an open-handed generosity, a down-to-earth gentleness, a wry, disarming humor. He leads me downstairs, into a sunroom lined with windows, and gives me first dibs on where I want to sit. I select the old loveseat built out of bamboo. He’s drinking his coffee from a mug that says, “7 days without a pun makes one weak.” Glancing around the room, I notice the unremarkable furniture, the shelf lined with plants and I recall the child's box set of Beatrix Potter in the other room—it all strikes me as incredibly unassuming. The question that comes to mind could seem insulting, but I choose to ask it anyway. "You don't seem to take yourself too seriously." "Well, I guess going to a lot of poetry readings over the years, listening to other poets, I find myself thinking ‘you don't have to be that severe, dude.’" We laugh. "So, yes, I usually open my poems with a joke and then, at some point, you know, I get a little more serious, and the irony falls away. If you were raised in this home as I was, irony was a requirement. And puns were also required. How did Naomi Shihab Nye put it? 'Answer, if you hear the words under the words...' That is  very similar to what I have said endlessly to my students, which is, pay attention to the words within the words." "Maybe you could help me understand what you mean by that." "I've noticed that the poems I love most are poems that I can keep reading and opening because, during a given reading, I will have seen a primary sense of the word, but then see how the secondary, tertiary senses also figure into it. This is mostly why I started learning Greek and why I'm trying to learn a little Latin. It's because—as you must know— the English language is the best language for poetry. It's a museum for almost all the other languages. And so the etymological hauntings within an English word—of its Greek or Latin roots—may not be so overt, but they're present. If you're attentive to those ghosts, the poem keeps opening for you. It's never the same poem with each reading. I want to make poems like that, poems that keep opening." We should be cognizant that writing poems isn't about saying what you think you know; it's really about constructing a scene of meaning-making—a field into which  a reader can enter and make meaning with the poet. There really ought to be some ambiguity implicated in every line, I think." "Does the ambiguity play into line breaks for you?" I ask. "How do you make decisions on line endings?" "I am almost always counting something, that's one technical element of lineation. I also want my lines to register as a provisional, syntactical unit which is then modified by subsequent lines. Often, for instance, the word out here at the end of the line appears to be a noun, but then it turns out that it's an adjective modifying an actual noun waiting in the next line. That provides a wonderful, dizzying experience for the reader who then is obliged to take another look at what he just read, and his re-reading proves essential to the agency of what I like to call the poetic operation of language. "Poetry, when it's really poetry, occasions this sort of spinning, vertiginous—I like the word vertiginous—operation of language," he says, laughing. "You can also witness this in a rich prose text. Poetry, of course, can happen in verse or prose, even fiction, nonfiction, and drama can obtain some degree of this poetic operation of language—this delicious, puzzling, opening activity. A great novel like Dostoevsky's Brothers Karamazov—a book I read every summer—does this. It keeps opening me onto something new." He pauses and gazes out the window. "I really do feel that when I'm making a poem, it's not about my having a glimpse of something true and then trying to transcribe it. It's more like I'm trying to figure it out, glimpsing it as I go, wrestling with the language, listening to the music of the words, letting the music lead me to the next words. And in that way, my compositional practice is also my meditation. I guess for the first half of my life I resisted the equation between poetry and prayer. Over the past twenty years, however, I have approached my poems as a kind of prayer—perhaps my most efficacious prayer." "It sounds to me like your favorite poets force you to calibrate to mystery," I said, "but that's also partly why you write. You're calibrating to the divine mystery." "Well, yes, because I'm my first audience. I want to get something out of it, too." He laughs. "You should know that I really only have five ideas. I think they're pretty good ideas, but to the extent that ideation occurs in any of my poems, ever, they're pretty much the same five ideas retooled, if opening a little more onto a fuller glimpse each time I work it over. One of the hardest things for young readers to figure out is that there really is no hidden code in the poem. The reader’s purpose is not to crack the code and replace the poem with a paraphrase of the poem. No, a genuine poem is actually a place you enter and experience, a place in which you collaborate in meaning-making." "When I drove up to your house today, I thought of your house as just a house." "A very modest house." He laughs. "But when you told me that your dad built this house, I walked through this house differently. It seems as though poems, if we think of them as a place, should be entered with a different kind of respect. I'm not just entering an apartment that is produced en masse, I'm entering a place that has a great deal of meaning long before I entered it." "Ah, a dwelling place." "Yes. How do you enter a poem with that kind of respect?" "Well, I suppose, when I start reading, I'm not looking for any inspiration, anything to take. I'm just ingesting the page, you know. If it draws me back later, if I keep going back to the poem again and again, then something grows out of that thorough reading. It's the poets like Auden, Cavafy, that I come back to. Do you know Cavafy? He was a Greek poet living in Alexandria, Egypt in the early 20th century. He's a fantastic poet. I have certain favorites—Mark Strand, Anthony Hecht. Anyway, I spend a lot of time with them, you see. They become sort of my primary audience. They write to me, I write to them. Richard Howard was one of my beloved mentors, one of the best-read guys I’ve met. I pour over the works of these people and hope that some of it rubs off. I end up writing to satisfy them more than to satisfy, I don't know, the living." He laughs. "I want students to be less concerned with what the author is saying and more concerned with what they can literally make with the poem on the page. The entire literary history is really all about a conversation that has been going on for centuries. To be part of that conversation, first you have to read to find out what that conversation is, and let the utterances of other writers provoke your responses. The more you're equipped by the prior discourse, the more likely you are to make something interesting with it, something that might actually contribute to the ongoing conversation." "Let's talk about calibrating to mystery. During difficult times of life, do you find yourself writing more? Or less?" "It has probably varied over the years. As an escape from the turmoil, yes. Sometimes just saying to heck with it, I’m going to work on this poem is a great thing. Other times, things are going well and I still get the legal pad out and start reading again. Most of my writing time, you see, begins with reading time. I'll be pouring over some book and, eventually, I glimpse something new. My legal pad and number two pencils are out and ready, so I start responding to whatever glimpse I just had. I start looking for more openings onto new glimpses in this new work. So there's this linguistic dynamic at work that continues to give, to push me, to open me." "Do you leave unfinished poems out and about so they're always calling to you?" "You saw my desk." He laughs. "I think that would qualify as out and about. At some point, I'll move them to the laptop." "You strike me as a poet who isn't under some delusion that he's arrived," I said. "There's always something to pursue, to learn." "The older I get, the more I feel I have to achieve and the more I feel like I'm not going to make it, that  I'm going to run out of time." He laughs. "That’s pretty much  a guarantee." "Do you feel the weight that Keats felt when he had fears that he may cease to be...when he beheld cloudy symbols that he may never live to trace their shadows? Do you feel that?" "I have always been cognizant of death, but it's a little more present as I age, yes. But I think of Coleridge, he was always trying to mine something. I've always found his continual reaching to be compelling. I never want to give in to the notion that if something comes easy I should keep doing that thing." "How have you wrestled with public praise over the years?" I ask. "How have you kept it from warping your work?" "I guess I avoid it as much as possible. I've never been good at taking compliments. Maybe it's just part of my deflecting humor. One of the best ways to defend against its poor effect upon one’s character is to know some genuinely brilliant people. It keeps you humble. Of course, I also have friends who don't read poetry at all. I don't think it's for everyone. I think you need to have a taste for uncertainty, which is a taste I think most people don't share. Most people are profoundly burdened by practical matters. They may feel that they have no room for uncertainty, but that feeling keeps them from discovering, keeps them from a deep species of joy. Uncertainty is a great gift. I think uncertainty is a truer disposition than certainty. For instance, God is not reducible to anything we can say about God. God necessarily always exceeds what we might make of God; so, too, the truth necessarily always exceeds what we can narrowly define. If we think we can enclose the truth—or enclose God—we're not talking about truth and we're not talking about God." "What are some of the missteps you see young writers taking?" "The only time I really get distressed about my students is when marketing, self-promotion, starts taking up too much of their attention and time. I think self-promotion is a really bad idea for a couple of reasons—the greatest of which is that you start thinking that public attention is how you know your work is good. Applause and acclaim are not how you know something has quality. Witnessing all the self-promotion they're doing, I feel very sad. I start to wonder if maybe I forgot to say something to them when I had the chance, something important." "You're not suggesting that the market economy has no overlap with poetry." "No, marketing has a place, but the poet shouldn't be the one to do it. The poet should have some really great friends who love him and who will share her  work with other people who might enjoy it." "So you can focus on the work?" "Truly, yes, I just do the work. I'm not saying you shouldn't send your work out for publication, but I spend probably an hour a month thinking about what I have on hand to send out, and who I should send it to. Then I send it off,  and forget about it— getting back to work. That seems to me a healthy ratio. But more than that, I think that a daily Instagram post about your deep thoughts doesn't seem like a good use of your deep thoughts. I don't get angry about marketing;  I don't get resentful. And yes, I think writers really do get noticed that way, but I just mostly feel sad for folks who get swept up in it." "You wrote a book called Idiot Psalms. One of my personal favorites is Psalm 2, a psalm of Isaak accompanied by baying hounds. Who is Isaak?" "There actually is a Saint Isaak of Syria. He was a 7th-century monastic who was bishop for about three hours before he fled back to the desert. I first came upon him while reading Dostoevsky's Brothers Karamazov. One of the characters is said to have read the Ascetical Homilies of Isaak of Syria nearly every day, “understanding none of it,” as I recall.  So that's the actual Saint Isaak. When I became Orthodox, I took the name Isaak; he is my “namesaint,” as we say. Now, when I take communion, they don't call me Scott, they call me Isaak. So these poems, and others of mine, are understood to be spoken by a persona, Isaak the Least." "Would you read the poem?" "O Shaper of varicolored clay and cellulose, O Keeper of same, O Subtle Tweaker, Agent of energies both appalling and unobserved, do not allow Your servant's limbs to stiffen or to ossify unduly, do not compel Your servant to go brittle, neither cramping at the heart, nor narrowing his affective sympathies neither of the flesh nor of the alleged soul. Keep me sufficiently limber that I might continue to enjoy my morning run among the lilies and the rowdy waterfowl, that I might delight in this and every evening's intercourse with the woman you have set beside me. Make me to awaken daily with a willingness to roll out readily, accompanied by grateful smirk, a giddy joy, the idiot's undying expectation, despite the evidence." "Thank you," I say. "I love that final stanza so much that I wrote it down in my journal so I could look at it regularly." "Well, I wrote what I hope, you know. The evidence is not promising, but there is a grace in supposing that despite how unpromising the surrounding evidence—the circumstances of our political lives, of our civic lives, our individual progress towards holiness—despite how unpromising that seems, there is an inescapable deep note of joy that I've been blessed with and count on. "I remember being a boy—maybe three or four years old—and we were getting ready to visit my grandmother's house. I was ready early because I didn't have much to do, and so I walked out into a very crisp winter night, closed the door behind me. I stood on the threshold, my little feet on the doorstep, and as  I looked up into the starry sky I had this exhilarating sense of joy, of beauty. I said out loud, 'I love life!' You know, the expression of an earnest, young person. But that has stuck with me. It was this huge blessing, this realization that it's all okay, now and ever. It was a moment that set me up for resistance against the despair that would woo me later in life." "I think that's one of the reasons why I love your poetry, it has that sense of hope and joy that I want for my own life. We need poets like you to keep singing that hope to us." We said our goodbyes. I gave their dog, Moses, a final head rub. The thought crossed my mind that this might be the last time I would see Moses in the land of the living, which made me want to just sit there for a while, to delay the inevitable departure. Maybe it was the dog, maybe it was the generous kindness I had experienced. Maybe it was the gift of friendship, of finding a fellow pilgrim who longed for hope like I longed for hope. I don't know, but whatever it was, I didn't want to leave. I'm grateful for Scott Cairns, for the little boy inside him who still looks up at the sky and says, "I love life!" I wouldn't mind standing with that little boy more often. Maybe someday I will get a chance to walk with him along a footpath worn by those who came before us, to enjoy the sun on our faces and the laughter in our hearts. Scott Cairns is the author of ten books of poetry. His most recent book is Lacunae, published by Paraclete Press. His writing has appeared in The Atlantic, The Paris Review, The New Republic, Poetry, and elsewhere, and has been anthologized in Best Spiritual Writing and Best American Spiritual Writing. Besides writing poetry, Cairns has also written a spiritual memoir, and the libretto for the oratorios “The Martyrdom of Saint Polycarp” and “A Melancholy Beauty.” Cairns has received fellowships from the Guggenheim Foundation and the National Endowment for the Humanities, and was awarded the Denise Levertov Award in 2014. Photo by Ales Krivec on Unsplash

For this Lenten season, we present a series of interviews with musicians and artists about the ways that music has helped them process and work through seasons of loss and grief. Here Andrew Osenga, Royce Lovett, Steve Taylor, Christa Wells, Tim Timmons, Ross King, and John Thompson open up about the role that music plays in times of grief and lament they have experienced. ​ (Special thanks to Dave Trout and UTR Media) If you’ve enjoyed this post or other content coming out of the Rabbit Room, you can help support the work by clicking here. Our weekly newsletter is the best way to learn about new books, staff recommendations, upcoming events, lectures, and more. Sign up here.

By the time you read this, you’ll know the outcome of Super Bowl LVIII - that’s 58 for those who aren’t used to converting letters into numbers. As a lifelong fan of the San Francisco 49ers, you’ll also know my hopes of cele-bragging online have been ruined as I now plan to crawl into a digital hole and hibernate from social media, licking my wounds well past Easter. I’ve always loved football. There’s no doubt that affection stems from my father. He didn’t know about the National Football League before he immigrated to the United States in the summer of 1980, but by the time I could form memories, my dad was rooting for the red-and-gold team by the Bay. Korean immigrant fathers are known for two traits: a legendary work ethic and a stone-cold demeanor. Both work hand in hand, vital necessities, one emboldening the other as a means of survival in a foreign land. My father was no different. Most of my earliest paternal memories revolve around his work schedule which took precedence over everything else, including church. Before my younger sister was born, we lived in a ramshackle two-bedroom apartment - where no space was left untouched by cockroaches or my grubby adolescent hands... no space, except my father’s work desk, which was immaculate. He worked as a computer engineer so every tool, every drafting pencil, every staple was accounted for and it was a well-known rule that his desk was off-limits. You can guess my father’s reaction when he came home to the sight of me at his work desk playing with a drafting compass I found in the top drawer. Not good news. I never opened his desk on my own again. Even the cockroaches stayed away after that. Don't get me wrong. My father is usually an even-tempered man. Joyful most of the time. He wears a smile as easily as we wear our favorite t-shirts. But when it came to work, he was all business. When he didn’t work he napped. That was the only time I ever saw him rest. (I tell my wife that’s why I like to take naps too—an attempt to subconsciously connect with my father—but she doesn’t buy it.) Sleeping is what many of us think about when we say we need to get some rest. But anyone working from home and taking care of small children knows that sleep alone is an incomplete rest. Abraham Heschel writes in his paradigmatic book, The Sabbath, “Unless one learns how to relish the taste of Sabbath … one will be unable to enjoy the taste of eternity in the world to come.” Relishing is a bit more active than napping. Sleep is a passive retreat. Relishing Sabbath rest comes with a little more energy expenditure. If Heschel is correct, there is a learning curve involved in fully enjoying the Sabbath experience. The idea of learning how to Sabbath makes me think of the Creation narrative. I read Genesis 2:1-3 and the details are sparse. Did God relish? I try to imagine what God looked like when he ceased his work on the seventh day. Did he sit back and admire his Creation the whole day? Was it a calm, serene moment? I’d like to think there was a little bit more excitement involved. Maybe he even expressed, dare I say, exuberant joy? That’s what I see in my spiritual mind’s eye. Throughout the Holy Scriptures, we are given glimpses into the exuberant heart of the Father. The three-fold parables of Luke 15 reveal a Father who is willing to forsake all social norms to express his joy. Zephaniah 3:17 paints a beautiful image of a warrior-father, not shouting war cries, but singing over his beloved child. Our Heavenly Father knows how to relish, even in his rest. This makes me believe there are times when our rest response to the Lord needs to be equally exuberant. My father was exuberant only while he watched football. I’ve always wondered why he chose American football. What did a thirty-something-year-old engineer from Korea know about the gridiron and pigskin? And more pressing, how did he come to love it? I’ve asked him on numerous occasions and, in his dismissive stoicism, he has never given me a straight answer. I don't know… I just watched because the American people at my work talk about it. That would explain why he watched it—to assimilate as much as possible, ingratiating himself to a new people and a new culture. But it doesn’t explain why he was obsessed with it. In Working the Angles, Eugene Peterson sheds light on my dad’s obsession with football. He writes, “Animal wildness is unfettered exuberance. We are delighted when we see animals in their natural environments—leaping, soaring, prancing… [Sabbath rest] is like that: undomesticated. We shed poses and masks. We become unself-conscious.” I’d like to believe, if my father had the words to express it in English, his love for football would match Peterson’s description. That deep down inside, football tapped into a certain kind of unfettered exuberance he didn’t know he needed. He was an immigrant in a new land, learning a new language. Every encounter in English, every bill that needed to be paid, every school function he needed to attend was yet another reason to keep his guard up. I can’t believe there were many moments throughout his week when he could become unself-conscious. He may not have understood all the rules of the game, but he knew sports, and watching the 49ers gave him permission to relish in his own kind of social unmasking, three hours at a time. The seminal moment of witnessing my dad elated, overcome with jubilee, is when the 49ers beat the Cincinnati Bengals on a last-second touchdown pass from Joe Montana to John Taylor in Super Bowl XXIII (that’s 23). He leapt from his seated position on the couch and screamed to the high heavens while the coffee table and lampstand took cover in each other’s arms. It was an emotional earthquake. In the aftermath, my dad and I went out to the front yard and tossed around the Nerf football he bought for my birthday just a few months earlier. The front yard was really just a small patch of grass in front of our apartment building, no bigger than a good-sized living room. But after that game it was Joe Robbie Stadium. We stayed out for the next hour and ran the same play we just watched on TV. I was John Taylor, he was Joe Montana, and we just won the Super Bowl on a ten-yard slant across the middle. I can easily say that was the happiest moment of my childhood. Grainy footage of that afternoon replays in my mind like it was filmed on an 8mm camera with The Wonder Years theme song playing in the background. For me, learning Sabbath rest has always been an attempt to recreate that moment. Our rest traditions are undoubtedly shaped by the moments in our childhood when we witnessed our earthly fathers engage in acts of exuberant joy, relishing life in ways that were indelibly impressed upon us as children. If my dad loved knitting yarn and I witnessed him overjoyed at the completion of a throw blanket, then I’m certain I’d be justifiably obsessed with watching a two-tone, herringbone stitch, textured throw blanket come together. But he chose to watch football and scream with unbridled joy when the Niners scored a touchdown. So I did too. Still do. In our moments of rest in the delight of the Father, we do so as an exuberant expression of the finished work of Jesus Christ, who is our vicar and our High Priest. Practicing an active Sabbath faith teaches us that the expression of that exuberance is often a reflection of the joy we witnessed in the rhythms of our own childhood families. Genesis 1 tells us we were all created His image and likeness so it’s only fitting that we take our Sabbath cues from the same image and likeness of our earthly fathers, including our Korean immigrant dads who loved the Forty Niners. Daniel Jung is a graduate of Calvin Theological Seminary and a teaching elder in the Korean Northwest Presbytery. He lives in Northern California, where he serves as an associate pastor at Home of Christ in Cupertino. In his spare time, Daniel loves the 49ers, good coffee, and writing media reviews for Think Christian. You can find more of his work here. If you’ve enjoyed this article or other content coming out of the Rabbit Room, you can help support the work by clicking here. Our weekly newsletter is the best way to learn about new books, staff recommendations, upcoming events, lectures, and more. Sign up here.

[Editor's Note: This post resumes Mark Meynell's 5&1 series on classical music which ran in 2020-2021. The idea is to share five shorter classical pieces followed by one more substantial piece that all fit inside a given theme. With over 600 years of music to draw from, the hope is that you find a few old favorites combined with one or two new discoveries in each post.] The pilgrims who trudged to the Passover in Jerusalem often had to pass through barren, inhospitable terrain. Then, on top of the dangers inherent to being out in the wild, they faced the frequent threat of bandits or hostile inhabitants. It is no wonder that such dangers feature in the poems purposely written for these journeys (the Songs of Ascent: Psalms 120-134). No wonder they put their trust in the God who neither slumbered nor slept, nor who let feet slip (Ps 121:3-4). For they had to endure the scorn and mockery of the worldly (Ps 123:4), hostility from oppressors (Ps 129:2-3), not to mention raging waters and enemy’s snares (Ps 124:5, 7). But such pilgrimages invariably provoked an introspective turn as well, forcing the individual to face not just the terrors of the world but the darkness of the heart. They saw both their brokenness and defiance of God. So, as the pilgrims walk through the desert, they sing Psalm 130, expressive of their spiritual danger. Jesus went into the desert before his ministry went public, facing the demon and the deep cost of his mission. And the church calendar uses his 40 days to remind us of our own need to face inward and upward. We see our sin and our need. It can be intensely painful. But it can also be profoundly cathartic and liberating. This is why music has proved to be integral to the experience of Lent for so many. Over the course of the 5&1 series, we have already had three choral lists for seasons in the church year: for Advent, Christmas and Easter. It is no surprise that the season of Lent has inspired composers to craft some of the most poignant and affecting choral music in the repertoire. So it is to this theme we now turn. One word of warning at the start though. These pieces are definitely not wallpaper music. To get the most out of them, I suggest you take time out to listen carefully (perhaps with the texts printed out to focus reflection) and use as part of your devotions (how about each day?). Hear my prayer, O Lord (for 8 voices, 1682) Henry Purcell (1659-1695, English) The Cambridge Singers, John Rutter (cond.) Henry Purcell is widely regarded as the greatest English composer in three centuries, leaving an astonishing musical legacy before his premature death in his mid-30s. He wrote for all kinds of settings, from the rarefied world of opera to bawdy pub musicians, from the royal court to church choirs. This anthem lasts less than 3 minutes but packs a punch. It is likely that Purcell intended it for a longer work, but never completed it. All we have is one line from the Psalms, but in Purcell’s hands, it becomes one of the most concise and intense cries to God I know in music. Think of it as wave upon wave of heartfelt appeals to God to listen to us. Hear my prayer, O Lord, and let my crying come unto thee. (Psalm 102:1) St Matthew Passion: (BWV 244, 1727) 'Erbame Dich' (part 2 #39) Johann Sebastian Bach (1685-1750, German) Andreas Scholl (counter tenor), Collegium Vocale Gent, Philippe Herreweghe (cond.) If the Purcell anthem is a precious gemstone, Bach’s epic musical account of the final days of Jesus’s life in Matthew is one of music’s crown jewels. It is monumental, coming in at roughly 2¾ hours, written for two choirs and orchestra, plus several soloists (including Evangelist, a tenor, and The Voice of Christ, a bass). The way it works through the biblical text forces one to slow down and meditate on each step of the action. No wonder many people make it central to their annual Holy Week devotions. We must make do with just one tiny extract, one that picks up on the theme of pleading to God. In context, the alto (or in this recording’s case, counter-tenor) sings one of the most achingly beautiful arias in all music, pleading for mercy in response to the agony of Peter’s denial. Have mercy, my God, for the sake of my tears! Look here, heart and eyes weep bitterly before you. Have mercy, have mercy! De Profundis: Psalm 129/130 (1981) Arvo Pärt (1935- , Estonian) Theatre of Voices, Dan Kennedy, Christopher Bowers-Broadbent, Paul Hillier (cond.) We are in a very different sound world now, a piece composed in the months after Arvo Pärt left the Soviet Union for the West in 1980. It is a setting of Psalm 130 (Ps 129 in the Vulgate/Latin translation), in a style for which Pärt has become famous. It is slow, methodical, even plodding, perhaps. But this is deliberate, to force us to think about each word. The theme and harmonies move in incremental steps, with a beat per syllable and no great leaps or jumps. It uses only men’s voices, accompanied by organ and percussion. It starts right in the musical depths (taking the text literally) but gradually works its way up the scale until the 4 voices come together in unison. The percussion players are instructed to play ad lib, responding to the musical textures with sounds that somehow give a sense of timelessness and vast spaces. Ps 130 in English here Timor et Tremor from Quatre Motets pour un temps de pénitence (FP 97, 1938-39) François Poulenc (1899-1963, French) The Sixteen, Harry Christophers (cond.) There are similarities between this piece and the Pärt: both take texts from the Vulgate, both draw on the Psalms (in this case, from Psalms 54 and 30); both appeal for God’s mercy as a result of facing up to our sinfulness. But there the similarities end. While Pärt’s is a lilting meditation, Poulenc stops us in our tracks. It is a piece of impassioned urgency that manages to include several sudden mood changes within a total length of under 3 minutes. He uses sinuous melodies and shifting harmonies that mean we never quite know where he is going with it. But it is superb word-setting that warrants careful relistening. I first sang it 35 years ago, and I still hear new things in it! I Thirst and It is Finished. #5&6 from 7 Last Words from the Cross (1993) Sir James Macmillan (1959-, Scottish) The Dmitri Ensemble, Graham Ross (cond.) Regulars may have spotted that James Macmillan has already featured on two of the previous choral lists. And here he is again! So, yes, he is one of my favorites, without a doubt. Here are two movements from a larger work, his setting of the seven words of Christ as he was dying on the cross. Unusually, it was commissioned by BBC TV with movements to be performed on consecutive evenings during Holy Week. It was not designed to be acted out as such, but Macmillan composes something that seems entirely fitting for visual broadcast. He does not simply capture the drama of the crucifixion, but its agonies and even violence. This is no serene, rosy-tinted impression that you might associate with an old master painting. It is visceral and deeply unsettling. I thirst conjures up the utter desolation of the cross. The music is spare and bleak. Beyond the simple declarations of his physical need, the rest of the choir intones words taken from the old Catholic liturgy, the Good Friday Reproaches. They drive home the gruesome irony of the moment. It is Finished then shatters this desolate atmosphere, with violent, aggressive hammer-blows in the orchestra. It is shocking but evocative. As with the previous movement, the choir weaves around the title text with a more traditional Good Friday liturgy. But we are unable to forget the horror of the scene for long, because the hammer blows return before the movement ends. I would certainly recommend giving the whole work your time (it lasts roughly 45 minutes) Miserere mei Psalm 51 (1630s) Gregorio Allegri (1582-1652, Italian) Tenebrae, Nigel Short (cond.) We’re now on much safer ground at last (for many, at least), back in the chapels of late Renaissance Italy. It is another psalm, this time King David’s great song of repentance after his adultery with Bathsheba and murder of Uriah. It was written for two unaccompanied choirs (one on each side of the chapel, one in five parts, one in four) which take turns responding to the plainsong settings of the even verse before finally coming together at the end. Allegri composed the piece exclusively for the Sistine Chapel in the Vatican and it quickly gained a mythology all of its own, not least because only three copies w``````````ere apparently permitted beyond the Vatican confines. The story was put about (by his father!) that after hearing it only once, the teenage Mozart was able to write the whole piece down from memory. That’s unlikely to be true, not because it would have been beyond his abilities, but because the piece had leaked far and wide and was sung in many places by the time Mozart was alive. One particular feature that makes the piece so affecting and admired is the soaring soprano/treble line that keeps leaping high above the choir (right up to a ‘top C’ in some arrangements). In contrast to many of the composers shaped by the Reformation, the point of this kind of writing is not so much to focus attention on individual words as to sweep us up in whichever posture before God is appropriate. Here, we come before him in deep sorrow and heartfelt yearning. Here for the full English text. Mark Meynell is Director (Europe and Caribbean) of Langham Preaching. He was ordained in the Church of England in 1997 serving in several places including 9 years at All Souls Church, Langham Place, London, (during which he also served as a part-time government chaplain). Prior to that, he taught at a small seminary in Kampala, Uganda, for four years. Since 2019, he has helped to bring the Hutchmoot Arts conference to the UK and in 2022 completed a Doctor of Ministry (at Covenant Theological Seminary, St Louis) researching the place of the arts in cultural apologetics. Mark and his wife, Rachel, have two grown-up children, and they live in Maidenhead, Berkshire. If you’ve enjoyed this article or other content coming out of the Rabbit Room, you can help support the work by clicking here. Our weekly newsletter is the best way to learn about new books, staff recommendations, upcoming events, lectures, and more. Sign up here. Photo by Jean Carlo Emer on Unsplash

"My illness has established an empire within me, and it will advance by certain arcane secrets of state, which it is not bound to declare." —John Donne That is a quote from author Philip Yancey's new book, Undone, a modern rendering of poet John Donne’s Devotions, a 400-year-old collection of Donne’s meditations on his own suffering. For a month in 1623, Donne and his doctors believed he was suffering (and likely dying) from the bubonic plague. He was able to do little more than write, which he did—journaling a series of meditations on his wrestling with God. Simply titled "Devotions", the collection is considered one of the great works of nonfiction literature. Donne described his illness as an empire builder the 12th day of his worsening condition. The Doctor Becomes the Patient In 2004, I also suffered an illness that established an empire within me. Mine was not a physical illness, but a mental one. Frankly, I would have preferred a physical illness or injury. And a month’s illness would have seemed like a short visit from a rude guest in comparison to my prolonged sickness. A debilitating hybrid of depression and anxiety established a beachhead and then slowly and steadily moved inland, conquering more and more territory until I was forced to surrender. I didn't have a history of depression or anxiety. Perhaps that's why, even as a counselor, I didn't recognize the storm clouds in the distance as something systemic within me, but instead viewed the struggle as something situational and temporary. I kept waiting for the absence of energy, enthusiasm, and motivation to pass. It did not. Instead, lethargy, apathy, and discouragement hardening into despair took up residence. Depression has a way of sitting down heavily on your back and reclining on it like a sofa, signaling that it plans to stay a while. I resonated with the opening line of Dante's Inferno: "In the middle of the journey of my life, I found myself in a dark wood where the straight way was lost." Now, almost two decades later I relate to the next verse, "It is a hard thing to speak of, how wild, harsh, and impenetrable that wood was..." The Counselor Becomes a Detective Through the lens of Philip Yancey's writing, we see that John Donne reacted to his suffering as do most of us when tragedy occurs or when evil strikes—he asked God “Why?” Why me? Why this? Why now? Those were certainly my unanswered and unanswerable questions. I was like an amateur detective desperate to solve a mystery in which I was both the victim and the suspect. I say “suspect” because depression has a way of interrogating you and implying that you did something to cause it or failed to do something that could have prevented it. I’ve since discovered that our completely normal “Why?” is not really a question that is looking for an answer because an anxious mind is not easily quieted by reasons and facts.  Rather, the bewildered, protesting “Why?” is voiced by the wounded and frightened heart that is crying out, “God, where were you?” Unlike John Donne, I did not wonder if God was “nailing me to my bed” as a delayed punishment for my younger sins. Instead, I felt abandoned and ignored, that my suffering was happening behind God’s back. One of the worst lines I read during that period was from a blogger who wrote, “Rather than God using your depression to discipline you, perhaps He is using it to disciple you.” Seriously? Did I miss the memo that Jesus had contracted with Debilitating Depression to form a new and innovative discipleship program? I wrote in my journal, “If I’m not being 'disciplined' (i.e. punished) and this worsening sickness is a test, then I’m failing the class. Or if this terror is being presented as a gift to transform me, then God, I hope you kept the receipt.” As I would later write in my book, When Will My Life Not Suck? Authentic Hope for the Disillusioned, at some point the question “Why me?” must transition to the question, “What now?” But at that time I was not ready or able to shift my inquiry. The Patient Becomes a Scribe I've consistently journaled from my teen years up to the present. I trusted that I would journal my way through my depression to the other side. The journal entries from that period of my illness reveal a growing fear that I wouldn't see the other side. I often asked, "Will I ever get me back?" John Donne wrote to a widowed friend, “I am afraid that Death will play with me so long, as he will forget to kill me, and suffer me to live in a languishing and useless age.” Yancey further tells us that as Donne’s illness progressed “he saw himself as a statue of clay, its limbs and flesh melting off and crumbling into a handful of sand. Soon nothing would remain save a pile of bones.” A living skeleton. I was afraid of living in an elevator stuck between the two floors of life and death. I feared living ever suspended in the miserable present between a pleasant history and a pathetic future, languishing with shame as a constant companion. As Yancey writes in Undone, “A measure of shame seems to accompany disability or illness.” Donne experienced and wrote about such shame. My journaling expressed my own deep shame, a shame rooted in my belief that I was now weak, flawed, and a failure. Yancey further describes this dark hovering cloud of shame as “an innate shame in inconveniencing others for something that is neither your fault nor your desire.” Together, depression and anxiety are a two-headed monster. When depression, anxiety, and shame link arms, the days are a downward spiral. The Pastor Becomes a Protestor On top of feeling bewildered, discouraged, and ashamed, I began to feel angry. Very angry. Anger is the natural human response to perceived injustice, unfairness, or mistreatment. I felt that being blind-sided by depression and anxiety was unfair and undeserved. Like John Donne, I had devoted myself to ministry and faithfully served Christ and his church. And this was the reward? I let Upper Management know how I felt about the compensation package for one of his best employees. Like Peter, I was inclined to remind Jesus that I’d left everything to follow him, adding that depression and anxiety was a crappy way to thank me for my obedience and sacrifice. I echoed the remarks Teresa de Avilla made to God following an accident crossing a river in which all her belongings and supplies were ruined, “If this is how You treat Your friends, it is no wonder You have so few of them.” Undoubtedly Psalm 69 was a soundtrack for Donne during his physical, emotional, and spiritual suffering. It was for me. I jabbed the verses on the pages of my pocket New Testament, as if poking and provoking God to react: "Save me, O God, for the floodwaters are up to my neck. Deeper and deeper I sink into the mire; I can’t find a foothold. I am in deep water, and the floods overwhelm me. I am exhausted from crying for help; my throat is parched. My eyes are swollen with weeping, waiting for my God to help me... Rescue me from the mud; don’t let me sink any deeper! Don’t let the floods overwhelm me, or the deep waters swallow me, or the pit of death devour me." (from The New Living Translation) Like John Donne, I grappled with God. I was Jacob wrestling with the angel. I was a protesting Job, a complaining Jeremiah, and an angry Psalmist. I echoed Gideon in telling God, "Oh yea, well if this is what it's like for the Lord to be with me, I'd hate to experience what it's like for Him to be against me." Forced to take extended medical leave from my job, I shouted at God along with Bruce Almighty, "The only one who isn't doing his job around here is you!" I regularly pounded on God's chest with my fists before falling into His arms sobbing. I didn’t mean to be irreverent; I was just raw. God can only meet us where we genuinely are. Not where we wish we were or where we think we should be. When you call 911 in an emergency and need police or paramedics to show up, you give the operator the exact location where you are, not some place you wish you were, or an address where you should be instead of this one, if only you had made better choices. The good news is that God will meet us at our honest coordinates on the map, and the even better news is that he will not leave us in the same spot unless we insist on staying there. Wrestling with God is very intimate. You cannot truly wrestle another person without lots of touching and holding, gripping and grabbing, pushing and pulling. While it's certainly not romantic, there is nevertheless almost constant physical contact during a wrestling match. And you cannot truly wrestle with God without a lot of human-divine contact. The Mourner Becomes a Dancer My recovery was snail-like, slow, and gradual, but I discovered that even the slightest sustained improvement gave me hope. And hope, I learned, is oxygen. It’s been almost 20 years now since my fight for life. There are many things about that dark season that I can’t remember and plenty of moments I wish I could forget. The bottom line is that I have felt so good for so long now that it seems like it was all just a bad dream or that it happened to someone else. But it was real, and it happened to me. Therefore, I feel blessed and am grateful to say today with the Psalmist, “You have turned my wailing into dancing; you have removed my sackcloth and clothed me with joy.” (Psalm 30:11 NIV) As a byproduct of that season, I’m more understanding and have more empathy and compassion for people who struggle with grief, despair, depression, or anxiety. I’ve always had great empathy and compassion for hurting people, well before my depressive crisis. But now the empathy and compassion is informed by personal experience. I more fully grasp the meaning of Paul’s words, “Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our affliction, so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any affliction, with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God” (2 Cor 1:3-4). This is part of what I believe Donne and Yancey mean by “the redemption of pain.” In the words of Japanese novelist and poet Kenji Miyazawa, “Don’t waste your pain; rather burn it as fuel for your journey.” I now understand Henri Nouwen calling us to be “wounded healers.” And if I am a wounded healer, who having fiercely wrestled with God, now dance with a slight limp, then so be it. Turn up the music. Ramon Presson, PhD, is a licensed marriage & family therapist in Franklin TN.  (www.ramonpressontherapy.com) An ordained minister, weekly newspaper columnist, award-winning poet, and the author of several books, including When Will My Life Not Suck? Authentic Hope for the Disillusioned, Presson can be reached at ramonpresson@gmail.com Our weekly newsletter is the best way to learn about new books, staff recommendations, upcoming events, lectures, and more. Sign up here. Photo by Kier in Sight Archives on Unsplash

This liturgy is taken from Every Moment Holy Volume 3 from Rabbit Room Press. You can find more liturgies like these at EveryMomentHoly.com. By Douglas McKelvey O God Who Did First Speak Light into Deep Darkness, illumine and warm again our numbed hearts. For we are increasingly wrung by this tiring tide of night, even as our hopes are wearied by the long winter that attends it. Our world tilts further from the sun; the days grow shorter by degrees, the darkness more complete. Our bodies become sluggish, our brains also—by lack of light—are altered in their chemistry, so that for many of us, this hard season must be endured as a war of attrition. We are dug in, defending against the bleakness of winter, while levity, productivity, and dreams are scuttled luxuries strewn somewhere behind us, abandoned and covered over as by thickly drifting snows—casualties of a long battle waged simply to preserve some shard of hope tucked within the folds of our souls. The sunlight, even when it briefly kisses our skin this time of year, seems distant, thin, and weak against the gloom. Ah Lord, how many times might we say the same of your mercies, your grace, your presence? Have we not endured such seasons of the spirit, when we do not feel the warmth of your nearness? When the light of your mercy is pale and seems so far away? When we cry to you and discern no sudden answer? When our love is cold, our fortitude crumbled, and our faith slumbering inaccessible as some torpid beast adrowse in a winter den? In such times we might have been tempted even to abandon the main narrative of our lives: The story of your life-giving Spirit and your bright kingdom ever on the move, at work amongst us, in us, and through us, training our hearts to yearn toward the impending renewal of all things. Such hope can be a thread so easily lost in winter darkness. O Christ, shine now, into this long night! O Spirit, blow upon these cold embers of our faith, our hope, our love. O Father, prepare your children a secret fellowship and a feast, even here in this place that feels today like desolation. Use this numbing chill to turn our faces afresh toward the warming fires of your presence. Use this passing darkness to kindle again our longing for your eternal light. Use this sad weight of melancholy to train our hearts more perfectly in the school of Christlikeness. For is it not in such bleak fields as these where we might best learn obedience? Is it not in such dark hours when we might practice the making of small, faithful choices, regardless of our feelings? Is it not in the heavy temptation to despair that the worthiness of the object of our trust is finally proved? Is it not in this place of pressing cold and night—when we find that within ourselves we can no longer muster meaningful hope of any good end to our journey—where we must learn to collapse in your arms, O Christ, and there find light and grace enough to take one more step, and then another, and then another, until at last we lift our eyes again and turning, see how long and far we have followed you—by a steady succession of small trusts—through this bleak and barren slog, trudging toward the day when winter is finally in retreat? And though we know in this life we will suffer the cycling of such seasons again and again—our suffocating sense of the shortness of days an annual struggle, our tired hopes pitted perennially against this cold and darkness—still let us hold fast in our hearts this secret: We know that our conflict ends at last in a final victory of light and delight, in the City of God, where the lamb is the light eternal. AT WINTER SOLSTICE ONE MIGHT ADD THE FOLLOWING: So here in the heart of this longest night, let us raise our glasses to toast this turning of the tide, this beginning of the victory of light. Let us step into this fray, well-armed with mirth and joy, buoyed by the fellowship of friends, or at least with a fond remembrance of such things, and with the good hope of their inevitable return. Winter has done its worst. And by your grace, O God, we are still standing. This night marks not the victory of darkness, but the far limit of its incursion, and from here, like an army overrun, it will be pushed back, rolled up day-by-day as the sun draws nearer, warming the ground, till trees bud, flowers bloom, and birds return, and we pass again into the green and golden light of spring, our world pregnant with the promise of resurrection. So let us assail this keep of winter, with a sacrifice of conscious praise, kindling joy inside its dark heart, that we might find our own tired hearts stirred again to holy flame, and our own wearied souls roused to remembrance of—and trust in— the long faithfulness of that same God who first spoke light into darkness, that same Spirit who even now illumines our hearts and minds, and that same Good Shepherd who leads us through every long winter, and into the budding fields and bright songs of a world newly awakened. Amen. If you’ve enjoyed this article or other content coming out of the Rabbit Room, you can help support the work by clicking here. Our weekly newsletter is the best way to learn about new books, staff recommendations, upcoming events, lectures, and more. Sign up here.

My first camera was a 35mm disposable Kodak with 27 exposures and a power flash. It was a gift from my parents before our once-in-a-lifetime trip to San Diego, California, where we planned to visit the zoo and SeaWorld. I could already see the photos - bright pink flamingos with black-tipped beaks, fuzzy snow-white polar bears sprawling on ice, dolphins in mid-air leaps with water droplets flinging from their bottlenoses. National Geographic was probably going to want some of them. After the trip, my mom dropped the camera off at a cute, little Kodak photo booth. A few hours later she handed me an envelope…of prints. My hands shook with excitement. These were going to be awesome! I opened the envelope and saw the first photo. It took my breath away. Because if you closed one eye, squinted with the other one, and looked really, really close, you could almost see a dolphin. Almost. It was more like dolphin impressionism. And boy was I deflated. I stayed on the periphery of photography after that, until high school when my interest resurfaced. Sandy, a friend and classmate of mine, knew a lot about cameras. But when she started talking about shutter speeds and f-stops and exposure values, my vision blurred from how mathematical and sciency it all sounded. So I ditched it again. Years later, I was working for an organization that does relief and development work all over the world called Food for the Hungry, and I was employed in their home office writing web copy, annual reports, articles, and newsletters. But then they asked if I’d be willing to go out as a photographer to document their work. Obviously, I didn’t know how to take photos, but the thought of actually visiting the places and seeing the projects and meeting the people I was writing about, captivated me. It was time to deal with those f-stops. Enrolling at the local community college, I soon found myself taking photography, photoshop and design classes with a bunch of eighteen and nineteen-year-olds. I was the thirty-year-old weirdo. But I didn’t mind. In fact, I loved it. I even learned about f-stops, and how they control the amount of light that enters the camera. They don’t create the light, they just let it in. And then, mid-semester, Food for the Hungry sent me and a writer out on assignment to Marsabit, Kenya, to document their work among communities affected by HIV/AIDS. Wikipedia describes Marsabit as an outpost of urban civilization in the desert of northern Kenya. Local Kenyans had another way of describing it. “No one goes to Marsabit,” they told us. “It is the forgotten part of Kenya. The only people who go to Marsabit are government workers who are being punished.” So, I would be taking photos in a desert outpost filled with forgotten people, disgruntled government employees, and aid workers. It already felt dark. How was I going to find the light? That’s the thought that kept haunting me before we left. Because Food for the Hungry was relying on me to get the shots. And Marsabit wasn’t a place I could return to if the conditions were bad or if I had issues with my gear. I would get one chance with the different individuals, families, and communities we visited. I had to get this right. No pressure. It took us about 30 hours to get from Arizona to Kenya. Then that first evening in Nairobi, I ate something bad at dinner and spent the entire night erupting. It was definitely the spinach pizza. I was two months pregnant at the time but had never been sick until that point. The next morning, bleary-eyed and still quite ill, I crawled into the front passenger seat of a Land Cruiser. It was the perfect vehicle for our journey, except for one crucial flaw. We could not turn off the heater. For 11 jarring hours, we drove from Nairobi to Marsabit on washboard roads in a sweltering vehicle. For most of the trip, I would stumble out of the car in a sweaty daze to throw up each time we stopped. As we drew closer to Marsabit, the land dried out. We passed animal carcasses bleaching in the sun. We passed Rendille and their flocks of goats kicking up dust. A tree here. A bush there. A wasteland. The nausea in my stomach dissipated only to be replaced by knots of anxiety. This was it. This wasn’t SeaWorld with my little point-and-shoot. This was the real deal. And for some reason, a bunch of people at my nonprofit thought I could do it. Photography, a word derived from Greek, means “drawing with light.” And ever since that singular moment in time when God spoke it into being, light is everywhere. Imagine that darkness, that all-consuming void, and how it suddenly exploded with radiance. Ever since then, light has been racing out, shooting like starfall through all of time and space toward the lonely places, the wounded places, the forgotten places—places like Marsabit, places like (perhaps) your own heart. Slowly, as I sweltered through that interminable journey, I realized: I didn’t have to create the light. The light was already there. I just had to look for it. I just had to let it in. From the moment the women in the village greeted us with dance and song to the moment we departed for Nairobi, I shot for hours every day. And every day I found the light. Sometimes—because Marsabit really did feel forgotten—I found it in unexpected places. When we first arrived, the women grabbed our hands and said, “Please tell people about us so they remember we are here.” They asked us to show and tell their story, so we could remind the world of their particular place in it. We drank tea in their dirt-floor homes. We viewed their abundant gardens. We laughed at their gamboling goats. In each location, we listened to their stories, stories filled with pain and heartache, yet also buoyed by hope. And then we would step outside and they would smile and I would start capturing their joy by drawing with light. When I took photos in Kenya, it wasn’t like the photoshoots I do with clients from suburban neighborhoods where the location is hand-picked for its architecture or natural beauty. I didn’t get to choose the backgrounds; I just did the shoot wherever I was, working with whatever I had, which is how backgrounds (familial or otherwise) actually work in real life. In the village, left-behind orphans in tattered clothes surrounded me as I took photos of left-behind widows in front of tiny, mud huts. But they were new mud huts. And the orphans were no longer alone. Because the widows—who were neighbors—had helped each other build the mud huts, and then those neighbors took in all the orphans. So much light. Can you see it? The images I captured in Marsabit are some of the most beautiful photos I’ve ever taken because of how the light came in. Light that began with a single word, spoken outside of time, raced through time, to reach the faces of women and children who have never once, even for a moment, been forgotten. The light is already here. You just have to look for it. Dana Ryan lives in Southern California with her husband and three children. She is the author of the Martín y Pepe book series. When not writing, she likes to grow flowers, take photos, and go for long walks on the beach. If you’ve enjoyed this article or other content coming out of the Rabbit Room, you can help support the work by clicking here. Our weekly newsletter is the best way to learn about new books, staff recommendations, upcoming events, lectures, and more. Sign up here.

Few words in the English language pair more congenially than ‘winter’ and ‘soup.’ The very construction evokes warmth, comfort, and a homely sense of contentment. A winter soup is the culinary equivalent of a fleece throw or a woolen sweater: unpretentious, unassuming, and unapologetically cozy. As a means of preventing waste, no other food is so universally relied upon; every culture has its version, I suppose, of “end-of-the-week soup,” into which is tossed the week’s carefully saved carrot tops, herb stems, and cheese rinds along with whatever meat and vegetables need using up. But soup is not merely utilitarian. A good soup is an art form at once modest and consequential, blending thrift and ingenuity with a liberal helping of taste. A humble masterpiece, perhaps, but a masterpiece all the same. Ask anyone you know and they will be able to tell you of a soup that has taken the chill off of both body and soul, gladdening an otherwise gloomy day with a consoling alchemy of vegetables and herbs simmering in a bath of savory broth. I remember once whipping up a pot of cauliflower-leek soup on a late December afternoon. We had been feasting on rich fare for days—Christmas goose with all the trimmings, oyster pie, cookies and candy and leftover chocolate mousse—so that the prospect of so ordinary a meal felt like an inverted luxury. I browned the leeks in my new Staub cocotte, filling the kitchen with what may easily be regarded the most inviting aroma on earth (“If you don’t know what to make for supper,” an older woman once told me, “just cook a little onion in a pan of butter. Your kitchen will smell so good your husband won’t care what you end up putting on the table.”). After that, a roughly chopped head of cauliflower, some garlic, about 4 cups of broth, a couple of bay leaves, salt and pepper. So simple it was almost amusing. At serving time, I removed the bay leaves and threw in a handful of fresh parsley, touching it lightly with an immersion blender to thicken the stock without breaking down the vegetables too much. I was just pulling the toast out of the oven—sourdough, with a thick mantle of melted sharp cheddar—when my husband, accompanied by his brothers and our nephew, Wesley, came in the door. They had been out for a long tramp in the winter woods and they were tired, cold, and hungry. Everyone was eager to dish up a bowl, ladling it generously over those golden toasts, and when we sat down at the table the simple plentitude of it all enfolded us in a ring of happiness and love. The candles flickered and danced against the darkening day outside and tendrils of steam curled from cups of strong black tea as we talked and laughed, savoring our modest meal for the impromptu gift that it was. “This soup tastes,” my brother-in-law Michael said meditatively, “like something you’d have by the fire at an English pub after a long walk through the countryside and spend the rest of your life trying to replicate.” I thought I understood him. I, too, have known those moments of culinary felicity (a venison pie on my honeymoon beside a Scottish lake; toasted pound cake, sliced thick and slathered in butter, paired with hot chocolate and a lively late-night chat; moules-frites at a tiny table in a Breton bistro) in which the satisfaction of a particular circumstance flavors the food consumed with a nameless relish. I understood, as well, the power of food to communicate love, linking us to people and places with an invisible chain, tethering us by way of taste and texture and smell to the things that matter most in life. What I did not know at the time was how all of these components—this soup, this kitchen, this tea, this December day, these beloved faces around my table—would merge and fuse into a timeless little interlude of golden-hued joy, a near-perfect harmony of the domestic and the deathless, penetrating the seen with unseen significance. Looking back, it is easy to see why this meal stands out to me now with such sweetness and clarity: Wesley’s cancer was in remission. He was strong, and we were breathing easier. If a shadow hovered beyond that merry nimbus of candlelight, it was only that—a shadow, deepening the warmth and color of the present moment. When Wesely died eighteen months later, it was to this scene I would return in my mind, again and again, not so much to convince myself that he had been alive and we had been happy, but to anchor myself in all that endured—our eternal hope and our undying love. To say that cauliflower-leek soup was somehow an embodiment of that hope and that love may seem like a stretch, particularly in retrospect, for the scene in my kitchen that winter’s day may very well have unfolded over any other soup, or no soup at all. I can only say that it was an embodiment, in a way that time cannot diminish and death cannot steal. For me, a good soup goes hand-in-hand with what I like to call ‘wintering with a holy intent.’ Winter is often synonymous with grief, and with good reason, its bleak, barren expanse mimics the inner landscape of a life marked by loss. Grief is not the final word, in nature or otherwise, for death itself must always yield to the resurrection burgeoning beneath winter’s frozen crust, a joy to which every snowdrop or crocus bears witness. But winter, like grief, cannot be hastened. Before the green onrush of spring, we must have fallow days, dormancy, and rest. If sorrow, as the writer of Ecclesiastes insists, makes the heart better, we may safely assume that winter makes our world better, as well. To winter with a holy intent means to accept all of this with equanimity and faith. It means to gather around us the comfort of good words: books, conversations, poetry, Scripture. It means the tangible solace of candlelight, quilts, a new pair of slippers, perhaps. It means, above all, to give ourselves permission to rest—even amidst life’s responsibilities—throughout these darkened days. To rest well, however, we need fortification. And no food is so fortifying, in my opinion, as soup. I love the way that making a pot of soup slows my body to the speed of my soul, forcing me, if only for a few moments, to fully attend to a colander of vegetables, a cutting board full of herbs. I love the feel of kosher salt sifting between my fingers over a bubbling pot; the twist of the pepper grinder; the goodly glugs of oil. I love the bouquet of garlic, pressed or minced into fragrance (a metaphor in itself), and the last triumphant foray into the fridge which reveals a couple of carrots or a forgotten zucchini just in time to grace my soup instead of the compost pail. I love, above all, the foundational substance of bone broth, that glutamine-enhanced, mineral-heavy mainstay of soups immemorial. Broth is the command center for a healthy, healing soup, and bone broth—for the non-vegetarian, at least—is its noblest iteration. The ultimate measure in conscientious frugality and grateful thrift, bone broth gathers up the fragments of other meals into a final flourish of liquid, lifegiving gold. Thus, it follows, that before I make a pot of soup, I need to roast a chicken. Fortunately, I do this every Monday, so I can step through the process with relative concision: begin with a good-sized bird, 4—5 pounds or so, rinsed well and patted dry with paper towels. Don’t forget to remove the organ pouch in the cavity of the bird—ideally, these should be used for gravy or some other delectability, but, in our house, our dog, Luna, takes up her post beside the sink the very minute I take the chicken out of the refrigerator, and I can’t bear to disappoint her. Don’t worry, the raw chicken neck it invariably contains is very nutritious for dogs and entirely safe. But never, ever, ever give your dog a cooked chicken bone. Promise me. Place the chicken breast-side up in a large Dutch oven with a lid, and starting from the neck end, gently lift the skin to separate it from the meat. Rub the chicken, inside of the skin and out, with about 2 tablespoons of softened butter or ghee—don’t miss the tops of the drumsticks—then peel four cloves of garlic and quarter an onion. Stuff the cavity with the onion and two cloves of garlic and pierce the skin just where the drums meet the body, inserting the remaining garlic. Bundle up 4-5 sprigs of fresh herbs—parsley, sage, rosemary, thyme, whatever you have on hand—and cram them into the cavity. Tie the legs together with a length of kitchen twine and season liberally with kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper. Roast, covered, at 425 degrees for 1 hour, then uncover and continue to roast for another 15 minutes or so, until the skin is golden and the juices flow clear when the flesh is pierced. You can also use a meat thermometer, inserted at the thickest part of the thigh and roast to a temperature of 165 degrees. Let stand 5 minutes, then carve as you would a Thanksgiving turkey, slicing the breast from the outside in and removing the drumsticks and thighs. Serve with a couple of vegetable sides—roasted sweet potatoes or carrots, Brussels sprouts, steamed broccoli. Your choice. A bird of this size will likely be polished off in one sitting by a family of four. Otherwise, use the leftover meat for salad or in an omelet. Now, and now only, are you ready to make bone broth. Place the carcass of the chicken, including all congealed drippings, onions, and herbs, in a large stock pot or slow cooker, reminding yourself as you do that the very word ‘carcass’ is a memento mori, recalling the frailty of all flesh and the death which invariably brings us life in the form of physical nourishment. Cover the carcass with water and add a generous splash of apple cider vinegar to help pull the vitamins and minerals out of the bones, but be sure to let your would-be broth sit for at least half an hour to allow the ACV do its work before turning on the heat. For a stock pot, bring to a boil and then reduce to low; for a slow cooker, turn on the lowest setting. In either case, simmer for at least 24 hours then strain and pour into jars for future use (bone broth will keep in the refrigerator for 5—7 days, or in the freezer for about 6 months) or translate immediately into the soup of your choice. Here is one I love: Turkey and Vegetable Stew Serves 6 1 tablespoon olive oil 2 pounds ground turkey ½ teaspoon kosher salt 1 tablespoon butter or ghee 1 onion 2 stalks celery 2 bell peppers, 1 red and 1 green 2 carrots 2 cloves garlic 1 teaspoon cumin 1 tablespoon chili powder ½ teaspoon red pepper flakes 1 quart bone broth 1 24-ounce bottle strained tomatoes Zucchini, 2 large or 4 small 1 cup frozen white corn kernels ¼ cup chopped fresh parsley Freshly ground black pepper Heat the oil in a large stock pot and brown the turkey, seasoning with the salt and crumbling with a wooden spoon until no longer pink, about 10 minutes. Chop the onion, celery, pepper, and carrots into a ½-inch dice and add to the pot, along with the butter or ghee and cook for 5 minutes, until the onion begins to soften. Mince the garlic and add to the pot, sautéing for another minute or two, then stir in the spices and toss constantly until fragrant, 1-2 minutes more. Pour in the broth and tomatoes, bring to a boil, then reduce to a simmer, covered, for 30 minutes. 15 minutes before serving, chop the zucchini and add to the pot, along with the corn kernels, and simmer until the vegetables are very tender. Taste for seasonings, adding more of anything, if desired, and serve with a garnish of parsley and a crank or two of pepper, preferably beside an open fire. This soup, and others like it, helps me to burrow down a bit into sensory comforts and the pleasures of home, arming myself and my household with a nutritious defense against the cold, common and otherwise. For to winter with a holy intent means that dormancy is a natural rhythm of life; I must hibernate before, in Wendell Berry’s phrase, I “practice resurrection.” I need stillness before I need springtime. I need the chastening beauty of winter’s stark lines and angled light; I need hushed rooms and a quiet calendar. Winter reminds me that even barrenness brings forth life and that death is a temporary arrangement. And so, one book, one candle, one bowl of soup at a time, I winter on, in faith that, couched between the glories of Christmastide and the joys of Easter, this, too, is a holy season. Lanier Ivester is a homemaker and writer in the beautiful state of Georgia, where she maintains a small farm with her husband, Philip, and an ever-expanding menagerie of cats, dogs, sheep, goats, chickens, ducks, and peacocks. She studied English Literature at the University of Oxford, and her special area of interest is the sacramental nature of everyday life. For over a decade she has kept a web journal at lanierivester.com, and her work has also been featured in The Rabbit Room, Art House America, The Gospel Coalition, and The Cultivating Project, among others. She has lectured across the country on topics ranging from the meaning of home to the integration of faith and reason, and in both her writing and her speaking she seeks to honor the holy longings of a homesick world. If you’ve enjoyed this article or other content coming out of the Rabbit Room, you can help support the work by clicking here. Our weekly newsletter is the best way to learn about new books, staff recommendations, upcoming events, lectures, and more. Sign up here.

Several years ago, when we lived in the thick of the suburban jungle, we would load up the jogging stroller with a toddler, strap the youngest in a carrier, while our eldest sauntered alongside, and embark on an urban pilgrimage to the grocery store. I (Ruth) carried along the same backpack I had used while hiking the Camino in Spain, except now it was filled to the brim with milk, pasta, fruit, and vegetables—with baguettes strapped on the sides. Although we did not manage to do all our shopping this way, we made it a regular habit to walk rather than drive, trading convenience for a less tangible reward. It was one of the small anachronisms that resisted the unbearably fast pace of life, and prompted many a driver who zoomed past to take note and wonder: Why would anyone choose to do something so slow and effortful? Now that we live on the edge of Mennonite country, we frequently encounter horse-drawn carriages conveying families to the grocery store or church, young ruddy-cheeked men and women cycling long distances to school or work, or gaggles of children walking alongside the fields toward home. Most of us cannot imagine (and may not desire) to return to such a seemingly cumbersome pace of life. Yet in an age where technology has wholly reformed our imagination, visible models of anachronism serve an essential role in reminding us that slowness and effort make us more human. You may be among the many people looking for guidance and support as you experience a tectonic shift in our relationship to technology amid a sea of digital deluge. This sea is vast and its surface remains mostly unbroken. It reflects the present default axiom when it comes to our technology: “anywhere, anything, anytime, for anyone." In the midst of this flood, there are only rare examples that make ripples by modeling the opposite: “only in certain places”, “not everything”, and “it depends on your age." Though the immensity of the task of reining in the effects of digital technology on our lives may seem daunting, we must remember that we still have agency. We do not have to wait for reforms to move from the top toward us. We can start from a bottom-up direction and instigate seeds of change by unsettling the assumptions about omnipresent technology use. Haley Baumeister recently commented in the lively discussion on Dixie Dillon Lane’s post at Tech in the Family that “People can't practice or do what they've never seen done. This is true of more analog and human ways of living in 2023. And modeling such lives can be contagious.” While we cannot possibly expect to offer suggestions for anachronistic practices that speak to everyone, we would like to inspire you to stand out, to model different choices, and yes, even to be weird, by sharing some of our own decisions that we have made over the last two decades. Depending on your relationship to technology and your life philosophy, they may strike you as absurd, reasonable, or as not going far enough, but we hope that the examples will spur you on to sow your own seeds of anachronism. "We act in hope that repeated exposure to the Good, the beautiful, and better will eventually win over hearts and wills and triumph over ease, convenience and in some cases addiction." —Hadden Turner, writes Over the Field How to Sow Seeds of Anachronism in Your Life 1. Flip your phone One of the most anachronistic choices you can make today is going cell phone-free, using a flip phone, or moving to a “light phone.” While there are situations, such as taking care of an elderly or ill parent, when being reachable is important, most everyday situations do not require us to be as tethered as we are. Never having had a cell phone, I can confirm that this choice is very possible—albeit at times inconvenient—and builds a solid foundation for cognitive liberty. Friends and family know they can reach me by landline or e-mail, and that I will get back to them when I am available. Helpful phrases: (all have been frequently tested with friendly tone and demeanor, with results ranging from raised eyebrows to interesting exchanges and offered discounts). “Do you accommodate people who choose not to use a cell phone?” “May I ask why you choose to prioritize customers who place orders digitally over customers who are present here and now?” (when standing in line at coffee shop) “I choose not to use a cell phone. Can I still take advantage of your offer without a QR code?” 2. Walk and get your bearings straight Life is tuned to the speed of feet. As much as possible, we start our day with a walk through the neighborhood or forest which helps to reorient us to a proper pace, is conducive to conversations, and ties us to reality. When driving, we don’t use GPS. Instead, we write down driving instructions and make a hand-drawn simple map. This may sound incredibly outlandish, but it will literally shift and deepen your connection with your surrounding environment. By relying wholly on GPS instructions, we lose the important fundamental skill of being able to position ourselves independently. We need a machine to tell us where we are. This dependence leads to a thinning experience of physical locations, which are replaced with more abstract representations of the world. If you want to take it to another level, walk the routes that you customarily drive to get a true sense of the distance and anchoring of your surroundings. We once walked nearly three hours to a bookstore we frequented, and gained a clear understanding of how strangely driving warps our sense of distance, while blurring the unique landscape features along the way. 3. Choose ink When a twenty-year-old drops the keyboard and takes up the fountain pen, a wondrous individualization transpires. "The keyboard “technologizes” them into users. There, they produce the same fonts. The pen characterizes them as distinct. They produce unique scripts…To compose a cliché with a Pelikan in hand is harder than to compose one on a Mac." —from The Pen and the Keyboard by Mark Bauerlein Writing by hand, especially with pleasing fountain pens, attaches weight and meaning to our words, slows down the thinking process, and allows time for deliberate expression. Peco and I both start our writing process for each article by hand, laying an unmachined foundation, interspersed with conversations over breakfast and lunch, and only then move on to the keyboard phase. These are some of our notes form the last few months (hard to tell from this perspective, but they actually stack over 5 inches high). Shannon Hood composed 100s of handwritten letters in 2019 and 2020 in part to demonstrate to her children that the hand-written word is worth fighting for. This is one of the traditions that our family has adopted over the last 15 years and affirms the unique importance of family and friends who frequently report how delighted they were to receive a letter. The Letter Writers Alliance is a splendid resource I chanced upon, containing a myriad of avid letter-writing groups and international pen-pal matchmakers for both children and adults. 4. Spread words Building a “Little Free Library” at the edge of our lawn was a project that we started as soon as we moved into our current home. People come by daily to check for new mysteries, old favorites, or kids chapter books. It is an excellent way to get to know neighbors while spreading a counter-cultural practice. The books are completely free and make the rounds on a “take, bring, or keep” basis. Our box has never been empty. Here are some examples of Little Free Libraries from around the world to inspire you to build your own. Alternatively, you can simply spread books in public places. The Bookcrossing is an excellent resource that provides guidance on the best places to leave your books, as well as offering a search system to locate over 14,309,627 books that are currently travelling throughout 132 countries. 5. Read or knit (or both) "Knitting is very conducive to thought. It is nice to knit a while, put down the needles, write a while, then take up the sock again." —Dorothy Day There are two kinds of people that are easy to approach in public: those who read books and those who knit. This week we had the chance to witness the fruit of a combination of these public anachronisms while at an engineering competition with our youngest son. Almost all of the audience members had their phones actively or passively in hand, apart from my friend and I who were knitting and chatting, and the man seated next to us who was reading a book. I glanced over and noted that it was a book on saints. All it took was an easy “May I ask what you are reading?” to open up a lengthy and surprisingly deep conversation with a stranger (who as it turned out just started attending the same church we do). 6. Leave the kids alone "Let children alone... the education of habit is successful in so far as it enables the mother to let her children alone, not teasing them with perpetual commands and directions - a running fire of Do and Don’t ; but letting them go their own way and grow, having first secured that they will go the right way and grow to fruitful purpose." —Charlotte Mason Over the years, we have learned to step back and let our children play outdoors, explore, and make decisions untethered by phones. Recently, our teenage son decided to go on a 10 km march/run in the countryside, showed us his planned path, and his expected return time—no phone needed. He came back enthusiastic and beaming. Our younger son regularly roams the neighborhood with a pack of friends in search of tadpoles, salamanders, and adventures. Some rules do apply, but they have freedom to make decisions, solve problems, and grow in self-confidence. While certain neighborhoods are more conducive to “leaving kids alone”, there are myriads of ways to step back and allow for resilience to develop. For concrete starting points, we highly recommend the Let Grow project founded by Jonathan Haidt, Peter Gray, and Lenore Skenazy, who are spearheading a movement to help children regain their independence. The site Wait Until 8th  also has excellent resources to support parents who choose to wait to give their child a phone. Does walking to the grocery store really make a difference? Does drawing a map by hand rather than using a GPS mend our addled minds? Does writing a letter in dip ink stop the Machine? The instinctive answer might be simply ‘no’, but when we consider that all meaningful change must start with small actions, even when they appear futile, it is a resounding ‘yes’! “Still, there is nothing for it but to get started. All of the best work is small work, after all.” —from The Blizzard of the World by Paul Kingsnorth So find your anachronism. Use a flip phone in public. Take a pilgrimage to the grocery store. Debate Jane Eyre with a friend at a cafe. Sing Handel’s Hallelujah chorus to an urban crowd. Knit a scarf on the subway. Say grace in Latin at an airport restaurant. Ripple the unbroken digital surface. Change yourself and the people around you with the good, the beautiful, and the quirky—and most of all, with the things that keep us truly human. Peco and Ruth Gaskovski write together on School of the Unconformed and Pilgrims in the Machine, focusing on navigating daily life in a technological age. Peco is also the author of Exogenesis (Ignatius Press), a science fiction novel that explores a future divided between a traditional and Machine society.

Rachel Redeemed interviews UK singer-songwriter Michael J Tinker about his forthcoming 10th Anniversary Children’s Double Album, the vision behind his music, and what he has learned over the last 10 years of creating songs for families. Order the album here.] Rachel Redeemed: Hello Michael J. Tinker! Can you tell us a bit about yourself and your background as a Christian songwriter for those who aren't familiar with you? Michael J. Tinker: I’ve been making music professionally since 2011, when I basically found myself unemployable having got a theology degree and I've been working at churches for seven years! So I turned to making music. I've done six children's albums and four, what I refer to as, "grown-ups" albums. RR: Nice! How did it all begin for you? MJT: I wrote a couple of songs for a holiday club in 2013 and they seemed to go down well. I also had a ready-made children's story that I'd written when I was 17 as an Easter Sunday talk called ‘Inspector Smart and the Case of the Empty Tomb' which was essentially exploring the evidence for the resurrection in story-form. So, I approached a publishing company called The Good Book Company to do both the book and the album, and they kindly agreed! After that, I started touring a show and it seems to have blossomed since then. RR: How has the vision for your music changed over the various albums you've produced? MJT: I’m not sure my vision has changed. I always wanted to write fun music for children that got them to the heart of the gospel and also dealt with difficult issues that children would be facing. I also wanted to do that in a musically interesting way. That's the great thing about writing children’s music - you really can pick any genre you like and have some real fun with it. One fundamental thing I've been keen to do is take children seriously, both in what they can understand but also what they're dealing with. You know, they're having to deal with pretty much all the things that adults have to deal with - loss and sadness, struggle and joys and happiness and finding their place in the world - but they often don't have the everyday language, let alone the gospel language, to be able to understand and navigate all of that. So, I want to give them that language, those gospel tools, to help them through life, and I find one of the best ways to do that is through song. RR: Can you tell me about one person who has particularly shaped your music or your approach to songwriting or recording? MJT: In terms of kids music, the Australian songwriter Colin Buchanan springs to mind. He has been making music for children since the early 90s and particularly my younger brother enjoyed his music as a child, so his work became a bit of a template. He had a really fun approach to music, but he was also theologically rigorous. However, he did everything with an Australian accent and with lots of references to kangaroos and Coolaroo etc, which we didn't really understand, so I thought it was about time to have an English voice doing that kind of thing as well. In terms of style, I listen to lots of different music and you'll hear hints of that in the songs. There's a bit of Beatles, Bruce Springsteen, Queen, Bon Jovi, Paul Simon, Funkadelic. There's some Parisian jazz in there, even some dubstep. RR: And who is one person you've met at a gig or interacted with online who has encouraged you to keep going? MJT: Again, Colin Buchanan has been very encouraging, especially earlier on when I was setting out on this journey, and he encouraged me to keep Jesus as my treasure. It was great advice because it's so tempting in any sphere of work, but especially in music, to want glory for yourself, to find the treasure in popularity, in how many people are listening to your music. But it is so important to keep Jesus as the treasure, and then those other things - they can come and go, and it doesn't matter because ultimately I'm serving him. RR: Can we have a sneaky window into your creative process? What has crafting an album started with, looked like, and felt like for you? MJT: For my children's music, what’s driven most of the songs is my own parenting. My children might be dealing with a particular issue or worry or struggle, and I think ‘I need a song about that!’ It’s the best way to embed truth in the heart. A great example of this was when my daughter was struggling with a worry about something she had done wrong, and her little brother came in, he must have only been 4, and whispered to his mum, "Tell her - 'As far as the east is from the west…’" It was in a song I had released not long before and that truth had got deep into that little boy's heart, ready to pop out when it was needed. Sometimes it's an issue I'm struggling with and I need a song to remind myself of Gospel truth. I think you'll probably trace the age of my children through the different albums as well. For instance, on the first album, there's a song about contentment and getting upset at a party or a trip to the theatre - things not living up to our expectations. On the most recent album, there's a song about hormones! Discipleship has generally driven the songs. Sometimes it might be hearing a great line in a sermon. I think songwriters are magpies always looking out for some shiny scraps of lyrics and ideas and themes and grabbing them and turning them into a song. If there's a great line at the end of the sermon, I'm gonna nab it and put it into one of my songs! Other times, I want to have fun with a particular style of music and so we start there. We write the tune and then I find a Bible story or theme that really fits that feel. RR: When you've hit a roadblock in your journey as a musician, what's gotten you through? What did you do next? MJT: I hit roadblocks all the time. Some songs come very easily and roll off the tongue. ‘It's All About Grace’ was one of those easier songs. I was teaching through the Bible using the Jesus Storybook Bible and the theme of grace kept coming up and I thought ‘I need a song about that’, so I wrote that one very quickly. Others have been a lot harder, sometimes because of the music. There's a song called ‘This Is Faith’ which we wanted to do in a Paul Simon, ‘Diamonds on the Soles of Shoes’ style and I was trying to fit Hebrews 11 to that music. Other times, it's about finding the right words - you have the idea but fleshing it out can be really difficult. The main thing that's got me through is tenacity - just keeping on writing, writing, writing, writing, and then at some point it clicks. It's a bit of a mysterious art really - who knows where it comes from? Well, I think it comes from God and he gives us the words and out it flows. But sometimes it can take hours, days, or weeks sitting and staring at a piece of paper, trying to make sense of the idea you have, and turning it into a song. The other thing that's helped is working with other people. When I started, I thought it was a bit of a failure if I needed to have other people involved in the process. Surely, all these great songwriters did it all themselves? But the more that I've written and the more I found out about other songwriters, the more I realized that great songwriters work with other people. We're not meant to do it alone. So that's got me over some roadblocks. Just getting a fresh pair of ears or eyes onto the song, and they can just take it in a new direction and then it all flows. RR: If you could go back and talk to yourself at year zero, what advice would you give? MJT: Find other songwriters to work with and get over yourself! RR: What advice would you want to pass on to someone keen to hone their craft of songwriting? MJT: Just keep doing it, keep writing. I always say you gotta write 100 songs and one of them might be really good. Find people who are slightly further down the road to get their thoughts on your songs. It might be just changing a couple of lines that makes all the difference. You might be great at coming up with a phrase, but somebody else is great at making that scan and flow musically. One of my songs is called ‘You’re Loved’. I sent it over to Ben Shive to write the string part and to give some thoughts on the song, and he suggested just a slightly different emphasis on the first couple of words in each line, and it makes the song flow so much better. Don't be afraid to ask for advice. RR: A big finish, but let's do it... what have you learned about God in this 10-year journey of growing as a musician and songwriter? MJT: That He is so patient and I am not! I want things to happen very quickly but songwriting has taught me to be more patient, to take time to work hard and something beautiful comes from that. God is so patient with us - he takes so much time in honing us as his artwork and he creates something beautiful. RR: We're thrilled to hear you have a 10th-anniversary collection of songs in the works - there'll be details below for folks to support the Kickstarter for that, but tell me about one song on the album that has a special resonance for you in this season. MJT: The newest song on the album is called ‘A Simple Faith’ and after 70+ kids songs, it really does boil down to that. It's about a simple faith, a simple trust in the King. We can dive into theology and in trying to understand God better and that is a wonderful and important thing to be doing. But to know God, to be in a relationship with him just takes a simple faith. Look at the thief on the cross! He didn't understand much, but he had a simple faith, and Jesus said, ‘today you will be with me in paradise’. Order the album here: https://michaeljtinker.com/product/ive-got-a-song-about-that/

Throughout history, the Psalms have given words to the people of God—words of praise, of affliction, of prayer, of longing, of rage, of wonder, and of doubt. This was also true for the biblical writers; the Book of Psalms is the most quoted in the Bible. This book of prayers and songs influenced the way the biblical writers thought at the deepest level. Even Jesus, in his moment of greatest pain and need, turned to the psalms to shape his last words from the cross. For the past several years, I have been working on a project to create poetic renditions of the psalms paired with a new poem at the Darkling Psalter. It has been a rich opportunity to study each psalm in Hebrew, read commentaries, and chase down theological rabbit trails in an attempt to render the psalms with reimagined language. Here is a seven-psalm introduction to the Darkling Psalter offered in hopes that these fresh renderings can help shape your thinking about your life, your experience of God, and your prayers. Note: Each of these was originally published with an accompanying poem. To read both the poem and the psalm, you can find them here: 13, 16, 31, 39, 51, 130, and 147. Psalm 13 Will you forget me forever, God? How long will you hide from me? For how long will I be left with only The quiet wonderings inside myself As I carry my grief from day to day? How long will my enemies stand over me and crow? Look at me. Consider me. Answer me, God. Make your light break over me. Open my eyes or I will close them in death. Don’t let the things that would throw me down Discover that they have overcome me. Nevertheless, I have pledged myself to your unfailing love. I long to hear news of the victory of your salvation. In my heart, I feel the joy of it already. Even poetry, even song rises out of me Because my God has richly seen to me. Psalm 16 Keep and tend me, God, for I fled to you for refuge. You are my Lord; I have no good apart from you. Your holy people are my delight. Those who sell themselves to other gods Will find that sorrow billows out all around them. But I will not pour out blood to the darkling gods, Or even lift up their names on my lips. For the Lord is my lot, my portion, and my cup. The lines of my life have fallen in pleasant places. All around me grows a beautiful inheritance. So I bow myself before the Lord who gives me counsel, Even in the night he gently instructs me. He is always at hand, always before me, So even when I slip, I will not fall, And even when I fall, I rise. My heart is glad, my hands are full. I am happy and secure. You will not abandon me to death, Nor let me tumble into the pit. No, you teach me the way of life By walking it with me. At your side, I am safe and satisfied. At your right hand, I am at peace forevermore. Psalm 31 Lord, I flee to you for shelter And you set aside all my shame. Your righteousness is forever my escape. Stretch yourself toward me and hear me. Hurry to snatch me away From these dark glamours. Be my mountain stronghold. I need a house Strong enough to hide in. All my life you have been My rock and my fastness. For the sake of your name Take my hand and lead me out of these lesser loves. Release me from the pits that I keep Tipping into and loving the fall. If there is safety, if there is rest, If there is a home, it is only you. So into your hand I commit my spirit, For you are my ransomer and my ransom. So many cultivate the vanity of things And swear themselves to other gods, But I have given my trust to you, Lord. I have drawn my gladness from your steadfast love Because you have watched my affliction. You have known my fear as if you hung in my own place. You have not given me over to the hands of my devourers, But have stood me on the rock And given me a place to live. Now, Lord, show me your favor, for I writhe. I waste. I am washed in the amber grief light. I do not have another try in me. My years have come to this. The things I have done have rattled me to bones. When my friends see me they are afraid And I can see their fear. A dread stretches behind me and I will not look back To watch the people I love scatter and turn away As if I was not a living man, but one of the forgotten dead. Beyond that, I can hear them, my enemies. They are devising together a death for me That they will call good. But you are still my God, my place, My refuge. All these worries run Inside the circle of your hand. Rescue me now. Make me see Some light, some bigger love. I am still yours. Make all the things that hunt me Slip soundlessly into the hungry ground. Double their plotting back against them. Silence them and make the truth speak out. Despite all of it You have hidden so much goodness away For those who fear you. You have built Such a shelter for any who would come. They are hidden at your side, Kept like treasure from the strife of tongues And the brokenness that would not let them go. When disaster set up its black banners all around me You showed me marvels greater Than the plain fears in front of me. Even when I panicked and knew for certain That I was cut off from you at last, You showed me again that you hear, you see, You mind, and stand beside me. People of God, give the Lord all the love you have to give. He is your guard and he keeps watch Over those who have given themselves to him. But he collapses the towering works Of the proud down all around them. So be strong and take courage All you who wait on the Lord. Psalm 39 I promised myself: I will watch all my ways And my words will not go wrong. I will muzzle my mouth When the wicked face me. So I was mute. I held my silence. But I kept peace for nothing. Pain doubled within me. My heart grew coal-hot. I barely whispered but it was fire Not words my tongue made. O Lord, how does this end? What is the span? What is the reach? What bounds have you put on my fleeting days? You gave me time no wider than a handsbreadth. What is the line of my life Beside the light's long walk between stars? Where I go, a long shadow follows, A breath - and the shadow passes. Surely it is for nothing, for wind, for vanity That I have spent so much time in toil Heaping up what I can barely carry, What, at the end, I will set down in a pile And leave behind. You are the one I'm waiting for, Lord. My hope is in you. Deliver me from all of this. I would rather suffer under your hard hand Than face the scorn of fools. I lay my hand across my mouth. When you discipline a man You eat like a moth what his days have made, You fall on his dear things like locusts. You make salt pillars of his loves looking back. Turn aside from this plague. We are only breath. Hear my prayer, Lord. I raise this cry to you with tears. I have wandered with you through These years, as have all my fathers. Now look away that I can smile again Before I depart. Psalm 51 Have mercy on me, O God. According to the love you bear me Beyond all my circumstances. According to your great compassion, Wipe away the guilt from the bonds I have broken. Tread me until all my crookedness is gone, Wash from me the joy I felt at my failures. I am familiar with all my rebellion, And the monstrous loves that would consume me Are always at my side. You are the one I have failed, In fashioning evil instead of good. Even if all were false, your words would still be true. Even if all were guilty, your justice would remain. From birth I was twisted and bent; I was marred even from the moment I was conceived. But when you find firmness and faith inside me, it delights you. You teach me wisdom and store it within me. Sprinkle me with blood and I will be clean; Trample me in the water and I will be whiter than snow. I want to hear joy and gladness; Let the parts of me you have broken rejoice again. Hide from yourself all the times I have cherished the wrong; Utterly remove them as though they never were. Do not fling me away from your presence. Do not separate me from your light and life. Summon me back once again to the joy of your salvation, Teach me to lean on you while you hold me up. Then I will show others the path I walked back to you, And they will lay down their revolt and return. Rescue me from the guilt on my hands, O God, my deliverer, my salvation, And my tongue will tell of your justice. O Lord, open my mouth and I will praise you. For you do not delight in sacrifices or I would give them; You will not accept a burnt offering. The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit; A crushed heart that knows it is shattered, O God, This you will not despise. Do good to Zion because you delight in it; Build up the walls of Jerusalem; Then you will take delight in the right sacrifices, All the offerings you have asked for Will be brought to you and laid on your altar. Psalm 130 Out of the depths, I cry to you, Lord. God, hear my voice. I need you to attend To my pleas for mercy. If you kept our crooked loves always before you, Who could endure it? But with you is forgiveness So that we can know the fear That brings peace and consolation. I wait for the Lord with my whole life And in his word, I hope. My soul waits for the Lord More than watchmen wait for the morning, More than watchmen wait for the morning. O Israel, hope in the Lord, For with him there is unearned love and kindness And a vast redemption. He will lead you back Until your love is healed and whole. Psalm 147 Praise the Lord, For it is good to sing praise to God; For a song of praise is right and fitting. God rebuilds Jerusalem, He gathers together all who have been driven away. He heals those who carry their wounds within them And binds up all their brokenness. He knows the number of the heavenly host And gives them all their names. Great is the Lord and great is his power; His understanding is beyond measure. The Lord lifts the humble up again, But the wicked he lays low. Sing to him with confession and thanks; Give God all the song you have. He covers the heavens with darkness and clouds; He prepares rain for the earth; He makes grass grow on the mountains. He gives the animals their food, And feeds the young ravens that call out to him. His greatest delight is not in the strength of a horse, Nor in human swiftness, But the Lord delights in those who fear him, Who hope in his unchanging love. Praise the Lord, Jerusalem! Praise your God, O Zion! For he strengthens your gates, And blesses your children. He sets your land at peace; And fills you with the finest wheat. He sends out his commands in all the earth; His word runs swiftly out from him. He sends snow like wool; He scatters frost like ashes. He flings hail like crumbs; Who can stand before his cold? He sends his word and melts them; He makes the wind blow and the waters run. He makes his word known to Jacob, And declares his judgments to Israel. He has not done this for any other nation, They do not know his law. Praise the Lord! Andy Patton is on staff with the Rabbit Room and is a former staff member of L'Abri Fellowship in England. He holds an M.A. in theology from Trinity Evangelical Divinity School. He writes at The Darking Psalter (creative rewordings of the Psalms paired with new poetry), Three Things (a monthly digest of resources to help people connect with culture, neighbor, and God), and Pattern Bible (reflections on biblical images in the Bible). If you’ve enjoyed this article or other content coming out of the Rabbit Room, you can help support the work by clicking here. Our weekly newsletter is the best way to learn about new books, staff recommendations, upcoming events, lectures, and more. Sign up here.

At my house, we have a big whiteboard in the kitchen for menus, shopping lists, schedules, and general reminders. One day I came into the kitchen and saw this reminder written on the board, DAD OWES WILLIAM $20. This was true; I rarely carry cash, so I had borrowed twenty dollars from my son William. I hadn’t paid him back yet, and I still didn’t have the cash to do so. So I wrote on the board, WILLIAM OWES DAD HIS EXISTENCE. I figured that would buy me at least a little time. But the next time I came in the kitchen, William had added another line, just below mine: WILLIAM DIDN’T ASK TO BE BORN. This little anecdote illustrates a truth at the center of Lewis Hyde’s book The Gift: How the Creative Spirit Transforms the World. We simultaneously operate in two different economies, the market economy and the gift economy. The market economy is a matter of managing finite resources. Money doesn’t grow on trees, as I have often told William. A market economy is made up of transactions that, ideally, represent fairness and balance. If you loan me twenty dollars, you expect to be paid back twenty dollars, possibly with interest. If you pay me twenty dollars, you expect to receive at least twenty dollars’ worth of goods or services. At the same time, there are goods in life that the market economy cannot account for—goods that you did not and could not earn, goods that you can pass along only as gifts. The greatest of these goods is your very existence: you didn’t ask to be born, yet here you are. A small sampling of the many, many goods that belong to the gift economy rather than the market economy would include friendship, love, oxygen, natural beauty, faith, and art in all its forms. I have six children. I can’t justify that in terms of a market economy. My wife and I can have no reasonable expectation that the money and resources we “invested” in our children will come back to us. There’s a chance, I suppose, that one of our children will take us in when we’re old and can’t afford a good nursing home. But in strictly market-based terms, the smarter thing by far would have been to invest in a mutual fund. This is the point at which I am supposed to say, “But, in truth, my children have given more to me than I ever could have given to them.” I actually do feel that way, but that isn’t the point. Such a statement still implies the kind of exchange you expect in a market-based (or at least market-ish) economy: I gave my children something, they gave me something back. It was a good deal for both of us. Instead, I say this: Goods, both tangible and intangible, flowed to me. I didn’t earn those goods, I didn’t deserve them. For the most part, I didn’t even ask for them. Those goods flowed from me to my children. From my children they will flow outward to others (including, but not limited to their own children, Lord willing). The Gift Must Always Move In Lewis Hyde’s explanation of the gift economy, that idea of goods being passed along rather than being exchanged is exceedingly important. In a market economy, you give money and goods to those who can give you goods and money that you deem to be of at least equal value. The books stay balanced that way. In a gift economy, the gift-recipient does not balance the books with the gift-giver. They books are balanced otherwise. For more on how gift economies function, watch this Rabbit Room lecture from Andrew Fellows called "Living in the Creator's Gift Economy." Unlike money and tangible goods, when it comes to intangible goods (love, joy, peace, security, hope for the future, faith, beauty, the ability to knit or change brake pads), you don’t have less when you give them away. Indeed, you have more. To the extent that you can say they are yours, they are more yours when you pass them along. Also—and this is exceedingly important—as your gifts are passed along, the world looks a little more like the world you want to live in. Jesus and the Gift Economy In a market economy, it is possible to create and amass a surplus, and perhaps even get rich. The amassing of surplus is one of the most important ways to raise your own status in a market economy. In a gift economy, you gain status not by amassing goods, but by giving them away. Indeed, there is no practical way to amass a surplus in a gift economy. Gifts accrue worth as they are passed along, but a gift that is hoarded withers and dies. Lewis Hyde illustrates this idea by way of a lengthy survey of gift-giving practices in tribal societies. I won’t attempt a summary. Instead, I will direct your attention to Jesus’ parable of the unforgiving servant. A servant owed his master a huge sum that he couldn’t pay back in his lifetime, or even in several lifetimes. He begged for more time, telling the master he would pay it all back. But instead of giving the servant more time, the master took mercy on him and canceled the debt. That should have been a happy ending, but the servant who had been forgiven the insurmountable debt tracked down a fellow servant who owed him a small debt. He grabbed him, choked him, and insisted on getting paid. When Servant B begged for more time, Servant A refused and had him thrown in debtor’s prison. The other servants, appalled at this behavior, told the master what had happened. The master, also appalled, un-forgave Servant A’s debt and threw him into debtor’s prison after all. The unforgiving servant, having received mercy, had the opportunity to increase the work of mercy in the world by passing the gift along. Instead, the gift died, lost not only to the wider world, but also to the servant who had received it. I will also add that part of the unforgiving servant’s problem seems to involve an inability to discern when to apply the principles of the market economy and when to apply the principles of the gift economy. Which, admittedly, can be hard for any of us. Market economies are remarkably efficient when it comes to exchanging finite resources. The system is abused (and is therefore abusive) in many ways, but even the most fair and equitable market you can imagine still can’t account for many (most?) of the goods that constitute a good life. The market economy is good for what it is good for. But it is easy to overstate what the market is good for. It is easy to mistake how far its boundaries extend. One mistake is to allow the market to define what it means to be a “person of substance." As Hyde writes, Where “getting rather than giving is the mark of a substantial person…a disquieting sense of triviality, of worthlessness even, will nag the man or woman who labors in the service of a gift and whose products are not adequately described as commodities.” Hyde’s observation applies to all whose work is unlikely to make them rich, but his focus is primarily on artists. Artists and the Gift Economy Art, Hyde observes, exists simultaneously in both the market economy and the gift economy.  Then he adds, “Only one of these is essential, however: a work of art can survive without the market, but where there is no gift there is no art.” Of course, you can pay for art. I hope you do, and often. Nevertheless, there is a strange disconnect between the money you pay for art and the value you receive from it. Lewis Hyde again: "That art that matters to us—which moves the heart, or revives the soul, or delights the senses, or offers courage for living, however we choose to describe the experience—that work is received by us as a gift is received. Even if we have paid a fee at the door of the museum or concert hall, when we are touched by a work of art something comes to us which has nothing to do with the price." When you are touched by art, you feel gratitude. You feel that you have gotten something that you didn’t earn or deserve or pay for. Perhaps you have received something that you didn’t know to ask for. There is a moral dimension here that is worth paying attention to. Hyde quotes Georg Simmel: “Gratitude is the moral memory of mankind.” The market economy, I should add, mostly frees us from gratitude and its moral requirements. When you buy a pair of boots, you don’t feel any particular gratitude toward the person who sold you the boots. You paid your money, you got your boots. Even if you got a great deal, even if it turns out you like the boots more than you expected to, the transaction at the cash register released you from anything as personal, entangling and/or messy as gratitude toward the boot-shop owner. With art, not so much. Art makes you want to thank someone. If art is a gift to its recipient, it is even more of a gift to the artist. The artist’s talent is a gift to begin with, and yet that gift is only a start. The work we’re all hoping to do always feels as if it has come from somewhere beyond our own talent and insight and ego. Hyde writes, "We also rightly speak of intuition or inspiration as a gift. As the artist works, some portion of his creation is bestowed upon him. An idea pops into his head, a tune begins to play, a phrase comes to mind, a color falls into place on the canvas. Usually, in fact, the artist does not find himself engaged or exhilarated by the work, nor does it seem authentic, until this gratuitous element has appeared, so that along with any true creation comes the sense that “I,” the artist, did not make the work." Art, then, begins not with hard work or determination or a brilliant idea, but with receptivity and gratitude. A whole world of gifts are poured out for you. I’ve already mentioned talent and inspiration, but there are also beauty and stories and the works of other artists that have stirred longing and gratitude in you. The grateful response to all that goodness, truth, and beauty is to pass it along. You will have more, not less when you give it away. For Hyde, gratitude is something like a labor pain: “Between the time a gift comes to us and the time we pass it along, we suffer gratitude…passing the gift along is the act of gratitude that finishes the labor.” I don’t know how I feel about speaking of gratitude as something we "suffer." But otherwise I take his point. The gift has to keep moving. You receive the gifts that are on offer. Those gifts become the raw material of whatever gift you offer to the world, with a little something new added or transformed. But even that little bit of newness and transformation is a gift. Art is a gift, coming and going. Jonathan Rogers is the host of The Habit Membership and The Habit Podcast: Conversations with Writers About Writing. Every Tuesday he sends out The Habit Weekly, a letter for writers. (Find out more at TheHabit.co.) He is the author of The Terrible Speed of Mercy: A Spiritual Biography of Flannery O’Connor, as well as the Wilderking Trilogy, The Charlatan’s Boy, and other books. He has contributed to the Rabbit Room since its inception. If you’ve enjoyed this article or other content coming out of the Rabbit Room, you can help support the work by clicking here. Our weekly newsletter is the best way to learn about new books, staff recommendations, upcoming events, lectures, and more. Sign up here.

"How can I be sure that God is near? Because you woke me, friend, And brought me here... Love is not an abstraction in isolation But a real inconvenient kind of invitation." "House of Wonder" by Becca Jordan I was twenty-two before I knew that cranberries were a real fruit. My mom swears that this isn’t true, that she certainly made real cranberry sauce at Thanksgiving every year, but I dispute it. For years, cranberries were only that crimson-colored jelly, ribbed by its long stay in the aluminum can, swaying side to side before it is cut into patties. Whether it was the 90s or the fact that my family lived on one pastor’s salary, meals to us were about practicality. We were well fed but mealtimes were not about the pleasures of fine dining. When I showed up at L’Abri Fellowship in the countryside of England in the fall of 2016 as a twenty-nine-year-old, my understanding of mealtimes had remained untouched since childhood. I was still eating to live. Of all the things I thought would be changed during my stay at a place of spiritual shelter, my philosophy of mealtime hospitality wasn't one of them. But it was. This Song Came From a Visit To L'Abri Fellowship I heard about L’Abri Fellowship as a college sophomore when I read a magazine article about the Christian singer Rebecca St. James. There was only a passing sentence that referred to a place she went to for a sabbatical and its importance in her latest album. I was curious enough to stop reading. It was 2006, so I "asked Jeeves" about it. I wrote it in my journal as a place to go to someday. In 2015, shortly after I moved to Nashville and was unhappy at my job. I decided it was time for a sabbatical. At L’Abri, there are workers, helpers, and students. Workers are couples, families, or single people who live and work at L’Abri. Their backgrounds are diverse: psychologists, doctors, stay-at-home moms, poets, writers, artists, theologians. They oversee the work of L’Abri. The helpers are a  small group of people who have visited L’Abri and have volunteered a term of their lives to remain at L'Abri to support the workers. They oversee daily chores and cooking meals, among other tasks.  Anyone else who shows up as a visitor or guest is a student. That Morning Lindsey Came Upstairs to Get Me Each week, different workers are responsible for hosting breakfast, where a small devotional thought is usually shared and the events and activities of the day are reviewed. One week, a worker named Lindsey was in charge of hosting breakfast. My friend Shona and I were lollygagging in the bathroom, brushing our teeth together, when Lindsey came into the bathroom and told us that we were late to breakfast and that she was not starting until we got down there. Shona and I glanced at each other and promised we’d be right there. I was miffed, so after breakfast, I asked to speak to Lindsey. I don’t recall our exact exchange, but I remember it being a very honest conversation: I asked why she had to run such a tight ship when it came to a place of refuge, and she explained her intentions and reasons why. We made our peace. I decided to respect her but saw no potential for a blossoming friendship. Man, was I wrong. In 2019 I flew back to England to sing at the first Hutchmoot UK conference. Lindsey drove to Oxford to participate in the conference. I found myself sitting next to her at a creative writing exercise under the leadership of Jennifer Trafton. Jennifer's exercise was called, “House of Wonder.” It followed a Mad Lib format of a short story complete with blanks to write in your own nouns, adjectives, and verbs. Our words, Jennifer instructed us, would come from a pile of words on the table she left for us. Lindsey and I had a delightful time deciding what the foundations of this "house" would be, what would be in the kitchen, etc. We both signed each other's copies and being the sentimental sap that I am, I saved it and placed it in a book. A Kingdom of Tea and Strangers Years later, after Lindsey and her family left L'Abri, I was at her house and she asked if I heard about a documentary that two young filmmakers, Houston and Debbie Coley, were making about the English L'Abri called A Kingdom of Tea and Strangers. I had not. When I later met the Coleys, I told them that Lindsey and I didn’t exactly start off on the right foot. I recounted the story of being summoned to breakfast and how off-putting I found it. Only, with the perspective of years and having become friends with Lindsey, I found that the story had taken an entirely new shape. “It’s actually rather remarkable to be expected at  breakfast,” I said, “and for someone to come looking for you in order for you to join them.” When Houston later asked if I would help contribute a song to the documentary’s accompanying album, he asked me to write about the breakfast story. I was nervous even though I had written about L’Abri in the past and had released one song already inspired by one experience there. ("Everywhere I Go") The Song Takes Shape During the time I was working on this song, I read The Supper of the Lamb: A Culinary Reflection by Robert Farrer Capon. In this unusual and beautifully written book, Capon, a chef and retired priest, weaves together reflections on food, theology, and poetry. I thought of L’Abri so much while reading. In particular, the last chapter, The Burning Heart, captured my attention: “The most splendid dinner, the most exquisite food, the most gratifying company, arouse more appetites than they satisfy. They do not slake man’s thirst for being; they whet it beyond all bounds. Dogs eat to give their bodies rest; man dines and sets his heart in motion. All tastes fade, of course, but not the taste for greatness they inspire; each love escapes us, but not the longing it provokes for a better convivium, a higher session. We embrace the world in all its glorious solidity, yet it struggles in our very arms, declares itself a pilgrim world, and, through the lattices and windows of its nature, discloses cities more desirable still.” Capon reminded me that the table is not only a place of hospitality but it is a place where our longings are also ‘provoked.’ Later on, Capon writes that all our love is “vast and inconvenient,” and I knew that I wanted to place this truth in the song. Lindsey taught me so much about love and all its inconveniences with her invitation to me that day and all her invitations to me since. This song is as much a love letter to Lindsey as well as the whole community of L’Abri. Meals still are practical (even if the cranberries are real), but now I see mealtimes as the place where my hunger is satisfied and provoked all at once. Do you remember when in the darkest night? I knocked on your door and you turned on the light You opened up Your heart, your home You welcomed me inside So that I would know I belong When the sun came up I was still in bed You came running in To tell me there was bread And tea and jam you left your seat You wanted me to join you at the humble feast I take my seat at the table You’ve been waiting for me In this house of wonder where my hunger is a blessing So we pass the peace While I pass the toast You read a poem From the book of Job How can I be sure? That God is near— Because you woke me, friend, And brought me here. Where I take my seat at the table  You’ve been waiting for here me In this house of wonder where my hunger is a blessing I come with a heart on fire all that I am, all my desire Love is not abstraction in isolation But a real inconvenient kind of invitation So I take my seat at the table You’ve been waiting there for me In this house of wonder Where my hunger is a blessing Becca Jordan is a singer/songwriter and worship leader in Nashville, TN. You can read more of her writing at The Poetry of Practical Living.

2023 was a year of motion for me - several moves, a lot of travel, finishing a year of graduate school, starting a new job, and last but certainly not least, getting married in the middle of it all. The whole year felt held together by two projects that lasted most of the year and followed me across states, presenting themselves again to me during slow mornings or plane flights or on borrowed library computers. The first was compiling the Every Moment Holy Prayer Journal - selecting liturgy excerpts, providing accompanying Scripture passages, and writing response prompts for a project I hope lends a new liturgical space to Douglas McKelvey’s prayers. The second was slowly working my way through (and backward and forward and back through again) a 100-page book gifted to me by my now father-in-law: Presence in the Modern World by Jacques Ellul. Ellul (1912-94) has a prophetic voice. He’s no teacher or devotionalist, systematically laying out a journey of piety. He’s more of a John the Baptist poking, provoking, and crying out in the wilderness. Like the prophet Jeremiah, he’s the sort who will break a clay pot outside the gate, and after several chapters of examining each piece, lend you just one or two concepts for how it might fit it back together again - concepts guaranteed to shake up a few of your preconceived notions of Christian living. He also has a rare knack for keeping the uncomfortable tensions Scripture insists upon when it comes to the work of the Lord and human responsibility. In other words, he somehow holds fast to the power and the glory without letting mankind off the hook. All his proddings and pokings lead to his thought in the final chapter that “we should not think that relations between God and human beings...are formed as though people do their part of the work and God does the rest (‘God helps those who help themselves’). In reality, human beings do their work and God supplies to that work his meaning, value, effectiveness, influence, truth, justice - his life." Our work and God’s life - as if he were the vine and we the branches, bearing fruit from the nutrient source. Our work and God’s meaning - so unified that you’d have an easier time separating yeast from flour once it’s been kneaded together. Another one of those rare folks who keeps the tension is Doug McKelvey, who has spent the last decade or so putting words to the holy moments that present themselves to us amid our ordinary days. He’s given me the language to ask the Lord to supply His meaning to my everyday tasks, each liturgy a varied way of praying the same prayer: “Lord, bring your life to my work.” The goal of the Every Moment Holy Prayer Journal is to provide another space, one more personal and reflective, for us to keep praying the same thing, be it through liturgies like “For Blessing a Space” or “On Stewardship” or “On Uncomfortable Conversations” or “On Having Believed a Lie.” The journal consists of 52 entries, each including an excerpt from one of Doug McKelvey’s liturgies in Every Moment Holy: Volume I, along with two passages of scripture – one prose, one poetry – and three journal response prompts. Each entry also provides space for us to write our own prayers or liturgies each week. We (that is, the folks lending their time and thought to this project - Doug McKelvey, Pete Peterson, Leslie Eiler Thompson, and myself) have sought to capture the varied seasons of the soul in these 52 entries. Like a map, this journal allows us to identify where we are in any given day or season and choose an entry or theme that fits. This is to serve two purposes: first, that we might know and shape the posture of our hearts now as we move forward, opening ourselves to the life of Christ in our daily work - every dusty spiritual corner and attic space. Then, keeping this journal for years to come, we might also be able to see where our hearts have been in the past. Someday we will look back to see the kindness of the Lord when we were there, bringing meaning and truth where we didn’t know to ask. Jacques Ellul explains that to fail to invite the Lord into our work is to betray both our relationship with the Lord and our relationship with the world - for, as Spirit-bearers, we hold the responsibility to bring Life where we can: in “Small Things” and in “Mighty Things” and in “Seasons of Illness” and in the work of “Leading Others.” I hope this journal matches the centrifugal motion of the ministry of Christ, beautifying individual lives so that they might beautify the world. Whether or not we invite the Lord into each area of our lives is, of course, a decision we make each day, a hundred times a day. Part of my excitement in shaping this journal came from discovering and rediscovering countless situations, relationships, or postures in my own life that I so often forget to pray over. Am I not, in this, betraying my own self as well? I who want to live a beautiful life so often forget to invite Beauty in. Remember that moment in the Gospels when the disciples complained because they found Christ’s teachings confusing? And the Lord replied: “To you has been given the secret of the kingdom of God, but for those outside everything is in parables…Do you not understand this parable? How then will you understand all the parables?” (Mark 4:11-13) Is not the same true for us, surrounded by parables every day? How will we understand our own lives, if we don’t first ask the Lord to bring His meaning and ask Him to help us see and know it when it comes? As Ellul explains, “We are tasked with understanding all of these parables in which the action of Jesus Christ is inscribed, in history and in our human lives. And it is only this understanding that can give them meaning. It is only in Jesus Christ that we can possibly understand this wild adventure into which we are thrown, because in the midst of these shadows, he is the person, in the midst of this maelstrom of facts, he is the event, in the midst of these religions, he is the author and finisher of faith.” The Every Moment Holy Prayer Journal is one way to build this habit of entreating and discovering the meaning of the Lord in our lives - of trying to understand the adventure. It’s a habit of Scripture and writing, liturgy and prayer, kept alongside others in this community and elsewhere. But there are countless other ways. My gift (and challenge) to the Rabbit Room community in 2024 is that we each seek out some way to regularly invite the Lord to lend his life to our work, helping us understand the parables that surround us each day. If you’ve enjoyed this article or other content coming out of the Rabbit Room, you can help support the work by clicking here. 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In the spring of my seventh-grade year at Calloway County Middle School, a new girl named Heidi came to town, and she was eyeing my spot on the cheerleading squad. You probably think that was cruel of her—to hope to steal such a precious position right out from under me—but you’ve probably also never seen my back handspring. I was, without question, the worst cheerleader on our squad of eight and Heidi was no fool. To make the team, she needed only to be better than one of us when eighth-grade tryouts rolled around. Her bar was low. I was weak and unathletic; I was afraid of heights; I was timid; I often did not understand what was happening on the field or on the court. If you are wondering how I made the squad in the first place, sources tell me that it had something to do with my grade point average. But no matter how I snuck in, it was a coveted position and I did not want to lose it. What a novelty for me to be able to walk into Dennison-Hunt, the locally owned athletic store in Murray, KY, to purchase a t-shirt screen printed with “Cheerleader” in a little golden megaphone, and to then wear that t-shirt to school the next day! I guess any person off the street could buy a shirt with “Cheerleader” screen printed on it—who could stop you, really—but I could do it with a clear conscience. My fellow cheerleaders were all very sweet to me, but I know that I slowed everyone down. By nature of my being the smallest girl on the team, and with no account of my bravery, I was chosen as the flyer. This meant that Bridget and Laura would hoist me up to their chin’s height, one of my feet in each of their hands, while I held a sign that said “Go Lakers!” or wiggled spirit fingers in the air. But nearly every time we did this, the girls had to take time to convince me that I was not going to fall. (And if I did, that would have been, what—like four feet?) The first time we tried a build, my whole body rejected the notion and aborted the mission by doing a forward flip into Anne-Marie’s hands. That forward flip was the stuff of CMS cheerleading legends, and it was told and retold throughout the seventh-grade halls. The seven other girls could do their standing back handsprings beautifully, and I couldn’t do one at all. Not even an ugly one. Not even with a running start. I watched them like I would watch dolphins burst up from the water and make arches in mid-air; I watched amazed and I watched convinced that this was other-creaturely activity. I was sure that I was not like them in the same way that I was sure that I was not a dolphin. During football season, Janessa had an idea: What if, during halftime, we all stood in a row on the track and launched into back handsprings in succession—like a wave, she said. Well, that sounded like a wonderful idea for seven of us. But how to solve a problem like Elizabeth? I told them I didn’t mind standing off to the side during this display of athleticism, really I didn’t. I could gesture toward them and smile, as if to say, “Look at what my beautiful and talented friends can do.” They wouldn’t accept my polite refusal. But to me, it was more a statement of fact than a refusal, like saying, “I’m so sorry but I don’t think I can grow tail fins and learn how to breach water today.” At practice one day after school, we discovered that I could do something that resembled a back handspring If I stood on a grassy incline between the track and the football field. It turns out that jumping backward down a hill makes a person instinctively stick one’s hands out to protect one’s head, and then the sheer force of gravity pushes one back on their feet. And that looks something like a back handspring. The first time I tried this, the girls rushed toward me beaming with pride. “You did it, Elizabeth!” They cried. They made me believe that I had: that I had become the dolphin. But video evidence from a Friday night football game, where we attempted “the wave,” shows otherwise. The girls had all moved themselves from the track, which was the original plan, to the grassy incline beside me. I went first, perhaps strategically— so that the audience would be quickly distracted by beauty after whatever I was about to show them. What I showed them was likened to a frightened frog who jumps straight up into the air and then immediately loses all sense of up and down. I was still brushing the grass off my knees when the last cheerleader popped up from her perfect landing, but I did it. Or something resembling it. When eighth-grade tryouts were announced, the rumor mill started churning: “Heidi is trying out for cheerleading, and Heidi can do a back handspring.” “I heard she can even do a back tuck.” ”I heard that Heidi was the captain of her cheerleading squad in Illinois.” ”I heard she was cheerleader of the year.” So Heidi was out to take my spot, and who could blame her? I thought she probably deserved it. My friends looked at me sympathetically—they all knew I was the weakest in the pack—but they weren’t going to let me go down without a fight. They made me stay after practice each week and work on my tumbling. And while I got better, I never could do a back handspring on my own without that grassy incline or one of those girls standing beside me, bracing my back. At tryouts, I brushed shoulders with Heidi, walking in with her older sister, at the entrance into the middle school gym. Heidi smiled at me and then turned to her sister and said, “That’s the one I told you about.” So the rumors were true, I thought, and then I took my seat on the cold wooden bleachers. Heidi’s tryout was something to behold. She was composed, graceful, and loud. She tumbled beautifully—arched through the air in an effortless acrobatic display. Anne-Marie looked at me nervously; I knew she wasn’t nervous for her own self. I won’t keep you in suspense, dear Reader—I did end up making the eighth-grade squad, along with the seven other original girls. Of course, it makes sense to me now. The coaches would need a really compelling reason to break up a group of girls who had already been together for a year. But I was dumbfounded then, and even a little heartbroken for Heidi. I’m often still dumbfounded by the roles I’ve been given: in motherhood, in friendship, in ministry, in writing—rarely do I feel like I’ve earned my place in any given room. People talk about the reality of imposter syndrome, and most want to talk you out of it. Most want to convince you that you are blind to your own talent and that you do belong in the room. But I know what my own back handsprings look like. If being an imposter means that I don’t belong here, then yes, that is nearly always true in any of my roles. Do any of us? Can any of us say, unflinching and without any doubt, that we have arrived solely by merit to any of the positions that we hold dear, or does every good and perfect gift come from a generous Father? I knew in seventh-grade that Heidi could have done a better job with my spot on the cheerleading squad. But it wasn’t Heidi who ended up in that spot; It was me. And what was I to do with that? It would not have done much good to try to convince me that I deserved to be a Calloway County middle school cheerleader. I was quite sure that I didn’t. But as far as I can remember, that didn’t matter a whole lot to me. It felt like a gift, and gifts aren’t something you are supposed to earn. And what’s more, I felt like the other girls wanted me there with them, which is another kind of gift. That sort of givenness made me relax. It made me a receiver. If I wasn’t there by merit, then what did I have to prove? I was freed up to give whatever it was that I had to offer. Sometimes that was a really crummy back handspring, but sometimes that was the gift of friendship. Both years on that cheerleading squad, I won the award of “Most Cooperative.” My husband Andrew and I both laughed until we couldn’t breathe when I told him this. “That’s an athletic award?” He wheezed through laughs.“It is.” I said, “And I won it.” I had been a peacemaker on the squad when things got tense, as they often do amongst middle school girls. Peacemaking was the gift that I had to offer when I couldn’t offer courage or a back handspring. But for some reason, as an adult, it’s harder for me to relax into the roles in which I’ve been placed. Imposter syndrome asks the question: “Why are you here?” And when I can’t find a satisfactory answer to that question, I tend to think that I only have two options as a response: to either fake it or to step aside. Faking it looks like believing that I arrived at a position by luck, but now I’ll have to convince everyone around me that I got here by merit. This is exhausting, but who wants to be found out as a fraud? My second option, stepping aside, means excusing myself from the room. It looks a lot like gesturing toward others and saying, “Look at what all my beautiful and talented friends can do,” while I hide on the sidelines. But a third way is to acknowledge that perhaps it wasn’t luck that got me here, but generosity. And since I find myself in the room, how can I be generous in return? Imposter syndrome begs me to navel-gaze: How can I prove that I belong? How do I measure up to everyone else here? How do I keep this position? How can I appear more clever than I actually am? But the real antidote to imposter syndrome is to turn my gaze outward: Who are the people who are glad that I’m here, and what do I have that I can give them? In this third and better response, we are able to acknowledge the givenness of it all: that all of the best gifts come into empty hands. Freely I have received, and freely I will give this humble heap of talents and weaknesses alike. Even as I’m trying to finish up this essay this morning, I’m keenly aware of its faults—of its frog legs in the face of the beautiful dolphin arches that I read in others’ words. But I’m going to give it to you anyway. I’m going to pull myself over to this grassy incline and give you what I’ve got. Maybe that will keep the gift moving—maybe that will make you go do the same. Elizabeth Harwell lives just north of Atlanta with her church-planting husband and her three kids. She’s the author of The Good Shepherd’s Pasture and The Good King’s Feast, two children’s books on the sacraments of baptism and communion. These days, you can find her telling stories on her biweekly Substack, The Things I Carry, where she writes about the sad and the beautiful things that have happened to her, and where she invites you to share your stories in return.

As a 90s teen, in a generation that was coming to equate edginess and irony with authenticity, I knew Mr. Rogers as an easy target for many jokes. But today, by the power of bumper stickers, documentary films, memes, podcasts, and social media, his image is more revered than ever. It seems like his recent rise has been a kind of countermeasure to the hostility of the social and political climate of the last five years, where edgy “truth” telling has looked more and more like meanness. We are hungry now for clear expressions of kindness and joy that appear to be painfully lacking in public discourse. What seemed cheesy and quaint in him then, now seems bold, essential, and refreshingly stable. It’s through a similar process I’ve come to love the songs of Wendell Kimbrough. I wouldn't go so far as to say that he is the Mr. Rogers of worship music, even though he has said that he tries to sing in a way that “feels like a hug,” but I do think the comparison is helpful. Like Mr. Rogers what he produces is kind, deceptively simple, unwavering, and acutely aimed at enriching the lives of the children of God. Also, many of the qualities I love in his music now, I would not have been able to appreciate as much ten years ago before the cultural stove was turned up to boiling. The gift of cultural chaos is that it can reveal what we really need, and I am learning that I am hungry for songs that are earnest, patiently crafted, communal, and timeless. I want songs that are rooted in something more ancient than these “unprecedented times” and more deeply emotional than the charisma of any particular band’s performance, even at the risk of sounding lame to more cynical ears. Each new Psalm-based collection from Kimbrough checks those boxes, including his newest You Belong. If you are new to his music, it helps to know he prioritizes congregational singing over dramatic compositions. The melodies are easy to pick up on the first go-round, while still having enough nuance to stand out and stick well into the workweek. He even has many of them ready for you to use through a free digital songbook on his website. Almost every song on his 2016 album Psalms We Sing Together has become a staple of my home church, giving us new ways to celebrate timeless Truth together. Also, look at that name, Psalms We Sing Together. That title makes clear he is not going for clever and pioneering. There is nothing groundbreaking about his music because it is more concerned with gently guiding us down well-worn ancient paths. On You Belong, one of those paths is the fear of the Lord. In “Those Who Fear the Lord” Kimbrough’s voice sits atop an old school bobbing country baseline like he’s riding a horse well outside the safety of civilization as he looks far ahead and sings assuredly: "Storms will surely come; enemies will rage Those who fear the Lord will not be afraid Look into the future, far as you can see Those who fear the Lord will be flourishing" In a cultural climate shaped by voices that profit from fear, he helps us remember that true worship gives us rest by putting our lesser fears in their place. In the closing track “Bring God’s Children Home,” he reminds us again of the insubstantial nature of forces that seem so frightfully powerful: "God will rise up and hate will flee Like smoke before the wind And as the darkness breaks we’ll see God’s reign of peace begin" God’s fearful power isn’t just a narcissistic flex. It is the strength needed to be conclusively hospitable to His creation and to bring peace. And you can tell from the title track, “You Belong,” that revolutionary hospitality is the centerpiece of the album. He leads us in singing: "To the ones who were once God’s sworn enemies From the West and the East and the land beyond the seas Oh come to the table, where God spreads a feast, 'You belong, you belong, you belong with me.'” Worship re-orients us to Reality. In this song, once we are re-oriented to our posture as former outcasts and enemies of God, we then turn to face those we have been unwilling to face, our own outcasts and enemies: "So turn to the ones you have reason to hate Lay down your weapons oh learn to be brave Let’s start with the words our Lord taught us to say: “'ou belong, you belong, you belong with me.'” The theme of this track runs throughout the album, as worshippers are reminded again and again of God’s transformative welcome into his unshakable home. The lilting melody of “We Rejoice (Psalm 65)” particularly embodies this kind of warmth and confidence while affirming God’s gentle, attentive qualities as our Host: "You hear every whisper of prayer. You open the doors of your home. […] You soften the earth with your love. You shower the fields with your rain." When we sing these songs, we remind ourselves that God’s security and abundance are also available now, not only in their future fulfillment. While the real test of a good Kimbrough hymn is how well it will work when it leaves your own voice in the company of others eager or struggling to believe, You Belong also makes for a solid listen as a recording. Fans of the Porter’s Gate projects particularly will enjoy the same kind of energy and freshness of arrangements here because it is the same band. Kimbrough tracked it with them after recording it on their Worship for Workers project. For vinyl lovers, there’s even a limited pressing of it available. Whether they are listened to in this recording or lifted up in congregational singing, I believe the songs in this collection can help many fear gripped hearts to find a better home in the fear of the Lord and the joy of His welcome.

[Editor’s Note: This is an excerpt from a much longer conversation between Jonathan Rogers, author and host of the Habit podcast, and Garret Taylor, the art Director of Andrew Peterson’s Wingfeather Saga television series. Listen to the full conversation on The Habit.] Jonathan Rogers: Welcome to The Habit podcast. Garrett Taylor is the art director for The Wingfeather Saga television series. The new Art of The Wingfeather Saga Season One book features beautiful work from Garrett and his team. I actually did some of the writing for that book and spent a lot of time talking with Garrett in the process, I was always struck by how thoughtful he was about things I'd never known to be thoughtful about. I was very glad to be able to sit down again with Garrett Taylor and reminisce about old times when we were working on the book together. Garrett Taylor, I'm so happy to have you on the Habit podcast today. Thanks for being here. Garrett Taylor: Yeah, I'm excited to do this. Thanks for having me. JR: You’re the Art Director for The Wingfeather Saga TV series. You could have done photorealism for this series and you chose not to. Tell me about that choice. People have gotten pretty used to pretty realistic stuff in animation and you decided to do something else. GT: That's a great question. Think about the way animation has progressed over time. We remember the old Disney cartoons and they were very much like a drawing that was colored. The drawings came to life and had their own technical method of creating that flipbook style. But as technology progressed and we got into the days of Pixar and CG animation, everything got more and more photorealistic. We see that in some of the more recent Pixar/Disney shows where it's just like wow, this could be photographed. [But I think] There is an appetite right now to see things a little bit more hand-touched. Our whole team was hoping to capture a bit of that energy. To do that, we decided on a hand-painted storybook style with digitally painted backgrounds. There were some challenges in getting the characters to meld with the backgrounds and such, but overall it's been very successful. This approach also allowed us to be able to create a more quality-looking product for our scope and budget. JR: Tell me more about the painted backgrounds. What is the difference between your painted background and the backgrounds in say, Toy Story or something like that? GT: In those old-style Disney days, they used hand-painted backgrounds as well. That was before we had Photoshop and computers that were powerful enough to paint in. Folks would get their illustration board out and their gouache paints and airbrush and draw over their scene and then paint it. Then with the advent of computer animation, they would basically build the whole world—the trees, the buildings, the hay piles, the streets, and the cars—in the computer. You could turn the camera around and see it all, and then they would just shoot the film within that. The background existed within the computers. You could even move the camera within the world. We are basically using the old style that Disney did with the one caveat that we are painting them in Photoshop, but it's technically the same skill. The artists draw what they want to be in the background, be it a building or a coastline. And we have these monitors that we can draw right onto—you choose a brush shape and literally just start drawing. It feels like you are painting but you don't have to get out the paints. JR: So you've got a background, a painted background the way you would in a play. And then your characters are 3D? GT: Exactly. We are just marrying digital technology with older modes of animation. We modeled all of our characters in the computer in three dimensions. I like to think of the whole thing as a puppet show. We build the puppets—the characters—in 3D and they act almost like they're hanging in front of a painted flat surface. And your brain just says, “Oh this must be a world that I'm in.” JR: That puppet show metaphor is helpful. GT: To add to that metaphor, after we model those characters in 3D, they're very much set up like you would an actual puppet. Figuring out where their elbows and their wrists and their finger joints would be. And adding pivots in those areas, even the way that the skin would transform. When the animator opens up that character file, they can lift an arm or they can move a finger and lift a leg. Then, frame by frame, they add motion very much like a puppeteer. I think of modern-day animators as really more puppeteers than anything. JR: Let’s talk about a phrase I've heard you use more than once: "Truth of materials." GT: Yeah, that is a phrase that we threw around a lot as we were starting to decide on what kind of world we were building. One thing that Andrew and Chris—Andrew Peterson, the author of The Wingfeather Saga, and J. Chris Wall, the showrunner—both wanted to convey a story that had the feeling of high stakes. In this world, characters get hurt and some of them actually die. Houses burn down. In a world like that it just didn't fit that we would go super cartoony with the art. You would end up feeling like it was all just make-believe. We wanted to give this story a sense of weight. So as the Art Director, it was my job to describe visually what this world was going to look like. So the "truth of materials" language came to refer to the way things were constructed. In a lot of the old Disney cartoons, things could get very wonky. There could be a board, say, that looked like it was bending in a way that boards just don't bend. Or a chair that looked like it was inflated instead of carved. So with the truth of materials concept means that we can design things that seem ramshackle and have a lot of character. It means that, if it's made out of wood, we are going to draw that wood in a way that wood is worked. Maybe it looks carved or sawed or chopped with an axe. It's not inflated. It's not polished. Or take the example of a chimney. "Truth of materials" means that it is actually going to look like it is made out of bricks, whereas in those old wonky cartoons that chimney might just bend around like it's made out of rubber. I wanted to still be able to get those interesting shapes of something that is falling over and might have a bend to it, but it's from shifting bricks and not bending bricks. It all requires close observation of the real world to bring that into a make-believe world. JR: I want to talk about Peet's castle, the tree house. In the Art of Wingfeather book, you said you could have done that as an Ewok-y kind of treehouse but decided not to. You ended up making Peet’s castle out of salvaged materials from abandoned farmhouses around. However, nobody explains that in the story; we just see it for ourselves. GT: In live-action, you go shoot at a set and there's a lot that you get for free. In animation, everything that you see on screen has to be thought up and designed by artists. All of these locations start with a meeting with Andrew and Chris to talk about what is this area. Peet's tree house was a good example of that. When you see it, you have to think about his backstory. Is he out here all by himself just kind of building this tree fort for fun? Is he trying to make it look fancy because he liked his castle back when he was living in the Shining Isle? We imagined that Peet is there to keep an eye on the children in Glipwood and this is his home that he's built up in the trees, probably because he's trying to avoid getting eaten by all the creatures out there in Glipwood. And then we're thinking the history of that area is that since the creatures have kind of taken over, it's pushed people away from Glipwood Forest. So maybe there are some abandoned houses and he would just look around for boards that are already there rather than trying to mill his own wood in the forest. Hopefully, when you're watching it, you aren't thinking about that, but the subtle history is just there as an underlying feature of the story. JR: I love that. The materials tell the history of that area, of the abandonment, of the local places, but also the way that the disorder of the tree house reflects the disorder of Peet’s mind. GT: Exactly. JR: Was it challenging that so many people who already loved these stories and this world? I imagine that people feel like they already knew what this world looks like because everybody visualizes what they read a little bit differently. To what extent were you working hard to match up with how the books describe the visuals and to what extent were you pushing against that and trying something different from what was in the book? GT: We stuck with the descriptions from the book as much as possible. We wanted the fans to watch the show and be like, Oh yeah, there's Peet’s tree house!” In books, you don't need to describe things all that well, so you can give a brief setup, and then the reader's mind takes over. In animation, we have to figure it all out. We always start with the description. When I hand off an assignment to an environment designer or a character designer we literally cut and paste those sections out of the book as a prompt. If there's any illustrations in the books, we put those into the packet as well. The good thing is that we were animating things that Andrew put into the books because he thought they were cool. So we got to draw tree houses and old, abandoned manors that might be haunted, and giant live oaks in the woods. But Andrew did have the final say. We wanted to make sure to stay in his vision. JR: Well, Garrett, I just love what y'all have done. I love hearing the way you thought about things that fiction writers like Andrew or me don't have to think about. So thanks for the thought and the care and the love you put into this. You've done a great job and I love looking at that world. GT: I'm blessed to do it. So thanks for the time. JR: Yeah, thanks for being here. Our weekly newsletter is the best way to learn about new books, staff recommendations, upcoming events, lectures, and more. Sign up here.

"There been times that I thought I couldn't last for long / But now I think I'm able to carry on / It's been a long, a long time coming / but I know a change is gonna come, oh yes it will." The classic Sam Cooke song "A Change is Gonna Come" was released in February 1964, only six months after Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. delivered the "I Have a Dream" speech on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. Cooke was directly inspired by that speech in the writing of the song that became an anthem for the civil rights movement, and in 2021 was ranked #3 on Rolling Stone's list of the 500 Greatest Songs of All Time. Sam Cooke shared that the original inspiration for the song was not Dr. King's speech. Rather, it was a song by a young, white musician from Minnesota that made Cooke stop in his tracks. Bob Dylan released "Blowin' in the Wind" in May 1963 and was reminded of the power that music can have in culture.  At that time, many civil rights leaders, including Cooke, had never heard a song that so effectively addressed the issue of racism. It challenged Cooke to take his songwriting to a new level as he was reminded of how songs are the seeds of change that can be embedded in our hearts and sprout a garden of good trouble. 60 years have passed. While Dr. King's dream is far from being fulfilled, we can see that the change that Cooke, Dylan, King, and so many believed in has not evaded us. We celebrate the positive growth in our society, while at the same time acknowledging the bitter truth that there is still a long road of hard work ahead. One of the pictures we are given of New Creation is the gathering of "every nation, tribe, people, and language."  Our commitment to racial unity is not just Dr. King's dream, but the king’s dream, a mission we labor at until his “kingdom comes and his will is done on earth as it is in heaven.” If you are someone who labors at the work of justice, peace, and restoration, I applaud you for your intentionality. To inspire us in this good work, here are a half-dozen songs that mention Dr. King's dream or legacy. May these tunes be a companion to Galatians 6:9-10 (MSG) "So let’s not allow ourselves to get fatigued doing good. At the right time, we will harvest a good crop if we don’t give up, or quit. Right now, therefore, every time we get the chance, let us work for the benefit of all, starting with the people closest to us in the community of faith." "MLK Song" by Mavis Staples This was released in 2016 by (now) 84-year-old Grammy award winner Mavis Staples. Fun fact: She, like Sam Cooke, was deeply inspired by the Bob Dylan song "Blowin' in the Wind." She was floored by the fact that a white midwesterner could so masterfully capture the plight of most African Americans. Years later, Dylan made a marriage proposal to Mavis, and she declined. "See The Day" by Liz Vice This is a prayer of hope that maybe today is the day to see justice and love flood our world. I'm reminded of the work of redemption that God has already initiated. He is indeed making all things new.  This song was released in April 2020, and has been one of the finest in recent years that deals with the theme of justice and racial reconciliation. "All My Heroes Are Underdogs" by Ross King With some masterful storytelling, veteran artist Ross King eloquently weaves through inspiring figures David, Jesus, and MLK.  Not only does the song pay homage, but it also takes an introspective turn to ask if we might sometimes find ourselves as the villain of the story.  Yet, this 2021 song reminds us: "All my favorite stories make me deal with the ways I've been wrong." "Glory" by Common & John Legend This Acadamy Award-winning song was released in 2015, and I still get goosebumps every time I listen. One of my favorite lines is: "One Son died, His Spirit is revisiting us / True and living, living in us, resistance is us / That's why Rosa sat on the bus / That's why we walk through Ferguson with our hands up." Powerful imagery! "Up To The Mountain" by Patty Griffin Obviously, Patty Griffin is a living legend, with 11 studio albums and a career that spans nearly 30 years.  One of her best songs was inspired by Dr. King's final speech he gave in Memphis in 1968. In that speech, MLK said these haunting words: "Like anybody, I would like to live a long life. Longevity has its place. But I'm not concerned about that now. I just want to do God's will. And He's allowed me to go up to the mountain. And I've looked over. And I've seen the promised land." The next day he was assassinated. "Side By Side" by Wilder Adkins This 2017 song by Birmingham-based Wilder Adkins shares the tension of living with Dr. King's dream presently, while looking for a day of redemption when "we will rise up singing truly we shall overcome." This song points us forward and gives us hope. And it is so deliciously folky that it would make Bob Dylan proud. Our weekly newsletter is the best way to learn about new books, staff recommendations, upcoming events, lectures, and more. Sign up here. Photo by Ricardo Gomez Angel on Unsplash

We're continuing our "Best of 2023" mini-series with top picks for favorite books from Rabbit Room friends and contributors. Ned Bustard This is the Year of Every Moment Holy Vol. 3, of course, as well as when my Saint Patrick the Forgiver and Ordinary Saints books came out, but the top books that were not by me, but that I enjoyed the most were "Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell—a book that made me want to believe in Faerie—and Everything Sad is Untrue—one of the best books I ever read. Houston Coley Rumours of a Better Country by Marsh Moyle. Rumours of a Better Country is a remarkable book written by a dear mentor of mine from L'Abri Fellowship in England named Marsh Moyle. Marsh's experiences in Eastern Europe have given him a unique cultural perspective that makes his insights about moral imagination one-of-a-kind and profound. American Prometheus: The Triumph & Tragedy of J. Robert Oppenheimer by Kai Bird. American Prometheus is the biography that inspired Christopher Nolan's Oppenheimer this year, and while it is a weighty tome, it's also one of the most gripping and engaging history books I've ever read. Mark Meynell Francis Spufford's Cahokia Jazz: A Novel. Jeremy Eichler's Time's Echo: The Second World War, the Holocaust, and the Music of Remembrance Dave Bruno I have enjoyed reading Karen Swallow Prior's The Evangelical Imagination. I finally got around to reading Cormac McCarthy's The Road and appreciated it. Alastair Gordon Stephen King's Dark Tower series was an epic slog but worth it. Ian Rankin's Inspector Rebus books too. Reading a lot of Neil Gaiman and Iain M Banks as well. Amelia Freidline The Chronicles of Prydain series. My nephew lent me his Prydain books and I read the last one during Advent, which makes it especially poignant. Winters in the World by Eleanor Parker. Winters is a fascinating look at how the Anglo-Saxons thought about time and how they marked the various seasons of the year (I am definitely going to sing to my trees at Twelfth Night now). Michael J. Tinker My Life in Dire Straits: The Inside Story of One of the Biggest Bands in Rock History by John Illsley. Reading books by musicians reminds you that it's not all overnight success or out-of-the-blue ability. It's hard graft, practice, and slogging it out for little or no money (Dire Straits would play to 10's of thousands and sometimes not earn a penny), more practice and hard graft. Helps me keep going! Dave Trout My fave was Say Yes by Scott Erickson. The subtitle alone might pull you in: “Discover the surprising life beyond the death of a dream.” Chris Wheeler Bringing it to the Table, Wendell Berry. Faith, Hope, and Carnage by Nick Cave and Seán O'Hagan Caitlin Coats Salty: Lessons on Eating, Drinking, and Living from Revolutionary Women by Alissa Wilkinson tells the stories of nine women in history (of varying degrees of fame but equally noteworthy) and their particular beliefs in the power of food as an agent for hope, justice, community, joy, etc. It reads as a dinner party in written form—cozy, inviting, and inspiring. You Are Not Your Own by Alan Noble The first half of the book unpacks why it is so hard to feel at peace or even human in our modern world. The second half then offers a reminder of the grace available in belonging solely to God. I will be reading this one again. Macy Laegeler Reforesting Faith by Matthew Sleeth, MD. It is a book about how trees can remind you of God and His goodness! Matt Wheeler How It Went by Wendell Berry. Berry, in his late eighties, is continuing to masterfully tell the story of the Port William membership. Leslie Thompson All Things Bright and Beautiful by James Herriot. Jo Tinker The Elliots of Damerosehay by Elizabeth Goudge. Elly Anderson East of Eden by John Steinbeck. Here is one of my favorite quotes from Steinbeck's masterpiece, "But the Hebrew word timshel—'Thou mayest'—that gives a choice. For if 'Thou mayest'—it is also true that 'Thou mayest not.' That makes a man great and that gives him stature with the gods, for in his weakness and his filth and his murder of his brother he has still the great choice.” I mean...COME ON. This quote doesn’t even scratch the surface of all the goodness encapsulated in this classic tale. Full of characters you cannot forget, this drama (heavily influenced by the book of Genesis) tells a thought-provoking story of the power of choice, generational curses, and humanity's quest to be great. I don’t know if many moments in literature have clung so hard to my soul than Chapter 24 (a commentary on the Cain and Abel story). I could chew on that chapter alone for a decade. This is required reading, folks! Rachel Donahue The Many Assassinations of Samir, the Seller of Dreams, by Daniel Nayeri. We listened to this one twice (the second time as a whole family) and then bought a hard copy. When the characters stopped for rest in the shadow of "two vast and trunkless legs of stone," I geeked out. Such a fun read! Imaginary Jesus, by Matt Mikalatos. I laughed out loud at the ridiculousness of this story and couldn't put it down. It gives theological discussions flesh and bones in action-packed scenes (like inner-tubing down a ski slope between Meticulous Jesus and Free Will Jesus while being chased by a bear) and leans into hard questions. Our weekly newsletter is the best way to learn about new books, staff recommendations, upcoming events, lectures, and more. Sign up here.

We're continuing this"Best of 2023" mini-series with a few picks for favorite albums from Rabbit Room friends and contributors. Here are some noteworthy songs and albums that were playing in our earbuds last year. Ned Bustard The album I was most excited about this year was Switchfoot's new deluxe edition of The Beautiful Letdown—such a great album already, and then to have all those great covers, ahhh...)! Besides that, I have three twenty-something daughters, so that might help explain why The Show by Niall Horan was the other record in main rotation for me in 2023, with "If You Leave Me," "Never Grow Up," and "Heaven" being particular faves. Houston Coley Across The Spider-Verse Original Score by Daniel Pemberton. Daniel Pemberton's work on the two Spider-Verse movies is some of the most creative I've heard in a film score in the last few years. Record scratches, a pen scribbling, spray cans, a goose clucking, bongo drums, synthesizer, electric guitar, and the slowed-down sound of an elephant—all of these make up the DNA of his sublime Spider-Verse score. Welcome by The Arcadian Wild. It is rich, beautiful, and deeply satisfying, and it was at the top of my Apple Music Recap this year. Mark Meynell Eric Whitacre's The Sacred Veil. Vaughan Williams, Macmillan & Tavener: Choral Works - Westminster Abbey Choir, James O'Donnell. ESPECIALLY Macmillan's "Who Shall Separate Us"? John Barber John Mark McMillan - Deep Magic. JMM's newest record rekindles his passion for a God who loves us deeply and fiercely. Jason Isbell and the 400 Unit - Weathervanes. The new record from one of our greatest living songwriters is ambitious and potent. It's a collection of stories that are, by turns, dark and vibrant, but are always brilliant. Dave Bruno I grew up listening to Andrae Crouch in my childhood home. This year, I revisited him on Spotify and enjoyed it very much. My favorite new music was Jon Batiste's World Music Radio album. Couldn't get enough of Batiste this year...and cannot wait for his show at the Ryman! Amelia Freidline Matthew Clark’s album A Tale of Two Trees. Kristen Kopp & Reagan Dregge’s Postscript Podcast. Dave Trout UK-based Christian artist Tina Boonstra blew me away with her album Circle Back, Start Again. One of my favorite songs of the year is “Death Defying Joy” by Andy Squyres - musically hooky with deep and rich lyrics. Matt Conner Boygenius's The Record and Joy Oladokun's Proof of Life. Chris Wheeler Jon Guerra's Ordinary Ways is an incredible follow-up to his Keeper of Days album. We listened to Colony House's Cannonballers record nonstop this year. Caitlin Coats Javelin by Sufjan Stevens is a great record about loss and suffering. It’s loud and honest and gentle and encouraging. So many good songs on here. My favorite at the moment is “Everything That Rises.” Macy Laegeler Stick Season by Noah Kahan. The folky sound mixed with the complex songwriting is fantastic and makes it a perfect album to listen to while driving past trees. Plus his deluxe album’s features are amazing. Good Riddance by Gracie Abrams is a refreshingly introspective album that is sonically cohesive and illustrates her capacity for depth in her songwriting. I enjoyed that even with the variability in the song concepts it felt like the album had a natural intermingling and flow. Matt Wheeler Take Me Back by Jonathan Ogden and Jon Guerra's Ordinary Ways. Ogden & Guerra each continue to turn out contemplative Christ-centered music that is deeply musically interesting. Leslie Thompson Worship for Workers (Porter's Gate) Jo Tinker The Lost Birds by Christopher Tin. A Choral Christmas by Voces8. Elly Anderson Proof of Life by Joy Oldaokun. It has been my new favorite record to spin whenever having friends for dinner or a game night. With authentic lyrics, and impressive collaborations with artists like Noah Kahan, Chris Stapleton, and Mount Joy, she truly knocks it out of the park. If you ask me, the best Tracks are "Keeping the Light On", "Taking Things For Granted", and "Somebody Like Me." The Sun by JOSEPH. The Sun is top tier. It feels like one big therapy session, emphasizing the importance of speaking kindness to ourselves and using bravery as a catalyst for new, healthier beginnings. Their harmonies will forever leave me under their spell. BEST TRACKS: Waves Crash", "Fireworks", and "Don’t Protect M." I would be remiss not to mention 1989 Taylor’s Version. I mean those four bonus tracks…COME ON! Our weekly newsletter is the best way to learn about new books, staff recommendations, upcoming events, lectures, and more. Sign up here.

Each year, we ask Rabbit Room friends and contributors to share their favorite movies, music, and books of the year. It is a unique opportunity to see what cultural fare these painters, poets, musicians, and writers have enjoyed most. This week, we'll be sharing their responses with you, starting with movies. Here we go. Ned Bustard 2023 was the Year of BarbenHeimer—what else can you say? But two other movies I recommend that I watched in 2023 are The Banshees of Inisherin (not a happy film but a powerful one) and Jesus Revolution, a good reminder of messy movements in the history of the Church. My girls and I also found some twisted sense of comfort on hard days of hospitals and hospice in watching cult documentaries. My favorites were Shiny Happy People, The Way Down, The Vow , Heaven’s Gate, and Wild Wild Country. [Editor's note: Incidentally, our next contributor has written excellent articles about Oppenheimer and The Banshees of Inisherin on the Rabbit Room site this year.] Houston Coley The Holdovers is a true "they don't make 'em like this anymore" movie. It's crafted to look and feel like a good old-fashioned Breakfast Club-inspired comedy from the 1970s, and it might be the most I've felt like the characters onscreen are real people with real relationships all year. Godzilla: Minus One is straight from Japan and it was the biggest surprise of 2023 for me; it's the most you'll ever care about human characters in a kaiju movie, with a culturally poignant thematic center and some remarkable Spielbergian action to boot! John Barber The Boy and the Heron. Hayao Miyazaki's newest film is one of his best. With amazing visual majesty, a razor-sharp wit, and incisive societal commentary, The Boy and the Heron belongs next to Spirited Away in the conversation of the best Miyazaki films. Past Lives. Celine Song's cinematic directorial debut is a quiet film about people reconciling with each other, navigating relational minefields, and loving each other well. It's a powerful film. Amelia Freidline Film: Swallows and Amazons. “Swallows” is based on a British series of children’s adventure novels from the 1930s; this adaptation feels like a mashup of Narnia, Where the Wild Things Are, and a 1950s Cold War thriller. TV show: the final season of Endeavour. And as hard as it was to say goodbye to Morse and Thursday after all these years, that last episode was beautiful (as a somewhat melancholy murder series can be, that is). Alastair Gordon The Creator, directed by Gareth Edwards. Dave Trout Air was a lot of dialogue with little action, but it had me as riveted as a fade-away MJ buzzer beater! My favorite TV series of the year was The Bear (S2) - the best S1 to S2 improvement since The Office. Matt Conner May December Chris Wheeler Stutz and The Saint of Second Chances were both beautiful and uncommonly kind. Everything Everywhere All at Once is absolutely as good as people have been telling you. Caitlin Coats So many good movies this year! Killers of the Flower Moon, The Holdovers, RRR! Barbenheimer!! The Hiding Place!!! It’s hard to pick one, but I think Women Talking (although it technically came out at the end of 2022) takes the cake for me. It’s the first movie I’ve seen to depict righteous anger in women who have sincere faith—like watching an imprecatory psalm come to life. Macy Laegeler I loved the Mario movie. The nostalgia and hidden nods to the old games helped me remember the simplicity and joy I had when playing on my Nintendo back in elementary school. I also thoroughly enjoyed Barbie. I felt it was a fun upbeat story and appreciated the silliness that partnered with both difficult and complex problems. Elly Anderson I’m late to the party on both my favs from the year, but they were too good not to mention: Marcel the Shell. Who knew this small little shell named Marcel and his shell grandma, Nana Connie, would wreck me? Hitting on the themes of friendship, family, grief, adventure, and connection- I mean I truly couldn’t get enough of this story. The clever bits about the shell community and how they go about life made it even more special...I mean, Marcel’s bed is a little piece of bread….bed….bread…that’s just a small taste of brilliance. Severance. I don’t know if I’ve ever audibly GASPED watching a show more than with Severance. If you love a dark comedy with mystery and thriller elements throughout, get this on your screen! This show will keep you on your toes until the very end. In terms of 2023 content, Oppenheimer and The Last of Us are easily the most impressive in terms of storytelling and visual elements. Michael J. Tinker Slow Horses. How drama-storytelling should be done! It assumes the audience doesn't need everything explained 10 times. It has witty dialogue, gripping drama, and not everything is neatly sewn up. Rachel Donahue I Heard the Bells. The story behind Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's famous poem/song. Beautifully done! But not for young/sensitive viewers. The Man Who Invented Christmas. This is the story of how Charles Dickens wrote A Christmas Carol. Engaging and delightful. His characters follow him around, and the story has to do its work on him before he can write it for anyone else. Our weekly newsletter is the best way to learn about new books, staff recommendations, upcoming events, lectures, and more. Sign up here.

In The Humane Vision of Wendell Berry, Anthony Esolen notes that Berry’s longest Port William novel, Jayber Crow, is in many ways a modern-day retelling of Dante. Berry’s own language throughout the book suggests the comparison, as his narrator, the novel’s subject and namesake, makes frequent mention of “the Dark Wood of Error.” What’s more, it’s hard not to note the similarities in Jayber’s relationship to Mattie and Dante’s to Beatrice–in both cases, the story’s narrator is drawn to God via the love he has toward a godly woman he will only know from a distance. To understand the broader argument, you should just buy the book. But here I want to focus on the particular question of what specifically brings about Jayber’s conversion and what exactly Jayber is converting to. The setting of the novel is mid-20th-century small town Kentucky, particularly the small town of Port William. The novel’s narrator and protagonist, Jayber Crow, is a seminary dropout and barber who is in his early 40s and has been back in the Port William area for about 20 years. In the opening scenes of the novel, we meet a character who embodies the independent spirit we often associate with Kentucky. In one scene he describes sitting in a classroom at the orphanage where he grew up, staring out the window, longing to be out in a field instead of sitting in a stuffy classroom going over boring lessons. In another scene, the young Crow actually makes a run for it and gets some distance from the school before the headmaster, who bears the wonderfully Dickensian name “Brother Whitespade,” sees him and chases him down, dragging him back to the school. Crow describes his deep-seated fear of sitting at the foot of a desk staring up at his superior and so “the man behind the desk” becomes a shorthand in the novel for all things modern, bureaucratic, and confining. It’s not an exaggeration to say that most of the decisions made by Jayber in the novel’s early days are built around resisting the man behind the desk and protecting his own independence and autonomy at any cost. Once Jayber settles down in Port William, he mostly maintains this same independence of spirit. He keeps flexible hours, often going off on long walks or trips into the woods. He leaves a sign in the window that indicates what time he’ll return, except the hands on the clock pictured on the sign are permanently stuck pointing at 6:30. At one point, Jayber reasons that this isn’t an altogether bad arrangement, as it doesn’t specify 6:30 am or pm, nor does it specify a certain day on which he’ll be back. The sign allows Jayber to be honest with his patrons, in a manner of speaking, without curbing his independence. That’s the fundamental tension of the book in many ways. Jayber recognizes the moral duties associated with living within a “membership,” yet he struggles under those duties, which he often experiences as burdens because they threaten his independence. The speech he gives in Berry’s much older novel A Place on Earth hints at this same independence–once Jayber gets a drink in him it becomes quite plain that he isn’t like the people in Port William and he doesn’t think much of their religious life. Jayber can make his criticisms of Port William and those criticisms can be precisely right. But the manner in which he makes them, the way in which he understands his connection to the place and the people, can be all wrong. And that brings us to the novel’s pivotal scene, which takes place in a bar near Hargrave, a larger town down the road from Port William. Jayber is there with a woman named Clydie, his on-again-off-again romantic partner who we frequently see him with throughout the first half of the book. It’s around Christmastime when they have the party. In order to get to events like this one, Jayber owns a small car–and he takes good care of it to avoid having to buy another one or entrust its care to a man who will demand money from him to fix it. That car is Jayber’s way of keeping one foot on the road, of protecting himself from laying down roots too deeply in Port William. His relationship with Clydie functions in largely the same way–they get a consumptive pleasure out of being together, yet there is no sacrificial love involved, no voluntary giving of the self wholly to the other, and no commitment, which implies a sacrifice of freedom or, more properly, autonomy or independence. They have no plans to marry and certainly no plans to have children. Clydie is simply a sexual partner for whom Jayber feels some measure of affection and devotion and is, conveniently, another tie to the world beyond Port William. She, like his car, is a means of saving himself from fully committing to the life of Port William. But then something happens at the bar that Jayber did not expect. A number of couples are dancing, including Jayber and Clydie. And as they dance, Jayber notices another Port William man across the hall, Troy Chatham. Chatham is the villain of the story, a vain, strutting peacock of a man who married a woman far too good for him, Mattie Keith. And the woman he is dancing with now at this tavern is not Mattie. In a moment, Jayber and Troy make eye contact. Troy then hooks his fingers to signal “it’s OK” at Jayber and then winks at him, as if saying “hey, you have your fun, I have mine. And the thought that strikes Jayber like a thunderbolt is the horrifying fear that he and Troy are the same. Then Jayber thinks of Mattie, not Mattie at home with the children that evening, but Mattie on a previous day Jayber had seen her, delightedly playing with the children, sacrificially giving herself to them, yet not experiencing it as a sacrifice, but as a joy: I had thought many times of her as I had seen her then, with the children so completely admitted into her affection and her presence—as, I thought, a man might be if he wholly loved her, if she wholly trusted him, a man who would come to her as trustful and heart-whole as a little child. I had thought of a flower opening among dark foliage, and of a certain butterfly whose wings, closed, looked like brown leaves but, opened, were brilliant and lovely like nothing but themselves. From that day forward, several things changed in Jayber. He ended his relationship with Clydie. He sold his car. And he committed himself to the life of Port William. What Jayber recognized in the aftermath of that night is that in Mattie and Troy he saw two different ways of life embodied. Troy’s was the way of the dreamer, constantly chasing the next big thing, which was typically either the next big profit or the next big tool to enable him to chase the next big profit. He was restless, always moving frenetically from task to task, building up an empire built purely on money, which functionally meant an empire built up on debt, which, again, functionally meant an empire built on obligation and the coercive threats associated with fulfilling those obligations. There is no place left for affection or love in his empire because these are not efficient. There is no place for rest or contentment because they cost money in terms of lost opportunity and lost work. To borrow from Tree of Life, Troy’s is the way of nature and “nature only wants to please itself. Get others to please it too. Likes to lord it over them. To have its own way. It finds reasons to be unhappy when all the world is shining around it. And love is smiling through all things.” After seeing Troy look at him, grin and signal “OK” to him, Jayber realized he didn’t know that he wasn’t just like Troy. At the very least, he was the sort of man Troy could comprehend, or at least thought he could comprehend–and that was enough to tell Jayber he had to change. And what did he need to become? He needed to become more like Mattie, Troy’s faithful wife–and faithful in more than just her relationship with Troy. Mattie is defined by one of the great themes of Berry’s fiction, that of fidelity. She is faithful to her husband, but also, as much as her fidelity to her husband allowed her to be, to her father and mother and her children and the land that her family owned and stewarded. Mattie’s tragedy is that these fidelities, which ought to have strengthened and reinforced one another were all too often thrown into conflict by Troy’s all-consuming ambition. Mattie’s is the way of grace. And so as Jayber reflects on who he is and what he must become, landing on the idea that he must become the faithful husband that Mattie has never had. That idea of being a husband to a woman who is not your wife can sound odd to readers. But it’s actually making a significant point: The world of grace, the world that Mattie lives in, is a world grounded in the imagery and reality of marriage. It is in mutual sacrifice and mutual giving that the mutual good is realized. The entire life of Port William is only possible within the bonds of marriage, the marriages between men and women but also between human beings and the place, through the unreserved, whole-hearted giving of the self to serve the object of one’s love and affection. The tragedy for Mattie–and for Port William–is that she is married to a person with no regard for (or understanding of) marriage. And so the life of the Chatham family, the Keith family, and of Port William is threatened and harmed by the greed and ambition of Troy, which literally divorces the community from its place and from each other. By committing himself to be Mattie’s “husband” Jayber is attempting to address that threat. He will never share a home with her, won’t comfort her in her sorrow or repair the damage done to the Keith place by her husband, but through his affection for the things Mattie loves and his fidelity to them, Jayber is able to repair some of the damage, beginning with the damage to himself. The striking thing about this movement toward healing is how pervasive it truly is. Berry is often dismissed by conservatives as a naive environmentalist crank, but those who read his novels have learned that he is a much deeper, more careful thinker than he is often given credit for. The problem that Jayber perceives is two-fold: First, he himself might be like Troy Chatham. Second, Troy Chatham is doing harm to the life of Port William. A less careful—or more stereotypically modern thinker—would look at this problem and likely adopt a few methods of addressing it. First, in seeking personal healing he would go down the road of self-help and therapeutic talk, seeking to diagnose the problem in medical terms. Second, he would seek to adopt some sort of blunt, direct (and almost certainly state-sanctioned) method of dealing with Troy. “There oughta be a law,” he would say. And so he would begin the work of writing to his congressman, calling his local representatives on the state level, and seeing a therapist, all in the hopes of being healed individually and seeing the destructive actions of Troy Chatham checked. But Berry is not taken in by such obvious (and useless) approaches to individual or social renewal. Jayber recognizes that there is a spiritual problem deep within himself. The problem is not even with his theology per se—10 years before the scene at the tavern in Jayber Crow there is a scene in A Place on Earth in which Jayber gives a speech that sums up Berry’s theology quite well. So the problem for Jayber isn’t really what he believes. The problem runs much deeper, down to his affections. He cherishes his independence more than anything else—which is why he owns the car, why he keeps a woman outside of Port William, why he refuses to open a bank account and instead keeps all his cash in various places in his small room above his barbershop—which he owns outright. An orphan from his earliest memories, Jayber is unaccustomed to seeing his neighbors as neighbors. The ones he trusts and loves leave—as with the elderly couple that took him in for a time after his parents died—and the other ones try to control him and lord it over him. Early in the novel he describes his revulsion at sitting before a man behind a desk who is able to control him. To some extent, this approach to life serves Jayber well. If he were easily impressed by the claims of authority or easily cowed into submission by every wingnut who claims to be a Very Important Person then he would never have returned to Port William, and would never have found the life that he did. It is a good thing to not be easily impressed by unknown authorities. And yet the dark side of this is that it has made Jayber so independent that he doesn’t fully know his place, doesn’t know the people in it, and doesn’t love them as he ought. What’s more, it has made him, like Troy, a danger to that place due to his refusal to give himself to it while taking a great deal from it. This is why Jayber responds to the problem in the way that he does. He gets rid of his car and his casual sexual relationship he had with a woman that he did, to some degree, really love. He begins to live a quieter life, observing the rhythms of Port William more closely and giving himself to the town more fully, as he ends up doing multiple times for Mattie as the story continues. In this sense, Jayber Crow is a story of how one man learned to love. That, of course, sounds syrupy and sentimental to us moderns who have grown up on hallmark cards and made-for-TV movies. But it is the manner of the learning that is important. The love Jayber learns to practice is an extremely physical love grounded in practical acts of devotion that sometimes by their very nature require that he not do things he deeply desires to do. Learning to love Port William and the people in it did not consist of an emotional attachment to it or in being authentic about his feelings toward it. It meant disciplining himself in such a way that promoted the health and life of Port William. That’s a valuable lesson for jaded millennials who have been burned by so many different types of communities—family, small towns, friends, or churches–and who have learned from that that they should keep to themselves and not give of themselves freely to any group or institution. There’s a moment in Jayber Crow where Jayber says that Port William will break your heart if you let it. Berry’s novel is in large part an explanation of how one man learned to do that and why it was so vital that he do so. Jake Meador is the editor-in-chief of Mere Orthodoxy. He is a 2010 graduate of the University of Nebraska-Lincoln where he studied English and History. He lives in Lincoln, NE with his wife Joie, their daughter Davy Joy, and sons Wendell, Austin, and Ambrose. Jake's writing has appeared in The Atlantic, Commonweal, Christianity Today, Fare Forward, the University Bookman, Books & Culture, First Things, National Review, Front Porch Republic, and The Run of Play and he has written or contributed to several books, including "In Search of the Common Good," "What Are Christians For?" (both with InterVarsity Press), "A Protestant Christendom?" (with Davenant Press), and "Telling the Stories Right" (with the Front Porch Republic Press). This piece was originally published at Mere Orthodoxy. Our weekly newsletter is the best way to learn about new books, staff recommendations, upcoming events, lectures, and more. Sign up here.

The Bible is a literary book. If we can’t read the literary dimension of the Bible, we’re missing a lot of it because so much of the meaning happens on the literary level. This means that if we are going to take the Bible on its own terms, we need to learn to read it artistically. What Does It Mean to Read the Bible Artistically? The Bible is a work of art and, just like every work of art, there are meanings on the surface and meanings waiting at greater depths. The deeper meanings only yield themselves over time and only according to their own rules. It follows that part of being a good reader of the Bible, then, is to learn its rules. I’m suggesting that some of those rules (and the meanings they unlock) can only be accessed with an artist’s eye and an artist’s mind. As an aside before going any further, separating the meanings in the Bible into “surface” and “deeper” is a bit of a false dichotomy. I’m not saying that meanings that stand out clearly are less important than meanings that take more time to reveal themselves or are communicated literarily. Nor am I saying that the “deeper” meanings are the “real” meanings. God has scattered his truth over creation and across the pages of the Bible with a broad hand. His revelation is not limited by the level of literary sophistication (or even literacy) on the part of those who approach his word. In saying there are surface meanings and deeper meanings in the Bible, I’m trying to make a point that there are deeper meanings. The Bible is not a set of IKEA instructions, designed to be completely understood by anyone at a glance. There are meanings in the Bible that reward discipleship and long discipleship to the genres and books at hand. In other words, it is literature. Saying That the Bible Is Literature Is Different Than Saying the Bible Is Only Literature In the past, some have said that the Bible is literature in order to say that it is only literature. Used this way, the word “literature” means it is not sacred scripture, not authoritative, not divinely inspired, or not historically accurate. It is just, you know, literature. Like the Homer’s Odyssey or Dante’s Inferno. Modern biblical scholarship has often sought to draw a distinction between the Bible as scripture and the Bible as literature as if the literary dimension of the Bible can be isolated from its nature as the word of God. Some scholars have set the human and divine elements of Scripture against one another as if the former could nullify the latter. That isn’t what I’m saying. My point is that God communicated his truth through the medium of cultural writing conventions, limitations imposed by the evolution of writing technology (oral tradition letter writing, proverbs, vellum, etc.), the boundaries of genre, and a thousand little surprising and profound applications of literary devices on the part of the authors of the Bible. To the One With the Hammer of Modernity, Everything Looks Like a Rationalistic Nail Modern people sometimes to have a problem with reading the Bible artistically. It is not automatically the case that just because you believe the Bible is the word of God and that you read it with the best of intentions, you will be able to understand what it is saying. Rather, the opposite is true all too often. We read the Bible with modern eyes and that often means that we misread the Bible because of those same eyes. The thing about human beings is that we apply our paradigms to everything we interact with by default, often without being aware of it. We see through a glass darkly and that smoky glass is made of our preconceptions, biases, cultural dispositions, upbringing, experiences, and a whole mess of other things. The things that make us who we are both illuminate and obscure reality. That is even true when it comes to the Bible. To read the Bible as a modern Western person is to grapple continuously (though often unconsciously) with the way we’ve been taught to read and think. That is, we try to break things down into their constituent pieces so that we can categorize and understand them. Only once we have systematized their essential pieces can we distill their meanings and assign them their places in a larger, rationalistic framework. However, meaning also lies in the relationships between things, not only in their discrete components. The words, paragraphs, passages, and books of the Bible are too carefully arranged to be able to break them apart without marring much of the meaning they contain. To preserve that meaning, we have to read them in context and so much of that context is operating on the literary level. So we are back to reading the Bible with the eyes of an artist, not only the eyes of an analyst. Can’t I Just Read the Bible Literally instead of Literarily? Yes and no. “Literal” is a tricky word when it comes to the Bible. When people throw the L-word in, they are sometimes trying to talk about taking the Bible seriously or whether it is inerrant or the authoritative word of God or if it happened in real history. The word “literal” can be a stand-in for those other words and can act as a tribal marker or ID badge that can be waived around for identification purposes. “Do you believe the Bible is true?” “Yes, I take it literally. Every word.” The problem with taking everything in the Bible literally is that it isn’t all meant to be taken that way. The Bible is a book of books and the individual books that comprise the one, greater Book belong to different genres, are written in different styles, employ different literary techniques, achieve different aims, and often belong to different centuries. Each genre has its own rules, each section of the Bible has its own rhythms, and each book has its own ways it needs to be read. But to the man with a hammer, everything looks like a nail, and if the only tool in your literary toolbox is labeled “literal,” you are going to smash all that other stuff to bits. So to begin to answer the question, “Should we read the Bible literally?” I would start with another question: “Which part of the Bible?” Let’s start with genre. The Bible has at least eight major genres: law, history, wisdom, poetry, gospel, epistles, prophecy, and apocalyptic. And several of these break down into further categories when applied to the various books of the Bible. Some books even contain multiple genres inside themselves. Some genres should be read more literally than others. As historical biography and eyewitness accounts, the Gospels have many passages that should be read literally, but even the historical aspects are full of symbol-laden language, literary devices, and organization that is the result of internal structure. For instance, did the cleansing of the temple happen at the beginning of Jesus’ ministry (as in John’s gospel) or at the end of his ministry (as in Matthew’s gospel)? Is that even the right question to ask about that event? Should we rather be asking why John and Matthew put their accounts of the cleansing of the temple where they did according to the other unfolding themes of their gospels? Or take the example of the book of Proverbs. Reading it takes a bit of sophistication. It is an inspired book, like all of the Bible, but that doesn’t mean that if you do what a proverb says, the result the proverb predicts is guaranteed to happen to you. They are wisdom sayings that are generally true. This is especially the case when you have two proverbs next to each other that say opposite things. How do you take that literally? I know a man who nearly broke his faith because he kept doing what the proverbs said but not getting the promised result. Was God lying to him? Was the Bible a farce? Or was he bringing expectations to the book that didn’t fit what the book of Proverbs is? Apocalyptic literature, like the book of Revelation and parts of the book of Daniel, turn into mushy nonsense when you try to read them literally because they are usually a kaleidoscopic mashup of images from elsewhere in the Bible. Instead of trying to figure out if, say, the locusts in Revelation literally correspond to modern attack helicopters. You should instead build up your understanding of the image of locusts in the Bible and then bring that understanding back into the context of Revelation to begin to wonder what it is communicating because that is one of the rules of that specific genre of literature in the Bible. You Have to Read the Bible Artistically Because It Is Full of Literary Elements The Bible often uses propositional statements to convey its meanings (“Thou shalt not murder”), but it also uses literary elements to get its points across. A “literary element” is a meaning-laden convention of writing or storytelling that conforms to the rules of a certain style or genre. Rhyme and meter are literary elements in the medium of poetry, for example, or the way young adult fiction uses cliffhangers, or how mystery novels build toward the big whodunnit reveal at the end. Every culture produces and employs literary elements—often so naturally that natives of a language don’t even notice them. When someone says, “It’s raining cats and dogs outside” (literary element: idiom), we don’t wonder why animals are falling from the sky. We know that it is just raining hard. The Bible is no different. If were to list the literary elements in Scripture, the list would be long indeed. If we were to list the moments those elements combined to create deeper meanings on the literary level, the list would need several volumes. If we were to list the deeper meanings themselves, the items on the list would outnumber the stars and the list would remain mostly incomplete. Nevertheless, I do not want to end this essay without at least giving some concrete examples of what I’m talking about. Consider this brief list of literary elements that the writers of the Bible use to get their meanings across: Character: Yes, the Bible has lots of abstract concepts in it, but it is also full of characters, people making choices that have consequences for themselves and others. Many of these characters take on meanings beyond themselves that echo through the rest of the Bible (think of Abraham as the archetype of faith or Job as the archetype of suffering). Setting: The important settings in the Bible are almost characters themselves and take on a significance greater than just the backdrop of the stories. By way of examples, think of the meanings attached to all the things that happen in the wilderness, or the sea, or on mountaintops, or in gardens. Plot: Plot is the careful arrangement of events in a narrative. The Bible has micro-plots and macro-plots. For instance, you have many micro-stories of various kings that all exist on a larger narrative arc of the failure of Israel’s kings and the appearance of Jesus, the true and ultimate king, who is given a crown of thorns, a bloody purple robe, and who is enthroned on a cross beneath the words, “King of Israel.” The macro-plot of the theme of kingship is built of a hundred kingly micro-dramas. Genre: As stated above, the Bible has at least eight major genres: law, history, wisdom, poetry, gospel, epistles, prophecy, and apocalyptic. Some books even contain multiple genres inside themselves. Each genre has its own rules, its own rhythms, and its own ways it needs to be read. Symbolism: Symbolism is the figurative use of one thing to represent another thing. For instance, here are two examples from the Psalms that we’ll look at in-depth on this Substack: “God is my rock” or “I am like those who go down to the pit.” We understand that God is not a rock and death is not really a pit, but there are things about God and about death that are like a rock or a pit. Repetition: In the Bible, repeated is related. The texts of the Bible are in constant conversation with one another. Later texts hearken back to and draw meaning from previous texts. Later writers build upon and expand meanings found in the very texts that have shaped their own imaginations. Biblical writers constantly repeat themselves to create the dense web of literary allusions we call Scripture. Design patterns: See this and this and this. Themes: Certain big ideas unfold throughout the course of the entire Bible, such as kingship, sonship, sacrifice, priesthood, anointing, messiah, the temple, the tree of life, sabbath, exile, holiness, the law, and on and on. These themes interweave the books of the Bible and build to a double crescendo in the Gospels and Revelation. Brevity: The Bible (and especially Genesis) packs dense layers of meaning into a small amount of text. For instance, the story of Melchizedek is 58 words in English, but the writer of Hebrews uses it to overthrow the entire Old Testament priestly system. Nuff said. Symbolic numbers: Have you ever wondered why there are so many sets of three (the Trinity, days Jonah was in the whale), seven (days of creation and many others), twelve (tribes, apostles), and forty (years in the wilderness, days of Christ’s fasting) in the Bible? When we approach these numbers with our literary lenses on we can both notice them and become equipped to ask the next question, “What do the numbers mean?” Jesus was an Artist There is a curious moment in Matthew’s gospel: “And the disciples came up and said to Him, “Why do You speak to them in parables?” And Jesus answered them, “To you, it has been granted to know the mysteries of the kingdom of heaven, but to them, it has not been granted. For whoever has, to him more shall be given, and he will have an abundance; but whoever does not have, even what he has shall be taken away from him.” (Matthew 13:10-12) and then the narrator adds the comment “All these things Jesus spoke to the crowds in parables, and He did not speak anything to them without a parable.” (v. 34) Why did God incarnate spend so much of his time telling stories? Why did the gospel writers think it was so crucial to his method of teaching that they devoted so much space to Jesus’ parables their own (carefully curated) works of art? You would think that if Jesus wanted to get his point across, he would have just stated things plainly. After all, he had a lot to cram into those three years with his disciples, shouldn’t he have chosen to communicate in the most clear, concise way possible, i. e. propositional statements instead of stories? Or is that our modern, rationalistic bias showing again? Let’s give Jesus credit where credit is due. He was smart. He was the perfect teacher, infinitely wise, patient, and creative. If there was a better way to get his message across, Jesus would have found it. We can assume, then, that Jesus taught in parables for a reason. Toward the end of his time with his disciples, he also said to them, “I have more to teach you, but you can’t bear it yet.” (John 16:12) This implies that he knew what they could handle and he was shaping and pacing his teaching accordingly. Perhaps his parables were like “time-release truth capsules” that would enlarge inside his hearers as they remembered them again and again across the span of their whole lives. And let’s give the gospel writers the benefit of the doubt too. It might be that they thought conveying Jesus’ teaching by preserving his stories and parables was the best way to present the life-transforming message of the gospel. Perhaps they wanted to give future believers the same opportunity that was given to them, namely, to approach God’s truth with an artist’s eye, with patience, curiosity, and wonder. What if the whole Bible is like that? What if it is meant to be stood under and watched rather than mined for nuggets of truth that can be applied to one’s life? What if we were meant to learn to read it with an artist’s eyes? Andy Patton is on staff with the Rabbit Room and is a former staff member of L'Abri Fellowship in England. He holds an M.A. in theology from Trinity Evangelical Divinity School. He writes at The Darking Psalter (creative rewordings of the Psalms paired with new poetry), Three Things (a monthly digest of resources to help people connect with culture, neighbor, and God), and Pattern Bible (reflections on biblical images in the Bible). Our weekly newsletter is the best way to learn about new books, staff recommendations, upcoming events, lectures, and more. Sign up here.

“Flying used to be fun, until I started doing it for a living,” muses 13-year-old Kiki in Kiki’s Delivery Service, my personal favorite Studio Ghibli movie. Kiki’s Delivery Service has often been viewed as a metaphor for creative burnout; the protagonist is a young witch in training who must move to a new town on her own and start using her magic to somehow serve the community. Since flying on her broomstick is the thing she enjoys doing most, Kiki starts a flying delivery service to deliver things for people in town. It’s a story fraught with metaphor for the life of an artist in general, as many have noted since the film released in 1989. Kiki’s ability to fly is sometimes called her “gift,” and as her gift becomes her way of making a living, complicated feelings arise similar to that of a creative who turns their art into their job. At one point in the film after an intense series of unforgiving delivery days, Kiki loses her magic and must rest and contemplate before she’s able to use it again—not unlike an author with writer’s block or a painter who has lost their inspiration. There’s a particular shot of Kiki collapsing on her bed that has radiated through my soul with its relatability for years now. That element of the story, though, has been talked about quite eagerly by many; the thing that dawned on me recently was a little more specific and surprising. Kiki’s Delivery Service works as a parable about the creative life, yes, but it also functions in tandem as a story highlighting the beauty and complexity of the “gift economy” even in a world driven by the market. The “gift economy” is an elusive idea, and my obsession with it recently culminated in an episode of my podcast covering the topic in depth. Just as many other words can be affixed before “economy” to evoke a world of trade or connections rooted in that particular source of value—gig economy or velvet rope economy among them—the gift economy imagines a world where gifts are central to human relationship. Wikipedia defines the concept as “a system of exchange where valuables are not sold, but rather given without an explicit agreement for immediate or future rewards.” I fear, however, that this definition limits the “gift” to material things; the broader idea of the gift economy can also include offerings of hospitality, time, relational ties, and physical presence. In the life of someone aware of the gift economy—whether or not they call it by that name—these offerings of generosity (both given and received) are central to relationship, community, and connection. There are scant few movies that meaningfully engage with the idea of the gift economy in the first place, and even fewer made in America. For what it is, I don’t think Kiki’s Delivery Service is even being entirely intentional about its depiction of the concept, but perhaps the notions of reciprocal gifts and hospitality are marginally more baked into the culture of Japan than much of the west. Kiki is a character who survives and thrives on gifts—gifts which draw her further into relationship with others. The opening 10 minutes of the film feature two major gifts: Kiki’s iconic flying broomstick, which belonged to her mother and is said to “never lose its way, even in a storm,” and Kiki’s bright red portable radio, which is gifted by her father. As Kiki sets off into the brave world, broomstick coasting on the breeze and radio blasting ‘Rouge no Dengon’ by Yumi Matsutoya, she is already resting on the bed of generosity from her parents. Many other gifts follow. When it begins to thunderstorm in the middle of the night, Kiki drops down into an empty boxcar and sleeps in the hay, serendipitously carried by the train to her next destination. When she arrives in the seaside town of Koriko, after wandering around aimlessly for an afternoon and being refused housing at various hotels because she’s not an adult, Kiki happens to meet the pregnant baker Osono. Osono is running out of her bakery holding a pacifier belonging to a woman and her baby who left moments ago—and in Kiki’s first act of generosity with her magic, she offers to fly the pacifier down to them at the bottom of the hill, leaving Osono gaping with wonder at her abilities. Kiki’s singular gift—using her flying broomstick to deliver a small object to a woman who needs it—prompts Osono to invite her inside and offer her the hospitality of a cup of coffee…along with a bowl of milk for Kiki’s black cat Jiji. After hearing Kiki’s situation, she also generously extends the first major gift Kiki receives in Koriko: she offers to let her have the spare bedroom next to her bakery to stay for free, even if it’s caked in baking flour. Kiki, in turn, offers on numerous occasions to help out around the bakery. Kiki’s ability to use her gift to give is what prompts her to consider a delivery service in the first place, reasoning that “I have one skill—flying—so I thought a delivery service was a good idea.” Kiki suggests using the money she’s saved up to pay for a phone for the delivery service, but Osono subsequently (and generously) says she’ll allow Kiki to use her phone and her bakery as the headquarters instead…and even spreads the word to her friends about what Kiki is doing. As Kiki’s delivery service gains popularity, the concept of gifts becomes central to her life. The first thing Kiki delivers is a birthday gift, and when she returns from the delivery, Osono’s husband has kindly crafted her own “delivery service” signage for her from wood. If you haven’t clued into it already, many of the characters in Kiki’s Delivery Service are just all-around lovely. I remember the first time I watched the movie, I was anxiously waiting for the moment when the “twist villain” would show up, more in line with western animation, and introduce the necessity of contrived conflict into the story. But the delightful thing about Kiki’s Delivery Service is that there are no real villains; just people being kind and generous to each other, and sometimes misunderstanding or getting burned out and nervous. It’s one of the reasons the movie is a comfort watch, and one of the reasons it’s a touching example of gift economy. That’s not to say the movie doesn’t depict the struggles and hardship of generosity, though. On a busy day when Kiki has already been invited to a party and hopes to make it back in time, she arrives at the house of an old woman who is hoping to deliver a pie for her granddaughter’s birthday. The old woman can’t get her electric oven started, and so she tells Kiki she’ll pay her in full even though she has nothing to deliver. Kiki, with the generous heart that she has, offers to help the old woman get her wood-burning oven started—and then makes use of herself by helping her install lightbulbs and clean her kitchen while they wait. By the time she’s finished, Kiki sets off on her broom with the pie later than expected, going straight into a soaking wet thunderstorm. I’ve always resonated deeply with what happens next. A dripping-wet Kiki finally arrives at the door of the granddaughter holding the hot, freshly-baked pie under her shirt to protect it from the rain. A prissy-looking teenage girl opens the door. “Yes?” she says. “I have a delivery!” Kiki responds eagerly. “But it’s completely wet,” the teenage girl says flatly. “I’m sorry. It began to rain on our way. But the food came through all right!” The girl takes the pie. “I told grandma I didn’t want that.” Kiki feels awkward. There’s a beat of silence, and then she asks the girl to sign a receipt for the delivery. “I hate grandma’s stupid pies,” the girl groans, promptly shutting the door in Kiki’s face. Kiki stands in the wet, dejectedly staring into space for a moment as a single raindrop rolls down her brow. “She can’t possibly have been her granddaughter!” jokes Kiki’s cat Jiji. The two of them fly home in the rain. Kiki has missed the party she was supposed to attend. She doesn’t even make an effort to stay dry anymore. When she wakes the next morning, she’s sick—and the next time she tries to ride her broom, her magic has strangely faded. There are a lot of things about this sequence that have always resonated with me strongly. As an artist, sharing something you’ve made is a sensitive and delicate thing, almost like a gift at the audience’s front door. Having someone reject that artistic generosity, especially when you’ve poured out your magic and flown all the way through the thunderstorm, is its own form of defeat. The action of giving a gift inherently carries a level of vulnerability and risk—and especially with a gift of personal art, it can feel like a gift of your soul, too. Kiki’s greatest fear upon arriving in the town of Koriko is rejection, and indeed, she meets some people who are in awe of her magical abilities and others who find them altogether strange or uncivil. When the door is shut in Kiki’s face, it’s a door shut in the face of her work, her heart, and her magic. It’s interesting how this happens even in the midst of a world of commerce. One of the things that makes Kiki’s Delivery Service complex is the fact that Kiki’s magic (subtextually, her artistic gift) is a passion but it is also a job she takes to make money and survive, like many artists in the real world. The gift economy (the art, the magic, the generous hospitality) is inherently intertwined with the market economy—and even though technically Kiki’s pie delivery should have been “just a job,” the rejection still feels personal. Even though it exists in a market economy, the act of the delivery during a thunderstorm is still, in some sense, a gift. Lewis Hyde’s seminal work, The Gift: How The Creative Spirit Transforms The World, explores the multifaceted relationship between market economy and gift economy in fascinating and scholarly detail. “Just as treating nature's [resources] as a gift ensures the fertility of nature,” says Hyde, “so to treat the products of the imagination as gifts ensures the fertility of the imagination.” In early chapters, Hyde says, “it is the assumption of this book that a work of art is a gift, not a commodity… a work of art can survive without the market, but where there is no gift, there is no art.” Art can exist outside of a traditional commerce equation. But it cannot hold its status as art without remaining, in some sense, a gift. The first time I was recommended The Gift, I was living and studying at my oft-mentioned place of refuge called L’Abri Fellowship in England, a Christian “monastery hostel” community where hospitality and generosity are core values. The organization exists on a foundation of prayer and donations, but L’Abri never advertises, recruits students, or comes anywhere close to “fundraising,” under the belief that God will supply the financial and material provision if the place is meant to continue existing. It’s an intentional vulnerability that makes the enduring survival of L’Abri itself into a testament to God’s continued faithfulness…and makes it an even more precious gift. There is a cost to attend L’Abri; at the English branch, it’s about £22 per night. This includes a bed, bathrooms and showers, a library, 3 meals per day, a personal tutor who meets with you once a week to talk about your life, and participation in the community during the term. Needless to say, in comparison to the cost of ordinary living, a term as a student at L’Abri is cheap. I’ve heard from various workers that the price students pay is roughly one half of what it actually costs to have them. The rest comes from unprompted donations and gifts. One of the funniest things I’ve ever read about L’Abri was a review on TripAdvisor that said something like “nice people. okay food. drafty house. left early.” I haven’t been able to find that review since, but I distinctly remember seeing it back when I was considering going. During my term there, I mused to a friend that it felt strange and almost wrong to leave a “review” for L’Abri on a website like TripAdvisor in the first place. At the time, I couldn’t figure out why exactly it felt that way. Now, I can pinpoint that it was because the action itself of writing a review took an experience of generosity and hospitality and pulled it into the world of commerce and transaction. Make no mistake, we live in a market economy and I don’t begrudge anyone of reading reviews for L’Abri to figure out what they’re getting themselves into; you’ll find that the reviews are often glowing. But if you’ve ever been to L’Abri, you know that it feels almost like reading reviews for the experience of being invited over to your friend’s house. Nobody lucky enough to have a friend to invite them over in the first place would be interested in listing pros and cons on a review website. It would be like Kiki trying to evaluate the spare room she was gifted by Osono and rate it out of ten. Andrew Fellows, the former director of English L’Abri, has a solid lecture about the concept of the gift economy. One of his key points, a point shared by Lewis Hyde in his book, is that the participation in the gift economy (and the intentional vulnerability required to do so) generates relationship and trust in ways that the market economy doesn’t. In commerce, the relationship is cut off as soon as the transaction is complete. In gift economies, the relationship continues far beyond, particularly when there’s no way (or requirement) to repay the debt of a gift. That's certainly been true of the people I met and received care from at L'Abri. It's meaningful just to continue being in each other's lives, and pass on (or gift) something of the same hospitality and care to others if I can. At the behest of some L’Abri friends, I recently tried out CouchSurfing while visiting Pennsylvania for a funeral. CouchSurfing is an app and website that connects people who are interested in offering their space (usually a pull-out couch, or a guest room) to strangers who need somewhere to stay short term, completely free of charge. It’s very popular across Europe, but it’s got lots of participants in America, too. Most CouchSurfing users list their expectations of guests on their profile; some will note that they’d appreciate help with some kind of small task or chore while the person stays, but the vast majority just say that they’d like to share a meal or a good conversation with their guest while they’re staying in their home. That’s the only payment they expect. My CouchSurfing host in Pennsylvania, Sam, had a pullout couch in the middle of his living room—which, after I arrived, surprised me with a gigantic and beautiful mural of The Polar Express that Sam said his friend painted while he was “in the Christmas spirit.” Because of the funeral, I didn’t get to see Sam much while I was in town, but I did wake up early the first morning I was staying at his place and had a 2 hour chat with him about community, God, and traveling. He was a really thoughtful guy. The night beforehand, Sam had texted me the keycode to his apartment so that I could let myself in while he was out for a late night movie with friends. Ironically, at the time, I was feeling nervous about arriving in a stranger’s apartment alone, going to bed and not knowing when he’d be back late at night. Sam told me the next day that around the same time I was getting settled in, his friends had all been asking him how he could possibly feel safe knowing that a total stranger was in his apartment while he was away. Sam said he told them, “I’ve done this so many times, and nobody has ever let me down. When you give someone the gift of trust, they usually give the same gift back.” Before leaving early on the final morning, I walked to a donut shop nearby and brought back a box to leave on Sam’s counter. A few hours later, he texted me and said “thanks for the donuts! I hope you had a nice visit to the city despite the circumstances. You and your wife are both welcome anytime you find yourselves around here in the future!” My experience staying in Sam’s apartment opened my eyes to all the intertwined intricacies of life in a gift economy. I put myself into a vulnerable place by staying in a stranger’s house. Sam put himself into an arguably even more vulnerable place by inviting a stranger in. In a world of market and commerce where it would have been safer and less intimidating to just pay for a hotel, the action of trying CouchSurfing was a risk. But Sam’s gift of trust was reciprocated with my trust, and now we have a relationship that may even last beyond that brief 3-night stay. I’m sure if I ever go back to Pennsylvania, we’ll hang out again. This piece was originally supposed to be about Kiki’s Delivery Service, wasn’t it? As Kiki’s eventually soars toward its ending, the external climax involves Kiki receiving a gift of a stranger’s broom (after her own broom was broken) and igniting her magical ability again to go and save her friend Tombo, who is about to fall from a great height. The true internal climax for Kiki’s character, though, happens in the scene prior to all of this commotion. The old woman who baked the pie that Kiki delivered in the rain has invited her over to her house again, supposedly to make another delivery. Kiki tries to explain that she hasn’t been flying so much recently, but the old woman says that should be okay, because this gift doesn’t have to go far. She tells Kiki to open a box on the table on front of her, revealing a lovingly-baked chocolate cake with her name (and a picture of Kiki riding her broom) in icing on top. “Would you please deliver it to a girl named Kiki?” says the old woman softly. “She was kind, and a tremendous help. It is my ‘thank you.’ And would you find out when her next birthday might be? Then I’ll be able to bake her another one.” Kiki’s eyes glisten with affection and appreciation, and watching the scene again, my eyes do as well. Finally, she wipes the tears away and says, "I will. And I’m sure Kiki will want to know the lady’s birthday so that she’ll be able to give her a gift too!” “You’ve got a deal!” the old woman chuckles. Art. Vulnerability. Relationship. Trust. To me, that’s a picture of what life in a gift economy can look like. And it’s beautiful. Houston Coley and his wife Debbie are missional documentary filmmakers from Atlanta and Czech Republic. Houston is a YouTube video essayist, self-described 'theme park theologian', and the artistic director of a nonprofit called Art Within. Our weekly newsletter is the best way to learn about new books, staff recommendations, upcoming events, lectures, and more. Sign up here.