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by the Rabbit Room Arthur Alligood’s 40th birthday was yesterday—happy birthday, Arthur!—and in celebration, he’s releasing a record entitled One Night Only. This album was recorded, as the title suggests, over the course of one single night in March 2019 in Arthur’s own living room. The liner notes add, “This was a live take recording. No overdubs; all complete takes. I played acoustic guitar and sang while Nick Huddleston strummed his slew of electrics. My wife Tiffany sang harmonies on ‘Shame’ and also took the cover photo.” Click here to view this record in the Rabbit Room Store.

by Drew Miller Today we share the final episode of The Artist’s Creed, Season One. This discussion circles around the phrase “The Resurrection and the Life of the World to Come” and features singer/songwriter and worship leader Sandra McCracken. In this episode, Steve and Sandra discuss the relationship between music and silence, cultivating a posture of receptivity before God, and how creativity and play prepare us to enter into the New Creation. In a series of interviews with various artists in our community, Steve draws on the tenets of the Nicene Creed to develop a rich vision of the relationship between the voice of God and the voice of the artist—constructing an “artist’s creed” of sorts. Click here to listen to the sixth and final episode of The Artist’s Creed, Season One.

by Janna Barber I finished my book on a Monday afternoon, an hour before the kids got home from school. I’ve written over fifty thousand words during the last five years, and it feels like I’ve finally told the whole story I set out to tell. There’s still a little polishing to do, and maybe even a few more paragraphs to add here and there, but I’m more certain than ever that I know what the final product is, and that’s a great feeling. Of course it terrifies me to make this public knowledge because now people might start asking to read it, and that’s just as scary as writing the darn thing. I guess my new job should be finding an agent, or a publisher, or just printing it myself, but I’m bound to face rejection on all those avenues, so I’m not in a hurry to start chasing publication just yet. I really wish I could say, “Well, I wrote it, now on to something else.” But dang, I know that’s not the right move either, and I can’t explain why. I’m so filled with muddled thoughts right now. I really thought I’d be more excited to share this news with everyone, but instead I’ve been forcing myself to do it, and every time someone congratulates me I feel like a fraud. I wish I were well and whole already. I wish I didn’t freak out over things like possible rejection and unknown futures. I wish it didn’t feel like I was fourteen again, like the last twenty-eight years of life haven’t changed me at all. Will I ever not have doubting and sorrow? Or worry. How can you find peace and joy every day without losing them all the time, like an obstinate set of car keys? No, finishing a book hasn’t made me whole. And neither will getting it published or reaching a thousand followers on my blog. But being honest about how I’m feeling right now is better than ignoring my feelings, which is my usual tendency. So here I am, sharing some honesty with the internet again. I hope airing these negative feelings today will help me move on to more positive ones, but even if it doesn’t, I know that I still have a lot to be thankful for. I’m thankful for all the lessons I’ve learned in writing this book, and for all the wonderful people who’ve encouraged me along the way. I’m thankful to be able to see the same set of circumstances in a different way now, and I’m thankful for all the new people I’ve met through this venture, and the stories I know that got me to this point. The sun is out today, and the trees and flowers are blooming. My dog doesn’t bark as much as she used to, and I’ve got great friends and a terrific family who loves me just as much as I love them. Even if we’re not all that great at showing that love to each other, grace says we’re beautiful anyhow. I stole that idea from a Sara Groves song called, “Add to the Beauty,” and those four words have been hanging on the wall of our living room for seven years now. They were there when I started writing this book, and they’ve been inspirational in many other facets of life ever since I first heard them. The story God is telling through our lives and in our world is a beautiful one, friends, even if we don’t always see it that way. And as his image bearers we find joy in looking for, and perhaps adding to, the beauty in his one-of-a-kind tale. Even if we never “arrive” as artists, I think Jesus is pleased with the work we do in his name. So now I’m gonna go put some clothes in the dryer and decide whether or not to wash my hair today. Thanks for reading my big announcement post and for taking an interest in my work in the first place. I hope you have a nice afternoon and that you’re able to see something pretty out there today. Even if it’s small. Sojourn well, dear friends. We’re all loved infinitely, regardless of whether we deserve it, or believe it, or not. Click here to visit Janna’s blog.

by the Rabbit Room We have a new podcast episode for you—this time, it’s a Hutchmoot talk given by Kevin Twit and Keith Getty on the vital importance of hymns in the life of the Church. Kevin Twit and Keith Getty have spent their careers studying and writing the songs of the Church, and in this episode they bring their decades of experience to Hutchmoot to discuss the history and necessity of the art of hymnody. Click here to listen.

by Matt Conner I didn’t want my own son. Perhaps that’s a bit too honest, this essay a bit too public. But the sentiment was true, and truth, I’ve been told, can set us free. I was an only child who’d recently turned 37. For a Midwestern boy, that’s considerably older than my schoolmates who were churning out babies while I was finding my footing as a young adult. I was also a new resident of Nashville, a city with considerably more to do than the small post-industrial town where I’d served as a pastor for a decade. I was wired for the mix of things to do and disposable income. My wife felt the same for the most part. After seven years of marriage, neither set of parents had ever even asked about grandchildren. Neither of us had ever changed a diaper. Neither came from a large family, nor were we impressed to start our own. The idea of children entering our picture was frightening, to be honest, and the idea of the actual child-birthing process brought about anxiety in my wife. I couldn’t blame her. I’d feel the same if biology made such things possible. Then came the news. Just a couple weeks before, we’d had a brief conversation as my wife changed over our insurance plans—auto, home, health—from Indiana to Tennessee. “Do we want maternity coverage?” she asked. We both said no. That was it. No big discussion. No checking in again to make certain. Just a brief exchange over insurance. Several days later, my wife walks into the living room. “I’m pregnant.” It was a sobering moment. No fanfare. No emotions. I just remember a quiet moment where we both reflected on the coming reality. It was happening. We were hardly alone in this endeavor. We would adjust. Some deep breaths later, we simply moved on with our day. The next January, Elliot was born. His mother took to him immediately, a switch flipped internally, and it was a beautiful thing to see. It took me quite a while. If anything, it was confrontational. Even today, my own father and I haven’t talked for years (and that’s par for our course). I had no model and certainly no idea of how to proceed as a dad. It wasn’t just a scary proposition. I was terrified of the future—mine and his. It's learning to trust in ways I've forgotten and love in ways I've withheld. Matt Conner What I had yet to discover is that a child was exactly what I needed in the moment, that I needed to see the world through a lens different than my own. It took considerable time and effort (and counseling) but gradually I’ve grown to love fatherhood. It’s his joy, his wonder, his capacity for love that has healed so much within me. So much about my five-year-old confronts me in meaningful ways—his ability to be present, his trust in people and processes, his longing for adventure, his innocent heart, his held out arms extended to the world around him. Two years ago, one of my favorite bands, Elbow , released a song that somehow cut to the core of my own experience. Few instances are as powerful as the moment when someone gives you language for things you’ve felt or experienced, and Guy Garvey, the principal lyricist and vocalist of the band, provided that for me on a song called “Magnificent (She Says)”. He was confronted with being a new father himself at the time he wrote the song. I’ll let him share the set-up. “Magnificent (She Says)”, Elbow “We were deliberately, it being our honeymoon, staying away from the news, staying away from what was going on,” Garvey said in a video interview in 2017 . “The only time we caught the news accidentally, it was so jarring that we found it really upsetting and it stayed with us for the rest of the day. So I thought this has to be addressed somehow.” [Quick note: If you’re new to Elbow, just know they’ve been an influential Brit-rock band for 20 years, and Garvey, as a lyricist, has always swam in the deep end of the pool. If you like Coldplay’s “Fix You,” Chris Martin said he was trying to write an Elbow tune.] In the song, Garvey sets up the scene of a family on holiday at the beach, a little girl standing in awe at the edge of the ocean while her parents watch. As a parent-to-be, he was filled with fright at the idea of bringing a child into the world. How can you possibly bring a child into a world as divided, as chaotic, as this? Not only are the parents broken, but the world even more so. I could totally relate. Then Garvey sets the song in motion. I’ll let the lyrics take it from here (and I’d advise listening along at this point): This is where, this is where the bottle lands Where all the biggest questions meet With little feet stood in the sand This is where the echoes swell to nothing on the tide And where a tiny pair of hands Finds a sea-worn piece of glass And sets it as a sapphire in her mind And there she stands Throwing both her arms around the world The world that doesn’t even know How much it needs this little girl It’s all gonna be magnificent, she says It’s all gonna be magnificent I couldn’t stop crying when I first heard the chorus. I was undone. It was the child teaching the parent. The trust, the joy, the capacity for love, the longing for adventure, the innocence. These were the very things a broken world needed, all offered to it by a child. Sound familiar? Garvey charts his own learning curve in the second verse. This is where it all began To light your mother’s cigarette Meant I got to touch her hand And my heart, there defrosting in a gaze Wasn’t built to beat that way Suddenly I understand There on the sand Throwing both her arms around the world The world that doesn’t even know How much it needs this little girl It’s all gonna be magnificent, she says It’s all gonna be magnificent “I loved the idea of this innocence, a little girl with all of her goodwill intact, with the naiveté we’re all born with, which leads you to hold somebody, and leads you to trust strangers, the stuff the world could really use a big dose of, existing in all of us when we’re born,” said Garvey about the song . “The idea of this girl and the vastness of the ocean was the best way I could try to put this together. ‘It’s all gonna be magnificent,’ she says.” My own child is teaching me the same, that to participate in the renewing of my own self and the world is to mimic his posture, his worldview. It’s learning to trust in ways I’ve forgotten and love in ways I’ve withheld. Ultimately it’s also about believing in these words despite how naive they sound. And he who was seated on the throne said, “Behold, I am making all things new.” Also he said, “Write this down, for these words are trustworthy and true.” —Revelation 21:5

by Drew Miller Songs from April 30th’s Local Show are now available for streaming on Spotify and Apple Music ! Click through for our sixth playlist of the season along with a recap of the night written by Jared Malament, the Local Show’s Beloved Servant. Last week’s edition of the Local Show was a great mix of artists old and new, featuring Brandon Heath , David Leonard (of All Sons & Daughters), Jess Ray , and The Arcadian Wild . Joining them were special guests Ben & Noelle Kilgore . They told stories of raising little girls, friends attempting suicide, and the Enneagram (because this is Nashville after all). And for the first time ever, each and every song performed that night is available on this week’s playlist! —Jared Malament Set List Brandon Heath: “Your Love” David Leonard: “Signs of Life” Jess Ray: “Too Good” The Arcadian Wild: “Silence, A Stranger” Brandon Heath: “Faith Hope Love Repeat” David Leonard: “Great Are You Lord” (All Sons & Daughters) Jess Ray: “Gallows” The Arcadian Wild: “Oh, Sleeper” Ben & Noelle Kilgore: “Oh My Soul” Ben & Noelle Kilgore: “Grace Grace” Brandon Heath: “Only One in the World” David Leonard: “Know Your Heart” Jess Ray: “Humble Heart” The Arcadian Wild: “Graduate” Brandon Heath: “I’m Not Who I Was” David Leonard: “The Little That I Know” Jess Ray: “No Man” The Arcadian Wild: “A Benediction” Click here to listen to the playlist on Spotify. And click here to listen on Apple Music.

by Adam Whipple First things first: spoiler alert. This is going to get messy, because I got messy. I got the last good seat at the 9:30 showing of Avengers: Endgame —the only seat left from which I wouldn’t have to crane my neck at an obtuse angle. I shuffled in to the row, which was mostly empty at that point, except for the dating couple next to my seat. I apologized before plopping down beside the lady, which made the moment more awkward than it would have been anyway. A little while later, a large man and his young son scooted past us and sat next to me. These were to be my companions for the journey. We had come for entertainment, yes, but also for closure. After twenty-one films of waiting for post-credits questions, we demanded answers. It’s no spoiler to say that Marvel spent the weeks before the release of Endgame building up to a gigantic resurrection. Those of us who combed casting lists the moment they were announced wondered if all those people who had turned to dust would only show up in flashbacks. Then came trailers and clips that gave us what turned out to be a mere inkling of the plot line. “He used the stones again,” Black Widow says. “So let’s get ‘em,” says Captain Marvel. “Use them to bring everyone back.” Part of me was prepared to be disappointed. Looking back, one thing that might have turned me off to comics as a child was the perpetual reversibility of death on a mortal scale. It didn’t take a Savior. All it took was some magical reality-bending device or some lump of unobtainium. Or the characters would make a deal with the great gatekeepers of death. Wave the wand; say the magic words. Presto-chango, you get your hero back. I didn’t believe any of it. Don’t get me wrong; I was steeped in the story of Jesus’ resurrection, but the stakes in comics didn’t feel high enough. Readers were more likely to buy comics about heroes they knew, so writers kept having to bring back dead protagonists. Death lacked a sting not because of Jesus, but because of job security. I don’t know why, but outside of the Gospel, the Resurrection feels like something storytellers must hold loosely. Hint at it, whisper of it, and the ontological truth of it will ring out with a power that defies explanation. Grip it any tighter than that, and the attempt to control it with pen and ink will make a sad clown of the author. Last week, I desperately wanted Endgame to deliver on its hype, but a mass comeback from the grave felt cheap, an easy out. Something had to be beyond the de-snapping of the MCU. The Russo brothers did not let me down. Part of being human is learning to hate Death. Part of following Jesus is learning to laugh at Death, even through your hatred. Adam Whipple Suffice it to say, the stakes are real. The film begins with a gut-punch, then spends its first act and more taking us through three of the five stages of grief. “Thanos did exactly what he said he was gonna do,” said Black Widow. Then the Russos did exactly what they said they’d do. They un-snapped the snap. Of course I geeked out with everyone else. Who wouldn’t flip out to see friends come back? The moment rings a little of Matthew 27, when Jesus’ resurrection extended to include “the bodies of many saints who had died [and] were raised to life,” who then wandered into Jerusalem to visit family and old pals. It’s as if Jesus’ dominion over death was something like an explosion, with its own collateral healings. However, though Tony Stark starts the twenty-two-film saga with an insufferable messiah complex, he’s far from being the Messiah. Barring the presence of Jesus in a film, I need death to have a permanence. I need to be able to mourn in truth with the characters for a story to work. Even Jesus wept over Lazarus, after all. If you’re keeping score at this point, you’ve probably figured out why I started with a spoiler alert. A few of our heroes didn’t make it back. We, the audience, had been with them for chapters and chapters of this saga, only for their lives to be tossed aside with little more than remembrance as consolation for the living. And suddenly, the comic book movie rang true. There he was: Death, that final enemy whom we all know far too well. I’m grateful this grand cinematic story had teeth. Part of being human is learning to hate Death. Part of following Jesus is learning to laugh at Death, even through your hatred. I teared up a fair amount in the darkness of my seat. A stereo chorus of sniffling told of others doing the same in the corners of the theater. There was no post-credits scene in this film—believe me, I stayed till the lights came on. Oddly, the music faded to the ringing sound of a hammer. Perhaps it was something tossed in to stir our collective geekery, a thin scrap of foreshadowing. For me though, it was the preamble to my own epilogue of the Avengers narrative. Of course there was a hammer. Whatever it meant to the Russos, I cannot but remember that, in the story of Death dying, there is always a hammer. I hiked through acres of locked cars to where my van waited in the silenced midnight of a strip mall parking lot. There was one tune in my head, so I put it on and cried at 80 mph down the interstate. It’s the tune that’s always in my head when I see characters die in movies or books. It’s from Ben Shive’s album The Cymbal Crashing Clouds . You have to look death in the eye, in the eye. You need to see what’s hidden there. You have to look him in the eye, in the eye. You need to see that he’s afraid to die. He’s afraid to die. But you, my love— You’re gonna wake up soon In your lonely room To the sound of a singing bird, Throw the curtain back To find your bag’s already packed And the cab is at the curb. Then like a bad dream Unreal in the morning light, So will the world seem When you see it in the mirror for the last time, ‘Cause there is a last time, There’s a last time for everything.

by Rebecca Reynolds If you haven’t seen Endgame , stop reading now. I’ll try not to post any spoilers until I get a few paragraphs deep, but I am eventually going to drop a few. Consider yourselves forewarned. So, I loved Endgame . I laughed, I cried, I clapped and shouted, “No!” in the theater. Just behind Shazam , the multiverse Spiderman , and Wonder Woman , Endgame falls right in line with my top superhero movies of all time. The CGI battle scenes were try-not-to-stand-on-the-theater-seat epic. Relational tension and resolve were near perfection, considering the genre and backstories. Watching what time does to human hearts broken by failure, loss, and disillusionment felt honest. What do we do when it all falls apart? Some of us organize. Some of us hide and drink. Some of us join support groups. Some of us let the anger of losing it all drive us to destroy. I loved the camaraderie of a risk-it-all fellowship; the fierce determination of a band of women standing firm and proclaiming, “Just so you know, she has backup”; the way best friends fight to beat each other to die for each other. The end…well, the end broke my heart because “that guy” has always been my favorite superhero. I didn’t cry during, “Mr. Stark, I don’t feel so good.” This one—this one hurt. I’m still not okay about it. Despite all this, Endgame dug a little too deep into the Mines of Moria for me, unearthing an ache that probably bears discussion. Actually, I almost wrote about this after seeing Infinity War , but I decided to wait and see how Endgame turned out. Now I know. Before I hit on this, though, please understand what I’m not saying. I’m not saying the movie is bad. I’m not saying the movie is anti-Christian propaganda or that masses of people should protest it, or anything of the sort. I’m writing about this confessionally—like I might write about a classic book like 1984 or a classic movie like the 1968 Planet of the Apes —both of which I love. I’m saying, “What’s here? Why is it here? What does this film reveal about my own fears, wounds, and suspicions and those of our present culture?” This post is exploratory, not condemning. It asks what we can learn from a flicker on the screen of the human consciousness. For a couple of years, friends (like David Mitchel) and I have been talking about how the greatest opposing force facing modern Christianity isn’t obvious evil. Our fiercest opponent is human morality that considers itself superior to the morality of God. Chesterton wrote about the danger of virtues splitting off and separating from their core a hundred years ago, and his warning has come to fruition in 2019. Nobody cares about Nietzsche’s “God is dead” these days. The resistance of our time isn’t atheistic but accusatory. It points a finger and says, “That God is immoral.” “After all, he commanded homosexuals to be stoned for hundreds of years.” “After all, he commanded women to sit outside their own community during their monthly periods.” “After all, he rained down fire, and caused horrible plagues, and slaughtered firstborn babies.” “After all, he lets people go into eternal torment if they don’t check off the right belief box before they croak.” “After all, he snapped his fingers and, ‘Poof,’ he turned all the people of the world to dust except for a single family in a boat—hoping to reboot a broken, self-destructive world.” Sound familiar? The first time I read 1984 , I broke out into a cold sweat when I read about Big Brother’s demand for love instead of mere obedience. I could feel the theological tension. Whether Orwell meant it or not, the soteriological parallel nearly choked me—the severity of an impossible dilemma: either learn to feel devotion from the heart or experience endless torment. There is no middle ground. I was horrified. Paralyzed. I felt something similar watching Thanos. My soul began to cry out, “Who? Who has the right to eliminate so much of the population, simply because he sees how broken it is?” Then, in the dark of that theater, my second sight flashed with a Citizen Kane newsreel. I saw human masses drowned by a global flood. I saw entire cities obliterated by fiery hail. I saw Lot’s wife turning to a pillar of salt. Before me roared Thanos with a cruel hand wrapped around the neck of Nebula, that quivering daughter who is never good enough. He demands utter allegiance or else…or else… Pulling the blanket I always carry into the theater up around my neck, overcome by the cold fear of God, I shivered. I say “cold fear” because this sensation is very different from what I call the “hot fear” of God. The cold fear of God is the stuff of my nightmares—not the stuff of my worship. The cold fear of God whispers that he is demanding, detached, and heartless. The cold fear of God whispers that he is egotistical, demanding allegiance at the cost of the eternal suffering of his lessers. The cold fear of God whispers that he has a favorite daughter, and I will never be she—no matter what I sacrifice. The cold fear of God whispers that his goodness isn’t really good—that he is an alien force who sits with mad patience on a distant rock, churning over a skewed ethic, and counting down the seconds until he can snap us all to dust. I needed the fear that says, Good emanates from You, oh Lord. It is not the sum total of all human virtues. Rebecca Reynolds I don’t know if there will be a literal Rapture. Most of my friends think this concept was invented by John Darby in the 1800’s. I don’t really agree with them because I’ve read stuff that makes me think otherwise, but I’m also not fully on board with the pretribbers. In this age where everybody is sure about everything, I don’t know this. I’ll have to study more to figure out where I stand. But after watching Infinity War , I realized that if such a thing ever should happen, it will be interpreted by those who remain as the work of a Thanos-type power. It will make resistance seem just. It will rally the troops, spiritual and earthly, and as they attempt to defy the “One Who Removed,” they will feel noble and right. My family kept asking me why I was so quiet on the ride home. This is why. I didn’t want to talk about it yet. I needed time for the hot fear of God to replace the cold. Sitting in that theater, I felt the recurrence of the Edenic slither, I heard the echo of, “Eve, hath God really said,” and the, “Don’t you want to be like God?” “After all, Eve, you could do this so much better.” So I needed time to back away from the CGI—the portals—the shining powers—the glorious masses of Wakanda—time to shake off the roar of a thousand secondary virtues that work within a three-hour redemption plot and spend time with Virtue Proper. I needed to find the metanarrative within which all lesser narratives live, straining and reaching for what will only be revealed in full in the final “Ah-ha!” I needed to bathe my own battle wounds—wounds of suspicion and accusation of the divine—in the blood of the God who not only has a moral right to remove life but who spread a glove full of Infinity stones wide and allowed humanity drive a hard stake right through it. I needed to remember that he will not break a bruised reed. I needed to remember how he knelt to wash the feet of fishermen. I needed to remember how prostitutes and children and thieves were drawn to his gentleness. I needed to remember that the groves were his first temples. I needed to remember that his mercies are new every morning. I needed the hot and holy fear that warms me like a fire—the fear that is the true beginning of wisdom—the fear that roots itself in ethos, not just logos—the fear that is more awe than terror—the fear that entails a clear and honest vision of my own limitations more than paranoia over a cage full of rats. I needed the fear that says, Good emanates from You, oh Lord. It is not the sum total of all human virtues. I needed a paradox that can never be caught in a straw man. I needed the complexity of a living Person. I needed the magnitude of Job 38: Brace yourself like a man; I will question you, and you shall answer me. Where were you when I laid the earth’s foundation? Tell me, if you understand. Who marked off its dimensions? Surely you know! Who stretched a measuring line across it? On what were its footings set, or who laid its cornerstone— while the morning stars sang together and all the angels shouted for joy? I needed to remember the trilliums that bloom in the mountains. I needed to remember the deep-forest birth of a doe who will never be seen by the eyes of a human. I needed to remember the Story before all stories. I needed to see a glimpse of a God whose ways are incomprehensible at times, who does not fit neatly into a Jungian archetype, nor into one of Vladimir Propp’s file folders, nor into one of Joseph Campbell’s reductions—but a God who cannot be deconstructed on a dissection table by Turgenev’s Bazarov, then boxed in to some mad “Other.” No genus. No species. He is what he is. The Alpha and the Omega. The beginning and the end. Behold the holy severity and the paternal tenderness of a Living God. I do not understand all of the hard things done by my Lord, but I do understand this. For of all the things he could have done with the darkness of the heart of humanity, he chose to be born among simple people and beasts of burden. He chose to be despised, to allow himself to be beaten, to allow himself to be stretched out and nailed to a cross so that people like you and me might have life. Then he said, “Take this gift I give you. Take it quickly to all the earth, and offer it to everybody you see. Throw it like silver dollars from a parade float. Distribute it like antivenin. Go. Go. Go. Give it away, and give it away again, and give yourselves as I give to you, so that as humanity self-destructs, it might instead have life and have it abundantly.” This was the cosmic snap. The snap of a God allowing himself to be stuffed into a tomb that became a portal for everyone you know. Then I saw the whole thing more clearly. God is not Thanos. Thanos is the work of governments deciding which lives are not worth living. Thanos is the work of governments deciding which lives are not worth protecting. Thanos is the work of governments crawling in bed with men who prostitute imitations of religion to maneuver the masses. Thanos is every alternative human morality that says, “We will be like God without God.” At this, I feel my spirit kneel in wonder, as the illusion slowly turns inside out. Sweet, hot fear chases away the cold, burning away my suspicion and resistance. This is not a forced love. This is a human looking into the white hot center of the universe and seeing that it shines, and simply calling light light. All things hold together in him. All things. When the serpentine cold fear returns—when I listen to, “He doesn’t want you to know good from evil, see?”—when I place him in the dock as a suspect—I forget the evidence. My name is carved into his hands. When he had the chance to take it all, he gave to us instead.

by Michael Card William Lane wrote, “We must engage Scripture at the level of the informed imagination.” If the imagination provides a bridge between the heart and the mind, reintegrating what was disintegrated by the Fall (Dt 6:4f), then the way we approach the Bible will be affected in several ways. First, engaging the imagination involves reading with the heart (devotionally) as well as the mind (theologically). Second, cultivating an informed imagination demands that we do our own homework, utilizing commentaries and word studies. We come to the academic material with a different level of expectation. The commentaries are not the final word. Third, we embrace a new appreciation for the Holy Spirit in the process of understanding scripture (See John 14:16f, 16:5-15). We never read our bibles alone if we are followers of Jesus. We always study in tandem with his Spirit, who provides limitless resources. Fourth, we come to various translations with a different level of expectation, understanding that each one has its own presuppositions, strengths and weaknesses. Lane gives three basic questions to ask when we are listening to Scripture. Who is the author? What are the author’s unique interests? Their unique vocabulary? What is the life situation? What is happening within the community the author is writing to? What are the unique struggles being addressed? What is unique about the letter? This means, in Paul’s case, being aware of the major themes of his other letters. Unique themes also speak to the life situation of the first recipients of the letter. As we come to study Ephesians, these questions will give us an excellent framework for understanding the letter. Much of the following content is drawn from notes that were part of William (Bill) Lane’s New Testament course, a class that taught me to engage with the Scriptures “at the level of the informed imagination.” I knew Bill as a formidable professor at Western Kentucky University. He spoke multiple languages (fourteen, I believe!) and received his doctorate from Harvard. However, in the twenty-six years that followed I came to know him as a friend, pastor, confessor, and a thousand other things one follower of Jesus should be to another. Bill’s teaching was powerful and his enthusiasm infectious. His ideas are the result of a lifetime of listening to the voice of the author and the life situation of the reader. Who is the author? The letter opens by introducing the apostle Paul as the author. In Acts 18 – 20 we read about Paul’s long-standing, close relationship with the Ephesian church. On one visit he spent three years living with the believers and training disciples. He knew the remarkable things they had witnessed, the impact their transformed lives were having in Asia, the difficulties they faced, and the false teaching that had caused problems among them. Some months after leaving Ephesus, Paul came to Miletus, where the elders from the Ephesian church met up with him one last time (Acts 20:13-38). Their parting was raw and painful as they wept and embraced one another. We can only imagine how much it meant to them, around five years later, when they received a letter from Paul—now in prison in Rome, under house arrest and awaiting trial. Paul’s affection for the believers in Ephesus raises the first question as to the intended audience of the letter. Particularly in light of some of his other correspondence, it would seem strange that a letter written directly to a church he knew well and cared for deeply would not contain any specific personal greetings. In addition, Paul mentions that he has heard about their faith in the Lord Jesus and their love for God’s people (1:15). Surely in Ephesus he witnessed it first hand? Interestingly, the phrase “in Ephesus” is not found at the beginning of the earliest and most reliable manuscripts. While the letter has become associated exclusively with the Ephesian church, there is much evidence that they were not the only original recipients. Instead, it is likely that this was a circular letter, delivered by Tychicus to several churches connected by the major trade routes in the area, finally ending up in Ephesus and thus becoming associated with the Ephesians. Lane points out that there is a great deal of similarity and overlapping content between the books of Ephesians and Colossians, suggesting that they may have been written as companion letters. He writes: In Colossians Paul presents Christ as the head of the church and in Ephesians Paul presents the church as the Body of Christ. These are complimentary statements of truth regarding the nature of Christ and his church. The exchange of these letters would expose the Christians in the Lycus Valley to this fuller perspective. Given the close ties with the book of Colossians, it’s possible that the book we know as Ephesians is actually the letter referred to in Colossians 4:16 where Paul says , “After this letter has been read to you, see that it is also read in the church of the Laodiceans and that you in turn read the letter from Laodicea.” What is the life situation of the first readers? If this letter was written to several churches, addressing varied problems and applying the same breath-taking truth to each, it contains a breadth and brilliance that we could easily miss. While each city had its own specific issues to deal with, they shared many common struggles. In a cultural melting pot of clashing belief systems and worldviews, Paul writes using language and terms that would have been readily understood by his hearers, extolling Christ and his supreme place in the story that God has been telling since the creation of the world. When we discover more about the first recipients of this powerful letter, it helps us better understand its original context. Not only does this “informed imagination” give us insight into Paul’s intent in writing; it helps us intelligently apply the rich truth of Ephesians in a world that is in some ways so culturally different and yet, in others, surprisingly familiar. In Colossae, heresy had crept into the church. Seduced by false teaching, it is likely that the believers were straying into early Gnosticism and angel worship. Paul is deeply concerned for them. In Colossians 1:1-3 he writes: I want you to know how hard I am contending for you and for those at Laodicea, and for all who have not met me personally. My goal is that they may be encouraged in heart and united in love, so that they may have the full riches of complete understanding, in order that they may know the mystery of God, namely Christ, in whom are hidden all the treasures of wisdom and knowledge. I tell you this so that no one may deceive you by fine sounding arguments. This fatherly, pastoral heart is echoed in the beautiful prayer in Ephesians 1, where Paul prays that “ …the eyes of your heart may be enlightened in order that you may know the hope to which he has called you, the riches of his glorious inheritance in his holy people and his incomparably great power for us who believe.” (Eph 1:18-19) We must engage Scripture at the level of the informed imagination. William Lane As a center of banking with a renowned medical school and a prestigious textile industry, Laodicea was a city known for its affluence. The independent wealth was so great that, following an earthquake, the city was able to be independently rebuilt without any assistance from the power of Rome. When the affluence of Laodicea is set beside the unparalleled riches of the spiritual blessings lavished on them in Christ, we begin to get a feel for the impact of Paul’s words on the believers there. We know from history that their grasp of these truths would be tested in the coming years. When Caesar Domitian declared himself a god and demanded to be worshipped, wealthy believers like the Laodiceans would find themselves faced with the choice to compromise their faith or lose their financial status. The city of Ephesus was home to the great Temple of Artemis, one of the Seven Wonders of the World. In a culture dominated by this goddess of sexuality, sexual morality was under constant attack, ceremonial prostitution was a way of life, and a two-story brothel near the temple operated freely and without condemnation. Sorcery and magic were a big source of income and on one occasion many new believers publicly burned their sorcery scrolls, totaling vast sums of money. At the end of Paul’s time in Ephesus, persecution of the believers erupted as influential leaders pushed back violently against the dramatic religious, cultural, and even financial implications of the gospel. Within each of these young churches, Jews and Gentiles found themselves serving, worshipping, and learning together for the first time. In the midst of clashing perspectives, backgrounds, and traditions, one of the over-riding themes of the letter is the importance of unity between the believers. Despite real tensions, it was imperative that the churches learn to live together in a way that intentionally and sacrificially preserved the oneness that had been gifted to them by the Holy Spirit. As the individual churches struggled with the age-old problems of culture and church politics, Paul’s response is to remind them of all they are and have in Christ, urging them to grow to maturity in him, so that, together, they could stand firm in an increasingly hostile world. What is unique about the letter? In simple terms, Paul’s letter to the Ephesians can be divided in two. Chapters 1-3 reveal the unfolding mystery of God’s “summing up” of all things in Christ and the extravagant spiritual blessings lavished on believers in him. They are rich with contrasts between the position we were once in as strangers and aliens, hostile to God and his kingdom and the welcome we have now received in Christ. Paul reminds us that this remarkable story is not over yet. Chapters 4-6 are a practical call to “Walk Worthy” of all that we are and have in him, living in response to his grace and love. William Lane explains another unique feature of Ephesians. He observes: When Epaphras arrived in Rome, he discovered that Paul had been working on new worship materials for use in the churches. Paul recognized that these materials (prayers, confessions, hymns, etc.) would be useful in calling the Christians of the Lycus River Valley to remember the commitment they made to Christ at the time of their baptism. He worked these new formulations into Ephesians to call Christians to reflect on past commitments and to urge them to advance to maturity as a defense against false teaching. Lane points out that, within the letter, there are carefully developed units which possess a “liturgical” character. Each is complete in itself: 1:3-14 A hymn in praise to God (one sentence in Greek) 2:1-10 A confessional summary of the new life in Christ (one sentence in Greek) 3:14-21 A prayer that the readers may understand the mystery of Christ 4:1-16 Practical instruction supported by creedal confession and the exposition of Scripture: the call to maturity 5:8-14 An exhortation concluding with a fragment of an early Christian hymn: Walk in the light 6:10-17 An expanded exhortation to be prepared for spiritual conflict To sum up in the words of Lane: In the letter we have come to know as Ephesians Paul is calling his readers back to their first baptismal commitment to Jesus, making clear that the church is the body of Christ and finally instructing his readers in what it really means to be mature in Christ. His primary theme is that everything is moving toward unity under the absolute Lordship of Jesus. As his followers, they are participants in that oneness. [Editor’s note: Next Friday, Russ Ramsey will be sharing his reflections on Ephesians Chapter 1. As we mentioned last week, our hope is that you will study along , alone or with a group, and then share your encouragements and challenges using the comments section on each post.]

by the Rabbit Room The Rabbit Room staff was lucky to attend a pre-screening of Tolkien before it officially hit theaters. Feeling protective of our beloved author, we all shared a good helping of skepticism going in—but, delightfully, our skepticism was assuaged, laughter was had, and as the credits rolled, we heaved a collective sigh of deep relief. At the very least, it was a heartwarming film, clearly sincere in its quest to faithfully represent the maker of Middle-earth. What follows are the thoughts of Chris Thiessen, Andrew Peterson, and Shigé Clark (in that order) after seeing the film. First up, Chris Thiessen: “I knew very little about J. R. R. Tolkien’s life. Of course, I knew the basics: his writings, his affiliation with the Inklings, and a vague idea of his service in World War I. But the circumstances, trials, and friendships which informed the Father of Modern Fantasy’s life and work remained unknown to me prior to viewing Dome Karokoski’s Tolkien . Fortunately, Karokoski’s film weaves between Tolkien’s schooling years and the deadly Battle of the Somme, offering a look into the foundational moments which would lead Tolkien to Middle-earth. Tolkien is more than just a mere retelling of a beloved author’s life. Its strength lies in its discussion of imagination, reality, and the necessity of fellowship to embrace them both. Nicholas Hoult portrays a humble, kind “Ronald” Tolkien whose love for language is rivaled only by his love for future wife Edith (Lily Collins) and a band of friends self-named the T.C.B.S (think Dead Poets’ Society but unashamedly more British). Perhaps “rivaled” is the wrong word, however, as the important figures in Tolkien’s life only encourage his creativity further. In two of the film’s most striking scenes, Edith and philology professor Joseph Wright (Derek Jacobi) respectively enrich Tolkien’s understanding of language, teaching him that a word is not beautiful just because of how it flows off the tongue, but because of the tremendous reality it conveys and the culture it represents. In these conversational scenes, you can see Tolkien’s head spinning, imagining new worlds of elves, dwarves, and hobbits. Courage in Tolkien doesn't come from internal strength. It is instead the fruit of meaningful, vulnerable fellowship. Chris Thiessen Courage, as well, becomes an important motif here. Whether making a foolhardy proposal to a waitress or climbing out of the trenches in one of history’s bloodiest battles, Tolkien and company display unrestrained courage with shouts of “Helheimr!” (the film’s “Carpe diem”). But courage in Tolkien doesn’t come from internal strength. It is instead the fruit of meaningful, vulnerable fellowship. It’s the courage of Sam, Frodo, Merry, and Pippin persevering through their fears together when they may have faltered alone. Though the film never depicts Tolkien’s literary characters or his later fellowship with the Inklings, the necessity of their camaraderie is felt when discovering how the deep bond of the T.C.B.S. shaped Tolkien’s life. As a film, Tolkien is not as gripping as, perhaps, another recent film about fellowship and courage. Though its spot-on themes are perfectly portrayed in particular scenes, the film does suffer from attempting to focus on too much, leading to a lack of oomph in its ending. But despite whatever shortcomings the film has, Tolkien is heartwarming. It reminds us that though our lives are often troubled by darkness and loss, friendship and beauty will always persevere.” —Chris Thiessen Next, Andrew Peterson: “Anybody remember the Beethoven movie Immortal Beloved , starring Gary Oldman? I saw it in high school and loved it, and when I asked a friend who loved Beethoven if he liked it, he said, ‘It’s a good movie, but it’s not about Beethoven.’ He explained that it worked fine as a piece of entertainment, but not as a piece of history. I was a bit deflated, but in the long run it didn’t matter, and here’s why. There’s a scene where Ludvig, who has gone deaf, is composing ‘Moonlight Sonata’ with his eyes closed and his ear pressed to the piano. It’s heartbreaking and beautiful, and it was the first time I ever really listened to that piece. It became, and still is, one of my favorite pieces of music in the world, whether or not the film was accurate. That, in a nutshell, is what I hope happens with Tolkien . If you’re interested in niggling (see what I did there?) there’s plenty in the film that’s niggleworthy. I’ve read Humphrey Carpenter’s biography, most of Tolkien’s collected letters, and have picked up quite a bit about his life from other sources, so I’m aware of the factual deficiencies, but none were egregious enough to really bug me. After all, if you want to dig into Tolkien’s life there are plenty of sources you can turn to. Don’t forget, this is a movie—something you watch while gobbling handfuls of popcorn. That isn’t to say that it isn’t art, or that it shouldn’t be true and beautiful, but it’s good to keep in mind that, at the very least, what you’re buying with your ten bucks is a few hours of entertainment. Here’s what I was afraid of when the theater went dark: 1) They would make a case that the war was the allegorical counterpart of The Lord of the Rings . Tolkien was adamant that his book shouldn’t be read as allegory, and to my great relief they merely demonstrated the way his imagination would have certainly been shaped by what he saw during his service in the Great War. 2) They would villainize the priest who helped to raise him and forbade him to see Edith while he was in school. The priest in the film was compassionate, if firm, and in the end was portrayed kindly. It’s pretty typical these days for films to turn any religious leader into a buffoon, a charlatan, or a monster, so it was nice to see that they didn’t invent any of that for the sake of cheap drama. 3) They would downplay the centrality of Tolkien’s faith. One could argue that they did, but in the same way First Man didn’t make a big deal of the planting of the flag on the moon because, after all, the movie was about Armstrong and not America, Tolkien didn’t make a big deal out of his theology because it wasn’t the point. A movie can’t be about everything, after all. And this film was (mostly) about friendship, not faith. The filmmaker truly cared about what Tolkien cared about: the wonder of words and the power of story. Andrew Peterson From the opening scene in the trenches at the Somme to the closing scene with the bereaved mother of one of his friends, the arc of the story was about Tolkien the orphan, who hungered for fellowship, found it at school, and experienced its terrible loss because of the War. Of course, it’s a love story, too, as well as a wonderful depiction of his genius, from his love of fairy tales to his remarkable mastery of language. The conversations between him and Edith—and later, between him and Professor Joseph Wright—were well crafted and told me that the filmmaker truly cared about what Tolkien cared about: the wonder of words and the power of story. Add to that the fact that the film was surprisingly funny when it needed to be, and my popcorn-gobbling self was entirely satisfied. SPOILER ALERT. My one gripe was the ending. After tracing the history of the T.C.B.S. and their desire to change the world with art, then the breaking of the fellowship, then Tolkien’s years as a professor during which he certainly pined for a similar camaraderie with fellow story lovers, they should have ended with the birth of a new fellowship, called the Oxford Inklings—a fellowship that did in fact change the world with their art, not necessarily because of any one members’ genius but because they had each other. Besides, who wouldn’t want to see Tolkien, Lewis, Williams, and the rest all crammed into a pub, laughing together like the T.C.B.S. boys did when they were lads? It would have been a fitting denouement to a story about friendship. Either way, if it makes someone out there pay that much more attention to Tolkien’s works, and leads them to The Lord of the Rings with fresh eyes, then who knows? Maybe it’ll become their ‘Moonlight Sonata.'” —Andrew Peterson And now, Shigé Clark: “I’ll admit, I was not excited to see Tolkien . I responded to all mentions of it with the concerned groan of one who doesn’t want to see something she loves mistreated. I worried that this was Hollywood grasping at straws in the wake of the Lord of the Rings saga, leveraging its author to make the next buck. Greater than my worry that it would be unfaithful to J. R. R. Tolkien’s history (it is a dramatization after all), was the worry that it would be unfaithful to what he stood for. As the movie started, I braced for all types of disappointment. (Be warned, some spoilers lie ahead.) What I got instead was a thoughtful and loving portrayal of Tolkien’s early life and influences. Rather than a blaring tribute to the Lord of the Rings , it is a quiet, often subtle film full of compelling visual storytelling. The allusions are there, of course, especially if you’re knowledgeable about Tolkien’s life and inspirations, but for the most part they’re woven into the story through imagery and plot-driven conversation. The focus of the movie remains where it belongs—on Tolkien and the relationships that shaped him—and to that end, it does a marvelous job. I was immediately drawn into the characters and the dynamics between them, their struggles, their love for each other, and their dreams most of all. Binding them together is a deep appreciation for artistic creation and the belief that art can change the world. Sound familiar? For one hour and fifty-two minutes, we the audience are bathed in the understanding that art is vital, and beautiful, and powerful—without veering into pretension or self-importance. Shigé Clark What struck me most deeply—left me aching through most of the film and long afterward—was its reflection of the world from Tolkien’s perspective. From the onset, the power of story in his life is palpable, as are his imagination and love for language. The importance of word, art, and music is established from the first and never once negated. Neither Tolkien nor any of his friends are bullied, degraded, or outcast for their passions or beliefs. No one grows up to decide art is actually silly and unimportant in the grand scheme of things. In short, at no point does the movie depict that a person must suffer, be isolated, or be some mystical type of special in order to engage meaningfully in art. I didn’t realize how rare that was in film until I experienced it. Rather, the relationships in Tolkien are a magnificent depiction of art in community. Friendship, resonance, commitment to the craft. For one hour and fifty-two minutes, we the audience are bathed in the understanding that art is vital, and beautiful, and powerful—without veering into pretension or self-importance. For me, that alone makes the film worth returning to again and again. I want to be able to watch it in my home when I’m discouraged and my efforts feel pointless. I want to share it with my little nieces and nephews and let them dwell for a while in a story that’s more than true. Tolkien is by no means a perfect movie. There are some missed opportunities in plot and character development, some great potential that just wasn’t carried through. There are a few powerful scenes that center around the aspect of meaning behind our creations, and I would have particularly loved to see that motif carried to its fruition. Yet it’s clear that Tolkien genuinely believes in the things it attempts to honor, and I found it to be a superb tribute to the very things that drew me to the Rabbit Room. I left feeling validated and inspired, and that’s exactly how I want to feel at the end of a movie about J. R. R. Tolkien: inspired to create, to cultivate community, and to believe in the power and importance of art.” —Shigé Clark

by Helen Sorensen I had not meant to think on dancers No, nor womanhood I meant to write of summer, Goodness, and the love of God. But then I saw you step out on the stage, The lights all trained upon your face Stumbling feet and legs too long A glance into the darkness, Seeking guidance from a song. It wasn’t your uncertainty that made me weep I sat in shadow, gazing up, And what I saw was glory, Thinly veiled in tulle and satin Saw a shy conviction, such delight In roses? Sequins? No. What you delighted in was you That here, upon this stage, We’d catch a glimpse of what you knew Already, secretly You small, immortal queen I wept still more for your uncomprehending Innocence. That you should not yet know What kind of world you’ve entered in You cannot know your danger. Oh! The light around you, thin as spider’s web, So fine I hardly dared to breathe, Cannot remain. Some hand will swat the veil aside And barge right in Or slowly snip the mooring threads Until a breath of wind Blows it away. I cannot bear to see. You spin on tiny feet, your arms uplifted, Toss a grin into the crowd, Take your skirts in hand and flee. The lights go out. I am inclined to stand and follow, For who better knows the path ahead? I’ve stared down countless dragons Before curling in my bed to cry Have felt the violence, the gouge of hungry eyes I’ve watched in silence, waiting for my turn to speak While years dragged by. It never came. And I have gathered up the fragments Of my beauty, Reapplied the tattered bits with paste, in haste I’ve laid them down, washed myself clean And roared. I’ve beaten giants Quiet as a lamb, and no one noticed. Just as quiet I can slip in between you and hell And stand my ground I know what’s waiting for you, girl Yet it could be that while I watch you dance And weep You’re looking down at me, Wondering what it means to be A woman. Maybe you’d like to see my battle scars, Know how it feels to come through fire and flood And laugh. For this is womanhood, this strength, This towering refusal To lie down and die Sit down and hush We stand and fight We are the champions of the light Inside your eyes. That breathless glimmer Only lasts an hour; What rises from the embers Is a fierce and lovely power. Battle-hardened, battle-softened Holy fire. My great desire Is that you’d know you are encircled, Sheltered, lifted up by love. You, too, will triumph, Daughter, Dancer, Face of God. You, too, will rise above. So smile your biggest smile. I see your glory, too. Out here, beyond the footlights In the dark A warrior fights for you.

by Rebecca Reynolds I remember what it was like to want a baby. I remember how it felt to walk through the grocery store watching others dispose so recklessly of everything I ached to be. I remember mothers (or so-called mothers) snapping off ugly words to curly-haired toddlers. I remember mothers (or so-called mothers) sighing in exasperation, ignoring bundles of angel on earth, telling them to hush. I remember seeing from a distance the wonder of ten little curved fingers, dimpled knuckles, wrapped sweetly around a shopping cart handle. I remember small voices saying, “Momma, Momma,” and wondering what unforgivable thing I had done to become unworthy of that name. It has been sixteen years, but I will never forget Mother’s Day empty-armed, trying to smile politely, running to the church bathroom, weeping the long, hard, labor of grief behind a locked door. Because of this, I define motherhood a little differently than most. I define motherhood as the womb of creativity and breasts of recreativity made full. Motherhood is an idea fluttering and kicking, compassion fluttering and kicking, music birthed, books nursed, social healing held upright on wobble knees until it walks, wounds of the heart and body dressed and bandaged. Motherhood is entrance into dark rooms where fright cries out from sleep, and motherhood is chasing away the monsters. Motherhood is the renaming of the rejected, it is the embrace of the lonely, it is a Saturday picnic packed for the hungry, it is the rocking of the forgotten in the lap of an old, sweet song. Motherhood is the soft, feminine hand of love on the cheek of the world’s need. For children are born and tended in a million different sorts of ways. The earth cries out, and here you are to answer. You are maternity, and you are beautiful.

by Chris Thiessen I have quite a few friends who are more passionate and well-versed in the expansive, daunting world of board games than I. These are the people that have every expansion pack, every collector’s item, etc. (Some of you may be reading this right now). I am not one of those people. I grew up with chess, Monopoly, and Yahtzee, not knowing anything of the world beyond Parker Bros. Then, in college, I was introduced to Settlers of Catan. Now, many of you just rolled your eyes for one of two reasons: either because you think Catan is a confusing game played by nerds (if you’re reading this series, this probably isn’t you), or because it’s so played-out that it makes you want to vomit just hearing its name. However, for the curious person like me, Settlers of Catan serves as a perfect gateway into something much larger—a world I would never have known existed without playing it first. What I’m trying to say is that Radiohead, like board games, is a whole universe unto itself, and their 1995 album The Bends is their Settlers of Catan. Music, after all, is not just personal expression, but an act of widespread community with massive historical precedent. Chris Thiessen I was in college when I first tried listening to Radiohead in earnest. I put on their 2000 album Kid A and tried desperately to decipher why Pitchfork and many others called it the greatest album of the 2000s, but I was entirely lost. I felt like “I don’t belong here,” to quote their early hit “Creep.” Kid A is dense and not remotely “catchy” in the conventional sense. And without being around for its initial cultural moment in 2000, I felt like I didn’t have a way in. “Radiohead must just be over-rated, snobby music,” I then concluded. I was wrong. But being a kid raised on ‘80s hooks and Van Halen guitar solos, I had no categories for the abstract electronic rock I was hearing. Dismayed, I shelved Radiohead for a few years before again attempting to brave the minds of Thom Yorke, Ed O’Brien, Philip Selway, and the Brothers Greenwood. The next time I listened to Radiohead, I began with The Bends . From the very first, Greenwood’s rippling and roaring guitar and Yorke’s cool/uncool vocals grabbed me by the shoulders in a way Kid A simply couldn’t have years before. THIS was accessible to me—a brand of rock and roll not too far removed from the Britpop and alt-rock stylings rising from the hardly-flickering embers of grunge. Accessibility in music, and certainly on The Bends , is a virtue. Accessibility recognizes that before you can pull listeners into your intimate, unique world, you must woo them there with musical conventions the audience is familiar with. Music, after all, is not just personal expression, but an act of widespread community with massive historical precedent. Thus The Bends is filled with musical pieces we’re familiar with—the soaring riffs of “The Bends” and the jangly fade-in of “Black Star,” the emotional, acoustic balladry of “Fake Plastic Trees” and the simplicity of the plea “Don’t leave me high / Don’t leave me dry.” In all these moments, you can hear Radiohead’s influences from alternative pioneers like R.E.M. and Sonic Youth to traditional British rock acts like Queen and David Bowie. While “sounding like your influences” is often used derogatorily, synthesizing your influences into something brilliant and new as Radiohead does here is a glorious feat. It allows your audience to hold onto something familiar while disrupting convention ever so tactfully. Take for example the ballad “Fake Plastic Trees” which has the sweetness of a pop radio ballad, yet critiques the disposability and lack of authenticity inherent in such radio ballads and consumer culture at large. Lesser bands use accessibility as a crutch, always playing to the lowest common denominator as they fill arenas with nothing more than emotional appeals and homogeneity. Radiohead’s strong access points, however, pull you further into their uniqueness. We hear this on “Bullet Proof…I Wish I Was,” where Yorke expresses his existential exhaustion and resultant emotional fragility, singing, “Limb by limb and tooth by tooth / It’s tearing up inside of me / Every day, every hour / I wish that I was bulletproof.” These themes of unbearable worldly pressure inform Radiohead’s music throughout their career, especially on subsequent albums OK Computer and Kid A which explore the isolation and paranoia of the digital age in more profound musical terms. I couldn’t understand those categories when I first attempted to listen to Radiohead. But this is the power of accessibility, especially as it relates to The Bends . Whereas Radiohead’s later albums are decidedly more life-altering, The Bends offers us a compass and map complete with a little legend in the corner helping us to make sense of the thick electronic forests and abstract thinking that inform Radiohead’s best work. I don’t advise parachuting straight into that forest without directions like I did with Kid A . I’d start with the instruction manual, and then feel free to explore the deepest corners of one of the greatest musical worlds built in the last 50 years. Click here to listen to The Bends on Spotify , and here to listen on Apple Music. This post originally appeared on Chris Thiessen’s weekly newsletter, Quarter Notes. Click here to learn more and subscribe.

by the Rabbit Room Whether you’ve already bought your ticket and want to see all you have to look forward to, or you’re on the fence and want to know more before you commit, here is how we’ll be spending our weekend on October 9th-11th. While this schedule will give you an overview of primary events, it represents only a fraction of the content available to guests. There is a lot more to explore than what is listed here, such as an entire program of events for kids in the Playroom (with concerts, story times, and more), sessions and discussions and more in the Art Studio , mysterious goings-on in The Forest , the first ever (and possibly the last ever) Hutchmoot: Homebound Challenge , and an array of artists who will be stopping by to play a few songs in the Backyard . Trust us when we tell you there’s a reason you’ll need two weeks to take it all in. This is only the tip of the iceberg. * All times are CST, but nearly all content will be archived so you can access it on your own time, should you choose. *Schedule subject to change *Full session descriptions will be posted in the coming weeks Friday, October 9th NOTE: Sessions/events will be archived and viewable until October 23, 2020. 11:00 a.m. Welcome to Hutchmoot: Homebound! 12:00 p.m. Sessions “The Sacred and the Profane: Caravaggio and the Paradox of Corruption and Grace” (Russ Ramsey) “From Text to Image: A How-to Conversation” (David & Phaedra Taylor) “The Pivot: Hutchmoot Edition” (Andrew Osenga & Santosh John) “Redemptive Imagination in the Garden” (Julie Witmer) 2:00 p.m. Sessions “Awaking Wonder” (Sally Clarkson) “Why We Need Fiction for Moral Formation” (Russell Moore) “Ain’t Gonna Lay My Religion Down” (Buddy Greene & Odessa Settles) “Visual Arts and Faith 101” (Rabbit Room Artists) ** 4:00 p.m. The Gullahorn Happy Hour (Andy Gullahorn & Jill Phillips) 7:00 p.m. Music and Poetry (Sara Groves, Propaganda, Joshua Luke Smith, and John Mark McMillan) Saturday, October 10th 10:00 a.m. Sessions “Neil Gaiman Goes to Narnia” (Russell Moore) “The Old House & the New Creation” (Andrew Peterson & Lanier Ivester) “Recovery, Escape, & Consolation: The Gifts of Fantasy” (Jonathan Rogers & Helena Sorensen) 1:00 p.m. Sessions “A Theology of the Blues & Belonging” (Ruth Naomi Floyd) “Starseek to Swordplay” (S. D. Smith, Kevan Chandler, & Connie Chandler) “Stealing Past the Watchful Dragons” (Heidi Johnston, Andrew Roycroft, & Ross Wilson) “Pass the Piece–Collaboration and Creativity” (Rabbit Room Artists) 2:00 p.m. – 5:00 p.m. In the Neighborhood 7:00 p.m. Special Guest Speaker: Steve Taylor 8:00 p.m. Music: Andrew Peterson Sunday, October 11th 10:15 a.m. Hymn Sing with Jess Ray & Taylor Leonhardt (Mission House) 11:00 a.m. The Rabbit Room Presents: TBD 12:00 p.m. Closing and Farewell

by the Rabbit Room Wherein Chris Yokel reads his poems “This Haunting” and “Another World,” Jennifer Trafton reads her piece This Is For All the Lonely Writers , we receive a brief serenade from Ron Block, and Drew Miller shares the second Word of Befuddlement: toom. In its nearly three years on the Rabbit Room blog, This Is For All the Lonely Writers by Jennifer Trafton has been posted, re-posted, loved, and loved again. If webpages could be dog-eared and scrawled upon, this post would stand out for all its markings. It’s somehow both vulnerable and universal—about the necessity of loneliness and where the deepest voice of the artist comes from. Whether you’re lonely or not, whether you write or don’t—this one’s for you. Words of Befuddlement Words of Befuddlement is a special Molehill Podcast segment inspired by games like Dictionary and Balderdash. In fact, it’s no different, except that the word in question doesn’t exist anywhere other than in the notorious mind of Pete Peterson (so don’t go looking for it in a dictionary). Each week, Drew Miller (host of The Molehill Podcast) will share a new Word of Befuddlement and ask you to send in your very own definition to drew@rabbitroom.com . The following week, he will read some of the definitions he received and reveal the “correct” definition as determined by Pete. The second Word of Befuddlement, shared in today’s episode, is the noun “toom.” You can send in your very own definition of “toom” to Drew, and he might just read it on next week’s show. And who knows? You may even guess correctly. Click here to listen to “S1 E2: This Is For All the Lonely Writers.” And click here to subscribe on Apple Podcasts and here to subscribe on Spotify. Transcripts are available for The Molehill Podcast. Click here to view them. Artwork by the inimitable Stephen Crotts Words of Befuddlement graphic by Mindy Cook Original Molehill Podcast theme music by Zach & Maggie Other music featured in this episode: “All Through the Night,” “A Light So Fair,” “Bear My Harp Hither,” and “Hope Sings” by Ron Block

by the Rabbit Room The Habit Podcast  is a series of conversations with writers about writing, hosted by Jonathan Rogers. This week, Jonathan Rogers talks with Nashville singer/songwriter Ross King . In this episode, Jonathan and Ross talk about the instructive power of rejection, the complexities of writing for a living in today’s world, and advice for dealing with artistic competitiveness. Click here to listen to Season 2, Episode 36 of The Habit Podcast. Transcripts are now available for The Habit Podcast. Click here to access them. Special thanks to our Rabbit Room members for making these podcasts possible! If you’re interested in becoming a member, visit RabbitRoom.com/Donate.

by Bethany J. Melton Samwise had climbed too many stairs with Shagrat drooling on his heels. He’d blasted through Cirith Ungol’s gates with Galadriel’s light. He’d searched every black corner for Frodo, and now, his master was a tower trapdoor out of reach. So Sam sang nursery rhymes into Mordor. He murmured old childish tunes out of the Shire, and snatches of Mr. Bilbo’s rhymes that came to mind like fleeting glimpses of the country of his home. Darkness had dogged the hobbits since they’d entered Mordor, but this was a blackness deeper than anything Sam had known—like the waters of the coldest, farthest sea swallowing him. And here at “journey’s end” in “darkness buried deep,” Sam did something braver than anything. He sang of home. The gardener had killed orcs and maimed a spider, but this was a deadly blow to Mordor. Sam attacked the blackness by remembering the light. Remember your word to your servant, in which you have made me hope… I remember your name in the night, O LORD, and keep your law. —Ps. 119:49, 55 Sam couldn’t put a finger on why he did it. He was “moved by what thought in his heart he could not tell” to sing. Tolkien had a friend who’d felt that way. Sam attacked the blackness by remembering the light. Bethany J. Melton C. S. “Jack” Lewis first felt shivers of “what thought in his heart he could not tell” as a boy in Belfast—an inconsolable ache for something he couldn’t explain. Twigs and flowers arranged to make a biscuit-tin garden worked the magic on him. He called it sehnsucht . The German language seizes what English can’t, just as a song seized what Sam’s sword couldn’t—longing, desire, joy, hope. Home. And wasn’t it always Sam who put the thought of Bag End back in Frodo’s heart? “Where there’s life there’s hope,” he told his master on Mordor’s road. Lewis grew to describe his feeling as “Northerness,” a bit like Shasta the slave, who longed to go North all his life even though he’d never heard of Narnia. He couldn’t help but ache for it. Shasta’s longing exploded into adventure. Sam’s blossomed into song. The unexplainable sehnsucht makes us do things we can’t always explain. I am a sojourner on the earth; hide not your commandments from me! My soul is consumed with longing for your rules at all times. —Ps. 119:19-20 His voice sounded thin and quavering in the cold dark tower: the voice of a forlorn and weary hobbit that no listening orc could possibly mistake for the clear song of an Elven-lord. The tune was simple, the voice thin, but Mordor’s blackest night couldn’t douse the song. In western lands beneath the Sun the flowers may rise in Spring, the trees may bud, the waters run, the merry finches sing. Or there maybe ‘tis cloudless night and swaying beeches bear the Elven-stars as jewels white amid their branching hair. Though here at journey’s end I lie in darkness buried deep, beyond all towers strong and high, beyond all mountains steep, above all shadows rides the Sun and Stars for ever dwell: I will not say the Day is done, nor bid the Stars farewell. Sam the hobbit, the Gaffer’s son, the gardener, wrote a poem and sang it into Sauron’s lair and let the truth of Home blast fiercer than Elven starlight. He stopped being a hero and remembered he was a hobbit. He wasn’t an Elven-lord with a bow or sword, but a Shireling with dirty feet and an ache to see his country one last time. Sam proves that the fiercest weapon against Mordor is hobbit-like hope— childlike faith—in a far, green country. This is my comfort in my affliction, that your promise gives me life… When I think of your rules from of old, I take comfort, O LORD. —Ps. 119:50, 52 In all Tolkien’s tales, the image that put tears on my face was the very last. Frodo’s Western passage left me restless on the shore with Sam, but then the gardener returned to the Shire, walked up the Hill, and “there was… fire within; and the evening meal was ready, and he was expected.” I journaled: Sam and I are still on the shore, but not without glimpses of light—slits in the shadows through which that swift sunrise glistens. We aren’t Home, but we’re on the doorstep, and the light from within warms us. Jack put better words to my longing: At present we are on the outside of the world, the wrong side of the door. We discern the freshness and purity of the morning, but we cannot mingle with the splendours we see. But all the leaves of the New Testament are rustling with the rumor that it will not always be so. Someday, God willing, we shall get in. We can slash at the shadows with our sword, yes. But Sting isn’t our sharpest weapon. What deals death to Mordor is the song in our souls that the King will return. And in the meantime—on the doorstep—we sing that light into Mordor. Your statues have been my songs in the house of my sojourning. —Ps. 119:54 This post originally appeared at the Story Warren. Click here to read more of Bethany’s writing at her website.

by Mark Meynell Those ancient Greeks didn’t mince their words. If you weren’t Greek, you were lumped together, not with the lumpenproletariat as Marx & Engels had it, but with the rest of the world, the vast hordes of the ignorant and uncivilised unwashed. They had a single, lump-all word for the lot of them: hoi barbaroi (βάρβαροι). Its etymological roots are assumed to derive from the apparent gibberish uttered by ‘Johnny Foreigner’ (as a previous generation of Brits might have put it). “ Bar-bar-bar-bar ”—it’s all a bunch of codswallop. No wonder they’re all barbarians when they talk like that . It’s not just foreigners who talk funny Yet from the moment we set about learning another language, the morning fog is slowly burned off by the emerging rays of sunlight. The world begins to look different, ever so slightly. Why? Because I am now entering an alternative … I wanted to say, ‘world’ but that’s not quite right. It’s the same world. But I now have an alternative medium for trying to talk about it. That way, I have a vague hope of you seeing what I’m seeing. Of course, every language has its quirks and enigmas. As a young boy it amused me to no end to learn that the literal translation for the French word for nightclub is ‘box of night’ ( une boîte de nuit )—the aesthetics of some establishments make that seem a far more appropriate term. Then if you find yourself desperately needing to borrow a stapler from an Afrikaans speaker in South Africa, you may well find yourself requesting a ‘paper vampire’ ( papier vampier )—makes perfect sense when you think about it. Then in Myanmar, if you get married, the usual Burmese word is also used for getting locked up in prison (အိမ်ထောင်ခြင်း if you must know—nope; I can’t read it either). To which my only response is, ‘no comment.’ Lest we English-speakers feel superior, as if ours was the most obvious and straightforward language for any human being to gravitate towards, get out the humble pie. Any heart (or primary) language will scarcely provoke even a raised eyebrow, despite objective weirdness or even absurdity of some of its idioms. We happily talk about the ‘foreseeable future’ despite the fact that the future is never foreseeable. What have cake slices got to do with finding a task easy to accomplish? Why on earth would your grandmother want to suck eggs? Although to be fair, I do get why offering her lessons would be quite insulting. Then who knows what’s really going on when we encounter some skullduggery? A great deal of nonsense about language’s power to shape thought gets spread around, as if something is unimaginable or impossible to experience when your vernacular lacks a word for it. For even if specific vocabulary is lacking, there’s nothing to stop us from settling on a work-around. We do it all the time. And it’s one reason we have poets: they take the words we do have to articulate the things for which we don’t have words. It’s also one reason why I love the concept behind Randall Munroe’s Thing Explainer . The book’s vocabulary is deliberately limited to the 1000 most common words in English, which is then used to explain all kinds of complexities: from the human torso ( bags of stuff inside you ) to oil rigs ( hole-making city boats ), via the Saturn V rocket ( US Space Team’s Up Goer Five ) and—my favourite—the Large Hadron Collider ( Big tiny thing hitter ). I was thinking about this earlier this week because, as my family will tell you, my taste buds seem fairly undiscerning. It suits me, because it means I find most food delicious. But the others are all conscious of minute distinctions of taste and texture. Then it occurred to me: we talk about blindness and deafness, and perhaps insensibility (when losing the sense of physical touch). But what about when we lose the sense of taste? That’s become rather more relevant recently, what with Covid-19 and all that. Medics call it hypogeusia but that’s unlikely to arouse much sympathy down the pub. Nor will substituting it with ‘I’m tasteless’ help much. But every now and then, you come across a language which really does boggle the mind. Which brings me naturally onto the Australian Aboriginal language of Guugu Yimithirr . It all depends on where you’re standing… doesn’t it? This language is unlikely to be a study option at even the most exclusive educational establishments since it’s only spoken by a thousand people, centred on the small coastal town of Hopevale, in the northern tip of Queensland. Their claim to fame was initially derived from lending one of Australia’s most important words to the world’s languages, although the joke is that when the English Captain Cook first heard it, the word just meant, ‘I don’t know.’ As Guy Deutscher notes in his truly remarkable book, Through The Language Glass , that’s sadly an urban legend; despite subsequent western explorers never encountering the word (thus assuming that Cook and his crew were mistaken), the Guugu Yimithirr do use it. The word is of course kangaroo . Its rarity was simply the result of the language’s rarity. But that is the least of the wonders of this people. To grasp what is so remarkable about them, we need first to consider some essential linguistics. Think about how you describe the location of an object. It’s an everyday occurrence. There are essentially two options: you describe its location in relation to yourself or in relation to some external, more objective criterion. This is the difference between egocentric and geographic locators. (Note: the former has no moral connotations but merely describes a fact, taking ego in its original Greek sense of “I” .) This then affects how we describe the world around us, which ultimately can only be done from an egocentric perspective. The Bible is no different from any other pre-scientific text, with the classic example being the notion that the sun rises and falls each day. That, of course, is merely an articulation of how the phenomenon appears to us on earth; it is a far cry from the astronomical reality. That is not a problem, as long as we understand what is going on here. Human language has always depended on egocentric locators and descriptors. Or so it was thought! Cue: the Guugu Yimithirr ! For it transpires that their language contains no egocentric locators at all . Instead, they use geographic locators for everything . Instead of saying, ‘Ginger is in front of the tree,’ they will say ‘Ginger is a little to the tree’s north.’ When Fred asks for directions at a complex junction, an instruction to turn left will not translate; he needs you to say, ‘take the south-eastern exit.’ In fact, it is so fundamental to the language that you can’t tell Mary to turn forward in a book; instead, you need to say ‘go further east in the book,’ assuming she is facing north. But only when speaking Guugu Yimithirr. They all speak English and so use egocentric locators all the time. It is not that they do fail to understand the concepts. Rather, in their heart language, they don’t need them. Why? Because they are so wired for their relationship to the compass that even when in an unfamiliar place, they still instinctively know the cardinal directions. They don’t calculate from the sun, or some other means. They just know it. Even if in a windowless room. Even in describing places visited long before or recalling dreams. Just as someone with perfect pitch just knows if a guitar has not been tuned to the standard of A=440Hz. So if you don’t share this perfect geographical sense, then you are going to need a compass when you start learning the language! Try a walk in another’s shoes for a change… Now, as Deutscher is careful to point out, the conclusions we can draw about the relationship between our language and our thoughts are fewer than we might assume. It is tempting to assume causes for effects or correlations. As I said, the citizens of Hopevale are perfectly capable of understanding and using egocentric locators in English even when they lack equivalents for ‘behind,’ ’in front,’ ‘above’ of their own. The point here is simple. This is an extreme example of the way language has an effect on our perceptions, so that a fluent Guugu Yimithirr speaker needs constant awareness of coordinates. Most of us only resort to them when required; although my hunch is they are more ingrained in Americans than Brits because of urban grid systems. (Older towns over here still largely follow their mediaeval street plans, so exclusive reliance on geographic locators will get you lost!) In short, a foreign language often pushes us to bear things in mind that we rarely consider. It is not just that we are listening to voices outside our echo chambers; we’re experiencing a completely different shape of chamber! The Christian believer needs to grow an innate sensitivity to coordinates derived not from the compass, but from the one who made the east and west. Mark Meynell One of the most fascinating films of recent years, to me at last, was Denis Villeneuve’s Arrival (2016). Having worked in a small East African seminary for four years, the sense of dislocation from being unable to map a foreign culture was all too familiar, albeit with far less earth-shaking consequences! As it happens, the protagonist, linguistics professor Louise Banks (Amy Adams)—a nod to the great impresario of eighteenth century British science who accompanied Captain Cook in those ground-breaking explorations of the south seas, Sir Joseph Banks perhaps?—trots out the kangaroo urban legend to make a point about misinterpreting foreign cultures. Without plot-spoiling, the drama’s primary tensions are derived from fundamentally different (human vs alien) languages and the difficulties of translation that ensue (for example, a failure to grasp that one word can mean both a weapon and a tool). Once Banks starts to learn the alien lingo of weird, floaty smoke rings, however, her mind is blown. She begins to see the world, and indeed the whole of time and space, in a revelatory new light. It is life-changing. While we would all love such new perspectives on the world, I am not advocating that we must all now learn Guugu Yimithirr or floaty smoke rings. After all, language-learning is enough to bring many of us out in hives, even though a lucky few seem to be able to get fluent after only ten minutes immersion. We don’t need to when we have the arts before us. Every art form is a language of its own, each with its language families, subdivided into distinct languages, dialects and variants. Take these crude breakdowns as a start: If you have spent your entire life listening to only one form of music, then you may well end up with encyclopaedic knowledge but will find other forms strange and even cacophonous. Such specialism is by no means a bad thing. As long as you never forget that there are other artistic fish in the sea. So, that is why it is healthy to play the field a bit; hold onto your passions but occasionally dip your toe into the grammar and idioms of new musical waters. One of my favourite things on YouTube at the moment is TwinsthenewTrend . It’s very simple: two brothers sit in a room at home and film themselves listening to a song from an unfamiliar genre or artist for the first time. Fans write in with suggestions, ranging from Dolly Parton’s ‘Jolene’ to Pavarotti singing Puccini’s Nessun dorma . The standout is their reaction to Phil Collins’ ‘In the Air Tonight.’ It’s sublime! No wonder it’s already had over 7 million hits! The same goes for writing, of course, or the visual arts, or movies with subtitles, or even textile installations. One of my favourite movies is an almost absurdly slow Turkish film, Once Upon a Time in Anatolia , directed by Nuri Bilge Ceylan in 2011. It would never have occurred to me to watch it until a Turkish friend mentioned it and I noticed that it was screened on BBC 2 one night. It is dark, laconic, beautifully filmed and occasionally hilarious. That does not mean you will stick with everything you hear. I can appreciate the artistry of ‘Mongolian throat singing’, but I’m a long way off from adding it to my latest chill-out playlist. In fact, let’s face it, unless a true fan guides me through it, I’m unlikely to give it a further thought. But that’s what we so often need, isn’t it? An enthusiast to get us started. It doesn’t matter much what you explore, just as long as you do. An antidote to a fragmenting world There is method to all this, however. Much as I do like staring into space or going down Wikipedia-rabbit-trails for the sake of it, I actually think this enterprise is vital. We are all horribly aware of the ways in which western countries are fragmenting, often in extreme violence, but invariably with mutual suspicion. As a result, we may even regard the art forms of those on the ‘wrong side’ of our own boundaries as symptomatic or even inciting of such violence. Take the typical response from many white people to rap or grime, for example. But by entering into the thought worlds and ‘imaginaries’ of a different bunch of people, we just might begin to understand where they are coming from. And we will perhaps realise why dominant patterns or clichés (about which we never give a second thought) pall or even offend: like the movies depicting All-American heroes reliably defusing global threats, or Christ figures modelled on the extreme sentimentalism of Warner Sallman’s Aryan Jesus, or the easy resolutions of predictable chordal progressions. Then, we might just begin to see that the world does not revolve around our own, egocentric perspective on reality, and that there really is something more reliable by which to understand both our own lives and the lives of others (who are not so different after all). For the Christian believer needs to grow an innate sensitivity to coordinates derived not from the compass, but from the one who made the east and west, and was able to deal with our failings by separating us from them further than the east is from the west.

by the Rabbit Room Chris Thiessen (Keeper of the Books, Rabbit Room Store Expert, and Encyclopedic Source of all Musical Knowledge) has compiled a reading list and a streaming playlist that together represent the speakers, subjects, and artists involved in Hutchmoot: Homebound. They are vast. We’ve also got some fun goodies to share from Growley Leather, so be sure to scroll to the bottom. This reading list is a great way to dive into the goodness that awaits you and familiarize yourself with voices such as Mark Meynell, Heidi Johnston, Malcolm Guite, Helena Sorensen, and Jonathan Rogers. Chris threw a few Inkling classics in there, too (Chesterton, Lewis, Tolkien, etc). Click here to view the Homebound Reading Collection in the Rabbit Room Store. Likewise, this streaming playlist will give you a sampling of songs by Sara Groves, John Mark McMillan, Propaganda, Joshua Luke Smith, Taylor Leonhardt, and Jess Ray—plus it’s curated with great care around the theme of “Homebound.” Thanks, Chris! Click here to view the full Homebound playlist on Spotify. And click here to view the full Homebound playlist on Apple Music. One of our long-time Hutchmoot partners is Growley Leather. They make some amazing bags, journals, hats, guitar straps, and more. Better yet, they’ve got lots of Rabbit Room-themed items, complete with the Rabbit logo. Click here to check out their store and see if there’s something for you. Click here to register for Hutchmoot: Homebound.

by the Rabbit Room Wherein Adam Whipple reads his poems “The Knowing is in Silence” and “Swimming at Meads,” Helena Sorensen reads her piece Feelings Like Water , and Drew Miller shares the third Word of Befuddlement: obloot. Feelings Like Water first appeared on the Rabbit Room blog in November of 2018, offering the densely-packed metaphor of snow to name some of the most vulnerable and intimate motions of the soul—from birth to childhood to adolescence to adulthood. In less than one thousand words, Helena manages to illustrate the many deaths and rebirths that define a human life. Words of Befuddlement Words of Befuddlement is a special Molehill Podcast segment inspired by games like Dictionary and Balderdash. In fact, it’s no different, except that the word in question doesn’t exist anywhere other than in the notorious mind of Pete Peterson (so don’t go looking for it in a dictionary). Each week, Drew Miller (host of The Molehill Podcast) will share a new Word of Befuddlement and ask you to send in your very own definition to drew@rabbitroom.com . The following week, he will read some of the definitions he received and reveal the “correct” definition as determined by Pete. The third Word of Befuddlement, shared in today’s episode, is the noun “obloot.” You can send in your very own definition of “obloot” to Drew, and he might just read it on next week’s show. And who knows? You may even guess correctly. Click here to listen to “S1 E3: Feelings Like Water.” And click here to subscribe on Apple Podcasts and here to subscribe on Spotify. Transcripts are available for The Molehill Podcast. Click here to view them. Artwork by the inimitable Stephen Crotts Words of Befuddlement graphic by Mindy Cook Original Molehill Podcast theme music by Zach & Maggie Other music featured in this episode: “Kindred Spirits” by Analog Heart “In the Shattering of Things” by Hammock

by the Rabbit Room The Habit Podcast  is a series of conversations with writers about writing, hosted by Jonathan Rogers. This week, Jonathan Rogers talks with Dr. Irwyn Ince, pastor and author of The Beautiful Community: Unity, Diversity, and the Church at Its Best . In this episode, Jonathan and Irwyn talk about beauty’s refusal to be possessed, the aesthetic impact of pursuing racial justice, and the joy to be found in responding to God’s calling—even and especially when that call entails “divine dissatisfaction.” Click here to listen to Season 2, Episode 37 of The Habit Podcast. Transcripts are now available for The Habit Podcast. Click here to access them. Special thanks to our Rabbit Room members for making these podcasts possible! If you’re interested in becoming a member, visit RabbitRoom.com/Donate.

by Matt Conner The experience doesn’t matter. The expertise isn’t real. For singer-songwriter Mindy Smith , the writing process is as mystical as ever, an elusive exercise that remains unpredictable despite her 15 year-plus run as a performing artist. Acclaimed albums. TV appearances. Endless tour dates. Film placements. Hit singles. None of it changes a thing. For these reasons, the creative pursuit remains as vulnerable as ever, an imposing form of the Resistance at work in her world. But as Mindy explains in this episode of the podcast, the work requires thick skin. Criticism is inevitable, and the artist must let it roll time and again. Fortitude and fragility are strange bedfellows, but Mindy says both are essential to her craft as a songwriter. It’s a mix to which we can all relate as we seek to do the work before us. To chase the dream, to bring about the imagined, to pin down the evasive—we must enter the fragility of the unknown and walk it out with an unfounded confidence. Click here to listen to this newest episode of The Resistance. And here to learn more about The Resistance Podcast. Matt Conner is a former pastor and church planter turned writer and editor. He’s the founder of Analogue Media and lives in Indianapolis.

by Ben Palpant I’ve always been a storyteller. My poor mother! I used to recount every life event in technicolor for her, even movies. She didn’t have to see the movies herself; her son had already reenacted them in their entirety. I think I told stories to know that I wasn’t alone. I wanted to see if the story made others feel the way that it made me feel. I wanted to see if it moved them and transformed them, too. Turns out, we’re all story-reading and storytelling creatures by design. That’s our factory setting. We have no other way of interpreting existence. No wonder the Bible is roughly 45% story, 30% poetry, and 25% discourse on the story and poetry. God knows how he wired us. Indeed, The Gospel itself is a story. Our word “Gospel” comes from the Old English word “God-spell.” Spell originally meant “story.” So they called a good story a “gód spell.” When the early Christian missionaries arrived in England, they called the Greek word evangelion the “gód spell” which later became the gospel, or the good story. You might even say The Gospel is the powerful enchantment. It is God’s enchantment of the world. God is weaving a spell, a story, of which Christians are a part. I learned this from Matthew Dickerson’s delightful book, From Homer to Harry Potter: A Handbook on Myth and Fantasy . You should read it, especially since he’s speaking at Hutchmoot: Homebound this year (hint, hint!). But here’s my point: God wired us for story. We reflect on our existence in narrative form. We tell stories while living a story within the larger story God is telling. The Gospel is the meta-narrative that makes sense of all our individual stories. It began at creation and continues even now while we’re together. Tonight, when you lose your temper with your spouse, the Gospel story includes that moment. Tomorrow, when you wake up worrying about your job or your friend or what you’ll serve for dinner, the Gospel story includes that moment. A 2014 Harvard Business Review article, “Why Your Brain Loves Storytelling,” describes how brain chemistry responds to stories like it responds to laughter or chocolate. Stories trigger the release of oxytocin, dopamine, cortisol, and endorphins that predispose us for open receptivity. That’s one reason why stories are such a powerful means of persuasion. They can move us emotionally, transform us spiritually, and propel us to action in ways that simple truth claims fail to do. According to Michael Ward, that’s why C. S. Lewis stopped debating. It was a tactical move. Lewis came to realize the power of story to shape us and change us. He recognized that no amount of debates or propositions could surpass story’s ability to engage people at a heart level. Take, for example, this statement from Psalm 14: “The fool says in his heart, ‘There is no God.'” We can understand that claim with our mind, but we come to know this truth through our “chests” (a term C. S. Lewis used to describe the affections) when we read of Elijah’s epic showdown with Jezebel’s prophets on Mt. Carmel (I Kings 18) or David’s showdown with Goliath (I Samuel 17) or Christ’s parable in Matthew 21. Those are powerful, narrative expressions of the truth that God is on his throne and he does as he pleases (Psalm 115:3) regardless of what fools may say. The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe unpacks this truth claim so vividly that children grown to adulthood still remember how much they longed for Aslan to return so that Lucy would be proven correct and so the witch’s curse might get unwound. Looking intellectually at the statement, “The fool says, ‘There is no God,'” is like looking at truth through a simple piece of glass. You can see it clearly enough, but when we look at the truth through a story, we see it through a prism that refracts the truth into something more colorful and more meaningful. Without stories, the truth tends to remain in the brain without truly affecting us. Stories help truth travel those essential eighteen inches from our head to our heart where real change begins. Maybe that’s one reason why Jesus is a storyteller. Maybe that’s why he continues the prophetic work of storytelling as a way of unveiling the kingdom of God for people wrapped around the axle of political partisanship and social upheaval. Jesus knows that the heart is the core engine of our being and that stories are the way to move them emotionally, transform them spiritually, and propel them into kingdom work. Stories help truth travel those essential eighteen inches from our head to our heart where real change begins. Ben Palpant Stories have a remarkable ability to powerfully and permanently speak into our lives. In some respects, God uses stories to move mountains. If ever there was a mountain, it was king David. The anointed one. The slayer of lions. The boy hero. The warrior poet. He became so popular and so strong that he could look out over his kingdom, see a beautiful woman, and say, “I’ll take that one.” What’s going to move a mountain like David? Does Nathan come in swinging the law like a world renowned debater? No. David already knows God’s law. He even delights in God’s law. Ignorance of God’s law wasn’t the problem. Clearly, intellectual assent to God’s law wasn’t the issue, either. David’s desires were the problem. In this particular case, God’s law had not made the necessary journey from his head to his heart. Only a story could sneak between David’s natural defenses and reach his heart. Did you know that the amygdala is triggered whenever something we really care about is attacked? It is the self-protection mechanism, triggering emotion and adrenaline. If a person’s identity is threatened, the brain goes into self-protection mode. Have you noticed this happen in your own life? Someone comes to you with a political agenda you don’t like, you feel your heartbeat increase, your words don’t come out right, you start getting frustrated. This happens in marriage, too. All your spouse is doing is pointing out one little flaw in your character, but you blow it out of proportion! Nathan took the amygdala out of play when he said, “Once upon a time…” He got David to lean in. When he had David’s whole mind, heart, and body involved in the story, he brought down the hammer, saying, “You are the man!” If you want to cultivate people, to make them actually change, imitate Nathan. Stop sermonizing. Preaching and sermonizing, by the way, are not the same thing. Sermonizing is sparring. Sermonizing is what we do on Facebook: always qualified by, “I don’t usually do this, but…” Preaching, however, is teaching. Preaching is shepherding. Good preaching reminds us of the story, unpacks the story, expounds on the story, and applies the story so that we are profoundly changed. And what kind of change we get will depend very much on the kind of stories we tell—and whether our stories are stirring proof texts that God does, indeed, exist.

by Jonathan Rogers The first TED talk I remember ever watching was “Your Elusive Creative Genius,” by Elizabeth Gilbert, in 2009. If you aren’t among the 19 million people (literally) who have watched this talk, or if you just want to relive the magic, here’s the link . There’s a lot of good stuff in that talk, but the thing that has most stuck with me these eleven years is Gilbert’s account of the way the word “genius” has changed through the centuries. The ancients believed that “creativity was this divine attendant spirit that came to human beings from some distant and unknowable source, for distant and unknowable reasons.” The Romans called this attendant spirit a “genius”: They believed that a genius was a sort of magical divine entity, who was believed to literally live in the walls of an artist’s studio, kind of like Dobby the house elf, and who would come out and invisibly assist the artist with their work and would shape the outcome of that work. —Elizabeth Gilbert So, for the Romans, “genius” was something that existed outside the artist. But around the Renaissance or soon thereafter, people started to think of creativity as something that comes from the individual instead of something that comes to the individual. “And from that time in history,” says Elizabeth Gilbert, “you start to hear people referring to this or that artist as being a genius instead of having a genius.” The idea of having a genius, being attended by a genius, protects the artist from many of the neuroses and unhealthy habits of mind that beset artists: If your work was brilliant, you couldn’t take all the credit for it, everybody knew that you had this disembodied genius who had helped you. If your work bombed—not entirely your fault, you know? Everyone knew your genius was kind of lame. —Elizabeth Gilbert You are not your gift. Jonathan Rogers I don’t know whether Elizabeth Gilbert actually believes in attendant spirits. It’s not always easy to discern when she’s speaking literally and when she’s speaking figuratively. But I can tell you that the best stuff I’ve ever written has always felt like it was coming from some place that wasn’t between my ears. And the idea that creativity originates in the individual human brain—that strikes me as at least as superstitious and woo-woo as the idea that creativity originates outside the individual human brain. Creativity is a mystery; you are not your gift. Or, as Elizabeth Gilbert puts it, Allowing somebody, one mere person to believe that he or she is the vessel, the font and the essence and the source of all divine, creative, unknowable, eternal mystery is just a smidge too much responsibility to put on one fragile human psyche. It’s like asking somebody to swallow the sun. It just completely warps and distorts egos, and it creates all these unmanageable expectations about performance. —Elizabeth Gilbert It’s not your job to be a genius. It’s your job to sit down and do the work. There are mysteries at play in all creative endeavors. Those mysteries are beyond your grasp. That’s all the more reason for you to double down on what is within your grasp—staying in the chair, putting words on the page, resisting the urge to check social media or (as the case may be) to fold another load of laundry. Tend to your business. Hopefully your genius will show up. This piece was originally shared in Jonathan’s weekly Habit Newsletter. If you’d like your own inbox to be graced with such insight—and with staggering frequency, at that—you can sign up for it by clicking here. Jonathan Rogers is the author of The Terrible Speed of Mercy, one of the finest biographies of Flannery O’Connor we've ever read. His other books include the Wilderking Trilogy–The Bark of the Bog Owl, The Secret of the Swamp King, and The Way of the Wilderking–as well as The World According to Narnia and a biography of Saint Patrick. He has spent most of his adult life in Nashville, Tennessee, where he and his wife Lou Alice are raising a houseful of robustious children.

by Matt Conner We’re not sure how Alisa Xayalith or Thom Powers crafted something so meaningfully synthetic, but their new album, Recover , is a heartening, even healing listen. Together, the duo known as The Naked & Famous has played to vast crowds on six continents over the last decade, since the release of 2010’s Passive Me, Aggressive You . However, over the last few years, the native New Zealanders called their craft into question. It wasn’t just a musical break. Instead, each of them endured a difficult personal season marked by loss, depression, confusion and, for Thom, a near-death experience. On the other side, Alisa and Thom found the creative spark to return with lessons learned. You can hear the results in the title track of their new album, Recover : I can’t replace the loss of the mother I can’t erase the loss of my father I can’t replace the loss with another But I can regain myself and recover —”Recover,” The Naked & Famous For those of you facing the same—a halt in creative momentum, a hopeless season of despair—you should know that something substantive is taking shape even as you cannot see it. This episode features an honest conversation about how meaningful art can somehow emerge in the face of so much resistance. Click here to listen to this newest episode of The Resistance. And here to learn more about The Resistance Podcast. Matt Conner is a former pastor and church planter turned writer and editor. He’s the founder of Analogue Media and lives in Indianapolis.