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by Mark Meynell It’s the stuff of little girls’ (and not a few little boys’, no doubt) dreams: a vast portrait-lined hall, say, glittering in a forest of sparkling chandeliers, filled with serried ranks of men in white tie and tails, radiant women in sumptuous gowns, and the sounds of an orchestra on fire. But this is no fairy tale. Welcome to the grandest balls of nineteenth century Vienna. Welcome to that epitome of Viennese style: the Waltz. Music and movement have always been inextricably linked. With rhythms that correspond to, and profoundly influence, something as basic as our heartbeats, music has always had an uncanny ability to get people off their backsides! One of the fundamental refinements of this has been the lilt of music in 3/4 time. UM-cha-cha, UM-cha-cha, UM-cha-cha . There, you see! Your toes are already tapping. Now, you might think that the waltz is confined to a bygone world, but it’s alive and kicking in surprising places. Take Billy Joel’s “Piano Man”, The Beatles’ “Norwegian Wood,” or Jimi Hendrix’s “Manic Depression”! Just as great, but less well concealed, is Leonard Cohen’s “Thanks for the Dance.” Still, there are surprises in store within its original setting, because each one of these examples somehow articulates an emotional mood entirely different from the others. It seems the waltz is as good a vehicle for expressing the breadth of human experiences as any other (a bit like its namesake, Christoph, for that matter). Tales from the Vienna Wood (Op. 325, IJS 149) Johann Strauss Jr (1825-1899, Austrian) Vienna Philharmonic, Robert Stolz (cond.) Just as it would be wrong to start anywhere other than Vienna, so we must open with Johann Strauss Jr, son of Johann Strauss. The father was good, but the son was a genius. He was the waltz king. You probably know the Blue Danube (a total misnomer by the way, if you’ve ever visited Vienna) from Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey , so it would be a waste to include it here. Instead, we’ll lightly traipse through the city’s surrounding forest. Here is joy, excitement and joie-de-vivre all at once. It’s sure to put a spring in your step (much needed in these strange days). Take your partners, please… Entr’acte and Waltz with Chorus from Eugene Onegin (Op. 24: Act II, Sc 1) Pyotr Illyich Tchaikovsky (1840-1893, Russian) Neil Shicoff (‘Lenski’, tenor) , Dmitri Hvorostovsky (‘Onegin’, bass) , St. Petersburg Chamber Choir, Orchestre De Paris, Semyon Bychkov (cond.) Instead of sweeping the room up, we now encounter a waltz vicariously on stage. But in Tchaikovsky’s operatic adaptation of Alexander Pushkin’s verse novel, this dance is a crucial plot element. We are in that archetypal romantic drama: you know, two eligible bachelors, two gorgeous but different sisters, etc. You can guess the rest. Almost. A moral of the story is, be careful who you dance with… But this opening to Act 2 barely hints of the drama to come. Instead, its melody is just wonderful and exuberant. You’ll be humming it for days. (By the way, the protagonist’s surname is pronounced, Oh-NYAY-gin with a hard ‘g’; most definitely not a drinks order in a pub). Waltz in F major Leo Tolstoy (1828-1910, Russian) Lera Auerbach (piano) Since we’re in Russia, it would be a shame to miss this little gem. Who knew that one of the greatest novelists in history had a nice little sideline in waltzes? I, for one, had no idea. This is just a delight. Here is whimsy and wistfulness, with perhaps a touch of melancholy, but it is all so deft and light. At only a minute and a half, it is like a miniature crystal ornament on the mantelpiece: easily overlooked but pregnant with personal meaning for those who love it. Slavonic Dance No. 10 ‘Allegretto grazioso’ (in E Minor, Op. 72, No. 2) Antonin Dvořák (1841-1904, Czech) Czech Philharmonic Orchestra, Jiří Bělohlávek   (cond.) Tolstoy’s melancholy has now become full-blown in Dvorak’s treatment. The 3/4 tempo is restrained and full of pathos, with memories of youthful joys perhaps now lost. Those joys suddenly have full voice about halfway through, perhaps as we are transported but to the glory days. Yet the heartbreak is just too strong to resist for long. We’re back in the sweeping strings of the first melody and the tears perhaps start to well up. Waltz No. 6 in D-Flat, Op. 64 No. 1 “The Minute” Frédéric Chopin (1810-1849, Polish) Vladimir Ashkenazy (piano) And now for something completely different. Not a scintilla of nostalgia here; this is a distillation of keyboard fireworks exclusively bottled for the drawing room salon. Ashkenazy is one of my favourite musicians and he makes it all so effortless here (which was undoubtedly Chopin’s intention). ‘Minute’ Waltz was not Chopin’s title—he originally called it the ‘Puppy Waltz’, believe it or not?!—so nobody seriously tries to play it in under 60 seconds since that would guarantee an unpleasant mess on the floor. More commonly, it takes up to around two minutes. But it is a piece of pianistic showmanship. Listeners of the long-running BBC Radio 4 panel show Just A Minute will recognise it for sure. La Valse/The Waltz (1919/20) Maurice Ravel (1875-1937, French) Rotterdam Philharmonic Orchestra, Yannick Nézet-Séguin (cond.) So, as we conclude, what finer encapsulation of European civilisation can you get than the waltz in all its glamour and romance? But notice the date of composition. We’re only a year or so after the end of the Frist World War, an event so catastrophic and destructive that ‘European civilisation’ had become a contradiction in terms. Ravel himself had been an ambulance driver during the conflict (like a number of other artistic people including Ralph Vaughan Williams, e. e. cummings, Ernest Hemingway, Jerome K. Jerome, Gertrude Stein, and Jean Cocteau). But he commandeers this throwback to the nonchalance of an aristocratic age and subverts it cha by cha . The UM-cha-cha is relentless but the mood and tone become increasingly deranged, even though it keeps being jerkily interrupted. This is no romantic flight of fancy. Ravel has transformed the waltz into a tragic emblem of cultural disintegration. Ravel originally conceived of it as a ballet, but it is more normally performed as a concert piece (perhaps because it is only around thirteen minutes). It begins rather murkily, as if a ball is taking place in a room or house next door. But we are never able to ignore it, since it whirls and cascades, drawing more and more people into its almost demonic rhythm. (Listening, I am always reminded of that Mark Gertler painting from this era referenced in my engagement with the film 1917 ). La Valse ’s final minute or so is manic and destructive. The trenches have killed off that old glamourous world once and for all. Still, some listeners disagree; they would see this as the ultimate waltz, almost an apotheosis of the form, with all the wild, bacchanalian fervour that an all-or-nothing dance demands. Either way, once Ravel had done with it, the waltz could never be the same again. P.S. Before anyone gets wrong ideas, I want to state categorically that I am in no sense a dancer. Two left feet and all that. Past experience has clearly taught that the consequence usually features red faces and broken bones. But I appreciate great art when I see it. Just don’t ask me to take a partner onto the dance floor (into the ring?). It’s just not worth it.

by Adam Whipple The country of radio theater has long been depopulated, but still its fields are fertile as ever they were. There, the imagination grows high, strengthened by roots which must dig deep to find purchase. Artists and craftspeople have long known: a good way to enrich one’s work is by limiting materials. Take away a color or two from your palette. Use only hand tools on your woodwork. Cook your meat plain, with heat, smoke, and nothing else. In radio theater, we forego our eyes; therefore our minds rocket into the realms of possibility. So goes A. S. Peterson’s Frankenstein . Produced by Oasis Audio and Rabbit Room Press, Peterson’s stage adaptation of Mary Shelley’s novel is now available in audiobook form . Released just in time for Halloween, it’s fitting for any season of the year. With the sound effects, the music, and the heart-turning work of original cast members Jared Reinfeldt, Euriamis Losada, and Morgan Davis, it serves as a fresh spin on the classic monster story. Mary Shelley’s novel is a curious narrative to adapt. While it has a long history of adaptation—the first play premiered in 1823—the original material, published in 1818, is highly literary for today’s audiences. Furthermore, it’s told by multiple narrators in retrospect, or through the proxy of personal letters. Shelley rather mutes the action in favor of an emotional inner narrative. Peterson manages to balance both styles, the original and his own fresh take, and keep listeners on the edge of their seats. He couches the story within a well-spun courtroom drama on the north-bound ship, keeping the first-person narratives as bookends and markers and delving seamlessly into the adventure we would expect from a tale of travel, deep ethics, and supernatural science. Inevitably, retellings of Shelley’s tale tend toward such creative liberties. Peterson’s play in particular leans heavily into the metaphysical and Biblical themes that Shelley only brought out to a point. Personally, Mary Shelley was demonstrably irreligious, though she both maintained an obvious sense of moral injustice about some issues and, exacerbating her unflattering image, suffered the postmortem indignity of historians making much ado of the more lurid details of her life. Her storytelling borrows generously from Enlightenment philosophy, even at times seeming to hold any Biblical source material at arm’s length. Peterson’s exploration of the text focuses in on the narrative of God and Adam as the pattern of Frankenstein and his creature. Don’t try and listen to this while you’re washing dishes or folding laundry. You’ll stop your work, I promise you. This rendition is worth every minute of a quiet evening, seated with a cup of tea, eyes closed in rapt attention. The performance is completely immersive, brilliantly edited to be set against the creaking of a ship, the singing of birds, and the sounds of various chambers. Listening in stereo is helpful as well, as the tracking and mix-work is such that one can hear the characters speaking from different places in and out of rooms. As with all good stories, this one walks easily upon ground where sermons may falter, leaning into the imagination to ease open our painted-shut windows onto a true country. Adam Whipple Jared Reinfeldt as Victor is wonderful at maintaining a sense of emotional continuity amid differing timelines, incrementally working the good doctor to a fever pitch of professional, then fearful, obsession. Euriamis Losada proves himself an able character actor and a powerful explorer of the human psyche as the creature. The role is so obviously outsized, often in danger of being made cartoonish, but Losada brings gravitas and humanity. Where Shelley’s written creature requires a few imaginative gymnastics to believe its motivations, Losada’s portrayal, bolstered by Peterson’s text, is all too believable, his character’s sins all too ubiquitous. Peterson roots the character in the moral fabric that Shelley seemed at times to eschew. Particularly plaintive is the journey of Morgan Davis’s Elizabeth. Her grace both with Victor and with his creature is the keystone of Peterson’s invention and adaptation. She alone looks the creature full in the face and grants him humanity. This might be the best fruition of the feminism inherent in Shelley’s writing. If her novel fought for the rights of women simply by dint of its author’s gender, Peterson’s treatment fights for women’s humanity by having a woman as its most ardent champion of the Image of God in mankind. Elizabeth recognizes the creature as a person , the Adam so reluctantly alluded to in the original book. Additional moments that give life to the story are the family scenes and the foreshadowing dialogue of the shipmates. The world feels so real, having just enough detail to leave the listener wanting more. The whole performance clocks in at just over two hours, but its scenes are divided helpfully into tracks. As with all good stories, this one—Shelley’s, Peterson’s—walks easily upon ground where sermons may falter, leaning into the imagination to ease open our painted-shut windows onto a true country. To see this as a spectacle on the stage is magnificent, but now, to see it in our minds at any time, is a gift. Click here to view the Audiobook CD in the Rabbit Room Store. And click here to view the audiobook on Audible.

by Jen Rose Yokel We like to say around here that “community nourishes art,” and there is no joy like watching a piece of art grow from the seeds of friendship into a finished work. We’re excited to let you know our friend and contributor Janna Barber is about to release her debut memoir Hidden in Shadow . I met Janna at Hutchmoot 2011, and over the years have found in her a kindred writer spirit, someone who desires to grow in her craft and offer hope through her words. It’s been an honor to support her through the process of writing, revision, and preparing for release day. We had a conversation about the eight-year making of Hidden in Shadow , the challenges of vulnerable storytelling, and her hope for the readers who experience her story. Congratulations on your new book! I know this has been a long time coming, and I’m so excited for people to finally read it! How long have you been working on it? I’ve been dreaming of writing my own memoir ever since I first read Traveling Mercies by Anne Lamott, way back in 2002. I wanted to share a collection of powerful stories like Anne’s, only from the perspective of someone who grew up in a Christian home in the South. But it took several years of blogging and becoming a member of the Rabbit Room community to gather up the courage to start writing that book. It was after the second Hutchmoot that I finally got serious about it, and I finished the first draft in April of 2019. That’s almost eight years if you do the math, but I can assure you that I spent a lot more time not writing during those years than writing. I quit many times, for long periods of time, and I struggled to believe that my words were worth sharing with the world. But eventually I cobbled enough stories together that a theme emerged, and once I recognized that theme, I was able to get behind it enough to finish the work. How would you describe your book? And what do you want readers to know going in? Hidden in Shadow is a memoir, not a how-to kind of book. It’s a collection of stories from my life that demonstrate the value of expressing doubt and sorrow in an honest way. I don’t believe there’s a formula for how to deal with grief, so I tried to steer clear of providing easy take-aways for my readers. Instead, I chose to examine my memories with an eye focused on redemption, but hopefully not in a way that feels forced or fake. I’d like for people to be able to see themselves in my experiences, to feel a little less alone, and a lot more seen and understood. The subtitle is Tales of Grief, Lamentation, and Faith — certainly not light subjects, but so important. Can you talk about why you chose to focus on grief in this book? For much of my life I felt forbidden to grieve, but I don’t think I thought grief was bad. I simply never saw anyone engage in it, so I didn’t realize it was a thing I could do, let alone need. I just knew that I was scared to cry in front of others, and felt that outwardly expressing any emotions besides thankfulness, praise, or repentance would be some sort of betrayal of my faith. Even though I experienced a lot of anger and sadness during that time, I felt ashamed of those emotions, and tried to hide them from everyone. But the result of that hiding was severe depression and a complete lack of joy and hope. Depression led me to therapy, which was the first place I experienced permission to grieve. I later began writing as a way to give myself more permission to grieve. What surprised me was that both of those processes led me toward hope, and eventually joy. Once I began to see that vital connection, I knew I had to share it with others, regardless of how heavy it might seem to some. You share a lot of vulnerable stories in this book. How did it feel to put them in writing, knowing others would read them? It was pretty scary at first, and I still worry about what others might think of me from time to time. But I know that the stories that have made a lasting impact on my heart contain that same vulnerability. And when I think about the fact that others might find healing through my stories, it makes the fear less threatening. What do you hope for people to experience when they read Hidden in Shadow ? I hope people will begin to see vulnerability as a strength, and not a weakness. I also hope my readers will find permission to feel all their feelings, without any shame, and that might, in turn, build their faith in a God who accepts and loves them just as they are—no matter what they’re feeling or expressing. Earlier this year, you also put out a book of poetry! I’d love to hear how those writing experiences compared for you. I know for me, as a writer, telling the truth in a poem can feel very different from telling it in an essay or memoir type of piece. Curious how that is for you. I think poetry is more mysterious than straight forward essays, so there’s a lot more room to say things that mean something different to you than they do to your reader. In that way it feels less vulnerable to me. However, I don’t think I’m as good of a poet as I am an essay writer, so I’m a bit more proud of my memoir than I am my poetry book. Then again, there’s nothing quite so powerful as hitting on the exact right metaphor and finding a form and sound that expresses it well, too. When that happens you might find yourself crying without knowing why. Poetry is special like that, and I hope I’ll always be able to write it. Okay, maybe this is too soon and the worst question to ask a writer, but… what are you working on now? (Or is there something you’d like to try in the future?) I would love to try a novel at some point, but I need a lot more practice with plotting and the ability to hone in on appropriate details. A couple of weeks ago I had an idea for a new work of nonfiction, but I’m not ready to talk about it yet. I didn’t think that would happen until next year, if ever, so I was pleasantly surprised. I look forward to writing in a more focused and regular way than I did with this book, so hopefully I’ll finish the next one in less than eight years! Hidden in Shadow releases from Thistle Bound Press December 4th and is now available for preorder at the Rabbit Room Store . Jen Rose Yokel is a poet, freelance writer, and spiritual director. Her words have appeared at She Reads Truth, CCM Magazine, and other publications, and she released her first poetry collection Ruins & Kingdoms in 2015. Originally from Central Florida, she now makes her home in Fall River, Massachusetts with her husband Chris, where you can find her enjoying used bookstores and good coffee.

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 Crystal Downing, Director of the Marion E. Wade Center at Wheaton College and author of Subversive: Christ, Culture, and the Shocking Dorothy Sayers . Jonathan Rogers and Crystal Downing discuss the danger of Christian celebrity, the strategy of shock in Dorothy Sayers’ work, and the subversion at the very heart of the Christian faith. Click here to listen to Season 2, Episode 46 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 Jonny Jimison Jonny Jimison is back with artistic insight and empathy in this 27th edition of Rabbit Trails. Click here to visit Jonny Jimison’s website.

Malcolm Guite may be the closest thing to Bilbo Baggins that Christian poetry offers. He has numerous volumes of poetry and spiritual writing on offer, including Sounding the Seasons , Heaven in Ordinary , and The Word in the Wilderness . Last month, we announced that Guite's long-awaited Arthuriad, Merlin's Isle will be published by Rabbit Room Press in several volumes over the coming years. Guite also has a thriving YouTube channel in which he invites guests to step into his study to share a pipe and thoughts from his latest projects. In the video above, Guite pulls back the curtain on Merlin's Isle with characteristic Hobbit-y charm. If you’ve enjoyed this article or other content coming out of the Rabbit Room, you can help support the work by clicking here. Our weekly newsletter is the best way to learn about new books, staff recommendations, upcoming events, lectures, and more. Sign up here.

by Gracy Olmstead I read once of a culture in which children learned to walk long distances from a very early age. The story went that a three-year-old would be expected to accompany a parent three miles (being carried for much of the distance), and that a four-year-old should be willing to go four (again, not entirely on foot). The five-year-old would go five miles, the six-year-old six, and so on. The older the child, the greater their ability to trek long distances with adult help and support. The earlier the tutelage began, the greater their endurance and independence as they got older. Since then, I have not been able to verify the truth of the story, and so it might be false. Nevertheless, my three littles have been encouraged to do a lot of walking in their young lives, and we’ve sought to grow their mental tenacity in order to last through mental hikes and Sunday adventures. When we lived in Oxford, England, we did so without a car ( I’ve written about that here ), and so our kids got very used to walking 1.5 miles to church in the morning, or exploring the towpaths for a few miles on a Saturday. I noticed that they were often capable of long walks physically , but that the greater challenge was mental: in being willing to endure the slow monotony of walking. It is a process of teaching them how to notice and delight in the world around them, so that they realize how much wonder and joy there is in the walking process. Nowadays, I don’t have any trouble getting them to walk for three or four miles—the greatest challenge is that it takes us hours, because they want to stop and collect every rock, or to stare at every butterfly. It is a wonderful problem to have. Now that our children are getting older, we’ve embraced a new challenge. I do not just want my children to walk. I want them to navigate: to have a strong sense of where we are walking, and how to get there (and back again). The reasons for this are numerous, but I’ll touch on a couple of them here. Eventually, I hope this will help combat the modes of helicopter parenting and indoors-focused life so common among American kids these days . Eventually, I want them to be able to confidently walk outside our front door and navigate their neighborhood with a sense of ownership. I do not thinking they will be walking themselves to the park anytime soon, but at this stage, I do want them to be able to take me there, and direct me homewards. The older they get, the larger the navigational challenges we can pose. Can they take my husband and me hiking? Can they get us to the grocery store? To church? To their grandparents’ house? A second reason for this relates back to the importance of place and our relationship to it. I am convinced that our relationships with our places must be active rather than passive, animated by a sense of stewardship and belonging. But children do not grow these muscles if we constantly shuttle them around in a car and avoid interacting personally and actively with our landscapes. The instant they must lead themselves and others through that landscape, using their feet, eyes, and ears to interact with the soil, buildings, flora, fauna, and street signs, the landscape becomes theirs . This shift marks the beginning of a new relationship with place—one no longer defined by parents or family, but by their own sense of belonging and situatedness. In the UK, my oldest began to develop a clear sense of direction as we walked. She could recognize familiar street corners, signposts, and shops. She could take us comfortably from our home to the towpath, and from the towpath to central Oxford (and back). Now, however, we are living in Idaho suburbia. And I have realized that the challenge of navigation has changed drastically. Compare, just for example, these different street grids. The first few are random selections from Oxford’s residential areas, such as Jericho and New Hinksey: The streets don’t form a perfect square grid, but they have a logic and rhythm to them that is easy to follow. Streets all connect to each other, with homes lining them at regular intervals. A few streets terminate at the river or at various colleges, but there are almost always walking paths that take over and guide the walker where normal streets end. It is easy to explore this city without getting terribly turned around. Various parts of London are similar. (These are screenshots of Notting Hill and Chelsea.) Again, things are not perfectly geometric here, and there’s a chance you might get a bit turned around here and there. But the average walker can enjoy this city with ease because every neighborhood’s streets have a clear rhythm and cadence, a direction and a telos. Smaller streets connect back to larger thoroughfares. Side streets are easy to identify, and are punctuated with shops and markets where you might ask for directions. When you start walking in the wrong direction, it is relatively easy to turn yourself back around within a block or two, because streets rarely terminate except back into each other. Some United States neighborhoods are similar—especially the old ones. As a young journalist, I explored Washington, D.C. on a regular basis. This was pre-smartphone (at least for me), and so I often would look at Google Maps prior to leaving my office. I would pick a direction, identify the main streets I needed to follow, and then go on an adventure for an hour or two. On weekends, my then-fiancé (now husband) and I would embark on daylong walking quests, starting on one side of the city and walking to the other. These remain some of my favorite memories of D.C. I learned to know the city by foot, and grew an affection for its streets and neighborhoods that I never would have if I had only navigated by car. There’s an intuitive sense of a borough or street grid built in this way, when you proceed district-by-district and block-by-block. But then there’s suburbia. And with suburbia, that intuitive sense of place and direction drastically changes. I share these screenshots because I feel it is very easy to identify the problem from above. These are randomly selected screenshots from Idaho and northern Virginia. I will admit, the way the streets thread along like veins or root tendrils is decidedly pretty. It often creates pretty neighborhoods. But what does it mean to walk these streets without a phone? How does one explore these neighborhoods, or use them to get from point A to point D? As soon as we begin to walk—and to specifically walk with the aim of getting somewhere—things get difficult. Many streets terminate in a cul-de-sac, leaving the walker stranded and having to retrace their steps. Many other neighborhoods form an unexpected loop, which means the walker often assumes they will be able to proceed in an easterly direction only to get looped all the way back to their starting point. As my kiddos and I walked back from the park recently, I picked a different exit to navigate from. I had no idea which streets exactly would lead us home, but that was half the fun. I told them we needed to proceed south, and so we specifically picked streets that would take us south. But alas, this does not work in the suburbs. One street led us around in a circle. Two others were cul-de-sacs. We eventually made it back, and did so without consulting my smartphone, but the process was rather frustrating, even for me. The intuitive savvy of streetwalking changes when you are living in suburbia. Main streets and “side streets” all meld in a grid that often feels incomprehensible. Suburbia has its own language, and I am still learning it. To an extent, I think this is a flaw in suburbia itself, one that makes children less safe and independent in these neighborhoods. The easier it is to learn the language and pattern of the streets, the more confidence parents and children can have in navigating them. The instant we complexify that language, we are requiring greater expertise and maturity in order to navigate. I would argue that there is a pro-family and pro-child reason to build street grids in a more simple, traditional style, and it has to do with the children and their comfortability in these spaces. This said, I don’t want to be too biased against the suburbs. I grew up in a small rural town, and since then, have lived in cities. This means I am unversed in the language and pattern of suburban streets. It could be that, when it comes to learning to navigate suburbia, I will have to learn alongside my children, rather than being able to teach them. Gracy Olmstead is a journalist who focuses on farming, localism, and family. She is the author of Uprooted: Recovering the Legacy of the Places We've Left Behind .   Her writing has been published in The American Conservative, The Week, The New York Times, The Washington Post, National Review, The Wall Street Journal, and Christianity Today, among others. Read more of Gracy's writing on her Substack, Granola .   If you’ve enjoyed this article or other content coming out of the Rabbit Room, you can help support the work by clicking here. Our weekly newsletter is the best way to learn about new books, staff recommendations, upcoming events, lectures, and more. Sign up here.

by Chris Thiessen I see the world of art as one expansive tapestry. No particular work exists in a vacuum; its fabric overlaps its artistic neighbors. Dyes blend. Threads interweave. Over time, a gorgeous picture is revealed made of myriad strands that—while precious in their individual ways—are elevated by their intricate connections to and contrasts with each other. Thus, I love digging into my favorite musicians’ influences, competitors, and companions. Because if you listen closely enough, you’ll hear each one expressed in their music. Take the Beatles for example (because I always use the Beatles). You can hear the “Woo!” of Little Richard on their song “ Oh! Darling ,” or their Beach Boys nod on “ Back in the USSR ,” or their attempt to one-up the reckless loudness of The Who on “ Helter Skelter .” Each song is wonderful without knowing how it connects to the larger tapestry of art, but picking up on these little Easter eggs of influence just fills me with such delight. The influence of art on new art becomes even more interesting when different media and styles cross-pollinate. A painting may inspire a poem that gives voice to the emotions it conjures, or a film may bring to life the words of an author, either through adaptation or abstract inspiration. Of course, this sort of cross-pollination can be done poorly. The filmmaker could just copy onto the screen what is written on the page. The poet could create a word picture of the painting without any expression of why she believes the painting to be worthy of her time. These expressions don’t add anything to the tapestry of art but a shiny new coat of fabric paint to cover the original. Sometimes, however, an artist is able to adorn a thread from the tapestry—extending it, changing it, and giving both the new artwork and its inspiration elevated importance. This concept is at work in the wonderful ballad “ Runaway ” by singer-songwriter Jess Ray, which takes the children’s story Runaway Bunny by Margaret Wise Brown—a story about a bunny who wants to leave his mother who promises faithfully to run after him no matter how far he runs—and recontextualizes it by connecting this show of relentless love to the love of God who promises to pursue every lost child. Each time I read Brown’s story or hear Ray’s song, I’m reminded of the other. Each is enriched by the other, and I, the listener/reader, feel doubly nourished by their connection. To further express this idea, we’ve asked a handful of friends to share some of their favorite songs inspired by literature. Some are humorous (Leonard Nimoy’s “Ballad of Bilbo Baggins”, Tom Lehrer’s “Oedipus Rex”); some are hope-filled (Andy Gullahorn and Jill Phillips’ “I Will Find A Way”); some are a gut punch (J. Cole’s “For Whom the Bell Tolls”). But with every song, the tapestry is expanded, adorned, and made truer. Listen at the links below, and keep reading for a full list of songs and their novels, stories, and poems that inspired them. Click here to listen on Apple Music. And click here to listen on Spotify. Biblical Literature “Two Doves” – Dirty Projectors ( Song of Solomon ) “Wisdom” – Jill Phillips ( The Book of Proverbs ) “Song of Songs” – Pierce Pettis ( Song of Solomon ) “Samson” – Regina Spektor ( The Book of Judges ) “The Transfiguration” – Sufjan Stevens ( The Gospel of Matthew ) The Greeks “Ulysses” – Josh Garrels ( The Odyssey – Homer) “Wait For Me” – Anaïs Mitchell (The myth of Orpheus and Eurydice) “It’s Never Over (Hey Orpheus)” – Arcade Fire (The myth of Orpheus and Eurydice) “Daedalus” – Thrice (The myth of Daedalus) “Oedipus Rex” – Tom Lehrer ( Oedipus Rex – Sophocles) Shakespeare “Romeo and Juliet” – Dire Straits ( Romeo and Juliet ) “Ophelia” – Natalie Merchant ( Hamlet ) “Sigh No More” – Mumford and Sons ( Much Ado About Nothing ) “Sound + Fury” – Ella Mine ( Macbeth ) The Poets “Weight of Living, Pt. I” – Bastille (“The Rime of the Ancient Mariner” – Samuel Taylor Coleridge) “The Road Not Taken” – Bruce Hornsby & the Range (“The Road Not Taken” – Robert Frost) “Afternoons and Coffeespoons” – Crash Test Dummies (“The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” – T.S. Eliot)|“A Boy Named Sue” – Johnny Cash (“A Boy Named Sue” – Shel Silverstein) “Adventures of Isabel” – Natalie Merchant (“Adventures of Isabel” – Ogden Nash) “Richard Cory” – Simon & Garfunkel (“Richard Cory” – Edwin Arlington Robinson) “The Stolen Child” – The Waterboys (“The Stolen Child” – W.B. Yeats) “Death, Be Not Proud” – Audrey Assad (“Death, Be Not Proud” – John Donne) “Another New World” – Josh Ritter (“Annabelle Lee” – Edgar Allan Poe) “Xanadu” – Rush (“Kubla Khan” – Samuel Taylor Coleridge) Classics “To The End” – My Chemical Romance (“A Rose For Emily” – William Faulkner) “A Rose For Emily” – The Zombies (“A Rose For Emily” – William Faulkner) “Don Quixote” – Gordon Lightfoot ( Don Quixote – Miguel de Cervantes) “Wuthering Heights” – Kate Bush ( Wuthering Heights – Emily Brontë) “Valjean” – Penny and Sparrow ( Les Miserables – Victor Hugo) “The Ballad of Jody Baxter” – Andrew Peterson ( The Yearling – Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings) Steinbeck “The Ghost of Tom Joad” – Bruce Springsteen ( The Grapes of Wrath – John Steinbeck) “Timshel” – Mumford and Sons ( East of Eden – John Steinbeck) “The Pearl” – Fleming and John ( The Pearl – John Steineck) “Sweet Thursday” – Matt Costa ( Sweet Thursday – John Steinbeck) The Inklings “In the House of Tom Bombadil” – Nickel Creek ( The Fellowship of the Ring – J.R.R. Tolkien) “Ballad of Bilbo Baggins” – Leonard Nimoy ( The Hobbit – J.R.R. Tolkien) “Riddles in the Dark” – Chris Thile ( The Hobbit – J.R.R. Tolkien) “Ramble On” – Led Zeppelin ( Lord of the Rings – J.R.R. Tolkien) “Everything Sad Is Coming Untrue, Pt. 2” – Jason Gray ( The Return of the King – J.R.R. Tolkien) “Dear Wormwood” – The Oh Hellos ( The Screwtape Letters – C.S. Lewis) “The High Countries” – Sandra McCracken ( The Great Divorce – C.S. Lewis) “The Lament of Eustace Scrubb” – The Oh Hellos ( The Voyage of the Dawn Treader – C.S. Lewis) “Out of the Silent Planet” – King’s X ( Out of the Silent Planet – C.S. Lewis) Science Fiction, Fantasy, and Oddities “Desert Rose” – Sting ( Dune – Frank Herbert) “Empress” – The Arcadian Wild (“Harrison Bergeron” – Kurt Vonnegut) “Tomorrow Never Knows” – The Beatles ( The Psychedelic Experience – Timothy Leary) “Moon Over Bourbon Street” – Sting ( Interview With the Vampire – Anne Rice) “Soma” – The Strokes ( Brave New World – Aldous Huxley) “2+2=5” – Radiohead ( 1984 – George Orwell) “Home” – Breaking Benjamin ( The Wizard of Oz – L. Frank Baum) Contemporary Literature “For Whom the Bell Tolls” – Metallica ( For Whom the Bell Tolls – Ernest Hemingway) “For Whom the Bell Tolls” – J. Cole ( For Whom the Bell Tolls – Ernest Hemingway) “Thieves in the Night” – Black Star ( The Bluest Eye – Toni Morrison) “Atticus” – Noisettes ( To Kill a Mockingbird – Harper Lee) “Kumalo” – Matthew Clark ( Cry, the Beloved Country – Alan Paton) “A Good Man Is Hard To Find” – Sufjan Stevens (“A Good Man Is Hard To Find” – Flannery O’Connor) “The Life You Chose” – Jason Isbell ( The Bell Jar – Sylvia Plath) “Song For Myla Goldberg” – The Decemberists ( Bee Season – Myla Goldberg) “Rain King” – Counting Crows ( Henderson the Rain King – Saul Bellow) “Shadows and Tall Trees” – U2 ( Lord of the Flies – William Golding) “The God of Loss” – Darlingside ( The God of Small Things – Arundhati Roy) “Take Me Down” – Son of Laughter ( The Crucible – Arthur Miller) “I Will Find A Way” – Andy Gullahorn & Jill Phillips ( Ragman And Other Cries Of Faith – Walt Wangerin) “Caught It From the Rye” – Tre Burt ( The Catcher in the Rye – J.D. Salinger) Non-Fiction Literature “Maya” – Rapsody ( I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings – Maya Angelou) “Julie” – Rhiannon Giddens ( The Slaves’ War – Andrew Ward) “Wear Your Wedding Dress” – Ben Shive ( The Mystery of Marriage – Mike Mason) “O Theo” – Matthew Perryman Jones ( Dear Theo – Vincent Van Gogh) “Skin” – Vigilantes of Love ( Dear Theo – Vincent Van Gogh) “Bus 152” – Eric Peters ( Into the Wild – Jon Krakauer) Children’s Literature “Runaway” – Jess Ray ( Runaway Bunny – Margaret Wise Brown) “Everywhere I Go” – Becca Jordan ( Wherever You Are: My Love Will Find You – Nancy Tillman) “The House At Pooh Corner” – Kenny Loggins ( The House At Pooh Corner – A.A. Milne) “Run Down” – Eric Peters ( Watership Down – Richard Adams) “Secret Garden” – Bruce Springsteen ( The Secret Garden – Frances Hodgson Burnett) Thank you to all who contributed to this playlist: Janna Barber, John Barber, Jeremy Casella, Shigé Clark, Matt Conner, Steve Guthrie, Ella Horn, Jonny Jimison, J Lind, Thomas McKenzie, Mark Meynell, David Mitchel, Andrew Peterson, Pete Peterson, Russ Ramsey, Chris Slaten, Helena Sorensen, Chris Thiessen, Leslie Thompson, Janie Townsend, Jennifer Trafton, Chris Wheeler, Hetty White, Adam Whipple, Chris Yokel Click here to listen on Apple Music. And click here to listen on Spotify.

by Chris Thiessen The perfect album lands between 42 and 47 minutes. It’s long enough to embrace an emotional arc and take the listener on a journey without overstaying its welcome or veering into self-indulgence. Every so often, however, an album earns a longer stay. Indeed, some of popular music’s greatest feats are far longer than 60 minutes. Kendrick Lamar’s  To Pimp A Butterfly runs 78 minutes; Pink Floyd’s  The Wall is slightly longer at 80 minutes; the Beatles’ boundless  White Album deserves every bit of its 93 minutes (though I used to believe it was half fluff). These three are exceptions to my rule, which holds up about 95% of the time. But it’s always a special treat when, about once a year, a long listen really pays off and enters my personal canon of great music. This week, the culprit was Smashing Pumpkins with their 121-minute magnum opus,  Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness . To be honest, I had avoided this listen for years partly because of the extended runtime and partly because a random stranger at McKay’s Used Books and CDs felt the need to advise college me, “That’s a really hard listen.” I don’t know why I remember that specific encounter or why the opinions of a man I’d never met dissuaded me from listening to a record. But here we are five-ish years later, and I’m going to give you some advice as well: it’s a really hard listen. However, I love challenges. And d̶e̶s̶p̶i̶t̶e̶ because of the album’s abrasive eclecticism, flirtations with nihilism, and explorations of existentialism, Mellon Collie will prove one of the most memorable listens from 1995. Smashing Pumpkins’ Billy Corgan once ambitiously claimed the record would be  The Wall  for Generation X, and he’s not wrong. Across the album’s 28 songs, Corgan and company explore societal isolation, loneliness, love, and its distortions as proficiently as Roger Waters had done 16 years prior. Add to this a Gen-X-specific penchant for angst, and you get a generation-defining piece of art to rival ‘90s essentials  Fight Club, Nine Inch Nails’  The Downward Spiral ,  and Nirvana’s  Nevermind . It’s a musical tapestry that toes the line between chaotic and precisely composed. Chris Thiessen At the root of Corgan’s angst is anxiety about self and thoughts of a homogenized society without personality. “I fear that I am ordinary just like everyone,” he begins on “ Muzzle .” This lack of self-understanding isolates Corgan even from himself, as he sings on “ Zero ,” “My reflection, dirty mirror / There’s no connection to myself.” These thoughts fuel Corgan’s nihilistic tendencies, as he laments on “ Jellybelly ,” “There’s nothing left to do / There’s nothing left to feel / Doesn’t matter what you want,” or concedes on hit single “ Bullet With Butterfly Wings ,” “Despite all my rage, I am still just a rat in a cage.” Despite feelings of confinement and meaninglessness, Smashing Pumpkins rage anyway and find a way to break down the homogeneity and isolation through their eclectic approach to music. Mellon Collie is a melting pot of heavy metal riffage; prog-rock experimentalism; grungy attitude; sweet, pop-sensitive melody; and an expert’s attention to texture. It sounds like everything and nothing at once—from the muddy, industrial guitars on “ Tales of a Scorched Earth ” to the dreamy autoharp on “ Cupid de Locke ” to the triumphant orchestral arrangement of “ Tonight, Tonight .” It’s a musical tapestry that toes the line between chaotic and precisely composed. Through the music itself, the Smashing Pumpkins escape the rat’s cage and leave the door open for us as well. Surprisingly, Mellon Collie is also home to some of the sweetest love lullabies of the ‘90s, something you definitely don’t find with contemporaries Nine Inch Nails and Nirvana. Though the simply-titled “ Love ” may be one of the album’s few skippers, “ Galapogos ” is one of those sad love songs, in the tradition of the Beach Boys’ “ You Still Believe In Me ” before it and Radiohead’s “ True Love Waits ” after it, that doesn’t “deny the pain,” and yet shimmers with hope born from love. If I have one complaint, it’s that their greatest song, “Tonight, Tonight,” opens the record instead of closing it. In truth, it should be the album’s climax rather than an overture—a look back at the dark journey through infinite, unchanging sadness we’ve endured and a look forward with hope to “believe that life can change / that you’re not stuck in vain.” On the other hand, maybe that beautiful exhortation to believe needed to be said upfront. Maybe it’s the guiding truth that makes the 121 minutes of existential dread, angst, doubt, and emptiness endurable. Maybe we need to remember that the song’s promise—that things will be made right, that the impossible is possible—predates and postdates the pain. Maybe sadness isn’t infinite after all. Click here to listen to Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness 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 The Habit Podcast  is a series of conversations with writers about writing, hosted by Jonathan Rogers. This week, Jonathan Rogers talks with Tsh Oxenreider, teacher, podcaster, literary tour guide, and author of Shadow and Light: A Journey into Advent. Jonathan Rogers and Tsh Oxenreider discuss the challenging art of graceful endings, the perils of the internet’s promotion of absolute accessibility, and what sets the Advent season apart from merely a “happy clappy countdown to Christmas.” Click here to listen to Season 2, Episode 47 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 Christina Blout This past year has given us all a hard shake, and the season of Advent has been a welcome relief. It seems we’re experiencing transformation personally, within our own homes, and collectively, as a nation. We’ve all been brought face to face with our own vulnerability, fears, limitations, and need for community. Just so, it was a privilege to capture this timely conversation with author and scholar W. David O. Taylor and singer-songwriter Jason Gray, as they met for the first time to explore the topics of honesty and community in their recent works. Together, David and Jason blaze a trail for us to find peace during this time of emotional and cultural turmoil. They are trusted guides as we navigate this season, showing us how it can ultimately lead us into deeper unity, trust, intimacy, and delight with our Lord, Jesus Christ. Open and Unafraid: The Psalms as a Guide to Life is a book released this year by W. David O. Taylor. Within its pages, we find purpose in bringing our honest anger, sadness, joys, and fears before a loving Father. We discover a life-giving source of courage in the psalms, enabling us to walk through times of uncertainty with fearless, resilient, and transparent faith. Each chapter explores different attributes of the Psalms as they relate to our turbulent emotions. They leave us much to explore and ponder on our own or with small discussion groups. David leads us to see our relationship with God and each other in a refreshingly honest way. W. David O. Taylor is Assistant Professor of Theology and Culture at Fuller Theological Seminary and Director of Brehm Texas, an initiative in worship, theology, and the arts. Order Disorder Reorder is an album released this year by Jason Gray. This thought-provoking and engaging collection of eighteen songs tells the story of transformation through the seasons of order, disorder, and reorder we experience in the ebb and flow of life. The trailhead finds us skipping along, when our lives are in order, and we’re eager to get started. Five songs later, we’re led into the honest realization of our own breaking point, when our lives suddenly spin out of control into a state of disorder. Finally, we emerge on the other side of chaos to a time of reorder, and a renewed sense of identity and purpose. We’re more aware of who God is and who we are in light of that. From the emotional transparency of these songs, we discover how to embrace seasons of difficulty with honesty, courage, and anticipation. Jason Gray is a Centricity Music artist, partners in ministry with Compassion International, and shares an encouraging message of hope with radio audiences, churches, and mission organizations.

by the Rabbit Room Merry Christmas from the Rabbit Room! Can you believe we’ve made it this far? This Christmas is a complicated one, of course. We certainly wish you joy and merriment, and yet there are countless good reasons why you may not feel altogether cheerful. So on this Christmas Day, we’d like to offer you a lesson and a carol, so to speak—meaning, a poem by Andrew Roycroft and a song by Jess Ray, each of which speak specifically to where we find ourselves this Christmas. First is “Bethlehem, Year Zero” by Andrew Roycroft. This video was shot by New Irish Arts on the shores of Strangford Lough. The text of the poem is provided below the video. This year none of the pieces are in place, no finishing touch, just the rush, headlong, to make the best of things— more make-do, than make-believe, a clambering to retrieve family under one roof, to pluck some safety from the dragon’s teeth, to make a place for joy again, long looked for after labour pains, the grace to hold our griefs in one hand, and with the other, just hold on. This year has no precedent, just more numbers from the government, just more bitterness of argument, sick hearts retching on hope deferred, reading tight between the lines for a Word that might flare across the firmament and speak deliverance. But this year, we have made the best of things, found shelter here against the odds, adapted what has come to hand, rested in the grander plan that underwrites this circumstance, sees grace instead of blinded chance, and lays in this manger ark the Best beside the worst, the Light amidst the dark, the King among the filth. And Mary cradles at her breast the head of one who from obscurity will carry heaven’s destiny through thorn to crown, dandles with her hand the heel that, promised from eternity, will crush King Death into the ground. This year, we have no normal, new or old, but a different day, a dawn, a moment long foretold, now here, this year. —”Bethlehem, Year Zero” by Andrew Roycroft Accompanying this lesson is a carol recently released by Jess Ray called “Gloria, Gloria” which holds the tension of this peculiar Christmas Day with beauty and generosity of spirit. And that’s all from the Rabbit Room this year. We’ll see you in 2021.

by Hannah Hubin What do we need from a New Year’s post? What do we say? That it’s been hard? You don’t need the Rabbit Room to tell you that. That surely this year will be better? Being a poet doesn’t make you a prophet. What else you got? Eight days after Christmas, what do we have? It’s not a trick question. We’ve got an eight-day-old Jewish baby who’s still fussy because he was circumcised this morning and even the Son of God didn’t think that routine fun. The Gregorian calendar jots this down as New Year’s Day, but the church calendar started its new year at Advent. Today is the Feast of the Holy Name. Eight days old, circumcise him, name him Yeshua. “Deliver.” And two millennia later, we are still only sounding out a mystery: we the weary, the thrust forward, the weeping, the singing, the saved, we the confused, the expectant of the great hell-wave of tragedy, the caught off-guard by the blue flower in the gravel. We live life, but we cannot define it. Someday I hope I might write words simple enough to describe it. Meanwhile and always we speak the holy name and talk of all that might be meant by that holy claim to save: Yeshua, Yeshua, Yeshua: Ours the land remade, the sky reframed, ours the inheritance, ours the stars and sand, the colors never seen and notes never heard except caught sometimes as an old echo in our minds between two waves of the sea, ours all the words we have not yet learned to speak; and so we speak the one word we have been given: Yeshua, Yeshua, Yeshua: Ours the year we’re beginning and the strange grace of today when, for one day out of the year, the entire western world and beyond agrees that something is being made new and celebrates that together. Yeshua. Ours the white stone and the coming feast of our own holy names. Yeshua. Men speak it as a promise, a lament, often as a blessing, often spat as a curse: Yeshua. And here at the beginning of 2021, it is all I can think to say: Yeshua. This is what we’ve got. And with each new year, we have never been so near to putting a face with the name: Yeshua. Click here to read more of Hannah ’s writing at her Instagram account.

by Adam Roycroft The term “cognitive dissonance” has become lamentably familiar in our culture. It describes a sense of conflict in our thinking, a feeling of being unable to line up what we see with what we believe; how we feel with how we know we should behave. Given the weight of world headlines and the proximity of the issues it describes, it is little wonder that this experience is so common. As Christians we are not immune from this. Sometimes our experience of the world, its sensations and vexations, seem to contradict what we know to be true, and seem to complicate what we have come to trust in. This is a horribly disorienting feeling to have. Of all of the biblical prophets, Habakkuk is perhaps the individual whom we could best describe as experiencing cognitive dissonance. His is a book on the brink, a book that is at breaking point, inhabiting the interface between thoroughgoing faith and outright fear. Habakkuk’s prophecy gives voice to the concerns and questions of thoughtful people within the nation who can see injustice, have cried to God for help, and are left confused at the outcome. In this post I want to reflect a little on Habakkuk’s experience, showing the emotional and lyrical range that Old Testament prophecy can achieve, and finding points of contact with our own experiences. Habakkuk can help us as we weigh the woes of our world against the character and conduct of God, providing a good starting place to find firmness where we might have begun to falter. Habakkuk’s work also provides inspiration for those whose calling is to create, showing how words which speak our deepest doubt can often engender the strongest faith. The poet, prophet, priest Habakkuk is the grey man of Old Testament prophecy. Apart from the tiniest glimpses provided by his writing, we know nothing about him at all. We don’t know anything about his family, his biography, or even his chronology. Crunching the numbers and assessing the state of the nation of Judah that he describes, lands him within the lifetime of Jeremiah, but that is about all that we can capture of him. What we do learn of him in his book, however, is highly revealing. Like a good jazz pianist, Habakkuk can employ dissonance creatively and beautifully, and gives us space to think tough thoughts. Andrew Roycroft Habakkuk was a creative man and, as often goes with that temperament, a deep thinker. He was not a prophet who could content himself with surface explanations, or who could discipline his mind not to probe into the “why” of God’s actions as well as the “what.” He had access to a word hoard which could depict the ferocity and sovereignty of God in frightening terms, and he had sufficient musical nous to translate these reflections into music. The whole third chapter of his book is a song which manages to combine cultural references, personal confession, and a sense of literary balance which is astonishing. The book of Habakkuk is what happens when the Spirit of God enables a creative thinker with the soul of a poet to take a clear eyed view of the chaos of the world. The outcome is not always comfortable, but it is compelling. As we might expect, Habakkuk writes from a distinctive angle. He dispenses with the usual formula of “God told me, now I’m telling you,” and instead writes a book which is akin to a spiritual journal. We are allowed to listen in on the prayer life of a poet-prophet, and to see the flex and fear which calling God out on his actions engenders, and the result is gut-wrenching and soul-inspiring by turns. Wicked and wickedest Habakkuk knows that his nation is in trouble, and he longs for God to intervene. The nub of the problem is justice and righteousness. The Law, designed to govern the hearts of those who would follow God, has become horribly inert, a monument to a past morality and nothing more (1:4). Cultural and judicial paralysis follow with the needs of the neediest neglected, while the appetites of the wealthiest are sated. The poor, the righteous, the godly, have neither recourse nor ally, and the trend of Judah seems to be inexorably downwards. Habakkuk can’t handle this, and so he offers his complaint to God, asking for an answer. The response he receives is not the one he had wished for. God’s answer to Habakkuk is total and terrifying. He is going to discipline Judah by sending the Babylonians. They are a fierce nation, who pay their bills in the blood of their enemies, who consume continents and cultures with voracity and viciousness. Their machinery of warfare is nightmarishly efficient, their cavalry combining the speed of leopards, the rapaciousness of wolves, and the acuity of eagles. They fish in the ocean of the world with hooks, netting nations, slaking their blood-thirst and exploiting the needy. Habakkuk is horrified. His solution for injustice was not more injustice, his antidote to arrogant leaders was not more despotic rulers. His revulsion, his confusion and discombobulation are palpable as he writes. Does God’s decree not contradict his character? How can this be justice? How can this be so? This is cognitive dissonance 101. What is refreshing for us is that Habakkuk records all of this. He doesn’t closet or privatise his fundamental struggle with the ways of God, and he doesn’t mute his voice as a poet in portraying it. As a prophet, Habakkuk excels at honesty, and as a poet he is a master at lament, liberating others within Judah to say the unsayable: namely that at a national and moral level, God doesn’t seem to be working righteousness, and his solution seems contradictory of his character. This gives us a space to breathe in the biblical account, especially if we have to handle an inner voice which insists on answers. Like a good jazz pianist, Habakkuk can employ dissonance creatively and beautifully, and gives us space to think tough thoughts. Given our national crises, given the ubiquity of injustice and inequity across our world, given the political sleight of hand which many spiritual leaders whom we have lionised in the past have pulled off, Habakkuk is a book which reestablishes our right to not remain silent when things aren’t just. Even though, even so The conclusion of Habakkuk’s prophecy greatly elevates his relevance to our own times. Having asked, and having been answered, he now composes a song for the choir to sing. It’s a song of the terrifying justice of God, the mountain-melting righteousness of his name, the tsunami sending shockwaves of his action in the world—a piece of such power that it leaves the prophet trembling in its wake. Then the conclusion sweetly dawns, and the goodness of God is planted in the bitter soil of present circumstances. Habakkuk has to handle the “even though”—even though the fig crop has failed, even though the olives are cast away, even though the cattle are destroyed, even though the symbols of national welfare will be trampled by the horror of warfare, even though. Habakkuk sings a barren harvest which dwarfs the dustbowl desolation of Steinbeck, he casts a cold eye on the hardship of our world which makes the modernist playwright or poet appear positively cheery, and he does so in the context of faith. “Even though this is where we are” is the motif of his poetry, a recurring refrain which grinds the reader’s nose further and further into the pain and penury of their times. Habakkuk is not, however, a Buddhist or a fatalist. There is an “even so” which matches the “even though,” a bedrock joy which journeys with him into a future which seems to belong to Babylon. This is the knowledge that God will strengthen him, and equip him to work through these tough times, and wait for the salvation which has been promised. Habakkuk uses Psalm 18 as a “found poem,” taking some spare parts from it to compose his own praise. God will give him the feet of a deer, so that he can scale the heights away from harm, God will not abandon him, God will uphold him, and in this there is joy. Strike up the band What is wonderful in all of this is that the choir would sing these sentiments. In the sunset years of Judah, when the the streets of Jerusalem were doomed to destruction, when injustice increased more and more, what sounds could be heard from the Temple choir? “Even though, even so.” Theirs was neither anthem nor dirge, but the deep certainty that suffering would come, but that God would be there. The joy that the string instruments would strum, that the raised voices would declare, would not be the easy joy of harvest, but soul-wrought joy from hardship. Habakkuk’s art would neither embellish difficulty nor abandon hope—he told things as they were, and as they would be. Complain creatively All of this can both help us and move us to action. Habakkuk enters into the pain of a questioning mind, a broken heart, and a creative soul, but he also gives us a pattern for our own output in a world devoid of justice and teetering on the edge of final unbelief. Habakkuk takes us to the edge of a world which could be without God, but manages to affirm sincere faith. On our part, this demands stories, songs, poems, and paintings which opt for no quick or easy answers, but that can articulate a faith strengthened in its weakness and watching its world through tears, yet with hope.

by Andrew Peterson [Editor’s note: This post was originally written as a letter to the Rabbit Room email list the day after the Winter Solstice, on Tuesday, December 22nd. We share it here both as an offering of closure to the year 2020 and as a first step in the direction of hope for the year ahead.] Merry Christmas, friends of the Rabbit Room! I don’t know about you, but I feel an odd sort of numbness as we inch closer to the end of 2020. I think it’s because of the emotional whiplash: first the disbelief, in March, that the virus would really upend the entire world, followed by the dawning realization that things were going to get much worse before they got better; then the shock and grief at all the sickness and loss of life, not to mention the loss of so many people’s livelihoods; then the death of George Floyd and all the deep national wounds it exposed; then the political division that drove a relational wedge between friends and family members. Still, mixed in with all the bad news was the feeling, for some, that pre-COVID life had been moving too fast, and the lockdown provided some real and necessary wake-up calls. We reassessed. We remembered how important human contact is—not least of which was the holy human contact we experience at church. We looked at the world, and our place in it, a little differently. I was fascinated to read that when the country was standing still back in the spring, one of the top Google searches was, “Why are the birds louder?” The birds, of course, weren’t any louder—it was just that the world had gotten quiet enough for people to hear them again. There’s so much grace all around us, and suffering is a sure way to get us to hear its song. When we started this ministry fifteen or so years ago, we had no idea what it would grow into. Just like writing a song, you have to hold loosely to your own ideas and let the thing become what it wants. Then God can surprise you. Well, I would have been surprised back then if you had told me what the Rabbit Room would look like in 2020. Here’s a quick rundown of what the year’s looked like for us. Douglas McKelvey basically climbed Mt. Everest with the completion of Every Moment Holy, Vol. II: Death, Grief, and Hope . He started on this book well before he knew how much the world would need it, so it was with a clear sense of providence that he worked to craft more than a hundred liturgies specifically for seasons of death, sickness, grief, and the great hope of the Gospel. He labored for months, working directly with people who have suffered bereavement to hone these liturgies into something pastoral and tender, giving us prayers for all manner of painful situations. I saw the first proof copy of the book a few days ago, and when I merely read the titles of the different prayers to a friend who had lost her father, we both cried. I couldn’t be prouder of Doug, artist Ned Bustard, editor Pete Peterson, and the whole Rabbit Room Press team for tirelessly working to complete this volume. It’ll be available early next year. With both conviction and sadness we cancelled Hutchmoot and Hutchmoot UK. Those events are in many ways the incarnation of everything we try to do around here, but there was just no way to host a conference in the midst of a pandemic. But because this team is incredible, we offered up something wonderful. Hutchmoot: Homebound was an online experience like no other. For only $20, with the help of an amazing community and staff, we put together over 80 hours of online content that ranged from deeply theological, to artistically profound, to utterly goofy. Thousands of people tuned in, and it went so well that we’re hoping to do it again one of these days. Early in the lockdown, we realized that people were hungry for ways to stay connected, so we created a weekly roundup of online concerts, lectures, reading groups, and the like , so the Rabbit Room could be your one-stop resource for finding edifying content. One of the many advantages of being a nimble organization is that you can pivot with relative ease to serve the community’s needs. I was so proud of the way the Rabbit Room staff worked to provide connection for so many. Books and music were flying out of the warehouse, because in such a time as 2020, people all over the world were hungry for stories and songs that reminded them of the good, the true, and the beautiful. Speaking of the good, true, and beautiful, Drew Miller worked to produce not only our daily blog content from many different writers, but also podcast after podcast, like Jonathan Rogers’s The Habit , Pete Peterson’s reading of Fin’s Revolution , The Molehill , Leslie Bustard’s The Square Halo , and more. SO MUCH GOOD STUFF. 2020 saw the release of Helena Sorenson’s wonderful, soul-stirring novel The Door on Half-Bald Hill , the audio production of Pete Peterson’s Frankenstein , as well as his filmed adaptation of Wendell Berry’s Sonata at Payne Hollow , the audiobook of Jennifer Trafton’s Henry and the Chalk Dragon , and volume one of Every Moment Holy , read by the great Fernando Ortega and Rebecca Reynolds. We were proud to have our first ever scholar-in-residence, the brilliant Steve Guthrie, who is Belmont University’s professor of Theology, Religion, and the Arts. He wrote a series of posts about a theology of sound , which is utterly fascinating, and he also led an online book group for Let Justice Roll Down , by John Perkins. Speaking of book groups, Jonathan Rogers, alongside John Cal and Jennifer Trafton, also led an online discussion of Robert Farrar Capon’s towering work, The Supper of the Lamb . Chris Thiessen curated playlists for Lent , Eastertide , and Advent , as well as “A Literary Playlist,” “Songs that Make Us Smile,” and “A Lament for Justice” to carry us through this year. After years and years of praying and dreaming, we’ve finally completed North Wind Manor. Jamie Peterson took the lead on designing the place, from the shape of the house to the color of the bathroom light fixtures, and it brings me great pleasure to hear people gasp when they walk into the house. It’s ironic that we created a space for hospitality and connection in a year when nobody’s really allowed to gather, but we trust that the near future will allow for the house to be full of music, laughter, poetry, and the smell of good food. Many thanks to you all for funding a place that will hopefully be a part of Kingdom work for many years to come. We had tremendous help with shipping from Skye Peterson, Rachel Matar, Elise Vedders, Kirby Waggoner, and a host of volunteers who showed up to help stuff envelopes and tape boxes when we were overwhelmed. It’s dangerous to make a list like this, because I’ve certainly left a lot out. The crazy thing is, all that stuff happened in a pandemic year, which means there were no Local Shows, no in-person events, no conferences, no traveling on our part. Lockdown meant more work, more opportunity, not less, and the team did it all with such great joy. It’s remarkable to me that all the aforementioned work was done by a staff of just five people, along witha bunch of volunteers at home and abroad. Just like writing a song, you have to hold loosely to your own ideas and let the thing become what it wants. Then God can surprise you. Well, I would have been surprised back then if you had told me what the Rabbit Room would look like in 2020. Andrew Peterson I started this email talking about numbness, but the act of writing down all the ways God has provided not just the work but the means to do it, has led me to a feeling of gratitude, satisfaction, and the pleasure of seeing a field well-tended. So I want to thank the Rabbit Room team, the many donors and members, the patrons who are supporting not just our work but the work of the many artists, authors, and poets whose work we support. And I thank God, for holding all things together, for redeeming us, for the promise that this story is moving forward, nearer and nearer to the resurrection and the New Creation. I’m writing this message the day after the Winter Solstice, the darkest day of the year. I love that day, because it marks not the triumph of darkness, but the turning of the tide. On Thursday, Christmas Eve, there will be a few more seconds of light in the day than there were today. The light is gaining ground, a bit at a time, and will continue to do so until the bright days of high summer, when my bees will be singing their way from flower to flower and winter will seem like a dream. Jesus is making all things new. He is the wonderful counselor, and the government will be on his shoulders. We in the Rabbit Room love to tell that story, and Lord willing, will keep telling it, world without end. Merry Christmas, AP

by Adam Whipple The season of Epiphany has me thinking about curiosity. In my twenties, I lived for the moments of revelation that came pouring out of great books. I chewed through volumes of Lewis, Chesterton, Berry, Merton, and Schaeffer, awaiting supernovas of understanding like an addict filing coins into a slot machine, itching for the payoff. I still love those feelings of sudden comprehension, but anymore, the worship therein smacks somewhat of Gnosticism. In part, it’s my hand stretching after knowledge-fruit. Epiphany is a revelation, but it’s at God’s prerogative. Not to disparage the undeniable value of careful study, but no matter in what sense the Wise Men were wise, Epiphany is specifically the Lord’s choice, not the direct result of anyone’s erudition. These thoughts and the on-again-off-again homeschooling of the pandemic have made me wonder: what is the place for curiosity within the Kingdom of Christ? My eleven-year-old is good at wanting to know everything, and she’s not alone. Most of us carry around little mental satchels of unanswered queries. We await an audience with one who knows, be that the Lord or someone in a position of expertise. Putting God in the dock seems to be something of a human pastime. Not only did C. S. Lewis title an essay thus, but his majestic novel Till We Have Faces also pits the heroine against a god in a final courtroom scene. Beyond Lewis, personal deconstruction is normative enough that we have a social lexicon for it. We seek God’s answers—directly or indirectly—in philosophical proofs, in archeology, in geology, in physics, and in our own introspection. We value books like Mere Christianity and The Everlasting Man . For myself, I plan to pin God to the wall about dinosaurs after I die. Are they dragons? Are they really old or somewhat new? Couldn’t we have had some good info-graphs in Genesis? Why couldn’t Moses have written something more like a Popular Mechanics article, quick and brightly-colored? Though I remain quite fact-obsessed, I feel increasingly disabused of the notion that God will reveal everything to me upon my death. Paul’s promise to the Corinthians that at some juncture, we who are in Christ “shall know fully, even as [we are] fully known” seems more about being one with the Lord than about possessing all knowledge (I Cor. 13:12). I don’t expect the Father to be handing out study sheets on brontosaurus at the resurrection. I do long, though, for a more complete picture of holy curiosity. Whatever else it may be, curiosity is a virtue, because our Lord came as a child. Precious little narrative exists regarding the childhood of Jesus. Some fragments from outside the scriptural canon consist of miraculous stories more like the movie Brightburn than the Gospel accounts: Jesus is a powerful, vengeful pre-adolescent, killing and resurrecting his playmates by turn and bringing clay animals to life on the Sabbath to the chagrin of his neighbors. Much of this is easily dismissed by his community’s incredulity at him in Luke, chapter four. “News about him spread,” records the good doctor. “Isn’t this Joseph’s son?” say the crowds. If they had grown up around a young miracle-dispenser, his authority and power would have come as no surprise. Thinking of Jesus as curious is dangerous, I suppose. Curiosity is tied inextricably to ignorance, and we don’t like thinking of the Son of God as ignorant. Jesus’ potential curiosity as a child—or as an adult—leaves us writhing amid the fully-God-fully-man debate, a mystery, to be sure. Tacit implications of Jesus growing “in wisdom and in stature” (Luke 2:52) make us squirm. Was there some point when he, the Lord, was not responsible for his actions? What does it mean for the God-man to learn obedience (Isaiah 7:15-16)? To actually be once-young? Epiphany is a revelation, but it’s at God’s prerogative. Adam Whipple We can know that curiosity can be sanctified. The biblical narrative begins with both sides of curiosity present, the worshipful and the idolatrous. The man Adam names animals he has never seen. He and the woman Eve work the Garden, new to the endless peculiarities each plant has to offer, left in wonder at tastes and colors which no one has yet described. Yet they also eat from the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil, partaking of understanding which was not theirs to wield. “The woman saw that the fruit of the tree was good for food and pleasing to the eye…” (Gen. 3:6). You can practically see the pendulous drupe glistening dew-flecked in dappled light. It honestly makes me long for a taste just thinking about it. Without getting too deep into a controversial passage, that picture is one of curiosity—curiosity where it should have been tempered by truth and humility. It is the same curiosity that plays a part in leading a child to steal a brightly colored packet of candy, or in leading a man to steal another glance at a woman not his wife. However, broken curiosity obviously isn’t a proper representation of all curiosity. I’m glad for Isaiah’s insinuation that Jesus had a naturally burgeoning body of human knowledge. In the midst of the oft-referenced prophecy about the virgin birth is an interesting little gem: The virgin will be with child and will give birth to a son, and will call him Immanuel. He will eat curds and honey when he knows enough to reject the wrong and choose the right. But before the boy knows enough to reject the wrong and choose the right, the land of the two kings you dread will be laid waste. —Isaiah 7:14-16 Before he knows enough. Before he knows how to reject the wrong and choose right. Jesus’ perfection and wisdom are more complicated than I like to let myself believe. So what about my curiosity and my questions? How does hypostatic union really work? What happens when one passes the light-speed barrier? What is the actual role of man’s sub-salvific agency in accepting grace? How do the imputed guilt of Adam and the sinlessness of Jesus relate? And most importantly, was the story of Saint George and the dragon a tall tale, or did it involve a Spinosaurus aegyptiacus ? There are people who have attempted to answer these questions, but I always feel dissatisfied with their explanations. Whenever we verge upon the mystical, earth-bound logic must give way. I believe it was Michael Card, at a conference or breakout session, who at one time mentioned a professor of his who had the audacity to answer some questions with “I don’t know.” He also mentioned how good it felt to hear the man say that. I’ve listened to a lot of R. C. Sproul, and I can vouch for my own relief, once in a blue moon, to hear the good doctor say that he didn’t know something. Personally, I’m great at lecturing my children, but I try to remember, when I don’t know an answer, to let them in on my limitations. It reminds me of one of my more favorite verses. Remember that “for such a time as this” conversation between Mordecai and Esther (Esth. 4:14)? Mordecai entreats his cousin to help prevent genocide: “Who knows but that you have come to royal position for such a time as this?” My favorite part—the part often left out of t-shirt designs and song lyrics—is the “who knows.” I hear it in the voice of Chaim Topol’s Tevye from Fiddler on the Roof (1971), and I’m so glad it’s in the Bible. For one thing, it makes Esther less the American-style savior of her people and more a servant of the Lord, a servant whose only role within God’s sovereignty is plain obedience. In times of televangelists and cult personalities who imply, apparently, that they get emails from the Lord, admissions of proper human limitation definitely sound virtuous to me. Who knows? I don’t know if the Lord will ever tell me everything, but I do know that he has given, does give, and will give me Himself in Jesus. Personally, I like to think of God answering my jabbering queries with nothing but a twinkling eye and a wry little smile. Maybe he’ll tell me a tiny bit about velociraptors, too. To tell the truth, I don’t know.

by Millie Sweeny As a young, poor newlywed, trying to make a life on love and peanut butter money, I desperately wanted to learn to bake bread. Memories of my childhood home, a tiny house we moved out of when I was in high school, are permeated with the warm, curling scent of fresh bread, unrolling fragrant steam in the house. I think that house always smelled like bread. At least, every single memory does. These were the days before the Great British Baking Show captured our hearts and our Netflix accounts, before you could learn to tile your bathroom just from YouTube. I spent weekend hours at the library, hauling home heavy and beautiful books with pages stained with oil splatters and flour dust (that’s how you know it’s a good one). Underproved, overbaked, my patient and hungry husband ate them all, and encouraged my efforts. Then, one evening, I opened the door, tired and late from work, to a home that smelled magical. I couldn’t put my finger on it. What is that? It smells like…cinnamon rolls! I pestered my husband, who rebuffed me, laughing. It’s nothing! But then I found it. Sitting on the dryer, happily rising, a pile of dough. It was pillowy perfect, and smelled like heaven. Andrew confessed that his grandmother, every year she visited, would make him bake with her. He has known the secrets of bread since the age of ten or so. He’d been watching me struggle, letting me learn and fail. Then he taught me how. Now, baking bread is part of my weekly rhythm. Part of our liturgy, our common rule. It is most often the simple, whole wheat loaf from his grandmother’s recipe, but sometimes focaccia or pita or challah, sometimes cinnamon rolls or hot cross buns. I want my children’s memories to smell like bread, too. In early September of 2020, our memories smelled like ashes. The world around us was burning, burning, burning without respite. The Willamette Valley in Oregon is lush and green, surrounded by those fabled fir forests that make it so beautiful. And flammable. Every breath was toxic, filled with particulates of destroyed homes, trees, lives. The smoke lay so thick upon our yard that we couldn’t see our next door neighbors. When the sun pushed through mid-morning, it was an unearthly red. I couldn’t bake bread. We live our small lives of love and hope, trusting in today, trusting in tomorrow. We plan for the dough to rise. Millie Sweeny For several days, all order ceased. We lived moment to moment, checking the news obsessively, watching the fire line creep closer and closer, knowing that a single spark could cause infinite destruction. We watched friends evacuate. We prayed and packed bags, tried to play board games with the kids, tried not to imagine all the what ifs . My thoughts were nothing beyond the next five minutes. I couldn’t plan supper, couldn’t finish a glass of water, couldn’t think about the next steps for our fixer-upper home. With time, of course, the rains came. The winds shifted. The immediate danger passed. Life began to resume. Our lungs began to taste fresh air again. I have always known that the act of baking bread is somehow holy, tied to the story of the whole world. There is bread everywhere in our story, from manna to the Last Supper. In our frenetic culture, it is a meditation on a slower pace, on more intentional living. But it is also a meditation on hope. To make bread, one must plan ahead. The yeast must be activated. The dough must be kneaded, must rise, be degassed, shaped, risen again, then finally given into the warmth of the oven. When I blend in the oil and salt and honey, sprinkle in the flour, I am hoping, trusting, resting. In the time the bread takes to rise, anything could happen. When I leave my dough to prove, I am hoping that my husband will return home from work. I am hoping my children will come home safe from school. I am hoping we will gather around our table together, eating and sharing. I am trusting that no catastrophe will strike, no emergency call me forth from tending the rising. ' I am trusting that my heart will beat, my lungs expand, my neurons fire. I am resting in the promise that daily bread will be provided. I am planning for a future that may not come to pass. We do this daily, hourly, without conscious thought; we make great and small plans, trusting that the earth continues its dance around the sun, bringing morning and evening. We live our small lives of love and hope, trusting in today, trusting in tomorrow. We plan for the dough to rise. And like the bread of communion, we eat in remembrance. We live these lives in hope because of our Prince and Brother, broken and made whole, who promises a future sure to come to pass. Let us bake and break bread together, friends; let us eat together. Let us hope and wait together. Whether it’s the scent of rising bread, or whether it’s freshly tilled earth, exhaust from a mended engine, sweet-smelling cedar shavings or the pungency of oil paints—let’s fill our homes with these scents of promise, of tending today and looking to tomorrow. Our memories should always smell so, I believe, on this earth and the new.

by the Rabbit Room We are grateful to get to share another new, timely liturgy from Douglas McKelvey’s upcoming Every Moment Holy, Vol. II : “A Liturgy for Seasons of Uncertainty.” And not only is the text of the liturgy now available—Kristyn Getty has shared a special video reading of the liturgy as well. In the midst of whatever follows, O Lord, let me meet your mercies anew, and anew, and anew. In the midst of my dismay, fix my eyes again and again upon your eternal promises. How this ends—that is up to you. If the next news is favorable, I will praise you for the ongoing gift of life. If tomorrow’s tidings are worse, still will I proclaim your goodness, my heart anchored ever more firmly in the eternal joys you have set before me. And when, whether days or decades from now, you finally bid me rise and follow you across the last valley, I will rejoice in your faithfulness even there. Especially there— praying Thy will be done, and trusting by faith that it will be done. That it is being done. Even now. Even in this disquiet. I am utterly yours, O Christ. In the midst of this uncertainty, I abandon myself again to you, the author and the object of all my truest hopes. Amen. Click here to download the full liturgy at the Every Moment Holy website. And click here to order Every Moment Holy, Vol. II: Death, Grief, and Hope at the Rabbit Room Bookstore.

by the Rabbit Room “Okay,” you might be thinking, “Was there anything to like about 2020?” And you have a point. But amidst all the stuff we thoroughly disliked about 2020, there was some stuff that helped us get through 2020 as well—stuff like amazing albums, spellbinding movies, and cathartic books. So it is our great pleasure to share here today the vast ocean of recommendations from our blog contributors that is “Stuff We Liked in 2020.” We hope you discover something in here that you like, as well. Pete Peterson Film/TV Twin Peaks: The Return – So weird, so baffling, so good! Better Call Saul – This might be one of the great TV shows of all time. I cannot wait for the final season. Cobra Kai – Cheesy, campy, dumb, hilarious, sentimental, and unexpectedly endearing—I love all of it. Books Every Moment Holy, Vol. II: Death, Grief, and Hope by Douglas McKelvey – As the editor, I know I’m cheating here, but I don’t care. This is a monumental work and I’m honored to have played a small part in giving birth to it. The Door on Half-Bald Hill by Helena Sorensen – If there’s a book of 2020, this is it. Good beyond hope. Letters from the Mountain (forthcoming, by Ben Palpant) – Cheating again. This lovely series of letters about the calling of a writer will be out later this year and I can’t wait for folks to be blessed by it. Music folklore by Taylor Swift – First Swift album I’ve ever listened to—and it’s so good! The documentary/live film is also great. Idiot Prayer by Nick Cave – I know he’s indulgent and sometimes a parody of himself, but I love being suspended in his “bleak and fishless sea.” Wake Low’s eponymous debut album – More please. Chris Thiessen Music Reunions by Jason Isbell & the 400 Unit Innocent Country 2 by Quelle Chris & Chris Keys folklore by Taylor Swift Film/TV Better Call Saul Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom Twin Peaks Books The Color of Compromise: The Truth About the American Church’s Complicity in Racism by Jemar Tisby Go Ahead in the Rain: Notes to A Tribe Called Quest by Hanif Abdurraqib Surprised By Hope: Rethinking Heaven, the Resurrection, and the Mission of the Church by N. T. Wright Drew Miller Books Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell by Susanna Clarke – I was editing Malcolm Guite’s episode of The Habit Podcast, and when Jonathan Rogers asked him that last question he asks all his guests (“Who are the writers who make you want to write?”), Malcolm answered “Susanna Clarke” and cited this book. I decided to read it and Malcolm was spot on, of course! A very long, winding book full of humor, mystery, and subtly Christian undertones in the best way. It kept me occupied in the first months of the pandemic—whenever I got super overwhelmed, I knew that I could escape into this wild and wildly entertaining story. If you find that you like this one and decide you want something a bit darker by Susanna Clarke, try Piranesi (Helena wrote about Piranesi in her section of this post). 44 Scotland Street series by Alexander McCall Smith – If Susanna Clarke sustained me through the initial shock of lockdown, then Alexander McCall Smith has gotten me through the winter so far. This is low effort, high reward reading, perfect for right before bedtime. It began as a serial in a Scottish newspaper, a chapter every day, so it has that thrilling feeling of an artist riffing on ideas and making stuff up as he goes along—without ever coming across as half-baked. Each chapter is invitingly short, and the books bounce around among a lovable and cringe-worthy cast of characters, each of whom are fumbling their way towards their own conceptions of happiness. It’s wickedly funny and often touching, and there are FOURTEEN of these books! A new one just came out in November. I’m currently on the sixth book. I’ve got a long ways to go. The Decadent Society by Ross Douthat – The last book I read before the pandemic stopped us in our tracks. Perhaps an ill-timed release for a book, but Douthat’s insights are as pertinent as ever, even if we have more immediate concerns now than the ones he raises. It gave me much-needed language for the sense that American culture keeps repeating itself in an endless (seemingly hopeless) feedback loop of derivative art and arguments. Music Thirties by Jill Andrews – This is one of those albums that proved itself to me by the sheer number of times I returned to it for a comforting, immersive listen, whether in the car or through headphones at the end of a long day. Honest, understated songwriting complimented by melt-in-your-mouth production. Plus, it’s an embarrassment of riches—13 songs, 43 minutes long. There’s lots to love here. World on the Ground by Sarah Jarosz – I read somewhere that Sarah contemplated holding off on releasing this record when it became clear that she wouldn’t be able to tour it like she hoped, and I’m so glad she didn’t go through with that. This one kept me excellent company throughout the summer. Ideal road music, full of harmonically adventurous melodies, intriguing characters, and some quite relatably humorous lines (“Drive across the desert in your blue Ford Escape / Hopefully your car will live up to its name”) Debussy piano compositions – Kelsey and I have just been pounding the “Calm Debussy- piano” playlist on Spotify this year. Ha! You can tell what we’ve really needed. But seriously, next time you feel like you can’t get a full breath after some horrific news headline, trying playing his “Préludes / Book 1, L.117: 8,” “Rêverie,” “Estampes: I. Pagodes,” or, of course, “Claire De Lune” and let it take you away. I believe that the piano is the best instrument. There are many ways to prove me wrong. But Debussy is one way to prove me right! Film/TV The Great British Baking Show – I mean, come on. Take some of the most adorable, eccentric people you could ever imagine, watch them laugh and cry with one another as they overcome the unflinching scrutiny of Paul Hollywood, and be shocked at some random hilarious thing that Noel Fielding says. It’s a blissful coping mechanism that hasn’t let me down yet. Emma – This movie is addictive. It’s one of those where you can feel the economy of the craft—meaning that every shot, every beat of the accompanying music, every facial expression, every pause in conversation, is for a reason. It’s a thrill to watch, pitch-perfect and clever and ultimately redemptive in surprising and rewarding ways. Every moment feels like a punch line. What a treasure. The Social Dilemma – If you haven’t watched it yet, then wait for an evening when you feel ready to face the social media monster-in-the-closet and have at it. If you’re like me, you think you’ve heard all the critiques anyone has to say about Facebook and the attention economy and how it rewires our brains—but watching this will organize that information into a cohesive, compelling narrative that will actually leave you feeling empowered. Chris Yokel Books How To Be An Antiracist by Ibram X. Kendi – An important eye-opening read on racism in America. The Rivers of London series by Ben Aaronovitich – Imagine if adult Harry Potter were recruited by the London Metropolitan Police. Native: Identity, Belonging, and Rediscovering God by Kaitlin B. Curtice – An exploration of what it means to be indigenous and Christian in America. Music folklore + evermore by Taylor Swift – The stripped down folky Taylor Swift project I’ve always wanted. Out of Body by Needtobreathe – Possibly their best album. Cannot Be, Whatsoever by Novo Amor – Basically the Welsh Bon Iver. Video Games I didn’t really watch many new films or TV this year, but I did get a PS4, so here are my top 3 video games: Horizon Zero Dawn – A gorgeous open world post-post-apocalyptic game with a compelling storyline. Spider-Man – Webbing through NYC is just FUN. Rise of the Tomb Raider – Lara Croft searches for a macguffin that grants immortality in Siberia. Jen Yokel Books The Great Belonging by Charlotte Donlon – As pandemic life has heightened the rampant loneliness in our world, this book couldn’t be more timely. Written as a collection of small essays and reflections, this book was a comforting friend as winter began to set in. Handle with Care by Lore Ferguson Wilbert – And another timely book… Lore Wilbert’s beautiful, reflective book on the ministry of physical touch. I reviewed it for The Rabbit Room , if you’d like to read my thoughts there. Thinking it may be time to read it again soon. Revelations of Divine Love by Julian of Norwich – Technically, I’m still reading it, because it’s one to savor. Who knew a medieval mystic and Black Plague survivor would become such a good companion for these times. If you’re interested in diving in, I recommend the contemporary English edition from Paraclete Press. More Books Because I didn’t watch a lot of movies this year, I’m using my movie slot for more books. Of course, you all NEED to read The Door on Half-Bald Hill . But here are a few more I loved… The Golem and the Jinni by Helene Wecker – A lonely golem and a restless jinni meet and strike up an unlikely friendship in 1899 New York. It’s a beautifully written blend of mythology and historical fiction, and a perfect winter read, if you’re looking for a story to get swept up in. Station Eleven by Emily St. John Mandel – I almost put it down a few times because a post-apocalyptic pandemic novel in 2020 was… a lot. I’m glad I didn’t. It’s a dark story shot through with glimmers of hope and humanity, and the ending makes it all worthwhile. Virgil Wander by Leif Enger – Every time I read Leif Enger I remember why I love his books and wonder why it took me so long. A delight. Music Drive In Show by The Lone Bellow – Of all the things I’ve missed in this season of social distancing, live music might be the thing I miss most. We had cancelled tickets to see The Lone Bellow at the beginning of the year, so when they came back around for a Drive In theater tour, I was grateful they came up our way. Sure, it felt a little odd in some ways, but they put on a fantastic show that made everything feel almost normal for a night. Peopled with Dreams by John Mark McMillan – I’m here for anything JMM releases, but I really appreciated the subversive joy of this album right at the start of the year. “Juggernaut” was my 2020 Easter song. Random Sufjan Stevens records – There was a moment when I got on a random Sufjan kick. I still haven’t listened all the way through The Ascension , but I finally listened to Michigan , revisited Illinoise , and appreciated the moody sci-fi weirdness on Aporia . folklore by Taylor Swift – I know, it’s already on lots of other lists, but in this house we absolutely enjoy T-Swift and may or may not have pre-ordered the vinyl. Andrew Roycroft Books A Passion for Ignorance: What we choose not to know and why by Renata Salecl – Watching a year unfold in which there was so much conscious unknowing among people and institutions whom I have respected, I felt a need to understand why ignorance is valued and pursued. Salecl’s book is succinct, but deeply affecting, showing the devastating effect of turning a blind eye and deaf ear. I understood more about myself, social media, and the mayhem that we have affectionately come to call 2020. A Diary of Private Prayer by John Baillie – I have used Baillie’s book sporadically in the past, but 2020 was the year when I discovered its daily worth and wonder. The simple format of the prayers, their candid confession of sin and celebration of God’s great creation opened up new pathways for approaching God. This is a refreshing and life changing resource. Waiting on the Word by Malcolm Guite – My own spiritual background does not make much of the liturgical seasons, and consequently Advent has tended to be a vague sense of anticipation about Christmas coming. Malcolm’s selection of poems, his gentle-toned leadership through the beauty and nuance of the seasons, and his God honouring reflections drew my heart out after the Saviour in fresh ways. Film/TV Little Women – Little Women topped and tailed 2020 for us as a family – with a cinema trip after Christmas 2019, and then a DVD night at Christmas past. The film just gets better and better, and while I’m delighted to see the strength with which the female characters are dignified and invested, I also learned a lot about quiet, supportive, strength as a man. The production values are so high, and the performances are uniformly wonderful. Contagion – I never caught the original release in 2011, and so watching this movie in 2020 was incredibly surreal. While the last thing on my wishlist was more pandemic, the film showed me the inevitability of what the world is presently facing, as well as the fact that this middle space we occupy is not permanent. Mosul directed by Matthew Michael Carnahan – There is no shortage of Iraq/Afghanistan war movies on the menu these days, but Mosul (the acted movie, not the documentary) was an eye-opening insight into the work of Iraqi forces against ISIS. The fraternity among the soldiers, and the non-Western view of a country’s struggle with insurgency, were fascinating elements of a devastatingly well directed and acted movie. Music Conversations by Sara Groves – I’ve only come into contact with Sara Groves’ work in the past few years, and her 2001 release Conversations has been a constant companion through this past year. Some of the songs have now come to frame major decisions we have faced as a family, and have given us words of realism and hope through some difficult times. ‘Painting Pictures of Egypt’ has now become completely proverbial in our conversations together. Patient Kingdom by Sandra McCracken – There’s an earthy transcendence in all of Sandra’s work, and Patient Kingdom embodies this so powerfully. The musicianship is first class, the lyricism is direct and profound, and the whole project has lifted my heart heavenwards over and over again in 2020. The Arcadian Wild by The Arcadian Wild – Hutchmoot Homebound introduced me to The Arcadian Wild for the first time, and I have spent a lot of time since then trying to figure out why it took so long for me to come across them. This album from 2015 is so deft musically, and nimble lyrically. It has been a good friend through the last half of 2020. J Lind Books Stages on Life’s Way by Søren Kierkegaard – My quarantine project has been to read through Kierkegaard’s pseudonymous authorship, and this link in the chain was a challenge. It’s more obscure and much longer than most of his works, so the commentaries weren’t particularly helpful. But it was the first time that I found myself holding my life view up to those of his many characters—which was, as I understand it, one of his primary goals in writing under pseudonyms. Philosopher of the Heart: The Restless Life of Søren Kierkegaard by Clare Carlisle – I’d read and loved Lowrie’s biography of SK, but this new one (2020) is phenomenal. Every chapter is bookended with an imaginative depiction of Kierkegaard in real time: he’s trying to get comfortable in the train carriage; it’s Christmas, and he’s writing alone by candlelight. In lieu of a standard chronological bio, the reader is invited into his day-to-day. Beautifully done. Plus, Carlisle responds to emails. The Book of Hours by Rainer Maria Rilke – Love poems to the divine, recommended by Bob, one of the patron saints at my parish. No words. I’ll be re-reading it soon, no doubt. Music The Ascension by Sufjan Stevens – The title track is an extrabiblical hymn, a confession of an evolving faith mid-rebirth (i.e., when it’s dead). Hearing him sing “to everything, there is no meaning” is maybe the most meaningful moment of the album. Fetch the Bolt Cutters by Fiona Apple – If Billie Eilish spun out at the finish line and resurfaced 20 years later, she’d probably make something like this. “St. Augustine At Night” by Dawes – Maybe the only song that really hit me off Dawes’ latest album, but it vindicates the whole record. Helps me empathize with the madness behind the MAGA. Taylor Goldsmith wordsmithing at his best. Mark Meynell Books I’m going to cheat: in 2020 I finally completed Anthony Powell’s (pronounced ‘Pole’!) mammoth 12-volume masterpiece, A Dance to the Music of Time (a narrative with a cast of over 300, set in and around London from the 1920s to 1960s). It’s breathtaking, with some of the most striking but economical pen-portraits of characters I’ve read. But that’s not one of my three… The Fatal Eggs by Mikhail Bulgakov – Better known for his Master and Margarita, this is a brilliant, punch, satirical science-fiction from the early years of the USSR. If you are an HGWells fan, you’ll love it especially. I Am Dynamite!: A Life of Friedrich Nietzsche by Sue Prideaux – This is one of the best biographies I think I’ve read on anyone. Nietzsche is a spectre haunting the 20th century and beyond, and we will never begin to grasp what the world around us means without coming to terms with him. But he’s an intimidating figure. This brilliantly brings him to life and gives in-roads into his thought (which is notoriously hard to pin down in places). One thing is clear: that whatever you thought he was is almost certainly wrong. But what a tragic figure. Heartbreaking, really. The Silence of the Girls by Pat Barker – Nostalgia about some past era is the triumph of imagination over reality since few of us would be comfortable in any period not our own (much that we might wish it otherwise). If you don’t believe me, this book will cure you. In lesser hands, it would be a crude gimmick; in Barker’s (best known for her superb World War I Regeneration trilogy), it’s a triumph. A retelling of the elements of Homer’s Iliad through the eyes of one captured Trojan, Queen Briseis, now one of Achilles’ prize slaves. I couldn’t put it down. I always suspected Achilles was a cad. Now I know it. Film/TV I couldn’t make up my mind whether or not to put Tenet on here (I love all the Nolans’ films, however uneven). So I think I won’t. Parasite also deserves mention. Astonishing movie. But everyone will put that, so again, I won’t. It’s hard to remember what we watched this year, to be honest, what with two full-on UK lockdowns (and now a third) and basically completing Netflix. But these have stuck in my mind: Delhi Crime – As a Nordic Noir addict, I’m a sucker for a deep detective show (True Detective season 1 the pinnacle IMHOl season 3 pretty great too; give season 2 a miss), the darker the better. This is a superb 7-part show, based on a true crime (horrific assaults on a woman and her boyfriend on a bus), which opens up a world of which I knew precious little. Brilliantly acted and shot (think Michael Mann colours), we were gripped. The Bureau – Brilliant French espionage series, starring the utterly compelling Matthieu Kassovitz amid a host of other fascinating characters in the French secret service. North Africa and Iran are a focus – as is the perennial spy’s dilemma of who to trust… Mr. Jones – True story of the Welsh journalist (James Norton, known from McMafia and Grantchester) who got the news of Stalin’s deliberate starvation of Ukraine in the 1930s to the world (incidentally, with some support from the late, great Malcolm Muggeridge, but that’s not picked up in the film). Literally millions died. It’s impossible to say how many. Directed by the Polish Agnieszka Holland, it’s a tough but surreally beautiful watch. Weirdly, I’d read Anne Appelbaum’s 2017 history of the tragedy (Red Famine: Stalin’s War on Ukraine) earlier in the year and was blown away by the film’s apparent accuracy. Never has the sound of eating been used to such poignant effect… Music Elbowrooms by Elbow – One of countless lockdown specials out there, I’ve had this on a loop at times. A wonderful exercise in the familiar being recrafted into something beautifully poignant and affecting. Weightless just gets me. every. single. time. Letter to You by Bruce Springsteen – He just keeps producing the goods at the right moment. Debussy-Rameau by Víkingur Ólafsson – Slightly different, this one. Ólafsson is an Icelandic concert pianist and one of a kind. But he too transforms the familiar in surprising and unpredictable ways. Here he splices work by two seemingly different Frenchman – Jean-Phillippe Rameau (1683-1764) and Claude Debussy (1862-1918). The result is musical alchemy, perfect for inspiring aural constellations in the mind! But it needs time and patience. Matt Conner Book s The Colossus of New York by Colson Whitehead – I’m 16 years late to Whitehead’s paean to New York City, but I’m so glad I read it. Whitehead’s vignettes take the reader from NYC’s rainy streets to regular subway rides and Coney Island to Central Park, and each vivid description is so beautifully written that I was compelled to go back and re-read several pages only to further appreciate the wordsmith at work. On Religion by John Caputo – I’ll let Caputo speak for himself. “The name of God is the name of the chance for something absolutely new, for a new birth, for the expectation, the hope, the hope against hope (Rom. 4:18) in a transforming future. Without it we are left without hope and are absorbed by rational management techniques.” Small Country by Gaël Faye – Brutal and beautiful. A coming-of-age story of 10-year-old Gabriel growing up in Burundi as civil war takes hold. Music Punisher (Dead Oceans) by Phoebe Bridgers – Bridgers’ makes no secret of her intense love of Elliot Smith (she even sings a song to him here), and his influence is certainly felt throughout Punisher ‘s dark compositions. However, Bridgers’ vulnerability in documenting her own depressive thoughts, self-destructive tendencies, or regretful decisions is a real gift, especially when the songs are this beautiful. An easy pick for favorite album of 2020 for me. Non-Secure Connection (Zappo) by Bruce Hornsby – If you stopped following Hornsby years ago—perhaps when he was reminding us of “the way it is”—then you’ve missed out on some of the most inventive albums released in the last few years. Non-Secure Connection is the follow-up to Absolute Zero. Both are worth your time and attention. Everything Else Has Gone Wrong (Mmm…) by Bombay Bicycle Club – I’m a sucker for British rock, so I was eager to see how Bombay Bicycle Club sounded after a six-year absence. This latest album is, in my opinion, their best work yet with a spirited set of pop/rock songs that utilize every instrument and texture they can find. By the time Jack Steadman sings “This light’ll bring me home” on the closing “Racing Stripes”, you’re more than ready to go back to the beginning. Film/TV The Collective – If you enjoyed Spotlight, which won Best Picture, then watch the real thing. This Romanian documentary plays out like a slowly unfolding thriller as journalists dig deeper into multiple layers of gov’t corruption at every level, all of which started with a nightclub fire that killed dozens of people needlessly. An important reminder of the importance of investigative journalism and accountability. First Cow – Even the title will likely draw a laugh, and to try to describe this movie as anything more than a beautiful meditation on friendship will only push you further away from giving it a try. This movie takes its time but the journey is well worth the investment. The Vast of Night – This low-budget sci-fi flick flew under the radar even for at-home viewing, but it’s a captivating film that feels like Spielberg-ian suspense. Beautifully shot movie that was clearly someone’s long-held pet project. Jill Phillips Books How To Do Nothing by Jenny Odell – This is the best book I read this year. Odell brings an artist’s perspective to the discussion around technology and the commercialization of how we spend our time and attention. It is strangely hopeful and casts a vision for what might happen if we all slow down and “resist the attention economy.” Hidden Valley Road by Robert Kolker – This was a heavy read, but I learned so much about the history of mental health through the story of one family’s journey with mental illness. Troubled Blood by Robert Galbraith – I love the Cormoran Strike books and was grateful for another one in 2020. 'Film/TV Irresistable – This was surprisingly sentimental and hopeful. I loved Jon Stewart’s take on this divisive political climate and the common humanity that connects us and moves us forward. Steve Carell is always a joy. Peanut Butter Falcon – This movie really moved me. The acting was incredible and the fact that it is set in the Outer Banks of North Carolina where my family grew up made it that much more special. Ted Lasso – I bet this makes a lot of lists. Looking over my choices I was drawn to movies that highlight the goodness of people and love that conquers hate. This was no exception. It was so nice to see a character that was just so KIND and uncynical. Music Damage by H.E.R. – I listened to this song over and over again this year. I love H.E.R. and love even more that she has worked with so many Nashville artists including Scott Mulvahill! I love the vibe, the production, and her beautiful voice. “This Must Be The Place” by Talking Heads – I know this is an old song, but it’s been a gift to me in this season. I was blown away by David Byrne’s American Utopia (which I would have added to the movies list if I didn’t already have three) and rediscovered the power of his music. This song might be my favorite. Andrew Osenga Music Good Luck With Whatever by Dawes – This album just came out in the Fall, but it immediately became the only non-work music I listened to the rest of the year. There are so many wonderful songs and performances, but the song “Didn’t Fix Me” is easily my favorite written/performed/produced song I heard all year. Atlas: Space by Sleeping at Last – What a perfect and gorgeous record. Excellently written and heartbreakingly beautifully captured. Blake Mills by Blake Mills – Rediscovered this one again (again!) this year. So many ridiculous songs and sounds and GASP the guitar playing!! Film/TV Last Week Tonight with John Oliver – the only TV show I watch every week. He’s brilliant and insightful and yes, offensive at times, but I love that he isn’t cynical. They go in depth on interesting problems and then always leave you with some course of action you can take. I love that it invites action and service. And yes, wickedly funny. Knives Out – I punched my couch alone in my living room because I was so happy and anxious and excited at the same time by this movie. Loved every second of it. Onward – What a great story! Hilarious and fun and beautiful. Another Pixar classic. Books Every Good Endeavor by Tim Keller – A book about work and faith and rest that was incredibly profound for me. Essentialism by Greg McKeown – Under the wire. I read this in the last four days of the year and it has completely changed how I will approach 2021. Simple, insightful, and profoundly useful guide to getting rid of the clutter in your work and life and focusing on what’s really important. Highly recommended! Paradise Sky by Joe R. Lansdale – A wild, funny and thought-provoking tale of an African-American gunslinger in the old west. American Spy by Lauren Wilkinson – My wife found this on Barack Obama’s reading list from last year. An amazing first-person novel of an African-American CIA spy, now in hiding to protect her young son. SO GOOD. I also finally read The Road by Cormac McCarthy without quitting by page 20, and while I recognize it was excellent I did not like it at all. It was like the James Taylor of books for me. Ron Block Books Robert Falconer by George MacDonald – As usual G-Mac weaves a story in many dimensions. A winding road, truth, theology – deep enjoyment and a lot to chew. High Performance Habits: How Extraordinary People Become That Way by Brendon Burchard – Once again – in the transition last year where gigs and recordings for me flipped off like a switch, I needed some kicks in the tail to keep on track as I recreated myself. To Bless the Space Between Us: A Book of Blessings by John O’Donohue – This book is beautifully deep without being technical or complicated; it’s almost childlike at times. A look at life in this world by a poet-priest-philosopher. Film/TV Foyle’s War – Rebecca Reynolds told me about this a long time ago, and even lent me the DVD set. We didn’t dig into Foyle’s world until this year. I love characters who always do their best to choose to do what is right and good, especially when it gets complicated. Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D . – It’s possible, even likely that one of the scriptwriters was on something when they were writing some of the seasons, but I really enjoyed the crazy story arc and the characters. Les Miserables with Dominic West, a mini-series – Six episodes allows for a little more exploration of Fantine’s story, plus other elements like Val Jean going back to prison. No movie or series can do this book justice, but I usually applaud them anyway for trying. Music Who Are You Now by Madison Cunningham – Just before the music circuit fried this year, I played on a Cayamo Cruise with the Soggy Bottom Boys. It was a shipload of great artists, and we hosted several jams in our suite. Madison Cunningham showed up one night, and Sean Watkins of Nickel Creek introduced us and said, “Madison is a really great artist.” Little did I know – the next day I walked up to watch her show on deck and thirty seconds later I was a lifelong fan. Drew Holcomb and the Neighbors with Ellie, Molly Tuttle, Sean and Sara Watkins, Dirk Powell, Buddy Miller, and a bunch of others played amazing and lovely sets. Church Street Blues by Tony Rice – Tony passed on Christmas Day, marking the fading of the fantastical musical era I had the privilege to grow up in. If you like story songs with soulful, folky, but confident vocals, and absolute top level guitar playing, get Church Street Blues. Tony has been absolutely integral to my musical story, and his vast influence has covered everyone I grew up with, plus the next generation like Nickel Creek, and today’s bands like Punch Brothers. He has been legendary in Bluegrass circles since the early 1970s. Lead the Knave by Arty McGlynn & Nollaig Casey – An iconic Irish guitarist, producer, arranger, and composer, Arty passed away as well this year. I played with him once on a Jerry Douglas Transatlantic Sessions show in Londonderry, Northern Ireland. I’ve been listening a bunch to this groundbreaking album with his partner. Mesmerizing and mood-creating. Helena Sorensen Books Piranesi by Susanna Clarke – I can’t say much about this story without spoiling it, but this is my favorite kind of book. It’s dark and atmospheric, the writing spare, and it leaves you with a sense of being surrounded by mystery. Susanna Clarke’s unblushing embrace of other worlds is bold and inspiring. How to Teach Your Children Shakespeare by Ken Ludwig – I bought this book as a guide for myself, planning to read it as a reference before creating a Shakespeare unit for my homeschool curriculum. But Ludwig’s infectious enthusiasm and total lack of pretense convinced me to read the book aloud as the kids and I worked to memorize twenty-three passages from Shakespeare’s greatest plays. We had so much fun. Okay For Now by Gary D. Schmidt – There are lots of great children’s books that don’t make great read-alouds. Gary D. Schmidt’s books, however, are as much a treat for the reader as for the listener. And if you want to teach your children that people can change, if you want them to understand that the actions of even the “bad guys” are motivated by fear, shame, grief, and trauma, Schmidt is the writer for you. (We also read The Wednesday Wars and Lizzie Bright and the Buckminster Boy this year. The latter is very, very heavy.) Film/TV Little Women – I adored Greta Gerwig’s structuring of this story (the first I remember crying over, some time around age 11). In multiple scenes, we see men, with their wealth, education, and power, standing apart from a knot of women who fill the scene with life. Theirs is the passion that coaxes music from a dusty piano, the sparkling conversation that enlivens the silent room, the appreciation for beauty that gives value to overlooked artistry, and the depth of feeling that imbues every circumstance with meaning. I also love that the film begins with Jo’s attempt to flourish inside the limiting expectations of a male editor with no imagination. She’s angered by Frederick’s suggestion that she has more to give, and it takes the loss of her sister, the loss of her dearest friend, the loss of her job, the loss of everything that is not really her, to show her that her story is more than enough. Emma – I loved this version of Austen’s novel, and I was surprised by the quirky, unexpectedly perfect soundtrack. But the performances of Josh O’Connor, Miranda Hart, and Bill Nighy took the cake. The Crown – This series is wonderfully written and acted. Jon and I rewatched the first three seasons in order to get a better sense of the character arcs. Sometime in Season 3, Rupert Greyson-Williams introduces a motif that involves male singers executing a descending interval. Just two notes. But they land with a finality that stirs such dread. It’s as if the song and the singers are collapsing under the weight of the institution. And watching teams of people scurry around that institution, shoring up its cracks and touching up its colors, certainly fills me with dread. In Season 4, we see more clearly than ever how the thing they’re fighting to preserve is killing them. Music “Psalm 116” by Mission House – This arrangement was one of the many gifts of Hutchmoot: Homebound, and I have listened to it hundreds of times. It has one of those melodies that rolls along deliciously, each phrase leading into the next in such a way that I find it hard to stop singing. When Andrew and Skye add their harmonies on the second verse, it’s delightful. Steve Guthrie Books The Plague by Albert Camus – This is the first thing I’ve read by Camus. It seemed like a good book to tackle in the midst of a pandemic, and though admittedly it’s not a Rom-Com, it actually ended up being pretty absorbing and even enjoyable. Moreover, though the book was written nearly seventy-five years ago, some passages speak to the events and emotions of this past year with an eerie clarity. The book describes the spread of bubonic plague through a small North African city, but Camus also intended the sickness to serve as a parable of fascism and Nazism in their spread across mid-century Europe. “We all have plague,” one of the characters concludes darkly. This book is worth reading then, not only for its insight into how people respond to a pandemic, but for how it depicts the deadly contagions of hatred, paranoia, cynicism, and desperation. My Life with the Saints by James Martin – James Martin is a Jesuit priest and popular author. This book is a memoir of Martin’s own spiritual journey, told through biographies of different Catholic saints who have influenced him at one point or another along the way, or whose stories parallel some part of Martin’s own experience. The book taught me a lot about faithful men and women of God from across Christian history, many whose names I hadn’t heard before. Their stories were encouraging and inspiring (and a kind of salve after reading Camus’ depiction of human sinfulness in The Plague !). Martin is an engaging and funny writer, and easy to follow—I actually listened to this as an audiobook. As I look back over the last year’s reading, this book stands out because of the rare combination of boxes it checks: informative, spiritually enriching, interesting, and fun. The Wound of Knowledge: Christian Spirituality from the New Testament to St. John of the Cross by Rowan Williams – C. S. Lewis wrote: “I believe that many who find that ‘nothing happens’ when they sit down, or kneel down, to a book of devotion, would find that the heart sings unbidden while they are working their way through a tough bit of theology with a pipe in their teeth and a pencil in their hand.” That pretty well describes my experience of this classic study of Christian spirituality from the former Archbishop of Canterbury. Williams considers the Apostle Paul, Athanasius, Augustine, Luther and others, and how they understood the Christian vocation of prayer, contemplation, and the pursuit of union with Christ. This is not always an easy read (though Williams, who is also a poet, writes beautifully). Nevertheless it is a deeply rewarding one. Film/TV Vera – This British detective series has been the go-to date night watch for my wife and me over the past year. The series is based on Ann Cleeve’s Vera Stanhope series, and is set in Newcastle-upon-Tyne and the surrounding Northumberland countryside. The writing and acting are terrific, but really, I’d tune in just to hear DCI Vera (played by Brenda Blethyn) say “that’s alright, luv,” or “nevermind, pet.” Episodes are available through Amazon (or even better), for free through the Nashville Public Library’s Hoopla streaming service. Liyana – A visually beautiful documentary about a group of orphans in the African nation of Eswatini, who are participating in a story-writing workshop. It is a story about the transformative power of stories. The movie shifts between filmed segments that tell the stories of the orphans, and animated segments that tell the story they write together. Streaming on Amazon, GooglePlay, and YouTube. Wolfwalkers – This animated film was produced by the same Irish studio that created The Book of Kells and Song of the Sea. (If you haven’t seen those yet, go watch them immediately. I’ll wait here.) Like the two previous films, Wolfwalkers is based on Irish folklore and features a rich, graphical animation style that draws heavily from Celtic art and iconography. This story is set in Ireland in 1650 and has both historical and fantastical elements. The story pits the rational Puritanism of Oliver Cromwell against the fantastical paganism of the Celts, in a way that ultimately is probably a little one-sided and unfair to the Puritans. (For that matter, the early Celts were warrior tribes who practiced human sacrifice, rather than the crystals-and-crafts-loving environmentalists suggested by the film.) Nevermind all that; enjoy the eye candy. This is a great movie. Available on Apple TV+. Music Chet Baker Sings by Chet Baker – For my money Chet Baker was the very coolest exponent of the “Cool Jazz” movement of the 40’s and 50’s. I’ve always loved his trumpet playing, but for some reason had never spent much time with this classic 1954 recording that features him as a vocalist. If you’re looking for an easy way in to jazz, or a soundtrack to listen to while imagining yourself as a character in a film noir detective drama; or, if you really dug La La Land , and would like to meet some of the music that inspired it—this is your record. Agape by Jesus Molina – Jesus Molina is a 25 year-old Colombian jazz pianist of almost other-worldly virtuosity. A lot of the fun of this album is just enjoying (or if you’re a pianist, perhaps despairing over) his extraordinary keyboard pyrotechnics. But in addition to the flash, there is real substance here and some solid musical compositions. Molina also gets my vote for “Musician with the Purest, Most Innocent, and Exuberant Love of Jesus.” Most of his song titles reflect Christian themes, and one of his online bios says that he was taught to play piano “by the best teacher in the world, our Lord Jesus Christ.” That’s the sort of thing I might read with a chuckle if I hadn’t heard the guy’s chops. From This Place by Pat Metheny – Jazz guitarist Pat Metheny recorded his first album in 1976, 44 years before the release of From This Place . Over that long career he has become (I learned from the NPR segment reviewing this album) “the only recording artist in history to win a Grammy award in 10 different categories.” Metheny’s music has always had a cinematic quality – unfolding in a lyrically linear fashion, rather than following a verse/chorus/bridge sort of format. That film-like character is accentuated on this album, which features Metheny’s quartet accompanied by the Hollywood Studio Symphony. It’s a recording to put on in the background while you make dinner or sort papers at your desk. After two or three times through you’ll be surprised to discover how deeply these long elaborate melodies have worked their way into your psyche.

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 Joel Clarkson, author of Sensing God: Experiencing the Divine in Nature, Food, Music, and Beauty . Jonathan Rogers and Joel Clarkson discuss writing’s role in waking us up to the physicality of the world, Jesus as both firstborn of creation and firstborn from the dead, and the limits of intellect to account for the depth of what it means to believe. Click here to listen to Season 3, Episode 1 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 Laura Trimble I wasn’t planning to mend my son’s shorts. Goodness knows, the weekly battle to get him to surrender his favorite article of clothing to the laundry was bad enough. I hate to admit it, but a tiny part of me was looking forward to the day that scooting across concrete sidewalks on his bottom had its inevitable result. But try explaining “threadbare” to a three-year-old as he points to the patched knees of your own jeans and asks, “Can’t you sew them just like yours?” It’s true I devoted hours of quarantine to repairing my own jeans in the sashiko style, in which the slow act of mending is made even slower by embroidering the repair. In the process, I discovered a whole world of visible mending enthusiasts who use social media to swap both stitch patterns and also the philosophy behind their work. Mending, they assert, is a statement that we are more than what we consume. It protests against shoveling money into newer, better, trendier products as fast as possible, without regard to where the castaways pile up. It shows that we are more than mass-produced patterns and optimization algorithms attuned primarily to profit margins. That we can be creators and caretakers, conserving what is dear to us. Above all, visible mending is an act of grace. Instead of hiding the flaws of a worn-out garment, mending proclaims to the world just how well this garment is loved. And that love, lingering fondly over the uniqueness of its story, is what makes it beautiful. So now I find myself spending a slow Sunday afternoon on the porch embroidering a tiny pair of athleticwear basketball shorts, which itself feels rather like a contradiction. The ultra-performance nylon-mesh world is not meant for mending. Athletics is all about leaving behind that which holds you back, and flaws hold you back. The pursuit of what is leaner and sleeker leaves no time to consider the fate of last year’s model—that what is ultra-performance is necessarily disposable when something better comes along. But these shorts mean none of that to my son. They are gentle around the waist, soft to the touch. That is their weakness, but also all the reason he needs to love them. He dreads the weekly recurrence of laundry day, when he has to be separated from them for a whole two hours while they undergo the ordeal of washing. He doesn’t care that I had to scavenge a worn-out swimsuit in the wrong color to put huge mismatched patches on the seat. Anything to delay having to throw them away. Which kind of world do we humans belong to? We are capable of great progress, outdoing our own expectations, making things newer and better than they have ever been. But we are also prone to flaws, to wearing thin, to breaking under strain. I wonder which of these tiny, careful stitches I’m making won’t hold up under playtime conditions. But the beauty of stitches is that there are so many of them. If a few give way, plenty of others will take up the strain. We are kidding ourselves if we believe we are always like the new shorts, never the ripped ones ready to be cast aside. Not even the high achievers among us are made to be ultra-performance athleticwear. We are soft around the edges, liable to fray, vulnerable to other things that are soft and beautiful, that awaken our love. But that does not make us disposable: we know in our bones that we should belong to a world where things are worth mending, a world of Sunday rest where there would always be time enough to make loved things beautiful. We know in our bones that we should belong to a world where things are worth mending, a world of Sunday rest where there would always be time enough to make loved things beautiful. Laura Trimble This is not that world. In the quiet of my mending, I can hear the Sisyphean soundtrack of performance humming in the distance, on the highway, on train tracks, overhead. I think of the devastating Oregon wildfires that barricaded us in our houses this fall with the smoke of a harried world burning itself out in its haste. I think of the dark promise, oddly consoling in its honesty, that this world and everything in it will wear out someday like a garment. “You will change them like a robe and they will pass away,” says the singer of Psalm 102, “but you are the same and your years have no end.” The very next psalm hints that the objects of God’s love will nevertheless endure: even though humanity withers like grass, somehow “from everlasting to everlasting, the Lord’s love is with those who fear him, and his righteousness with their children’s children.” It is those He holds in remembrance who outlast the decay to which all human efforts must succumb. Jorge Louis Borges, in his poem “Everness,” calls it God’s “prophetic memory” that “guards from loss” those things which He deems worth remembering. Only because of the divine love that notices, that remembers, is anything everlasting. Especially us. For ten dollars and free two-day shipping, I could replace my son’s shorts. Or at the cost of two days’ worth of spare time, I can show my son he is loved so much that whatever he loves becomes worthy of my attention, too. God could have just replaced us and all of His world at far less of a cost than the cost of redemption. But He would rather have us, broken bits and all, with the marks of mending all over us, to show that it was worth any cost to Him not to throw us away. And that story makes us beautiful. I wouldn’t be mending these shorts otherwise.

by the Rabbit Room The first in a weekly, six-part Lenten series exploring themes of human frailty and suffering through music, story, and art. This week’s post features an image by Jamin Still, a song by Drew Miller, and a new liturgy by Doug McKelvey from Every Moment Holy, Vol. II . An Image: Candle by Jamin Still Jamin Still reflects on the relationship between anguish and hope found in the psalms which inspired this work: The psalms provide a model for looking at and processing pain and suffering. They lead us to acknowledge hardships and give us permission to feel what we feel. Nowhere do we see, “Put on a good face and pretend that everything is OK.” The psalms do not tell us to ignore pain or to pretend it doesn’t affect us. God allows us to question, he allows us cry out in our anguish. But coupled with this raw emotional response, the psalms remind us of perspective and hope. They say, “Yes, feel deeply the sting of injustice. Feel deeply the wrongness of disease and death. Scream to the heavens in your anguish and in your inability to understand the brokenness of this world. But know that there is hope. All will be mended, all will be made right again, even if you don’t understand now.” Is this hope an empty promise, given to simply make us feel better? No. Christ, of course, is the embodiment of that promise. And here’s the thing: God allowed himself to experience pain, like the pain that we so often suffer and do not understand, in order to fulfill the promise of all things new; in order to bring us hope. We may not understand, but he does. Our light might be extinguished, we might be snuffed out, but dawn is about to break. —Jamin Still A Song: “Into the Darkness” by Drew Miller Drew Miller shares the backstory of “Into the Darkness”: The week after Hutchmoot 2019, I did two things: bought a guitar I’d been eyeing up all summer and wrote this song on it. When Kelsey went to bed, I was strumming five chords, and when she woke up, I had five verses. Each of the first four verses explores a strategy as old as Eden for avoiding suffering: distraction via decadence, works righteousness, pedestalizing creativity, and the quest to eliminate mystery. When we reach the end of these dead-ends, life often drags us, kicking and screaming, into the darkness. Then the fifth verse presents another way—not a way out, but a way through. I’ll give you this spoiler alert: the darkness is not the enemy. The darkness, it turns out, is one of the greatest friends available to us, if only we have the honesty and humility to receive it. —Drew Miller For more Lenten songs, explore our Lent Playlist on Spotify and Apple Music. A Liturgy: “An Exhortation Making Space to Speak of Dying” by Doug McKelvey Children of the Living God, Let us now speak of dying, and let us speak without fear, for we have already died with Christ, and our lives are not our own. Our dying is part of the story that God is telling to us, and part of the story that God is telling through us. It is not a dark and hopeless word we must take pains to skirt or mention only in hushed whispers lest our conversations grow awkward and uncomfortable. Rather, death is a present and unavoidable reality, and one through which we—the people of God—must learn to openly walk with one another. Yes, it is cause for lament. Death is a horrible and inevitable sorrow. It is grief. It is numb shock and raw pain and long seasons of weeping and ache. And we will experience it as such. But it is more than all of that. For it is also a baptism, a prelude to a celebration. Our true belief that Christ died and was raised again promises this great hope: That there will be a newness of life, a magnificent resurrection that follows death and swallows it entirely. Death will not have the final word, so we need not fear to speak of it. Death is not a period that ends a sentence. It is but a comma, a brief pause before the fuller thought unfolds into eternal life. Beloved of Christ, do not hide from this truth: Each of us in time must wrestle death. In our youth we might have run in fear from such lament, but only those who soberly consider their mortal end can then work backward from their certain death, and so begin to build a life invested in eternal things. We should remember death throughout our lives, that we might arrive at last well-prepared to follow our Lord into that valley, and through it, further still, to our resurrection. Death is not the end of life. It is an intersection—a milestone we pass in our eternal pursuit of Christ. Yes, death is an inhuman, hungering thing. But it is also the pompous antagonist in a divine comedy. Even as it seeks to destroy all that is good, death is proved a near-sighted buffoon whose overreaching plans will fail, whose ephemeral kingdom will crumble. For all along, death has been blindly serving the deeper purposes of God within us— giving us the knowledge that all we gather in this short life will soon be scattered, that all we covet will soon be lost to us, that all we accomplish by our ambition will soon be rendered as meaningless as vapor. Death reveals the utter vanity of all our misplaced worship and all our feebly- invested hopes. And once we’ve seen, in light of death, how meaningless all our human strivings have been, then we can finally apprehend what the radical hope of a bodily resurrection means for mortals like us—and how the labors of Christ now reshape and reinterpret every facet of our lives, Rebuilding the structures of our hopes till we know that nothing of eternal worth will ever be lost. Yes, we are crucified with our Lord, but all who are baptized into his death are also resurrected into his life, so that we live now in the overlap of the kingdoms of temporal death and eternal life— and when it is our time to die, we die in that overlap as well, and there we will find that our dying has already been subverted, rewritten, folded in, and made a part of our resurrection. Have we not all along been rehearsing Christ’s death and his life in the sacrament of his communion? We have been both remembering and rehearsing our union and reunion with him. O children of God, do you now see? Your pursuit of Christ has always demanded a daily dying to your own self, and to your own dreams. That final, brief sleep of death is but the last laying down of all those lesser things, that you might awake remade, set free, rejoicing in the glorious freedom that will be yours. Yes, hate death! It is an enemy— but an enemy whose end approaches, and whose assault can inflict no lasting wound. Yes, weep and grieve! But more than that, believe! The veil is thinner than we know. And death is thinner still. It cannot hold any whose names are dearly known to God. Rejoice in this! Death is neither a grey void, nor a dungeon cell—but a door. And when Christ bids us pass through at last, we pass from life to Life. Amen. Click here to download “An Exhortation Making Space to Speak of Dying .”

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 Jen Pollock Michel, author of A Habit Called Faith: 40 Days in the Bible to Find and Follow Jesus. Jonathan and Jen discuss the inescapability of seeing what we expect to see, habits as creating your own momentum, the stifling posture of spectatorship, and the lessons to be learned from finishing well. Click here to listen to Season 3, Episode 6 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 the Rabbit Room This week, we are grateful to share a liturgy from Douglas McKelvey’s upcoming Every Moment Holy, Vol. II : “A Liturgy of Thanksgiving at the Return of Joy.” You can now view the full text for the liturgy as well as a special reading from Rebekah Lyons. For a long season, O Lord, I considered as an impossibility what I now know as unshakeable truth: That after loss, pain, tragedy, tears, sorrow, doubt, defeat, and disarray, I will hold a more costly and precious joy than any I have held before; and this not in denial of my loss, but manifest in the very wreckage of it. And so I know this unexpected joy is no glib and passing fancy. It is rather the diamond-hard treasure unearthed and recognized only when lesser hopes have collapsed. It is the knowledge of your unwavering faithfulness, O Christ, now experienced and owned. It is the bright beacon of your promises blooming in the night like signal fires upon mountain peaks. I came to the end of my own hope, O God, and found that your hope held me still. I saw through the ruin of my own happiness that your better joy stood firm— an unassailable fortress that even death could not throw down. And you have lifted me from where I lay wounded on war-torn fields, and have planted my feet solidly upon your ramparts. [If one experiences any sense of guilt at the prospect of delighting in life again, include the following: O God, guard my heart against any tendency to transmute this joy into the guilt of a survivor, as if to delight in your good gifts were somehow a betrayal of my love for the one I lost. No, my Lord, let me never believe such a lie. This sense of returning joy is no offense against their memory— indeed, it blooms from the very seed of the hope of a world made new, and encompasses the expectation of their resurrection, and of my own, and of our jubilant reunion.] And so I will celebrate your goodness in the land of the living. I will delight in this life, even as it is lived in the shadow of death, for a day will come when all of your children will rise eternal, taking joy together in these created spaces. Yes, in this age I will mourn with all my heart. And that is right. And yes, I will rejoice with all my heart as well. For that is also right. You, O Christ, have faithfully shepherded me, your child, through the passages of a world broken and fraught with separation and loss, and you have guided me again to the bright remembrance of joy—even of a joy that wells up within my sadness. You have lifted my eyes to the sight of sunlight shafts piercing the darkest clouds, gracing in gold a distant hill to which I will inevitably one day come. You have whispered to me again and again, that the end is not the end. And I have begun to believe it— not just in my head, but in the blood and bones and heart of my own experience. This surprising joy is like the aroma of a wedding feast prepared and awaiting my arrival in some verdant wildflower meadow. It is the substance of all secret hopes. It is the assurance that all lost things will be found, that grief will be upended, that all spaces hollowed by sorrow will become eternal repositories of glories untold, and that all things will one day be revealed as mysteries of mercy and grace, designed for your glory, O God, and for the great good of your people, your bride, your beloved. O my soul, water this joy with your tears, and bathe all remaining tears in streams of joy, for this joy is no small and passing thing. It is the very spring of eternity bursting from the parched soil of your sorrow, flowing forward into eternity. Deep has called to deep, and deep has answered. This joy will not be quenched! Take joy! O my soul, take everlasting joy, and drink! Amen. Click here to download the full liturgy at the  Every Moment Holy  website. Click here to watch Annie F. Downs’s reading of “A Liturgy for Embracing Both Joy & Sorrow” ,  here to watch Kristyn Getty’s reading of “A Liturgy for Seasons of Uncertainty,” and here to watch Andrew Peterson’s reading of “A Liturgy for Those Who Have Suffered a Miscarriage or Stillbirth.” And click here to pre-order Every Moment Holy, Vol. II: Death, Grief, and Hope at the Rabbit Room Bookstore.

by J Lind Let’s go back: it’s the day of my last album release. A year of DIY psychoanalysis, rice-and-beans budgeting, and humiliating sessions with Real Musicians has at long last culminated in these seven beautiful horcruxes being released into the digital aether in a modest attempt to satiate the world’s desperate need for more media. Does this make me a hero? A hero wouldn’t answer the question, so neither will I. But many of you indie artists know the feeling: you’ve grappled up the mountain for months, a spotless ram tied awkwardly to your back; you’ve weathered hailstorms of self-doubt and firestorms of pragmatism, from budgets to deadlines. And behold, you’ve arrived at the altar! The sacrifice is prepared and offered up. It’s the day that you’ve been waiting for. For me, though, almost every goal achieved and finish line crossed has been quickly followed by a season of melancholy, or at least vocational confusion. What now? What’s the point? I’ve come to interpret my creative work as an attempt, at least in part, to imbue the meaningless with meaning. Struggling toward some goal, particularly one that I deem noble, prevents me from actually sitting with the absurd, from staring into the abyss for any amount of time that might allow it to stare back into me. Wired to Struggle Friedrich Nietzsche, the patron saint of nihilism who committed his life to overcoming it, has something to say about this aspect of our nature. In On the Genealogy of Morals (1887), Nietzsche reconstructs a distant past in which so much of early man’s time is devoted to struggling: struggling with nature, whose frigid temperatures overwhelm his primitive technologies and whose saber-teeth pierce his squishy flesh; struggling with competing hominids, whose frequent ambushes dominate the Pleistocene and wreak havoc on his peace of mind. In this brutal state of nature, the victors are those who have developed a drive to struggle. In other words, the survivors are those who not only tolerate the struggle but actually require it, who have integrated the struggle instinct into their value hierarchy, their existential framework. Nietzsche suggests that one can’t be fully human without struggling with something. When I’m not struggling with something outside of myself, I’m struggling with myself. This is the sinking feeling after the day that you’ve been waiting for. Because the struggle isn’t over—it’s only internalized. J Lind But then came “the most fundamental change he [man] ever experienced—that change which occurred when he found himself finally enclosed within the walls of society and of peace.” Primitive man became so wildly successful in struggling with these external forces that he actually overcame them, or at least organized them so that Carl the Caveman could, you know, go for a walk without worrying about a snow leopard ripping out his jugular or a rival tribesman clubbing him back to the stone age, i.e., back to his childhood. This relative civility, which has only improved over the eons (fact check pending), meant that man no longer had so many external forces with which to struggle. And yet the drive to struggle, the cognitive machine at the root of his success, continued to spin. Nietzsche speculates that humanity’s instinctual need to struggle combined with the apparent lack of any external opponent had a tragic effect: the struggle turned inward. In lieu of leopards, man wrestled with his own nature, waging war with the very instincts upon which his core values had previously rested. (Nietzsche proceeds to target the foundations of morality itself, but I’m obviously too humble and good to do that.) For my storytelling, the point is this: when I’m not struggling with something outside of myself , I’m struggling with myself . This is the sinking feeling after the day that you’ve been waiting for. Because the struggle isn’t over—it’s only internalized. Starting Over Flashback to album release day. After a wild celebration (Facetime with mom), I’m left twiddling my thumbs in existential unrest. My struggle machine is cooking, and the heat is turning inward, the hottest it’s been in that direction for many months. With very few shows in the holiday season ahead, the prospect of a “break” is daunting. Sure enough, I’ll spend weeks riding waves of melancholy, even frustration, in the interim between projects. My emotional unrest suggests that I’d put so much stock in accomplishing the thing that I probably failed to appreciate the struggle itself. And there are all kinds of wonderful days to be waiting for: graduating college, playing that show, marrying that person. Or the day that you’ve been waiting for might be much grander, even metaphysical: Nirvanic enlightenment, Marxist utopia, the Promised Land, the Second Coming. There’s no shortage of goals, and some good ones at that. But so much of the meaning of the experience, the real meat and potatoes of this adventure, seems to come from the struggle itself. The bulk of the plotline is about the pilgrimage, not the arrival. It really does seem like we’re hard-wired for the struggle. So, the question that I’ve been chewing on is this: how might I choose to savor the struggle more and more, in all its unabashed brutal beauty? The Land of Canaan will probably always be on the horizon, in one form or another. But how can I cultivate joy while I’m still in the desert? Kierkegaard has something to say about this, but I’ll save it for my next blog post. In the meantime, I at least have another day to be waiting for. You can listen to J’s new song, “The Day That You’ve Been Waiting For,” here . And if you found anything inspiring in this post, it was probably an insight from Nietzsche or Kierkegaard that J conveniently forgot to credit. He’s one passionate amateur. Click here to listen on Spotify and here to listen on Apple Music .