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by Chris & Jenna Badeker I recently attended a music industry seminar in Nashville where a presenter said, “Artists are now living in the age of the slash.” They went on to say that for the vast majority of working artists, adding skills to our repertoire and titles to our resume has become a necessity. A way of life. Singer-songwriters are becoming producers/podcast hosts. Podcast hosts are becoming videographers/audio engineers. This isn’t to say there aren’t exceptions; monoliths of singular talent still walk among us. However, fewer of us can reliably count on having a voice or song that is “too good to ignore” to be the basis for a sustainable career in the arts. In an era defined by insatiable appetites for new content, shrinking attention spans, and a general devaluation (monetarily speaking) of music, many artists have been forced to get a little more creative and a lot more flexible. My husband, Chris, and I are independent musicians who perform in the band Wild Harbors. Upon arriving in Nashville we felt immense pressure to make good on our decision to leave our full-time jobs and pursue a career in music. In trying to do so, we spent time with some amazing artists, received wise and gracious counsel, and began the slow and arduous process of assimilating who we were to match a perceived ideal. Sure, we were writing and performing original music, but in every other sense of the term, we were a “cover band”. We dressed like The Civil Wars, posed like Johhnyswim, and belted out songs like The Swell Season. We held ourselves up against the industry’s standards of success, tried in vain to replicate them, and felt crushed when nothing we did seemed to move the needle.  The well-intentioned process of trying to look, sound, and act like “real” artists left us feeling like anything but. We had watched our favorite singer-songwriters find meaningful connections with their audiences through self-expression and vulnerability, yet somehow the lesson we took from it was, “If I could be like that, people would like me”. The problem with posturing for acceptance is that when something you do finds success, it reinforces the idea that the only reason the work connected was because people associated it with something other than you. To put it another way, we had painted ourselves into a corner where our failures felt deeply personal and our success felt unearned and insincere. We couldn’t have told you, but we were burning out and we weren’t sure why. Around the same time, some of our close friends began lovingly pestering Chris to sign up for the social media platform, TikTok. When Chris finally relented and created an account for our band, things started to gradually shift. Being new to the platform, it truly felt like stepping into the Wild West. There was no brand to manage, no expectation of what to post, and best of all, no audience! Left with a completely blank slate, Chris started doing something he hadn’t done in a long time. TikTok is primarily a video-sharing platform, so Chris began filming anything that popped into his head and posting it. It was silly and slapdash and a way to try out any idea we wanted with relative anonymity.  Best of all, making these videos felt like an act of remembrance. In the first years of our relationship, we would visit roadside oddities and film goofy travel guide videos highlighting their various quirks and charm. By making new videos, we weren’t putting on a new hat so much as we were finding an old one and dusting it off. Before long, the notebook for “Video Ideas” became just as big as the notebook for “Song Ideas”.  Like any ongoing creative endeavor, recurring themes started to emerge and the scope and vision for our videos became clearer. Where we had once made silly videos about everything and anything, we now made silly videos about how it felt to be independent musicians trying to navigate the ups and downs of a creative life. We no longer needed to sit down and brainstorm funny ideas. As it turns out, there’s plenty to laugh about in the day to day life of a musician, so we gave ourselves permission to laugh about it. As we grew more confident in their purpose and value, we started sharing them outside of the relative obscurity of our TikTok account. I’m sure for a lot of our friends, it looked like two musicians had decided on a whim to start acting. In reality, it’s more accurate to say that we decided to stop acting. We stopped acting like serious artists. We stopped acting like professional musicians. We started being ourselves. In sharing her own story with me, my friend Leslie E. Thompson wrote, “I’ve finally, FINALLY, lost the desire to adapt my God-given personality to fit an aesthetic or construct and instead embrace it.”  How can I put it better than that?  What if living in “The Age of the Slash” isn’t a mandate to wear all the hats and do all the things? What if it’s an invitation to pick up the parts of our God-given personality that we jettisoned in our hurry to launch faster and climb higher? Who decided that knowing how to cook a Classic French Omelette isn’t a useful skill when writing a novel? Why shouldn’t crochet hooks, when skillfully employed by the poet, be just as helpful to the process as a pen? When children say things like “I’m going to be a Writer / Veterinarian / Painter / Singer / Fashion Designer when I grow up” it’s not because they don’t understand how the world works, it’s because they haven’t unlearned how creativity works.  Outside of self-imposed categories like “Actor”, “Singer”, “Podcast Host”, or “Illustrator”, I believe our brains are all too happy to lump the sum of our creative endeavors, no matter the discipline or medium, into a big bucket labeled “Play”. In this bucket, there’s no untangling which words belong in a song and which belong in a children’s picture book. There’re no walls keeping our ideas for a comic strip out of our ideas for a board game. If you’ve ever eaten baked beans, coleslaw, and potato salad on a plate with no dividers, that should give you a pretty good idea. Time spent playing with anything in this bucket creates unfelt, often unseeable, ripples throughout everything else in the bucket. The more time I spend writing throwaway jokes and corny one-liners, the less I tend to second-guess my intuition when writing a lyric for a chorus. The less I second-guess my lyrics, the less tentative I am when using watercolors. As it turns out, embracing the idea of having an ever-expanding job title has meant paying a lot less attention to what those titles are and paying more attention to the kinds of work that feel satisfying, meaningful, and valuable to us, our band, and our community. It’s hard work to look at yourself and find candid answers to honest questions. Questions like, “What parts of who God made me to be might be longing to find a home in my art? , “Which aspects of my God-given personality have I abandoned out of fear of being rejected or humiliated?”, or “Who might be waiting, unknowingly, for me to make the kind of art that can only be made through embracing the entirety of my being with sober self-confidence, reckless abandon, and a generous spirit?”  Wild Harbors is currently running a Kickstarter campaign  to fund the release of their new music, the continued production of their videos, and the recording of a new album. Pledging today will move the band one step closer to their goal of being an artistic presence that continues to draw bigger, more encompassing circles around terms like “Songwriter”, “Artist”, and “Band”.

by Andy Patton Here is a Halloween lecture from the archives on the question of whether there can be any agreement between Christianity and the horror genre. Andy approaches the question through the lens of the work of Stephen King, one of the masters of the genre. Andy Patton is the creator of the Darkling Psalter , a collection of creative renditions of the Psalms paired with new poems. He writes about biblical theology at Pattern Bible . He holds an M.A. in theology from Trinity Evangelical Divinity School. He works for the Rabbit Room and is a former staff member at L'Abri Fellowship in England.

And so the tale came down the years In every land and tongue. And old folk told it through their tears And gave it to the young. And even I, in these dark days, Have heard and found it true. So I have taken up the tale And passed it on to you. -Galahad and the Grail Rabbit Room Press has long made camp at the crossroads of the fantastic and the literary. We are, we like to claim, descended from the literary traditions of MacDonald and Grahame, of Lewis and Tolkien, of Wangerin and L’Engle. And they are, in turn, descended from a litany of writers and poets down through the centuries. It seems right, then, that in the 21st century Rabbit Room Press has arrived upon the literary and literal doorstop of Malcolm Guite . In fact, we’ve been admirers and champions of Guite’s work for years. His fluency with the poetic traditions and stories of the past, along with his theological bent for illuminating the deep mysteries of faith, and his rare gift of making poetry approachable for the modern reader, have all endeared him to us as a kindred spirit and a fellow traveler.  In 2022, Rabbit Room Press was thrilled to include an original ballad of Guite’s writing in our story collection entitled   The Lost Tales of Sir Galahad , but little did we know that the inclusion of that ballad would be as the first pebbles of an avalanche. Malcolm Guite, you see, has been in a life-long love affair with the stories of King Arthur and his knights, and on the heels of his Galahadic ballad, that romance with the “matter of Britain” has grown into a full-fledged epic poem in the tradition of Homer, Virgil, Milton, Tennyson. Guite’s work now encompasses a four-volume epic in verse called Merlin’s Isle: An Arthuriad . And despite its daunting scope, its four volumes retain all of Guite’s seemingly effortless approachability and readability, his exuberant affinity for the tales of Arthur and Britain, and his penchant for capturing the numinous and calling the reader deeper into it. Indeed, here is an epic poem, not constrained to the shelves of academia, but bound as well for the young reader enraptured by tales of chivalric deed, or the light reader in search of the lyrical, or even the family reading aloud at day’s end. Guite embarks upon the millennia-spanning tradition of the Epic with the joy of a child at play and the sure precision of a master with a twinkle in his eye. It’s with great joy that Rabbit Room Press enters on this 4-part quest of the Grail, of Camelot and Avalon and all things Arthurian, with Malcolm Guite leading us into the storied wilds, and with acclaimed illustrator Stephen Crotts adorning Guite’s words with images all along the way. The first volume of Merlin’s Isle, titled  Galahad and the Grail , will be released in spring of 2026, followed by volumes 2-4 in 2027 and 2028. We invite you to take up the tale.  Join us. It’s going to be epic. From  Merlin’s Isle: An Arthuriad: As I walked out one morning All in the soft fine rain It seemed as though a silver veil Was shining over hill and vale As though some lovely long-lost spell Had made all new again. And through that shimmer in the air I seemed to hear a sound As though a distant horn were blown In some lost land that I had known That seemed to speak from tree and stone And echo all around. And with the music came these words: “Poet, take up the tale! Take up the tale this land still keeps In earth and water magic sleeps The dryad sighs, the naiad weeps But you can lift the veil. From where the waves wash Cornwall’s caves Out to the white horse vale The lands still hold the tale of old Like hidden treasure, buried gold Once more the story must be told Poet, take up the tale. Tell of the king who will return Tell of the Holy Grail Tell of old knights and chivalry Tell of the pristine mystery Of Merlin’s Isle of gramarye Poet, take up the tale. Take up the tale of courtesy Take up the tale of grace Revive the lands’ long memory Summon the fair folk, let them be,  Something of faery, wild and free Still lingers in this place. Lift up your eyes to see the light On Glastonbury Tor Then come down from that far green hill To where the sacred waters spill And shine within the chalice well And listen to their lore. Yea, listen well before you start, Be still ere you begin See through the surface round about The noise, the rush, the fear, the doubt Though Modern Britain lies without Fair Logres lives within. You may yet walk through Merlin’s isle By oak and ash and thorn The ancient hills do not forget And you might wake their wisdom yet Who knows what wonders might be met On this midsummer morn.” So I have taken up the tale To tell it full and free The tale that makes my heart rejoice I tell it, for I have no choice I tell it till another voice Takes up the tale from me.

by Janna Barber Last week, a therapist friend of mine was giving a talk at the Tuesday Chapel for our Young Adults Ministry and she told everyone she has a lot of sayings that may sound a bit cheesy, but she still likes to use them because they’re memorable. The title of her talk was “When Life Disappoints” and during the Q&A time at the end, she said a phrase that’s not only stuck with me, it’s been ringing in my head for days. She’d already explained how we tend to do all manner of things with our grief when life gets hard: like minimize it, ignore it, numb it, and invalidate it. But the thing we don’t usually do, she said, is tend to it, and take care of it. “In other words,” she finally emphasized, “suffering needs to be soothed.” I think it was the word soothed that caught my attention because it reminded me of caring for an infant. As a mother of three, a former preschool teacher, and a frequent nursery worker, I’m very familiar with soothing small humans. For instance, I know that some of them like to be cuddled and patted, while others prefer bouncing and singing, and some of them actually just want to be left alone so they can sleep. Larger humans, however, can be trickier when it comes to this idea of soothing, which is why I’m thankful that God has fashioned so many people into artists, writers, therapists, and other kinds of caregivers. These gifts to humanity reflect God’s divine love by teaching us that feelings are nothing to be afraid of, and such is the case with my friend, singer-songwriter Emily McCoy. I first met Emily when her oldest daughter was three. Lily was one of my students in the Parent’s Day Out program at Fellowship Church in Knoxville. Lily was not your typical preschool girl and she provided many moments of laughter for me and my co-teacher with her silly antics and creative choices during the day. That year, Emily’s husband was dealing with some health issues and we had several talks about how he was doing and the latest updates on his treatment. I knew Emily worked as a worship leader at this church and I tried to encourage her as she attempted to juggle so many roles during that time of life. Years later, we reconnected at a concert at another church, where Emily performed some of her own original music, and I’ve been a fan ever since. I’d heard Emily sing a time or two when attending service with a friend, and at a women’s event held at Fellowship, so I’d already experienced the power of her voice and the beauty of her skillful piano playing. But hearing Emily tell the stories behind some of her songs endeared me to her talents even more, so I bought a CD and went home and followed her on all the socials later that night. The fourth track of Emily’s new album, Longing for the Garden, is entitled “Hide in Thee,” and it ends with two simple questions: How can beauty come from pain? Will tomorrow be the same? The final word lasts as long as the note being sung along with it, and then the song is over. There’s no musical resolution, no answer to these final questions. They simply stand alone as the listener contemplates what it means to “hide in thee.” This song paints a rich picture of what it looks like to befriend your grief, to sit in stillness and silence and share your pain with Christ. This is the example we’re given over and over in the Bible, for how to soothe life’s many hurts, in books like Job, Psalms, Lamentations, Jeremiah, and even several letters from the New Testament.  “Cast all your anxiety on him for he cares for you” Peter instructs the early church, and Emily does just that in songs like “Even in Your Silence” which begins with the honest lines: God this grief is overwhelming It’s gotten hard to trust your plan Though we tend to prefer solutions to our pain and hurt, Emily’s music encourages what we really need, which is to be held and comforted during times of grief. In songs like “Nothing Ill-Fitting,” she takes on the voice of the Lord, who responds to our fear and sadness with words of peace and calm. Weary beloved, listen to me You've tried to hold on and get by But you're tired, struggling to breathe Time now to loosen your grip on these things Control is a farce and you've got to let go now And take hold of me I am gentle, I am humble, I am kind Come to me now, trade your burden now for mine I was carrying some pretty heavy burdens earlier this year when Emily gave a popup concert to celebrate the recording of this album with her band here in Knoxville and what I appreciated most about that show, besides the blessing of live music, was the evidence I saw of the collaborative process between Emily and her bandmates. These local players, already known in town as songwriters and performers in their own right, lend their unique skills to this project, creating a jazzy chamber feel to the piano-driven melodies. The effect was the healing balm I needed that night as the music gave me time and space for all  my feelings–an experience that’s often neglected in modern worship services. A few weeks ago, Emily shared a post on Instagram to promote this new album, saying “I don’t create great ‘content,’ but I have a story to tell.” As I looked at the artwork and thought about the themes present in her songs, I realized the story Emily tells is one filled with hope. For after God meets us in our grief, we can’t help but feel hopeful in response, as Emily sings in “Gentle Gardener”  You are catching all the foxes in the vineyard As you clear new pathways through the burned-out wood Where the trees that fell in all the desolation Display new growth I never dreamed they could It’s been said that we live our lives between two gardens, longing for the beauty that was lost in Eden as well as the full redemption that awaits us in the new heaven and earth. But in the meantime, I’m thankful for an album like this one to soothe us as we sojourn. Janna Barber is a blogger, poet, and memoirist. Her most recent book is  Hidden in Shadow: Tales of Grief, Lamentation, and Faith . This memoir is one woman’s honest reckoning with the truth that even as our faith waxes and wanes, God is constant, and he loves his children even when they don’t know what he’s up to.

by Cindy Anderson The holiday season is upon us, with its joyful celebrations, fun activities, festive parties, and its fair share of stresses. Knowing how to slow down can be challenging as we live in an over-productive, often distracted culture. Still, Advent time is about waiting, remembering gratitude, family, friendship, the hope of birth, and the angels' song. One of the best ways I know to slow down throughout the holidays is by creating time to read Christmas stories ourselves and with our families and friends.  Books and Christmas are deeply interlinked for me. I was about ten years old when my Grandmother gave me my first Christmas novel, her 1916 edition of The Romance of the Christmas Card by Kate Douglas Wiggins. When she placed that beautiful book into my hands, I knew my Christmas book collecting was about to begin. I bring this particular book down from my shelves every Christmas, and although it is beautiful, it is the gift of the book that is most precious to me. I remember my Grandmother handing me that book and the conversation we had. The giving of books is the loveliest of traditions.  There are many ways to celebrate books and reading throughout the Advent season. Families with young children wrap twenty-five Christmas-themed picture books and open and read one each night. Or, with older children, they read a Christmas chapter book or devotion each evening. We always gave our children a stack of books for Christmas morning next to their gifts, and I often see Christmas trees made from stacked books. Still, my favorite holiday book tradition comes from Iceland and is called Jólabókaflóðið, which translates to "Christmas book flood." It involves giving and receiving new books on Christmas Eve; Icelanders spend the rest of the night reading books, sipping hot chocolate, and eating treats. The tradition dates back to World War II when paper was one of the few items you could still find in abundance since there were strict restrictions on most other items. Icelanders made the best of the situation and started giving each other books. Every year since 1944, the Icelandic book trade has published a book catalog in mid-November and has delivered it to every household in the country. People read through the pages and choose books for friends and family. Close to 80% of Iceland's book sales occur during the holidays. Other Jólabókaflóðið celebrations include book readings at schools, bookshops, and coffee shops—lunchtime readings at workplaces, and social media events. The warmth of a hot chocolate, the comfort of a good book, and the joy of the holiday season make Jólabókaflóðið a unique and heartwarming tradition.  I hope this list of favorite Christmas books inspires you to create new Christmas reading traditions for yourself, your family, and your friends. Please consider supporting your independent bookstores and local businesses this holiday season. It's a simple way to affirm the beautiful work and community building that small businesses and non-profits do for us throughout the year. Merry Christmas, and God bless us, everyone.  Nativity Books Nativity   by Cynthia Rylant Cynthia Rylant uses excerpts from the King James Bible to tell the Nativity story and incorporates some of Jesus' teachings from the Sermon on the Mount. Her illustrations are simple, textured paintings that are perfect for little ones.  Recommended for ages 3-8 Sounding Joy by Ellie Holcomb Readers travel through the pages of this sweet board book to answer the question, "What does joy sound like?" Leading us to the joyful sound of angels singing that Jesus has been born. Recommended for ages 2-5 Holy Night and Little Star by Mitali Perkins Little Star likes to keep things as they are, but when Maker wants everything in the night sky to announce the savior's birth, she must decide if she is ready to shine with the other stars and planets. Recommended for ages 3-7 Wombat Divine  by Mem Fox Wombat is finally old enough to try out for the Nativity play, but everyone else seems to be getting all the parts. Will there be a role left for Wombat? The characters are Australian animals, and the story is adorable. It is a family favorite. Recommended ages 3-8 Other Nativity Recommendations S ilent Night by Lara Hawthorne Room for a Little One by Martin Waddell Song of the Star s by Sally Lloyd Jones  Christmas Books The Christmas Book Flood   by Emily Kilgore This picture book explains the story of Jólabókaflóðið, the Icelandic tradition of exchanging new books for Christmas Eve. This is a delightful book and a delightful celebration. Recommended for ages 4-8 Dasher  by Matt Travares Richly colored illustrations bring this book to life. Dasher has always wished for a better life than pulling wagons for a traveling circus. One day, she escapes, meets Santa in the woods, and helps him deliver his sack of toys. She can only find complete happiness when she returns to rescue her family. The illustrations and story feel like an old-time classic story. Recommended ages 4-8  Night Tree  by Eve Bunting On a moonlit night, we watch a family decorate their favorite Christmas tree in the woods with popcorn, apples, tangerines, and sunflower seeds for the wild animals to enjoy. This is an excellent story for families or classrooms, as it may inspire ideas for children to make treats for wildlife for the winter months. Recommended for ages 3-8 Winter Story (Brambly Hedge)  by Jill Barklem I cannot recommend the Brambley Hedge books enough. They are a delight to read, and children will pause to admire the stunning illustrations over and over again. I would suggest the anniversary edition, which contains 8 lovely Brambly stories in one large volume. The Rabbit Room has added a Brambly Hedge coloring book to their store, which would be the perfect Christmas gift. Recommended ages 3-6 Snow Horses: A First Night Story  by Patricia MacLachlan Snow Horses is a celebration of New Year's Eve. I am adding it to this list because it is the perfect winter read to begin right after Christmas. Vibrant brush strokes fill the pages, and everything is awash with wintery detail. I love the celebration of family, community, youth, and long-time friends remembering their childhoods.  Recommended for ages 4-9 Other Recommendations Pick a Pine Tree  by Patricia Toht The Night Before Christmas  by Roger Duvoisin The Night Before Christmas  by Jan Brett Christmas Books for Older Children Little Christmas Carol   by Joe Sutphin I read The Christmas Carol every December, and I always find something new and beautiful that I have never noticed before. Joe Sutphin has created a Christmas Carol treasure with his ever-so-slightly edited version. This is the perfect family read-aloud since everyone will hear Dicken's original work, and young children will be enthralled with the wintry woodland world that Joe has created. Recommended ages 5-10 The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe by C.S. Lewis Discover Narnia, where it is always winter and never Christmas until we see Aslan begin to move. This is the perfect Christmas gift or family read-aloud story. The original illustrations by Pauline Baynes are delightful. This book will always have the most special place in my heart. Recommended ages 7-12 The Vanderbeekers of 141st Street  by Karina Yan Glaser The first book in the Vandebeeker series begins 5 days before Christmas. The family has lived in their brownstone in Harlem all their lives, but the landlord is about to end their lease. The 5 Vanderbeeker children must work together to find a way to stay in their beloved home. The books in this series are a celebration of family, neighbors, and friends. Recommended ages 8-12  An Orange for Frankie by Patricia Polacco Tomorrow is Christmas Eve, and Pa hasn't returned from his trip. He promised to bring back the oranges for each child's stockings. This year, terrible storms might keep Pa from being home for Christmas. Patricia Polacco's books are ideal for slightly older children as they often cover difficult subjects, sometimes have sad endings, and are lengthy for picture books. Recommended ages 5-11 Christmas Day in the Morning  by Pearl S. Buck Originally published in 1955, this classic story captures the true spirit of Christmas giving. What does a young son get for his hard-working father for Christmas? The gift creates a Christmas that no one will forget. Recommended ages 5-10 Other Options for Older Children Letters from Father Christmas  by J.R.R. Tolkien Shooting at the Stars by John Hendrix Cindy has been an educator for over 30 years, including work in environmental and nature education. She consistently uses stories and books, including picture books, with all of her students from elementary to high school. Most recently, she taught high school humanities, as well as creative writing and science classes for middle school. On any given Saturday, you can find her in her garden, the local farmers market, and her local library.

by Pete Peterson This morning I walked into a quiet theater in Franklin, Tennessee, where we’re about to begin the first day of production on A Christmas Carol . I’m the only one here. The room is cool and stark and full of echoes. Here’s what I see: A darkness. A void. The neutral tones of the auditorium and its walls all crowd around a yawning black emptiness, a space filled with nothing less than the hope of being called into life and light.  Here in the moment before , everything is possible. For years I’ve been ruminating on the idea that theater, as an artform, is inherently incarnational. More than prose or poetry or song or painting, theatre puts on flesh and becomes itself. It becomes more in its flesh than it is on the page. This is a profound mystery to me. When I sit down to write, I have a vision in mind that I’m writing toward–this is true, I think, of all writing. But when I write a book or a short story, I have the benefit (or burden) of being the final arbiter of that story’s reality. In other words, by the time Fiddler’s Green  (a book I wrote over a decade ago) finds itself in your hands, there have only been a couple of people involved in the crafting of it. Me, my editor, my early readers…that’s about it. The final realization of the story is mine to deliver to the reader and his or her imagination, and as a writer, I’m conscious of that proximity to the reader’s imagination, and so I try to paint my scenes and textures and emotions as vividly as I can in order to recreate as closely as possible in another’s imagination what I have in my own. The reader will have to judge for herself how effective I’ve been. But when I write a play, the creative process is wildly different. I’m aware, for instance, that none of the audience will read my stage directions, and therefore, they’ll never know whether or not a particular production even took heed of them. I’m also aware that I can’t control the visual design of the show or the interpretations that different actors will bring to their characters. Essentially, a playwright builds a scaffold onto which dozens of other artists will graft their own work. If the scaffold is well-built, it will support the work of others whether that work is threadbare or mastercraft. There’s a necessary humility inherent in the work of writing for the stage; a humility that reminds me I have to let go of control so that others can finish what I began. I’m just here to build the underlying scaffold. So when I say that the artform of theatre is incarnational, I mean that it lies flat on the page until a living, breathing, human form takes it up and gives it three dimensions; we can walk circles around it to see how it works from different angles. I don’t think you have to strain your eyes very hard to see that there’s a theological dimension to that. There’s a sense in which the law, as it was given to Moses, laid flat on the page (or the tablet) for generations before Christ enfleshed it and helped us see what it looked like fully embodied. And what’s fascinating to me is that when the Word took on flesh, it surprised people. It didn’t change, but it meant  itself in a whole new way, in a way that wasn’t apparent until it stood up  and walked among us. Again and again, this is my experience of theatre. I write. And then the words stand up in front of me, and when they do, they mean more than I meant, more than I even knew  to mean. Incarnation is a miracle. Over and over again. On the stage in microcosm, and in Christ–macrocosm. So today, as I look on the void of the stage here in middle Tennessee, I have a tickle of joy as I await the miracle of creation and incarnation. Matt is now sitting at his sewing machine on the stage and his “grand curtain” is taking shape piece by piece. Stephen is hanging lights. Mitch and Ace are busy hammering and welding and making magic out of everyday materials. Tony and Laura are editing and creating and breathing music and light into being. Caitlin and Becca are spinning threads of communication that tie us all together. Elyn is conjuring poetry out of movement and motion. Through all of these hands and minds, something is coming. Something is becoming. Out of the void: life.  In the beginning, A Christmas Carol , Act 1, Scene 1: [Stage directions] Darkness. Spirits hover over the face of the void, all silently undulating on the formless stage. And then, lights. Rabbit Room Theatre’s production of A Christmas Carol opens on December 7th. Tickets are now available at www.RabbitRoomTheatre.com.

In Flanders Fields by John Mccrae In Flanders fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row, That mark our place; and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard amid the guns below. We are the Dead. Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved and were loved, and now we lie, In Flanders fields. Take up our quarrel with the foe: To you from failing hands we throw The torch; be yours to hold it high. If ye break faith with us who die We shall not sleep, though poppies grow In Flanders fields. The Owl by Edward Thomas Downhill I came, hungry, and yet not starved; Cold, yet had heat within me that was proof Against the North wind; tired, yet so that rest Had seemed the sweetest thing under a roof. Then at the inn I had food, fire, and rest, Knowing how hungry, cold, and tired was I. All of the night was quite barred out except An owl’s cry, a most melancholy cry Shaken out long and clear upon the hill, No merry note, nor cause of merriment, But one telling me plain what I escaped And others could not, that night, as in I went. And salted was my food, and my repose, Salted and sobered, too, by the bird’s voice Speaking for all who lay under the stars, Soldiers and poor, unable to rejoice. Anthem for Doomed Youth by Wilfred Owen What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?       — Only the monstrous anger of the guns.       Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle Can patter out their hasty orisons. No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;        Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,— The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;       And bugles calling for them from sad shires. What candles may be held to speed them all?       Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.       The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall; Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds, And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds. Dulce et Decorum Est by Wilfred Owen Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs, And towards our distant rest began to trudge. Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots, But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind; Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots Of gas-shells dropping softly behind. Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time, But someone still was yelling out and stumbling And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime.— Dim through the misty panes and thick green light, As under a green sea, I saw him drowning. In all my dreams before my helpless sight, He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace Behind the wagon that we flung him in, And watch the white eyes writhing in his face, His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin; If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs, Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,— My friend, you would not tell with such high zest To children ardent for some desperate glory, The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori. Have you forgotten yet? by Siegfried Sassoon Have you forgotten yet?... For the world's events have rumbled on since those gagged days, Like traffic checked awhile at the crossing of city ways: And the haunted gap in your mind has filled with thoughts that flow Like clouds in the lit heavens of life; and you're a man reprieved to go, Taking your peaceful share of Time, with joy to spare. But the past is just the same -- and War's a bloody game.... Have you forgotten yet?... Look down, and swear by the slain of the War that you'll never forget. Do you remember the dark months you held the sector at Mametz, -- The nights you watched and wired and dug and piled sandbags on parapets? Do you remember the rats; and the stench Of corpses rotting in front of the front-line trench -- And dawn coming, dirty-white, and chill with a hopeless rain? Do you ever stop and ask, "Is it all going to happen again?" Do you remember that hour of din before the attack -- And the anger, the blind compassion that seized and shook you then As you peered at the doomed and haggard faces of your men? Do you remember the stretcher-cases lurching back With dying eyes and lolling heads, those ashen-grey Masks of the lads who once were keen and kind and gay? Have you forgotten yet?... Look up, and swear by the green of the Spring that you'll never forget.

by Jonathan Rogers “Only boring people get bored.” I’m sure you’ve heard that old chestnut before. I’ve repeated it myself, many times. But in the era of the smart phone and social media, we need to rethink and refine our relationship to boredom. I started thinking about boredom and creativity when somebody posted a video of a TED talk by Manoush Zamorodi, a podcast host and author of the book,  Bored and Brilliant . Boredom is good, she argues, because it ignites a network in our brains called the “default mode network.” In short, when we daydream, when we stare blankly out the window, when we perform mindless tasks in which our bodies operate on auto-pilot, our minds start making unexpected connections and solving problems. Some of this kind of sub-conscious or semi-conscious thought happens in our sleep (yet another reason to get plenty of rest), but the default mode network operates during our waking hours, and it doesn’t kick in if our brains are being constantly bombarded by external stimuli. In that un-stimulated, un-entertained state that we commonly call boredom, our minds do some of their best work. Smartphones and the Internet keep us from having to endure the discomfort of “boredom,” but in so doing, they cut us off from some of the richest veins of creativity. The mind, it turns out, won’t stay un-stimulated for long. In the absence of external stimulation, it will create its own. This is the principle behind an exercise you may remember from an earlier issue of  The Habit : on days when I find it impossible to write, when no amount of self-cajoling seems to help, I turn off the Internet, turn off my phone, sit at my desk, and say to myself, “Write or don’t write. It doesn’t matter to me. But for the next hour you can’t do anything else.” If I stick to that and do nothing else, usually by the end of the hour I’ve written something. And by then, I’m usually ready to keep writing. That kind of cultivated “boredom,” unrelieved by electronic stimulation, can be very productive. I put the word  boredom  in quotation marks because I am using it in the colloquial sense of a lack of stimulation the we find unpleasant. And as long as that’s the definition we’re using, I entirely agree with Manoush Zomorodi: boredom is indeed the path to brilliance. If you look to a screen for relief at the first arrival of that kind of boredom, you can expect your creative output to dwindle accordingly. But since we’re on the subject, I feel I should distinguish between that colloquial use of the word boredom from a deeper boredom that philosophers and theologians call  acedia . At its heart, this kind of boredom is an ingratitude that expresses itself in a refusal to be present in the world where one finds oneself. If the other kind of boredom is helpful to creativity, acedia is fatal to creativity. Smartphones and the Internet medicated and so neutralize the salutary effects of the garden-variety boredom of the under-stimulated; at the same time, they deepen acedia by making it harder and harder to marvel at the world God made and to be present in it. This guy, for instance, is going to have to change his ways if he wants to be a writer: Robert Farrar Capon, a writer who has shaped my understanding of creativity as much as anybody, has this to say on the subject: "[This world] is a gorgeous old place, full of clownish graces and beautiful drolleries, and it has enough textures, tastes, and smells to keep us intrigued for more time than we have. Unfortunately, however, our response to its loveliness is not always delight: It is, far more often than it should be, boredom. And that is not only odd, it is tragic; for boredom is not neutral – it is the fertilizing principle of unloveliness." Here is Manoush Zomorodi's TED talk " How Boredom Can Lead to Your Most Brilliant Ideas. " Jonathan Rogers is the host of The Habit Membership and The Habit Podcast: Conversations with Writers About Writing . Every Tuesday he sends out The Habit Weekly , a letter for writers. (Find out more at TheHabit.co .) He is the author of The Terrible Speed of Mercy: A Spiritual Biography of Flannery O’Connor, as well as the Wilderking Trilogy, The Charlatan’s Boy, and other books. He has contributed to the Rabbit Room since its inception.

by W. David O. Taylor In his book Worship in the Early Church , the New Testament scholar Ralph Martin asserts that the church was born in song. Proof of this is not hard to come by. Like characters in a musical theatre production, the protagonists of Luke’s Gospel find mere speech insufficient to the task of expressing the astonishing events they witness and proclaim. The Virgin Mary breaks out in song in response to Elizabeth’s benediction. Zechariah sings his way out of silence at the pronouncement of his son’s name. The angel choir sings of God’s fantastic glory, while Simeon erupts in verse at the sight of the Christ child, and the early church sings the Psalter, the songs of David, which become the songs of Christ himself, even as the church at the end of the age joins the everlasting chorus of heaven: “Holy, Holy, Holy.”  Yet while singing has always been welcomed into the life of the church, not any kind of song has been seen to satisfy the requirement of faithful music making. What  is sung, how  it is sung, and the character  that the practice of song produces has always been crucial. Singing that generates unity, for example, has been a longstanding concern of the church. “Almost from the beginning,” writes the musicologist Calvin Stapert, “music was an expression of, a metaphor for, and a means toward unity.”  For Ignatius of Antioch, writing in the second century, when Jesus Christ was sung rightly, it became a sign of the church’s “harmonious love.” Saint Ambrose, two centuries later, argued that the singing of a psalm in particular represented a “pledge of peace and harmony, which produces one song from various and sundry voices.” And there is no doubt that the Psalter, as the perennial worship book of the saints, has served to guide and to inspire God’s people in their practices of communal and liturgical song.  For the faithful Israelite, the Torah was not only to be learned, it was also to be sung; so too for Christians down through the ages, the Word of God was not only to be written upon one’s heart, it was also to be placed upon one’s lips in song, and, across the centuries, the psalms supplied both the text and the model for faithful song.  Christians have likewise taken continuous delight in singing the canticles of the gospels and the prophets. This includes the sung-speech of Mary’s Magnificat  (Lk. 1:46-55), Zachariah’s Benedictus  (Lk. 1:67-79), and Simeon’s  Nunc Dimittis  (Lk. 2:29-32). It includes the angels’ spectacular choral performance in the Gloria  of Luke 2:14. And it includes the songs of Moses (Exod. 15; Deut. 32), the Spirit-inspired prayer of Hannah (1 Sam. 2), and the glorious confession of Isaiah (Isa. 6), along with his prophetic announcement in Isaiah 9. Christians have chanted and caroled and belted out such texts, not simply because they have believed that God has commanded such song, nor only because they have discovered in such song the heart of faithful praise in the lives of faithful saints. They have done so, most fundamentally, because they have heard the voice of Christ in such songs; they have done so because they have encountered the living God in such songs; and they have done so because they have been powerfully transformed by the Spirit of God through such songs. And much like Randall Goodgame has experienced firsthand, they have done so because they have been profoundly shaped by the words and ways of God, which we discover supremely in Holy Scripture, that living testament to the God who meets us in the face of Jesus Christ and by the power of his Holy Spirit. Two things in particular stand out to me about the Scripture Hymnal project: one is Randall Goodgame’s desire that Christians re-discover the joy of singing together the life-giving words of God, and the other is his hope that, in doing so, Christians will discover the beauty of being transformed by the life-giving words of God. And there are two images that help to guide us, as singers, in this work of corporate song.  The first is the image of a dog gnawing away at a bone. This is how Eugene Peterson describes the term “meditate” which we encounter all throughout the psalms. In Psalm 1:2, for instance, the righteous person is described as one who meditates  on the law, or torah, of the Lord. In Psalm 77:12, the psalmist ponders the work of the Lord and meditates on his mighty deeds. And all throughout Psalm 119, the psalmist meditates  on the Lord’s precepts and promises.  But as Peterson points out, the language of “meditate,” or in the Hebrew, hagah , must not be confused for the work of intellectual scrutiny or the activity of “wolfing down” information that so often characterizes our experiences of reading in our modern, technological age. The language of “meditate” describes instead the act of rumination, participation, immersion, leisurely deliberation. It is, in other words, what a dog does when he gnaws on an especially tasty bone. As Peterson remarks in Eat This Book : "There is a certain kind of writing that invites this kind of reading, soft purrs and low growls as we taste and savor, anticipate and take in the sweet and spicy, mouth-watering and soul-energizing morsel words—'O taste and see that the Lord is good!'" (Psalm 34:8). A dog chewing ( hagah ) on a bone, using teeth and tongue, in order to enjoy his bone, Peterson believes, is what the Bible has in mind when it uses the language of “meditate.” When we meditate on the words of God, we seek to savor it, to feel it, and, ultimately, to eat it, or to borrow from the Book of Common Prayer, to “inwardly digest” it. And this is what hymns like the kind we find here allow us to do in spades. We get to take upon our lips the tasty words of God and to taste them not just once in the act of congregational song, but at all times of the day and night, when we find ourselves recalling or relishing a particular timely word. The second image that helps to guide our unified song is the image of “dwelling richly,” which we find in Colossians 3:16. When Saint Paul encourages the saints at Colossae to let the “word of Christ” dwell richly in them, he has two things in mind. He wants Christ himself  to dwell richly in them and he wants the words that Christ speaks to dwell richly in them; and it is the latter which ought ultimately to lead to the former: from word to Word.  The operative metaphor here is one of “home.” Not only are we invited to let Christ make his home in our hearts, we are also invited to become ambulatory homes of Christ where the words of Christ might bear rich fruit in all of our lives—whether we are at home or at work, at play or at worship.  As Christ inhabits our lives more fully, we also become lodging places for others to encounter Christ himself. We become mobile shrines that take “the triune God out and about in the world,” conveying God’s blessings to others, as the Lutheran theologian John Kleinig vividly puts it. The more wholly Christ takes up residence in our hearts, then, the more fully we become like Christ himself and thus also a place where others might find themselves more fully at home with Christ. And, in the context of Colossians 3, such a work is performed gloriously, and uniquely, through the act of communal singing.  This, then, is the gift of Goodgame’s hymnbook. It offers to us a collection of hymns that allow us to savor the words of God in order that we might become more fully at home with the words of God, which, in turn, will usher us into the personal presence of God.  For example: We get to sink our teeth into the hopeful words of Job 19, with its promise of a Redeemer who stands sovereign over all powers of death. We get to taste deeply the lament of Psalm 3 and the gracious forgiveness of Psalm 51. We get to delight in the fact that two are indeed better than one, as Ecclesiastes 4:9 reminds us. And we get to drink deeply of the virtues of justice, mercy, and humility that ought to characterize all of God’s people, as Micah 6:8 articulates the matter.  We also get to savor the sacramental words of Jesus in John 6. We get to luxuriate in the sure Anchor for our soul, Christ himself, the High Priest of Hebrews 4, and in the intercessory work of the Spirit, as Romans 8 describes the third Person of the Trinity. And we get to find ourselves sated by the Lord’s Prayer of Matthew 6 and the eschatological promise of Revelation 15, with its vision of a Lamb who sits enthroned as the King of the nations. In Eugene Peterson’s translation of Psalm 19:10b, God’s Word is described in gustatory terms: as “better than strawberries in spring, better than red, ripe strawberries.” This is, it seems to me, a perfect metaphor for Goodgame’s hymnbook and a marvelous way to imagine what occurs when we encounter the sweet presence of God in the honey-flavored revelation of God. As we sing these hymns congregationally, then, may we find ourselves bursting with satisfaction as we savor the delectable words of God. May we find ourselves bound more deeply not only to the Word made Flesh but also to one another, through the very words of a word-speaking God, in ways that might astonish us afresh. And, finally, may we find ourselves caught up in something bigger than ourselves, namely, the joyful acclamation of angels and archangels, along with all the company of heaven, which sings the everlasting song of the One who meets and remakes us by his Spirit through the very act of corporate song here on earth. W. David O. Taylor  (ThD, Duke Divinity School) is associate professor of theology and culture at Fuller Theological Seminary. An Anglican priest, he has lectured widely on the arts, from Thailand to South Africa. Taylor has written for the Washington Post, Image Journal, and Religion News Service, among others. He is the author of several books, including Glimpses of the New Creation: Worship and the Formative Power of the Arts and Open and Unafraid: The Psalms as a Guide to Life. In 2016, he produced a short film on the psalms with Bono and Eugene Peterson. He lives in Austin, Texas.

by Randall Goodgame “Know ye what a hymn is? It is a song with praise of God.”  —Augustine of Hippo In the summer of 1984 , I hopped a few fences and walked along a sea wall to our pastor’s yard where “Brother Bill” taught me to throw his twelve-foot cast net into the canal. I remember his patience as I tangled the net around my skinny sixth-grade frame. I remember the taste of salt water and seaweed as I crunched the nylon rope between my teeth, and I remember his measured praise when I finally hauled in a few small bait fish. But I don’t remember any of his sermons.  I do, however, remember every word of “Because He Lives,” “Amazing Grace,” “Victory in Jesus,” “Great is Thy Faithfulness,” “Holy, Holy, Holy,” “How Great Thou Art,” “It Is Well with My Soul,” and “Leaning on the Everlasting Arms.” From youth group I remember “Great Is the Lord,” “He Has Made Me Glad,” “Seek Ye First,” and “Father, I Adore You.” And my college’s Methodist chapel taught me “Come Thou Fount,” “Rock of Ages,” and “Be Thou My Vision.” Because of my childhood pastor, I can toss a cast net into a pretty circle. But I know the Gospel because I remember the songs. Music helps people remember things. And music memories conjure much more than just information. Like “muscle memory,” music memories betray hidden workings of the human mind that we take for granted. Mysteriously, they can carry emotions and insight, scent and taste. In the time it takes to hear a melody, a whole world can flood our consciousness.  I wasn’t thinking so deeply when I first put scripture to music, however. The songs were simply problem solvers—helping our home-schooled kids memorize their weekly bible verses. But the practice helped me  remember them, too. I wrote more and more scripture songs for myself, and eventually recorded them for the families that participated in my children-and-family music ministry called Slugs & Bugs.  That’s when the stories started—stories from parents about scripture-inspired conversations with their children–in the car, at the dinner table, at bedtime. Often through tears of gratitude, parents spoke of God’s word becoming a constant, living, life-changing presence in their home. The power of singing scripture surprised them as it had surprised me, and I understood their passion.  What do we do with these lives that we’ve been given? What do we do with our dreams, our bodies, our children, our gifts? And why is this all so hard? By grace, God’s word sifts through these questions for us. The two testaments lift the curtain on the eternal realm and reveal the untouchable beauty of God. Through history, prophecy, and poetry, our own story diminishes into the bigger story of God’s creation, his holiness, his justice, and his passion for us. In the life and words of Jesus, through the testimony of the apostles, we learn that God’s love and mercy is available to everyone, and we learn how “he gave his life to free us from every kind of sin, to cleanse us and to make us his very own.” It’s all in the Bible. The words are thousands of years old, and we need them every hour. This is where those parents’ tears came from–a wellspring of gratitude for having gained familial intimacy with the immeasurably valuable word of God.   In the fall of 2021, I began to wonder, “What if this kind of revival—a revival of biblical literacy and spiritual growth through song–could happen in the church?”  By that time I had years of experience writing scripture songs, but a congregational scripture song is a bird of a different feather. Congregational songs require predictable rhythmic patterns and melodies that are simple enough to catch quickly–while still being interesting enough to inspire. And, they rhyme . Rhyming isn’t an option for scripture songs, so with only melody and rhythm to work with, a song could wind up as useful as a two-legged stool. Renowned twentieth-century hymnologist Erik Routley called hymns “songs for unmusical people to sing together,” but even unmusical people can tell a good song from a bad one.  Eventually, I felt called to create a hymnal of congregational scripture songs for the church. But like Eusebius, the early church historian, I felt “inadequate to do it justice.”  So I prayed for help–specifically for collaborative community–so that other voices could speak into the creative work of shaping bible verses into hymns. And truly, the Lord answered that prayer with blessings beyond measure, as the vision for the Scripture Hymnal  grew and became a wonderfully collective work. In all, twelve gifted songwriters joined the writing process—all devoted believers who love Jesus and the gospel. Other passionate souls worked on arrangements and copyright permissions and scripture readings and illustrations and book design. Dozens of churches from around the world participated in our pilot program, giving us crucial real-world feedback about using these hymns in worship services. And thirty-five worship leaders and pastors from Nashville and beyond contributed essential guidance and creative counsel on every song, eventually helping us shape 106 word-for-word scripture songs for the church. Those songs are now in your hands because of the effort, care, and enthusiasm of that earthly host—and I am so grateful.  Over the last few years, I’ve taken up flower gardening as a hobby. In my first attempt at growing perennials from seed, I almost lost two trays of creeping thyme. Under the grow-lamp in my garage, 144 seedlings sprang to life, then grew spindly and flopped flat–like a tangled spill of leftover rice noodles. In distress, I called my master-gardener friend, Julie. She surveyed my setup and told me not to worry. My tiny plants were thin and weak because the grow-light was too far away. Obediently, I lowered the light to just above the seedlings–and waited.  Three years later, the stone steps that lead down from the garage are girded in green with cascading clouds of creeping thyme–all from that first planting. The sight and scent are a delight, blanketing the descent into the garden with tiny pink blooms from June to September. People, like plants, need the right conditions to thrive. And as we grow in Christ, God’s word is our light, our food, and our weapon for battle against the enemy. We need it close, and when we sing scripture, it can get no closer. It joins our breath and vibrates inside our bodies with that mysterious engine of hidden powers: Music.  The truth found in scripture stays the same whether read or sung, but it’s the singing that often brings me to tears. It’s the singing that ignites my memory, creating a priceless storehouse of God’s holy word, always ready for the Spirit of the Lord to bring it to mind.  This is my hope and prayer for this hymnal–that, through song, God will weave his word into our minds and renew our hearts so that he might be glorified in the world. Like sunlight in the garden, God’s beautiful word makes us beautiful. We are set free to forget about ourselves–free to rest and rejoice in the wellspring of God’s love, energized by the compassion and wisdom of Jesus.  Music is a mysterious and powerful gift, given by the Great Mystery himself, and if scripture songs can help us dwell on him, grow in him, and bring him glory in the church, then “Come, let us sing unto the Lord!” Buy the Scripture Hymnal on the Rabbit Room store.

by Kate Gaston “What ho!" I said. "What ho!" said Motty. "What ho! What ho!" "What ho! What ho! What ho!" After that it seemed rather difficult to go on with the conversation.”  ― P.G. Wodehouse   It all started with a fish named Zeus. We bought Zeus for my daughter’s birthday. I only agreed to the decision, really, because a fish seemed like less work than a puppy. Plus, hearts get broken when furry creatures die. So, off we went to the pet store where we bought a fish, a tank, a tiny tiki hut, and a plastic palm tree. Zeus lived an adventurous life. This was largely by accident, a consequence of my forgetting to arrange fish-sitting services during our family vacations. There was also that time we went camping, and Zeus shared a corner of our tent. When we visited our nation’s capital, he enjoyed a lovely view of the Lincoln memorial from the windowsill of our room. Unperturbed, Zeus did what he always did, mostly chilling in his tiki hut. Time passed, and there came a day I noticed Zeus slanting ever so slightly to the right, his whole body tilting along an invisible axis. Over the next few weeks, he listed further starboard. It was swim bladder disease, the blight and bane of aquarium-dwelling fish everywhere. No longer able to regulate his buoyancy, Zeus took to bobbing listlessly near the surface of his tank. Thus began Zeus’s slow decline. Every morning, on my way to pour my first cup of coffee, I’d pass his tank. And every morning, he and I would play the game Is Zeus Dead Yet? The game would go a little something like this. He’d float motionless at the top of his tank. I’d stare down at him, trying to discern signs of life. Morning after morning, I’d lose the game, believing, surely, he was dead. But then he’d give the faintest flicker of a fin. This continued until the day Zeus finally lost the game.  A week or two before his demise, I watched Zeus attempt to swim down to his beloved tiki hut for the last time. With a heroic thrashing of fins and tail, he dove. He made it about halfway to the bottom of the tank before his strength deserted him. He stopped thrashing and went still. Straight away, his body bobbed upward, back up to the surface of the water. Watching this, a realization streaked across my brain. Good heavens, I thought, that’s it. That’s precisely what it feels like to be trapped in a boring conversation. You thrash and flail—working so hard to get to a place of conversational depth—but despite your heroics, you bob right back up to the surface. Shallow conversations. Like Zeus, they relentlessly float to the surface until they die. We’ve all been there. Those harrowing moments after the church service ends. The line for school pick-up. Waiting to use the microwave at work. There you are, existing in a particular moment, occupying a particular space. And someone else is occupying it with you. What’s your move? To speak will be awkward. To not speak will be more awkward. The seconds tick by, the awkwardness and the silence stretch, lengthen between you.   In those seconds, you reason, we’re both humans, surely we can stumble upon some common ground. So, you speak. To your embarrassment, you hear yourself asking, “Spaghetti for lunch today, huh?” Your co-worker glances at you and says, “Yeah.” And just like that, the conversation dies a quick, shameful death. Or perhaps you take another stab at it, asking, “How was your weekend?” Your co-worker glances at the microwave, figures he has 57 seconds remaining in this conversation, and answers with a short list of typical weekend activities. The timer dings, he walks away, and you wonder if that was as weird for him as it was for you. The answer is yes. It was weird to him. It was boring to you. No one had fun.  Before we proceed to creative solutions for the conundrum above, perhaps it would behoove us to spend a moment considering why, exactly, we should trouble ourselves with conversation in the first place. Conversation can be uncomfortable, draining, time-consuming. Why, then, should we do it?  In Charles Taylor’s book A Secular Age , he contrasts the mindset of primitive mankind with that of post-Enlightenment thinkers. The peasants working the field prior to the age of enlightened thinking would have believed themselves—their strengths, moods, and motivations—capable of being affected by forces outside of themselves. Taylor refers to this as a porousness of being, a free-flowing interchange between the outside world and man’s interior landscape.  The modern man, in contrast, might consider himself impervious to this exchange. He will, as Simon and Garfunkel sang so eloquently, be a rock, an island. He will consider himself insulated from the slings and arrows of life’s vagaries because he exists within his mind, self-contained, buffered. For this modern man, the idea of submitting himself to the inanities risked in conversation might seem ridiculous. On his island of self-sufficiency, how could small talk possibly benefit him?  To answer this, I’d like to offer a quote from Charles Duhigg’s recent book, Supercommunicators . In support of the powers of conversation and relationship, Duhigg references the Harvard Study of Adult Development. With 80 years of data, this multi-generational study is the longest-running study on the subject of human flourishing. The conclusion Duhigg presents is this:  “Social isolation, the researchers wrote, was more dangerous than diabetes and a host of other diseases. Put differently, connecting with others can make us healthier, happier, and more content. Conversation can change our brains, bodies, and how we experience the world.”  Call me unenlightened. Call me a peasant. But I’m convinced something akin to magic takes place between participants engaged in conversation. I believe—within the context of authentic, vulnerable conversation—we are changed in ways too mysterious to quantify. I don’t think I’m alone in believing this, either. It’s subtly reflected in the meta-modernist pendulum swing toward embracing informed naivete and the stance that connection, community, and story do, in fact, matter.  That’s all well and good. But the fact remains that small talk can really suck. How do we progress from the misery of mindless small talk to the place where magic happens? Here’s the truth. Small talk is never going away. But take heart. You’re not without agency.  Prepare yourself, then, for the weighty work of good conversation. Like a baker sprinkling flour over a countertop before attempting the sticky work of kneading dough, you must ready your conversational work surface with a flouring of small talk. Furthermore, you understand not all small talk is created equal. So, sidestep the dead-end questions. You know the ones: What do you do? Where are you from? Where do you live? These questions lead to conversational impasses because they don’t require your partner to consult their internal landscape for an answer. There’s no need for them to pause; nothing to mull over. Some great alternatives can be found in Duhigg’s book. Instead of asking, “Where do you work?” he suggests, “What’s your favorite thing about where you work?” In lieu of, “Where did you go to college?” ask, “What made you choose that college?” You’re still in shallow, safe territory with your partner, but you’ve asked about their choices, their decision-making, and their values. You’re edging closer to their heart. And the heart matters.  In order to make your conversation count, it’s actually imperative to engage your partner’s emotions. But bear with me here. This doesn’t mean you need to ask about their deepest childhood wounds or their biggest life regret. Questions like those require an emotional scuba suit. Don’t start there. Instead, ask the questions which require, at most, a cheap pair of goggles.  If we think of conversation as an ocean, then way down in the depths exist a person’s cultural upbringings, worldviews, and belief systems. These submerged infrastructures, like elaborate coral reefs, support entire microcosms of personhood. Whole fascinating arrays of life bloom forth from these underpinnings. Perhaps, with time and trust, you’ll be privileged to learn of these structures. But in the meantime, just below the surface of the conversational waters, there’s much to learn of a person. Take, for example, your neighbor’s choice of footwear. A whole series of life decisions led up to her purchasing that pair of yellow Crocs. Ask how she got to that place, and what makes her happy about the color. Ask how the arch support is treating her, and whether she’d recommend the shoes for everyday wear. You might consider asking someone else about favorite books they’ve read, or poems they’ve written. Ask about the dogs they’ve loved. Ask their opinion about adults who rollerblade. Ask about the dreams they’ve nurtured, the dreams they’ve repressed. Ask about the tattoo they’d get. Or the tattoo they’d never get. Or the tattoo they got but wish they hadn’t. All the passions and hates and apathy and regrets and rejoicing—all the myriad pinings of the human heart—are all down there, darting about, flashing in the sun one moment, obscured in the dim subconscious the next. Emotions are the gateway to knowing and being known. Every single conversation will contain, at some point, an emotional entryway. Listen for it. Watch for it, too. Emotions will be reflected in facial expressions and body language. A word of warning, though. Notice the body language, but don’t assume you know how to interpret it. Things tend to go badly when we start assuming things. Even if you think you already know the answer, go ahead, ask the question. The whole point is to create opportunities for your partner to share what they’re feeling. They can’t do that if you bypass the question. The magic of conversation is not in the simple transmission of information from one person to another. The magic is in the mutual vulnerability taking place between the two of you. And this vulnerability, this alignment, can only be arrived at by the sharing of emotions. Above, I mentioned a key component to having conversations, and it’s worth repeating. For the love of all things holy, listen. Listen. And once you’ve listened, show you’ve been listening. How does one show they’ve been listening? The first step is easy. Ask more questions. By asking more questions, you create space for your partner to clarify herself further, which allows for more entry points into vulnerability. The next step—and the strongest method to communicate active listening—is to repeat back, in your own words, what your partner just said. By summarizing what you’ve heard, you’re showing you’re putting in the work to comprehend your partner’s full meaning. Then, after you’ve summarized, ask if you got it right. If you didn’t get it right, you begin the whole process again, starting with more questions.   Let’s say you’ve dipped your toe into the water; you’ve asked a question that begins to tease out someone’s feelings or experiences. What happens if that person actually shares something vulnerable with you? Let’s return to our co-worker in the office lunchroom. He’s got 57 seconds before his spaghetti is finished in the microwave. So you ask, “What was your highlight from the weekend?” Notice he can no longer simply recite his weekend itinerary. Now, he must mull over his feelings about his various activities. After a moment’s thought, he replies, “My highlight? I got to see my kid score her first goal in a soccer game.”  At this moment, you’re at a crossroads. You could say, “Cool.”  Or you could say, “I played soccer once.” You could even ask, “Did they win?” But what do all these responses have in common? They are all dead ends. What’s at the heart of your co-worker’s response? Here’s a hint: it’s not soccer. Even if his kid lost 17-1, he’d still feel the pride of a father who’s watched his little girl score her first goal. It’s that emotion, all warm and fuzzy, which is at the heart of his answer. It’s the entryway into a deeper relationship. But to walk through it, you must now reciprocate something authentic. In order to reciprocate, you don’t have to match his story by telling him about that time you won your tee-ball game. Instead, attempt to match the timbre of vulnerability he’s just offered you. Identify the emotion humming from him, and, to the best of your ability, match pitch with it. When you find and hold resonance in the space between you, that’s where the magic happens. This same principle holds for any emotion, not just the warm, fuzzy ones. Got a friend who has a big decision to make? Match her intensity to show her you’re in it with her. If you find yourself in conversation with someone who is suffering, you don’t need to whip out sage advice or trite consolation. Often, it is enough to match their emotional pitch, and to reciprocate simply by saying, “It makes me sad to see you suffer. Tell me more about what you’re feeling.” C.S. Lewis, in his book Weight of Glory, wrote, “T here are no ordinary people.   You have never talked to a mere mortal …it is immortals whom we joke with, work with, marry, snub, and exploit - immortal horrors or everlasting splendors.” And herein lies the mind-boggling truth we must embrace when having conversations with humans. All the weird hobbies, all the passions and dislikes, all the footwear choices—all these glorious wonders—exist within every single person you ever met. Yes, even that  person. Of course, not all of the conversational fish are willing to be caught. Some are more wary than others and more cautious. Maybe some remember being caught in the past, bearing the trauma like a fish hook through the lip. Or perhaps you’re the one who’s nervous about going deep with someone. It can be scary. Why? Because sometimes there are sharks down there, circling, predatorial.  Contrary to what Shark Week  would have us believe, however, sharks make up a relatively small percentage of fish in the sea. If there happen to be sharks in the conversational water you find yourself swimming in, my advice would be this: don’t bleed for them. You aren’t required to ooze your deepest, darkest vulnerability into every conversation. There’s such a thing as the right time, the right place, and the right person. You can identify the right person by their willingness to keep their conversational sharks at bay. Or, at the very least, they will recognize when they’ve torn a chunk out of your vulnerable bits and apologize. All that to say don’t let the possibility of sharks prevent you from wading a little deeper into the water.  Does it take a tremendous amount of emotional energy to carry a conversation to a place of depth? Yes, it does. But unless you’re willing to edge into those deeper waters together, a relationship will never move beyond acquaintanceship. Unless you’re willing to meet each other in conversation with authenticity and curiosity—yes, vulnerability—it doesn’t matter how much you struggle to swim down. You’ll bob right back up to the conversational shallows. You’ll miss out on that humming resonance of souls being reforged into something lovely by the effort. The God we worship isn’t given to random coincidence. Chances are, if you find yourself in a particular time, a particular place, with a particular person, there’s a deeper story being written. Look for the plotline. Maybe you’ll see it, maybe you won’t. Either way, bear in mind that each person you encounter in conversation bears the nobility of God’s closest attention. He’s numbered the hairs on their head, just as he’s numbered yours. He’s orchestrated the days of their lives, just as he’s done for you. Each person you meet, with faint immortal echoes, reflects the multi-faceted glory of God. It’s his image in which they’ve been made, after all. Edge deeper into those waters of conversation, then, because it’s only there that you’ll encounter the hard, holy work into which you’ve been invited. An Alabama native, Kate was homeschooled before it was even remotely considered normal. She completed her undergraduate degree at Bryan College and went on to graduate school at the University of Alabama at Birmingham. For eight years, Kate worked as a PA in a trauma and burn ICU before ping-ponging across the nation for her husband’s medical training. She and her family are currently putting down roots in Nashville, Tennessee. Today, Kate enjoys homeschooling her daughter and tutoring in her local classical homeschool community. She also finds deep satisfaction in long, meandering conversations at coffee shops, oil painting, writing, and gazing pensively into the middle distance. You can read more of her work at her Substack: That Middle Distance .

by Ned Bustard I don’t sport anymore, and I also don’t watch other people sport. Though the world became obsessed with the olympics this summer, I am happy to carve my little blockprints, walk downtown to my local indie bookstore, and drink sweet tea.  Yet . . . volleyball.  Somehow, I love watching volleyball. I was watching volleyball the other day with my daughter Elspeth and was surprised to see that in the middle of a sea of blue uniforms, there was a red shirt on the USA men’s volleyball team. Of course, my first thought was that he would die first in this episode. Then, I remembered that this was the Olympics, not an episode of  Star Trek.  Perhaps the fellow forgot his blue shirt back at the Olympic Village. But, no, that can’t be. This sport thing is too important to the world and to companies marketing their goods to allow one of our sporty youths to wear the wrong shirt. Elspeth then looked it up for me on the interwebs and said it was the “libero.” This information did not help me much, so I texted my volleyball-star nephew, and he explained to me: “The libero, sometimes called the defensive specialist, is a player who plays exclusively in the back row of the court. Using specific substitutions, the libero will switch out with the middles when they get to the back row. They are not allowed to hit in front of the 10-foot line and are usually a shorter player to give them a passing advantage.” Wow, that is a lot to have to say. Instead of saying all that, I suppose they just get the fellow to wear a red shirt. The red shirt was a symbol. I like symbols. This is obvious by even the quickest flip through the pages of Every Moment Holy . Odd and anachronistic things keep popping up in my art: dolphins with anchors, square halos, phoenixes, chalices with bread, butterflies, and bleeding pelicans.  Many will be familiar with symbols used to identify teachings of the Christian faith (the cross, the Lamb of God, and the ichthys), but in my art I also reach for some deeper cuts. At one Hutchmoot years ago I was milling about the Artist’s Row and overheard some ladies wishing that I could just stand next to them and explain all of the symbols in my linocuts. I chose not to interrupt them, but here, for you, I will share my secret decoder ring—or at least some parts of it. If you’d like to see me go into greater detail about the meaning to a host of symbols in Every Moment Holy , I’ve recorded a lecture on that topic for Housemoot 2024 . Buy a ticket, invite your community to your house for a gathering, and dive in.  At the end of each volume of Every Moment Holy,  Doug McKelvey, the author, writes an epic liturgy in praise of Christ. My practice has been to sift through the lines of his beautiful poetry in search of visuals to use for illustrations, to join with them symbols from the history of church art, and then add in other elements that seem to fit thematically or compositionally.  A Liturgy of Praise to the King of Creation In ”A Liturgy of Praise to the King of Creation” Jesus has an unusual halo—a swirl of electrons. This is a reference to Colossians 1:16, “And he is before all things, and in him all things hold together.” All things—even atoms.  This liturgy is overflowing with beautiful imagery, so it was more a matter of what not  to include from the text than struggling to figure out what to include. Below the stars of the Southern Cross are elements to illustrate “You are The King of Sunlight and Storms” while opposite that are symbols that sync with “Ruler of the Grassy Plains” and “the Lord of the Harvest . . . The Grain King.”  Above that is a dolphin with an anchor, a symbol that often appears in Every Moment Holy . Christ is staring at this symbol in particular. This is a symbol for his Bride, the Church, and was often found on graves in Christian catacombs until the third century. The dolphin (Aristotle called them “fishes,” so a large ICTHYS, often said to save drowning sailors in ancient folk tales) winding itself around an anchor points to Christians putting all of their hope in Christ—”We have this as a sure and steadfast anchor of the soul” (Hebrews 6:19). “You are The Monarch of Meadows” is symbolized in a butterfly (a common symbol for a regenerated soul in that it starts out a sinful worm, dies in a cocoon, and emerges as a new creation) and the liturgy’s declaration that Jesus is “King of the Walruses” is represented by, of course, a walrus. The reader prays, “You are the King of the Rabbits, . . . The River God, The Swamp King, King of Glades,” so a rabbit and a turtle appear in the lower corner, chosen both to represent the text and allude to the famous Aesop’s’ Fable, just for fun. The chalice and loaf of bread in the lower right of the linocut print point to the Eucharist and the lines, “You are  . . . The God of Mercy, The God of Redemption. You are The Lord of Love.” At the feet of Christ are two small plants lifted from their spots at the foot of Jesus in my New Creation  print: a shamrock—reminding us that God is three in one—and a tulip, reminding us of the sovereign, unrelenting love of Christ that insures, as the liturgy ends: “There is no corner of creation you will fail to redeem.”  A Liturgy of Praise to Christ Who Conquered Death In Volume II of Every Moment Holy ends with “A Liturgy of Praise to Christ Who Conquered Death.” Jesus is pictured with a triangular halo (as a member of the Trinity) and armed for battle with an armor-clad arm and a mighty sword. Behind him is a great mountain, spoken of by the prophet: “On this mountain, he will destroy the shroud that enfolds all peoples, the sheet that covers all nations; he will swallow up death forever. The Sovereign Lord will wipe away the tears from all faces . . . In that day they will say, ‘Surely this is our God; we trusted in him, and he saved us. This is the Lord, we trusted in him; let us rejoice and be glad in his salvation.’” (Isaiah 25:7–8a, 9).  Opposite the mountain is the Tree of Life, encircled by a phoenix. The twelve pieces of fruit on the Tree symbolize spiritual authority (twelve tribes, twelve apostles, Jacob had twelve sons, God ordered that twelve loaves of unleavened bread be present in the temple each week, etc.), and the phoenix symbolizes Christ and the resurrection (in mythology a phoenix is alive, dies, and then is reborn).  On the left, Jonah is resurrected from the belly of the great fish (Matthew 12:38–41). Below the fish is the cruel kingdom of death with the great gates of Hell broken and hanging askew, or as this liturgy says, “The door that led to death has been remade by Christ into the door that opens into everlasting life.”  The liturgy also boldly proclaims: “All sorrows we endure for now are but the rattling gasp that signals death’s defeat. Christ’s heel is planted on death’s neck. Death cannot breathe. And this space in which we grieve is but the long exhale of death’s last expiring breath. This age of passing sorrows is but the long death rattle of death itself. The outcome bears no hint of doubt. The work is done. The victory is won.” Therefore, Jesus stands with one foot on the ribcage of Death, his scythe broken, and with his other foot, he crushes the head of the Serpent.  The last image in the illustration is a ram encircled with thorns, a nod to the life that came from the ram caught in the thicket in Genesis and the crown of thorns Christ was crowned with for us on the cross. A Liturgy of Praise to Christ Who Labors Through His People “O Christ, Exalted Prince of Heaven, O Christ, Radiant King of Earth, Your glories are everlasting. You are the living head of your body, the divine bridegroom of your church.” And so begins “A Liturgy of Praise to Christ Who Labors Through His People” in volume III of Every Moment Holy . Joining Christ in this linocut illustration is the Bride, the Church of Jesus. Jesus feeds his bride from a plate of five loaves and two fish—a miracle made from the good works the faithful have given up to him, good works he planned for them to do from before the beginning of time.  Jesus wears a cruciform-filled round halo and his bride is crowned by a double halo—a circle and a square, for she exists both in and outside of time. In Christian art, the round halo is reserved for angels and for dead saints, while the square halo identified a living person presumed to be a saint. The shovel in the hand of the Church represents the work of God’s people in general while at her feet are symbols for the work of God’s people more specifically. They include an abacus (mathematics), a magnifying glass (sciences), a hoe (agriculture), a sword (military), a guitar (music), a caduceus (medicine), a box (shipping/warehousing), an apple (education), books (writing/scholarship), a pencil (art), and scales (justice/politics). Twelve bees work industriously and the Holy Spirit carries their home, a hive full of honey (the Scriptures).  The flowers at the bottom of the illustration burst forth in truth and grace, while above it, we see the words “ora et labora” (that is, “pray and work,” the traditional slogan of the Benedictines) proclaimed on a banner flapping in the breeze. Hopefully focusing on these three pieces from the three volumes of Every Moment Holy  will be a help when you try to read into the layers of meaning woven through the linocut prints in these books. And the video that I made for Housemoot 2024  will give you even more insight. But try not to get too wrapped up in decoding every element. Enjoy the whole piece of art as a piece of art. And I will try not to figure out everything about the red shirts in volleyball, but instead, just revel in watching the game. If you want to learn more about the symbolism in Every Moment Holy, watch the lecture Ned created for Housemoot 2024 .

by Chloe Wilcox After visiting Hutchmoot in person in Tennessee, I wanted nothing more than to bring all my friends with me to experience the joy of that gathering, but, given how challenging it can be to get a ticket to Hutchmoot, that may not ever happen. On the other hand, there is always more room for someone to host a Housemoot in their own home with many of the same Hutchmoot speakers. Hosting Housemoot is a rich, joyful “second best” that really isn’t much of a “second” because it is just so good. This will be my fifth year hosting a virtual Rabbity conference at home, and I've developed rhythms and systems that work well for my space and the beautiful group of people excited to join me each year.  I like inviting people to my home rather than trying to find a larger venue. We're comfy and relaxed here, and while it's a small house, it feels a bit hobbity in a way that makes people feel comfortable kicking off their shoes, curling up in an armchair, and making themselves at home. My husband and I haul our big T.V. up from the basement to stream the sessions. I typically have anywhere between five and twelve friends joining me, coming and going through the weekend. When I start planning, I send out a Google doc with all the sessions listed, and ask friends to mark the top three they want to watch. I've realized that planning a full schedule that runs from Friday to Sunday evening works best for my people. However, not everyone is able to come for all of it, so if there is a session that someone really wants to see, we prioritize that talk for when they're able to be here. I type up the proposed schedule and tape it on the wall, and I tell people that my job is just to be the keeper of the schedule so that they have a measure of predictability, but if they need to go for a walk or hide in the library to get some introvert time, they are completely welcome to do so. I try to remind people of something I heard at Hutchmoot: “We have a schedule, but we don’t necessarily have a schedule for you.” I have learned to schedule plenty of “white space” for our weekend. I keep space of at least a half hour between talks to allow time for discussion to grow naturally. By keeping some breathing room in the schedule, I allowed for both predictability and spontaneity. And even though meals are just in the next room and nobody needs to go very far, I like to allow at least an hour and a half for eating. Again, the conversations are usually so good that we want plenty of time for that to happen!   I love that the Rabbit Room provides wonderful recipes, but I want to enjoy the 'Moot as well and not spend too much of my time cooking for people, so we do guided potlucks through the weekend. This has worked really well for years, and we have had some wonderful meals that are easy for each individual to adapt to their needs, whether allergies or dietary preferences, like a low-carb or vegetarian diet. There are always snacks on the table—I start it with some good chocolate and mandarin oranges, then friends usually add cheese, crackers, nuts, and all sorts of lovely things. We typically eat all weekend while watching or discussing the different sessions. I keep ice water, carafes of coffee and hot water, and tea bags out at all times. My husband makes sure there is always coffee! I've also learned that, if I keep art supplies on our kitchen table, friends will write quotes or illustrate something they heard about and I can tape them up on the wall next to the schedule as a growing collage of our weekend. I told my friends that my piano was our personal art gallery, and to please bring their work so that we can see it and enjoy the talent within the group.  As the years have gone on, I've realized that we really, really like keeping Friday and Saturday evenings for "concerts." I’m choosing to save all of the Artistic Interludes for those times. I have found it is a lovely way to end the day because our brains are full and tired and we just needed to be cared for by the beauty of good music.   Having a virtual Moot to share has been a joyful, soul-nourishing way for me to love the people around me. Some previous attendees started asking months ago for the dates for this year’s Moot, so that they could plan well and make sure they could attend the whole thing! It’s becoming a cherished yearly gathering for our little community.

by Karissa Riffel There have been few times in my life when beauty brought me to tears. Once, I was standing on the edge of a cliff on the Isle of Skye, Scotland, looking out over the ocean at Kilt Rock as the gilded sun lit the black volcanic stone and waterfall through the mist. The ocean churned far below in a shimmering expanse of silver and gold. I drank in the sight through watery eyes. Such majesty made me feel miniscule. When you can access most of civilization’s accumulated knowledge through a hunk of metal and glass the size of your palm, it’s easy to forget how small you actually are. The other time was a few days later in Edinburgh, Scotland, a winding, medieval city with layers of history. We attended church on a Sunday morning at St. Giles Cathedral, right along the famous—if a bit touristy—Royal Mile. The building was a feat of architecture, but what I really remember is the singing. A procession of robed choir members trailed down the center aisle, their voices resonating around us from all sides. The experience felt transcendent. Again, I felt small, which was oddly comforting in its own way. I remember thinking, Now, this  is church . Not that other churches conduct their services incorrectly. My own Midwestern Protestant church service is very different than the one at St. Giles. But I thought this was the way one ought to feel in church: enamored by beauty, humbled by the majesty of God.             The Physical World Matters “It’s only your heart that counts,” people often say. This world is not my home, I’m just a-passin’ through , the folk song goes. This fallacy has permeated contemporary Christian culture to the point that we eschew everything in the world, preferring a dangerous, Gnostic ideology that leads us to pursue secret, spiritual knowledge as the only reality—an idea that is closer to Buddhism than the Bible.   However, God did  give us beauty in the physical world. Romans tells us that God has revealed himself to us in creation: “For his invisible attributes, namely, his eternal power and divine nature, have been clearly perceived, ever since the creation of the world,  in the things that have been made . So they are without excuse” (italics mine). [1] God could have made the universe purely utilitarian, but instead, he made it pleasing to the senses: He made apples sweet, water refreshingly cool, flowers colorful, babies cuddly. This also tells us that, along with goodness and truth, beauty exists necessarily; it is not a subjective human experience, but an objective reality created by God. In her book, This Beautiful Truth,  Sarah Clarkson writes about living with a debilitating mental illness and how God showed himself to her through the beauty of His creation. At first, she sought Truth through the study of theology, hoping for answers in books and intellectual thought, but she came up short. Then, she experienced the goodness of God through the community of others around a sumptuous feast: “God, I finally realized, is not a thought I must think, or a proposition I must know. God is the Lover and Maker, the Friend and Creator, and he makes himself known in the tastable, touchable wonder of his world.” [2]  Jesus himself came as a human in a physical body. Not only did he experience the life of a human, he also suffered and died like one. When he resurrected on the third day, he took special care to make sure the those people he appeared to knew that his body was physical. Although he appeared to his disciples, seemingly impossibly, in a locked room, he had Thomas touch his wounds. Scripture tells us that, as Christians, our own bodies will be transformed into glorified bodies. When the kingdom comes, there will be, not only a new heaven but a new earth.   The physical world is not a prison, a skin we shed when we go to heaven; the earth will be glorified, brought into its true fullness with the consummation of the kingdom of God. The most magnificent waterfall and the most colorful sunset are only dim reflections of the coming glory. Beauty Reminds Us Who God Is So often in the Protestant tradition, Christians tend to approach God with an ease that borders on irreverence. We attend church in buildings that resemble warehouses, wear t-shirts and ripped jeans to Sunday service, and reduce God to something we take alongside our beverages ( All I need is Jesus and coffee! ). We focus on this idea of Jesus being our friend—not untrue, but think about its staggering meaning when one comprehends the greatness of God: that the  creator of the universe  is your friend . Out of the formless void, God spoke life into existence; he took chaos and gave it order. Not only did God breathe the world into being, he sustains it day by day. G.K. Chesterton compares the monotony of nature to the repetition engaged in by children. My daughter is still an infant, but no matter how many times I make a silly cross-eyed face at her, she laughs every time. If she could talk, I imagine she would say “Do it again!” just like the child Chesterton writes about. He says, "For grown-up people are not strong enough to exult in monotony. But perhaps God is strong enough to exult in monotony. It is possible that God says every morning, ‘Do it again’ to the sun; and every evening, ‘Do it again’ to the moon. It may not be automatic necessity that makes all daisies alike; it may be that God makes every daisy separately, but has never got tired of making them. It may be that He has the eternal appetite of infancy; for we have sinned and grown old, and our Father is younger than we. [3] James B. Jordan makes an argument that the features of creation are not incidental. God does not use wind as an image of his Spirit; rather he created wind so that he could image his Spirit for us.  The sun is Jesus and the new covenant; the sea is the Gentiles; mountains the nation of Israel. The entire world is God’s revelation to us. [4] Beauty reminds us who God is: all-powerful and yet immanent in our lives and in His world. Let us approach Him with awe and reverence, this God who molded the heavens and makes daisies grow.  Beauty Gives Us a Calling The entire second half of Exodus is spent on the tabernacle. God details special instructions to the Israelites on how to build it, right down to the gold moldings on the lampstands and the construction of the curtains. The finest artisans were charged with carrying out these instructions; both men and women of skill contributed: “every craftsman in whose mind the Lord had put skill, everyone whose heart stirred him up to come to do the work. God actually filled a man with His Spirit: “with ability and intelligence, with knowledge and all craftsmanship, to devise artistic designs.”[1] The details about the Tabernacle in Exodus also point us back to creation. God gives seven speeches, followed by Moses blessing the Tabernacle. In the seventh speech, God commands his people to keep the sabbath, reminiscent of God resting on the seventh day of creation.   This tells us that God not only cares about beauty, but he also wants us to create it. He purposefully imbued artistic ability in His people so that they could build the Tabernacle. We are image-bearers and thus also “sub-creators,” as Tolkien calls us.[5] We create, but only with what God has already made. This means that whether we paint, write, build, or sing, we are imaging God’s creative nature.  In the Septuagint, the Greek translation of the Old Testament, the word for “create” in Genesis 1:1 is poieo  (pronounced “poy-eh-o”) where we get the English word poetry . This term bears the connotation of healing. As image-bearers of God, when we create, we bring about healing in the world—which, of course, is merely a shadow of the ultimate healing God will bring with His kingdom. Human-made beauty like I experienced in the music and architecture at St. Giles Cathedral serves as a reminder of this identity.  Beauty Gives Us a Longing Beauty makes us long for heaven and the consummation of the kingdom of God. Like the princess Psyche in C.S. Lewis’s retelling of “Cupid and Psyche,” we long “to reach the Mountain, to find the place where all the beauty came from…” Psyche tells her sister that place is “my country, the place where I ought to have been born…All my life the god of the Mountain has been wooing me.” [6] I write this as I sit by a cool, clear lake in Canada, surrounded by the sound of gently lapping waves. Pastel pink, blue, and violet are smeared across the sky like paint and reflect in the rippling water. The birds’ calls echo through the trees like a choir. And I cannot think of any better argument for the importance of beauty than this moment. The God of the universe has been wooing us, and indeed he is doing so still. [1] Holy Bible: English Standard Version. Wheaton, IL: Crossway Bibles, 2001. Romans 1:20; Exodus 31:1–5; 36:2 [2] Clarkson, Sarah. This Beautiful Truth: How God’s Goodness Breaks into Our Darkness . Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Books, a division of Baker Publishing Group, 2021. 71–74  [3] Chesterton, G.K. “The Ethics of Elfland.” Gilbert Keith Chesterton: Orthodoxy. Accessed August 9, 2023. https://www.ccel.org/ccel/chesterton/orthodoxy.vii.html . [4] Jordan, James B. Through New Eyes. Brentwood, Tennessee:   Wolgemuth & Hyatt, Publishers, Inc., 1988.  [5] Tolkien, J.R.R. “On Fairy-Stories.” ILAS 2350 - University of Houston. Accessed August 9, 2023. https://uh.edu/fdis/_taylor-dev/readings/tolkien.html . [6] Lewis, C. S. Till We Have Faces: A Myth Retold. London: William Collins, 2020. Karissa Riffel is a wife, mom, and English teacher. Her short fiction has appeared in various literary magazines and in an anthology by Nightshade Publishing. Her nonfiction is forthcoming by the Anselm Society and CiRCE Press. She is co-host of the podcast Lit Ladies, and she writes about art and faith on her Substack Midnight Ink.

This article is by Lanier Ivester, author of Glad and Golden Hours: A Companion for Advent and Christmastide , available today from Rabbit Room Press. by Lanier A. Ivester In setting out to write a book, it is important to acknowledge who you are writing it for. This book is not for the polished or the elite, the people who have it all or who have it all together. It is not for social media influencers seeking inspiration to curate little squares of perfection on the internet, or for those seeking to impress other people with their cooking or decorating or craft-making or gift-giving. It is, however, for the dear souls mentioned in Edmund Hamilton Sears’s verse, people crushed by life, toiling along under heavy burdens, desperate for a place of rest. It is for those who long to be re-enchanted by the very old, very true, very beautiful story of Christmas. It is for someone who might never have experienced a truly sacramental holiday in their own homes—and by sacramental, I mean quite simply a holiday which articulates unseen realities in practical, tangible ways. It is for the weary, the homesick, the wistful, and the countercultural. It is, above all, for the childlike, for it is only to such hearts that the greatest mysteries are unveiled. I remember the first time I encountered Sears’s lyric. I was playing Christmas carols on the piano in my childhood home when the words fairly leapt off the page. I stopped playing and read them again. Then I typed them up on the computer in a large font, printed them out, and taped them to the refrigerator where everyone in the family could see them every day. I thought the words were beautiful, but something told me that the experience they pointed to was lovelier still. At seventeen years old, I confess that my sensibilities engaged more readily with the promise of those “glad and golden hours” than with any Dantean fellowship of suffering souls in their purgatorial climb. But I loved the idea of Christmas being more than a holiday. It was a resting place . At the same time, I saw so many unhappy attitudes about Christmas in the world around me—from the jaded ennui of my peers to the haggard exhaustion of adults (mostly women), and I longed to remind the whole world that Christmas was still and always would be an absolute miracle. It was worth all the fuss and bother, the messes and the memories; it was, as Washington Irving had said, “king of the year,” for the King of creation had dignified the human race with his presence in our midst. No earthly shadow should diminish the glory of what those angels were singing about in the Bethlehem sky, and no amount of effort was too great for so grand a cause.   But I wasn’t the one doing all (or even most of) the work to bring this glory down into the practical experience of the people I loved best. That lot fell to my mother, and, as much as she treasured it, sometimes it made her tired. Sometimes, it even made her a little exasperated, like on Christmas Eve when my sister and I generated yet another unplanned mess in the kitchen, or an unexpected guest dropped in with an unexpected present, which sent Mama scurrying for the gift stash in the back of her closet for some suitable offering in exchange. There was the year that our pipes froze and then burst on Christmas morning, and the year that the goose she had been basting all day long with brandy and apricot glaze turned out to be full of shot and therefore inedible. There were Christmases spent on the phone with the doctor when my sister was too sick to get out of bed, and there were years in which Mama was stretched so thin with homeschooling three children that the holidays must have felt less like twelve days of merriment and more like the Twelve Labors of Hercules. Nevertheless, Christmas in our house was a magical respite from the rest of the year; a time in which time itself seemed to bend to the greater laws of divine and familial affection. Looking back, I know it cost my mother considerable effort, enormous intention, and great love. But I hailed those glad and golden hours in my heart because they had always been just that. Mama had seen to it. I remember standing in the kitchen one Christmas with one of Mama’s friends. It was a different year, but still, the Sears lyric was taped to the fridge—a bit dog-eared from being removed and replaced over successive holidays. She paused to read it, and then she laughed. “Wouldn’t that be nice,” she said with a shake of her head. “But who has time to rest  this time of year?” Her words, and the tone in which they were spoken, made me feel self-conscious and green. What did I, an idealistic teenager, know of real weariness, or even of real rest, for that matter? People were tired, and sometimes the holidays were just really hard. Not everyone had grown up in a home where the good times far outweighed the bad times, and some people had reason to distrust some of the sentiment and excesses of Christmas. Nevertheless, something in me silently pushed back. I knew that Christmas did not have to be a desperate round of commitments and tasks. I knew that even the humblest experiences could be shot through with eternal radiance and that there had to be some middle ground between “too much” and “not enough,” some lovely, overlooked via media  that could cut through the thickets of overdoing and overwhelm (and overeating and overspending!) with which a modern holiday has come to be associated. There was more going on here than childhood memories and food nostalgia, more even than the simple acknowledgment of Christ’s birth. In celebrating Christmas, we were not just remembering; we were reliving  the fact that God had become one of us. Later, as I started to tease out some of these intimations in my own home, I began to understand just how tricky it could be to create a meaningful holiday without losing sight of what it was all about. Christmas was a resting place, but it was one that must be cared for and cultivated. Preparations were important, particularly if I wanted to give my people a thoughtful taste of a coming kingdom that was already in our midst, but those preparations would always have to give way to the people themselves, not the other way around. Furthermore, even the most sacramentally intentional Christmas could be a lot of work, a sort of practical liturgy of generosity, hospitality, attention, and love, and sometimes I would get tired. Sometimes I would lose my bearings, or my way, or my temper, or my peace, and need to be shepherded back to my soul’s rest. And always, I would need the sweet simplicity of Christ. For over two decades, I have grappled joyously with these tensions because I believe that there is gold at their heart. I believe that it is not only possible, but crucial, to steward these set-apart days in a way that makes space for mystery and wonder amid the rituals and traditions of our lives. And I believe that ritual and tradition are always the servants of relationship, with God and with other people. Without relationship, even the most exquisite holiday is about as lovely as a child banging a pot with a stick. And so, if you are tired, or disillusioned, or curious about shaping a holiday season that makes present the astonishing fact of God-with-us, then I would like you to consider this book my gift to you. It’s not a manual or a how-to, or a glorified to-do list, but a companion, in the neighborliest sense of the word. Whether you choose to read this book, this story, simply to enter into its twists and turns, its hopes and sorrows, its people and its places, or whether you elect to participate in it yourself via its many recipes, crafts, and holiday suggestions, my prayer is that you will find a friend in these pages and that the ideas and activities with which these reflections are threaded will be like small domestic liturgies, tangible acts that integrate what we believe with what we do. You might try only a single recipe or craft each week, or even each year; you are welcome to pick and choose, selecting only that which suits your needs and desires. For the meals and menus and ideas in these pages, even the suggestions themselves, are merely that: suggestions to help you contemplate your own holiday with creativity and significance.  It is, above all, an invitation, regardless of your age, marital status, or living situation, to experience Christmas as a place of rest—not in spite of, but in the very midst of the merriment of these glad and golden hours. His glory is already breaking over the rim of the world, my friends. Let us turn eastward—with the devotion of our hearts and the work of our hands—and watch for the steady rise of our great Daystar. Lanier Ivester is a homemaker and writer in the beautiful state of Georgia, where she maintains a small farm with her husband, Philip, and an ever-expanding menagerie of cats, dogs, sheep, goats, chickens, ducks, and peacocks. She studied English Literature at the University of Oxford, and her special area of interest is the sacramental nature of everyday life. For over a decade she has kept a web journal at lanierivester.com , and her work has also been featured in The Rabbit Room, Art House America, The Gospel Coalition, and The Cultivating Project, among others. She has lectured across the country on topics ranging from the meaning of home to the integration of faith and reason, and in both her writing and her speaking she seeks to honor the holy longings of a homesick world. She is also the author of Glad and Golden Hours from Rabbit Room Press.

by Noah Guthrie Our tuxedo cat, Gretl, has many quirks. She still suckles her fur at the age of seven, stretches herself across the stairs right as you go down, and casually walks away from you after meowing for attention. She also enjoys Christmas hymns. When the winter holidays come and my family sings around a wreath of pink and purple Advent candles, Gretl will often pad toward us to listen. She’ll flick her black, white-tipped tail as though it were a needle weaving our voices together. This habit of Gretl’s may be one of the reasons my younger sisters sometimes gush, “She’s a Christian cat!” Their words are playful, but they suggest a serious question. What does Christ mean for non-human creatures? If we’re to go a step further, we may also wonder: how does the Bible shape our understanding of the more-than-human world as a whole, with its soils, waters, and interlocking landscapes? Like many of those involved with the Rabbit Room, I’m a creative writer, and I also work for a faith-based environmental nonprofit called A Rocha USA . Whatever the Bible says about nature, I believe it impacts both aspects of my work: art and conservation. In light of that, my hope for this post is to offer an overview of the biblical basis for environmental advocacy, starting with creation, progressing to the Israelite land ethic, then concluding with the cosmic scope of Jesus’ salvation. Creation and its Caretakers Luckily, we don’t have to go far in the Bible to figure out God’s views on nature. At the very start of the Torah, we find that nature is God’s creation (Gen. 1:1), that it’s diverse and overflowing with life (Gen. 1:21, 1:25), and that it’s good, good, good, and very good (Gen. 1:4, 1:10, 1:12, 1:31). In Genesis, nature’s value doesn’t hinge on its usefulness to human beings. Well before humans even come into existence (which happens on the “sixth day” of the narrative), God sees all of creation—plants, animals, terrains, and astral bodies—as “good.” Moreover, God blesses the birds and sea creatures independently of humans (Gen. 1:22), and he makes a covenant with all the creatures that emerge from Noah’s ark (Gen. 9:8-11). This indicates that all sorts of non-human species, whether in land, sky, or sea, are recipients of God’s blessings and covenant faithfulness. While God does distinguish humans as bearers of the imago dei  (Gen. 1:26-7), much of the Genesis creation account establishes the commonalities between human and non-human creatures. As David Clough observes in the first volume of his theological treatise On Animals , the Hebrew in these passages refers to both humans and non-humans as nephesh hayyah , or “living creatures” (Clough 31). God shapes all of these creatures from dust and divine breath (Gen. 1:30, 2:7, 2:19), and Genesis describes all of them as eating, reproducing, and bearing God’s approval as “good” creations.  In short, Genesis doesn’t depict nature as a mere tool for human ends—or worse, a temporary, carnal “test” posed to humanity before they can escape to a world of pure spirit. Instead, it describes nature as a tapestry of lands, species, and energies that are each good in and of themselves. Moreover, humans are created as one member of a family of dust-and-spirit creatures, nephesh hayyah , and they receive the responsibility to “work and keep” the land where God has placed them (Gen. 2:15). Since they’re made in the image of servant-king (Gen. 1.27; cf. John 13:13-14), we may infer that God intends humanity to emulate Jesus’ sacrificial love in their “dominion” over the earth’s creatures (Gen. 1:28). Just as Adam and Eve’s sin results in the “cursing” of the ground (Gen. 3:17-18), many environmental issues start with humanity’s failure to obey that ancient call to lovingly “work and keep” the land. During my recent internship with A Rocha USA, I’ve seen how human action has “cursed” the Indian River Lagoon in Florida, where seagrass withers and oyster reefs collapse, and where vulnerable species like the butterfly ray and horseshoe crab swim in polluted waters. I’ve also seen meadows clotted with invasive King Ranch bluestem, and Texan forests tarred with the shadows of invasive glossy privet. A massive glossy privet (Ligustrum lucidum) growing in the Stenis Tract of Austin, Texas. This species takes over Texan ecosystems and shades out native plants. As part of my habitat restoration work, I was tasked with killing these glossy privets, knowing all the while that this was a tree that God created good, and which God desired to “be fruitful and multiply” in its native habitat of East Asia. Now that humans have brought this species to the U.S., though, it’s strangled so many biotic communities. (You can read more about A Rocha USA’s work in Florida  and Texas  using the embedded StoryMap links.) The Israelite Land Ethic When we read further in the Torah, Eve and Adam’s responsibility to care for the soil becomes part of the covenant between God and the people of Israel. In Stewards of Eden , Sandra L. Richter explains that the Israelite land ethic “emerged from their understanding that Canaan was a land grant … If the nation will keep Yahweh’s commandments, they will keep the land” (Richter 15-16; cf. Deut. 5:31-33). Conversely, if Israel disobeyed God’s commands, the land would “vomit” them out (Lev. 18:26-28). That’s why it’s so significant that the ethical treatment of creatures and landscapes is woven into Israelite law. Among its commands are those to allow livestock to rest on the Sabbath (Deut. 5:13-14), to give the land itself a Sabbath year (Lev. 25:2-5), and to spare mother birds (Deut. 22:6-7). Richter interprets the latter to be an instance of pars pro toto , being just “one expression of a larger principle” that Israel should protect their ecosystem’s ability to sustain life (Richter 53). Though there are some human benefits to these laws (for instance, letting farmland lie fallow preserves its fertility), the adamant “good,” “good,” and “very good” of Genesis challenges us to consider that, to some degree, these laws exist due to God’s love for the animals and soils themselves. During an earlier conservation internship in 2018, I saw this biblical land ethic put into practice at the Brooksdale Environmental Centre , one of A Rocha Canada’s programs in British Columbia. Brooksdale is a tiny village of cream-and-cocoa-hued homes bordered by Douglas firs. While the Tatalu River flows through a wetland on one side, an organic farm burgeons on the other. The wetland is home to three-spined sticklebacks, frogs, and the endangered Salish sucker with its bronze glow, and the farm is home to all manner of vegetables. Carrots flourish their fronds, eggplants polish their violet glaze, jalapeños coil like gymnasts on the stalk, and the golden husks of squashes swell from the soil, echoing the ancient promises of a land flowing with honey. The organic farm of the Brooksdale Environmental Centre is in Surrey, British Columbia. By planting native maples and removing invasive sunfish, by leading children on hikes through the firs, by studying local birds, bats, and frogs, and by raising their crops in a way that nourishes the life of the soil, Brooksdale practices a philosophy that echoes the Bible: if we’re to live long in this land, we need to tend to it with compassion and prudence. The Salvation of the Cosmos To be fair, there are few Christians who would seriously suggest that God’s creation isn’t “good,” or that humans don’t have some obligation to care for it, or at least steward it wisely. The real hangup is the question of who Jesus came to save. Sure, he might have a liking for the lilies of the field, but his true mission is to save humans and take them to heaven, right? Paul’s epistles, however, call to question the idea that Jesus’ only goal is to save humanity. In Colossians, Paul describes Jesus not only as the force that sustains all that exists (Col. 1:16-17), but also as the means by which God “reconcile[s] to himself all things, whether on earth or in heaven, making peace by the blood of his cross” (Col. 1:20). Though theologians debate about the exact meaning of “all things” in this context, the Greek term that Paul uses, ta panta , is usually all-encompassing, and the chapter’s earlier references to creation imply that Jesus’ act of reconciliation occurs on a cosmic scale. Elsewhere, Paul describes the reconciliation of “all things” in heaven and earth as part of Christ’s preordained salvific plan (Eph. 1:7-10). He also teaches that all of creation is “groaning” in anticipation of divine rescue, and that “creation itself will be set free from its bondage to corruption and obtain the freedom of the glory of the children of God” (Rom. 8:19-23). The same passage makes a distinction between Paul’s human audience and the groaning “creation” (Rom. 8:23), so it seems unlikely that “creation” (or ktisis , in Greek) refers to the broken creatureliness of humanity. The more likely interpretation is that this is Paul’s response to the “cursed ground” of Genesis 3:17—that someday, the sufferings that humans have inflicted on God’s world will come to an end. Such a cosmic view of salvation is startling. The famed theologian John Wesley was so inspired by this passage from Romans that he exclaimed, “Nothing is more sure, than that as ‘the Lord is loving to every man,’ so ‘his mercy is over all his works;’ all that have sense, all that are capable of pleasure or pain, of happiness or misery” (Wesley, “ The General Deliverance ”). Indeed, if Paul is really saying that all that exists will be liberated and reconciled to God, then Christ’s mission is to rescue all that breathes. What would this liberated creation look like? When our present ecosystems are filled with agony and death—when they require death, in fact, to keep functioning—it’s hard to imagine what kind of changes would enable all species to coexist without suffering. Debra Rienstra, in her book Refugia Faith , responds to this question by asserting, “There be plenty of dragons beyond the edges of our theological and scriptural maps” (Rienstra 173). I can’t help but agree: whatever it means for God to “make all things new” (Rev. 21:5), it’s beyond our imagination. As mysterious as these promises may be, they do hint that Jesus’ kingdom—once it arrives in fullness—will look less like clouds and winged ghosts, and more like a community of healed creatures in restored landscapes. It may look like the cerulean swathes of bluebonnets that A Rocha restored in Central Texas. It may look like an Indian River Lagoon rife with oyster-beds, swarming with horseshoe crabs, and lush with seagrass. It may look like the hardy soils of Brooksdale, which don’t wash away in the rain, but overflow with squash, celeriac, kale, and aubergine. It may even look like a small tuxedo cat, bobbing her tail to the tune of the old hymn: “No more let sins and sorrows grow, nor thorns infest the ground; He comes to make His blessings flow far as the curse is found…” This is Christ's vision for the universe, and this is the work that we—as members of Christ's body—are called to enter into, nurturing and restoring all creatures. The Stenis Tract of Austin, Texas, overrun with invasive King Ranch bluestem. The Stenis Tract, 11 months after A Rocha’s invasives removal and wildflower planting. Noah Guthrie works as the Nashville Conservation Coordinator for A Rocha USA, supporting their communications team and bolstering their new Churches of Restoration program. The latter project empowers Nashville congregations to advocate for local and global ecosystems, both within their churches and in the broader community. For any who feel led to support Noah in his role, you can find his fundraising page at arocha.us/guthrie . 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 Jen Rose Yokel Every piece of art holds a piece of the artist. We bring our whole selves to the creation of it, laboring, pondering, and curating before offering it to an audience. At best, our creations can become sacred ground—deeply personal and meaningfully connective because they have something true to say. The audience’s job is to bear witness and possibly let themselves be changed. So maybe that’s why it’s taken me so long to finally get words around Interloper , Zane Vickery’s new full-length album. Music that sticks with me the most has always been born of honest wrestling. With soul-deep songwriting and a massive sound, this 77-minute epic does just that. It’s a furious, tender exploration of what it means to brush up against death and live to pick up the pieces.  In October 2022, Vickery suffered a head-on car crash that left the other driver dead and left him with months of physical, mental, and spiritual healing ahead. Not every song is about that event, but it serves as a throughline for all the questions about suffering, and it sets the stage for the spiritual unraveling that can accompany trauma. As the early single “Whatever Light We Have” lands on an ominous image—“I think I see headlights on my side of the road”—the personal reckoning begins. ( Listen to Matt Conner talk with Zane about this very song on the Rabbit Room’s Deepest Cut podcast. ) This is an album of dualities. Hope and forgiveness push back against despair and rage. Some of the album’s standout moments can be the most brutal to listen to. I am struck every time, by the rawness of “The Grateful and Grieving,” as he imagines the final hours of the driver who died in the accident. It’s a hard look at the aftermath of a miracle, when the suffering of recovery and survivor’s guilt becomes almost too great to bear, knowing you are “living to die again.” It’s about the acceptance that comes in the end and asking, “What will I do with the time I’ve been given?”  Then there’s “Honest,” a song that exposes and exorcizes the wounds left in a broken father/son relationship. “Not even a phone call and I very nearly died/I can’t let you go, I’ve tried.” Even more striking is the empathy woven into these songs, where would-be villains are imagined as broken humans with their own traumas. Forgiveness is an antidote to rage—for the driver, for his father, even for himself. It’s not all darkness though. Ultimately, this is an album about healing, and the album’s hinge point comes in “The Weight.” Longtime listeners will recognize this as a reworked version of Breezewood’s  opener, “Weighted,” but in light of the surrounding songs, these lines take on a whole new depth of meaning: Give me hope, round a corner or behind some door/Oh, I’ve been so disappointed before…is my grief something to comprehend?I’m sick of making mistakes, look me in the eye and make me sure/That it’s all worth the weight.   And still, even when it gets heavy, this album is musically such a fun listen, especially if you have a soft spot for late 90s and 2000s rock (like me). Once the second half gets going, it’s riffs in “YDWMA” and heavy post-hardcore in “Big Things Coming,” and even a playful 80s pop vibe to the heartfelt love song “Hydrangea” (complete with sax solo).  Thoughtfully produced throwback sounds lend an extra measure of joy to such heavy material. After all, sometimes the best thing we can do is turn up loud guitars and scream back at the darkness. There’s a lot more to say about Interloper . It’s one of those records that continues to deepen with every listen, and really is best experienced from start to finish, all at once. Come for the soaring choruses and nostalgic sounds. Stay to bear witness to suffering and healing, and perhaps find yourself and a little healing too. In more ways than one, it’s a gift this album exists in the world. You can stream Interloper wherever you listen to music. Also, don’t miss Matt Connor’s conversation with Zane Vickery on The Rabbit Room’s new podcast series, The Deepest Cut. Jen Rose Yokel is a poet, writer, and spiritual director. Her words have appeared at The Rabbit Room , She Reads Truth , and other publications, and she is the author of two poetry collections. She is also the co-founder of The Poetry Pub , an online community for poets. Originally from Central Florida, she now makes her home in Fall River, Massachusetts with her poet/professor husband Chris, their rescue dog, and an assortment of books and houseplants. Her latest book, Beneath the Flood , is available now from Bandersnatch Books. You can find her on Substack at Alongside Journal or on Instagram @jroseyokel .

by Anna A. Friedrich “...the artist must begin in love and create out of that…” - E. Lily Yu Don’t look for the Table of Contents when you pick up E. Lily Yu’s new book Break, Blow, Burn, & Make: A Writer’s Thoughts on Creation because you will not find one. I read this book about a week ago, truth be told, in one sitting. Throughout that day, I realized how much I usually reference the Table of Contents in every book I read. Not in novels, of course, but (more) truth be told, I read considerably more non-fiction than fiction, and I have a habit (I’ll blame my dad for this one) of referencing the Contents again and again as I read to figure out where I am, where I’m going, and the general shape of the author’s intent.   I’m a poet and an Arts Pastor at a city church in Boston, and I try to read as much as I can in the realm of faith and art. I love the work I get to do, and I’ve been shaped by Annie Dillard, Mako Fujimura, Malcolm Guite, Mary Oliver, Jeremy Begbie, Anne Lamott, Andy Crouch, Madeleine L’Engle, Austin Kleon, Julia Cameron, David Taylor, Sarah Arthur—the list is long. In fact, I’m slowly, slowly attempting to write a creativity-unblocking book, myself, inspired by The Artist’s Way, but baptized. So when I see a new book appear on the scene, I am both elated and sheesh, to tell an embarrassing truth—I get a little sting in my chest imagining that this, THIS, is probably the book I want to write, should have written by now, and it’s likely to be way better than anything I’m capable of writing.  So, I ordered Yu’s book, texted some friends to say I finally found the book that I failed to write and waited for its arrival in the mail. When I got it in my hands, I was first struck by its beauty. Whitney J. Hicks did the jacket design, according to the back flap, and it’s inviting—the design is a simple organic twig of leaves interwoven with the title. The phrase connected to something in my mind, but I couldn’t quite place it. Yu eventually discloses that her title comes from Donne’s poem “Batter my heart three-person’d God”: Batter my heart, three-person'd God, for you As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend; That I may rise and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend Your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new. I, like an usurp'd town to another due, Labor to admit you, but oh, to no end; Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend, But is captiv'd, and proves weak or untrue. Yet dearly I love you, and would be lov'd fain, But am betroth'd unto your enemy; Divorce me, untie or break that knot again, Take me to you, imprison me, for I, Except you enthrall me, never shall be free, Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me. A poem that never fails to make me squirm. I’ve been a follower of this Three Person’d God since my earliest years, but I haven’t prayed this way yet. I am rather enjoying the knocking, breathing, shining, and seeking to mend—that’s as dramatic as I want the Holy Spirit to be in my life. Yu’s title is bold, and her book is bold.  E. Lily Yu has won some prestigious awards as a novelist, and this new book is her first foray into nonfiction. By reading every word of the Acknowledgments (another habit I think I got from my dad), I learned that she wrote this book after being encouraged to do so by her Substack subscribers. Imagine that! I’m glad they did, and we should all be thankful to the two paid subscribers she particularly mentions: Susan Gossman and Misha Stone. So the book is new, beautifully designed, has a bold and poetic title, and she’s apparently a good writer (on Substack, no less!) . Now you are in the exact same place I was when I cracked it open.  The journey inside the pages is a delight—fresh, clear, energizing, convicting, practical, and winsome. It’s made up of three equal parts (a nod to Donne?), accompanied by three simple drawings that begin with a leaf, advance to a branch, and culminate in a full-leafed tree.  The first section is a diagnosis and an invitation. Her diagnosis is literary, cultural, and religious. She grieves the unmet hunger that is so present in many peoples’ souls—whether they’re scrolling social media, reading a new novel or a book review, or listening to a sermon at church—a hunger that she claims is rarely addressed, let alone satisfied with true bread.  She doesn’t exceed the limits of her expertise by attempting to comment on every single sphere of life, or diagnosing worldwide problems. Rather, she mostly writes about this hunger, as she senses it, in the literary world, while still making reasonable connections with our broader society and with the Christian church in particular. She explicitly names this hunger in herself as the very reason she wrote the book. What is this hunger?  Your imagination probably needs a good bath before you can hear the answer to that, and her first few pages offer it, but I’ll tell you anyway since this is a book review. The thing we are all hungering for is Love. But before you start imagining pink hearts, hand-in-hand walks on the beach, candlelit dinner, or whatever, let this wash over you: Yu writes: By love I mean what Erich Fromm meant, a practice and discipline of giving of one’s own aliveness to another … I mean generous and disinterested agape rather than passionate eros or fond philia. I mean the love that created the universe, that brings order to chaos and meaning to suffering and causes growth in its proper time. (pg. 8) “Giving of one’s own aliveness”—while of course, this is the way we’re meant to live as followers of Jesus (the ultimate giver of His aliveness), Yu is writing about the craft of writing. This kind of love needs to be the flame that ignites our writing. It’s the kind of writing she says is now terribly hard to find, the kind that she herself attempts to write, and the kind of writers she invites her readers to become. More than once, my eyes swam with tears, and as I put my finger in the book to keep my place, I folded it shut and quietly prayed, “Yes, Lord, let my own writing be fueled by this Love. Let me give of my aliveness in my poems.”  She writes of bread, and she writes of fire. “To inspire human beings with grace, love, and wisdom—to plant a pale spark in another person’s spirit, and breathe upon it, that the soul might quicken to flame—this is and has always been the unspoken, unwritten duty of writers, artists, and God.” (pg. 18) The first section ends with a long and wonderfully winding chapter titled “Reading Badly, Reading Well,” where Yu offers an invitation into the kind of reading (and therefore living) that joins mature love to wisdom. The way she addressed the work of the Reader was especially fresh to me. The whole second part of the book is devoted to the craft of writing, but she begins with all kinds of charges to Readers, and I am taking each one to heart.  Part two is a breakdown of writer’s craft, from understanding the writing life as a vocation to the call for courage and solitude, and much more. I won’t pretend to be your Table of Contents here; you’ll have to read it to uncover what comes before and after such a sentence as, “The artist dies to self, burns, and becomes transparent not out of self-hatred but out of love, so that something greater than the self might come into being.” (pg. 86) Yu says the most about being a Christian who is a writer in part three. From my perspective, this book is surprisingly hospitable to Christians and non-Christians. The way she interacts with novels and with our cultural moment is compelling no matter your faith, and yet, for a long-time Christian like myself, her way of naming and prodding me towards obedience was clarifying and convicting.  Her heroes and heroines are summoned, George MacDonald perhaps most of all. She offers up ways to pray before creative work, and she devotes a chapter to getting outside. Literally. She doesn’t resort to “touch grass,” but God bless her for writing this much-needed reminder, “If we returned our attention to nature, we would realize that life can never be unvarying happiness under a cloudless sky. It is instead a sifting of sediments, a cracking open, a melting, a solidifying, a structuring.” (pg. 205) This book has no Table of Contents, and it reads like a novel in some ways—when you begin, you must submit to the story, entrust yourself to the author’s leading, and the rewards are manifold. She ends the book with a hopeful image from a George MacDonald story, urging writers and readers in a way that I can only call pastoral: “To live as if this story is true, despite our doubts, in spite of the active and encircling darkness and the falsity and cruelty in the world—to believe that every human being is beloved of the Creator, and formed to do a beautiful work that no one else can do, if only she will let that love transform her utterly and set her hands to the task is to fly through darkness toward a flame.” (pg. 216) May it be so. Oh, and I’m still planning to write my book. Anna A. Friedrich is a poet and Arts Pastor in Boston, Massachusetts. You can find more of her work at annaafriedrich.substack.com 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.

“You’re welcome.” “I’M WELCOME? For—for—for what?” “You were an okay chef when you started with me. And you left an excellent chef. So, you’re welcome.” “You gave me ulcers, and panic attacks. And nightmares. You know that, right? You understand that?” “Yeah. I gave you confidence, and leadership, and ability … You wanted to be great. You wanted to be excellent … You concentrated, and you got focused, and you got great. You got excellent.” This dialogue is an excerpt from a Season Three episode of The Bear, between chefs Carmen “Carmy” Berzatto (Jeremy Allen White) and his former mentor/tormentor David Fields (Joel McHale). This brief encounter doesn’t end with reconciliation and there is no clear resolution. It’s one of the most unsatisfying scenes in the series. In allowing it to be so, I believe The Bear  gives us a uniquely realistic approach to our own trauma and how God repurposes it in ways that often leave us with more questions than answers.  The critically acclaimed FX/Hulu show centers around Carmy as he learns to process his mental state in the aftermath of his older brother’s suicide. His older brother, Mikey (Jon Bernthal), was the owner-proprietor of The Original Beef of Chicagoland. The restaurant was a sloppy over-the-counter establishment specializing in Italian hot beef sandwiches, served with an even sloppier side of customer service. The employees are crass and undisciplined and their customers loved it. The Original Beef was a beloved staple of the community even as it was poorly managed to the brink of closure. Carmy, a rising star in the culinary world, comes home to Chicago to manage the restaurant, and its rag-tag crew, after Mikey’s death. In the first two seasons, he partners with a chef de cuisine, Sydney Adamu (Ayo Edebiri) and together they transform The Original Beef into a fine-dining establishment called The Bear. His employees undergo a massive transformation of their own. They learn communication skills, coping methods, and lean into the craft of their work. Their progression in the midst of their own personal dysfunctions is a highlight of the show—and one of the main reasons the second season has been nominated for a record 23 Emmys. They all progress and grow—except Carmy. He’s stuck in old patterns and well-worn paths that have habitually led to depression, doubt, and self-sabotage.  The duality between the restaurant’s outward-facing front-of-house service and the chaos behind the scenes in the kitchen runs parallel to the truncated compartmentalization that exists in Carmy’s own life. To the public, he is the owner of a successful restaurant. He’s one of the brightest new talents in the country. Yet his inner life is a discombobulated mess. He combats his panic attacks by chain-smoking cigarettes and torpedoes any and all meaningful relationships before they can blossom into real joy.  Through three seasons, we discover that much of his inner chaos is caffeinated into overdrive by a traumatic relationship he had with the aforementioned David Fields—whose method of training was based on intense fear and degradation which, according to Fields, produced the desired result.  As I watched their conversation play out—Fields wearing a smug demeanor that was equal parts sociopathic and sadistic—I was transplanted to my own experience as a young Korean American pastor, working as a subordinate under people who might have had the same approach as Fields when it came to training their underlings.  In many ways, Korean immigrant theology is akin to a theology of suffering. The older generations believe, whether they admit it or not, that any pastor worth their salt must endure suffering. If they haven’t, then suffering must be manufactured. Not unlike the ascetic Desert Fathers, Korean pastors and elders are renowned for their ability to withstand turmoil and hardships, some of it self-inflicted. There is a Korean word, cham-uh , which roughly translates to “suppress, bite your tongue, to endure and bear, ” and it might as well be the unofficial slogan of our orthopraxy. I wrote about this superhuman ability  to endure, especially focusing on its beauty and its necessity for survival—as cham-uh  has helped three consecutive generations of Koreans endure and thrive in the midst of extreme persecution, slavery, and war. But The Bear  has prompted me to revisit some of my unsavory experiences as a Korean American pastor.  My first pastoral experience was wrought with hardships for which my only path was to cham-uh . It was a difficult ministry for me and my wife. More than the physical toil it took on my body, it was the mental and emotional burden that was overwhelming. Without getting into specifics, the ministry expectations for me as an assistant pastor were to run a marathon as if it were a sprint. I wrestle with this scene from The Bear , specifically Fields’ justification of his treatment of Carmy. “You were an okay chef when you started with me. And you left an excellent chef. So, you’re welcome.” I left my first ministry dejected, feeling like I’d failed, and worse yet, feeling unsure of my calling because I’d abandoned my cultural orthopraxy. But I’m also certain it has shaped me into a better pastor. The overarching question I keep asking myself now is, “Was Fields right?”  I loathe this question because I fear it might be true. I believe I’m functionally  a better leader and pastor because of my trauma, not in spite of it. At least when it comes to the front of the house. My spiritual food service is in order. I am prepared for a wide assortment of workplace hazards. My congregation eats meals that have been forged in the fire and the public face of my restaurant projects health and vitality. And in the end, I keep going. I know I can endure. I can cham-uh  well past the point of exhaustion, even delirium. But it comes at an expense. The hidden and compartmentalized kitchen of my psyche is a jumbled mess. Chaos, doubt, self-sabotage. I go weeks at a time where I do not sleep more than three hours a night but then crash in bed for the next few days. I overeat one night, then have panic attacks the next. I bite off skin from the ends of my fingers on one hand, while grabbing bandages for the impending blood with the other.  Like Carmy, my issues go well beyond a previous working environment. But also like Carmy, it has been caffeinated into overdrive because of it. So as I finished watching this latest season of The Bear , it’s unclear which aspects of my training were vital for my pastoral growth and which have been unnecessarily damaging. The show offers no simple conclusions. Perhaps it will be addressed in Season Four but my guess is that the two are inseparable. Trauma and triumph. There is no clear delineation. It’s a bittersweet pairing that attracts as it repulses—like a home-cooked meal that reminds someone of their childhood years spent in an orphanage.  In the meantime, we are given a bit of gospel reprieve in the form of another dialogue from the same episode. In this scene, Chef Luca (Will Poulter) and Chef Sydney are sitting around a table at a dinner party, eating a dish with peas in it. Luca looks at the dish. It’s one that he made a thousand times as an apprentice. After the first few bites, he tells Sydney, “I shucked, probably, ten million of these peas. Day in, day out, like robots.” “It’s kind of like a trauma-dish then?” “Yeah. Big time trauma-dish. The messed up thing is I currently make a dessert version [at my own restaurant]. Sweet pea panna cotta.” “You, kind of, repurposed your trauma then.” “That’s all we can do, right?” There is an unassuming dollop of biblical wisdom in those scripted words. The psalmist writes of God turning “wailing into dancing”   (Psalm 30:11) and I see it play out in real life in the processes that constitute a repurposing. I imagine Chef Luca in his test kitchen, shucking peas while conceptualizing a new dish. Poking and prodding, tweaking and testing. Exploring flavors and evaluating how they sit on the palette. Eventually, after many test runs, the dish comes out as he likes it, and it is in this entire process—from conceptualizing to plating—that he finds a bit of reprieve. Sweet pea panna cotta for the soul.  If we allow ourselves to be attuned to it, our Creator God gives us opportunities to go through a similar process while engaging in a variety of activities—art, music, writing, therapy, counsel, meditation, and prayer. We poke and prod. We revisit our pain. We allow ideas to fester and ferment. We explore a variety of word pairings, brush strokes, and harmonies. We test flavor combinations as they sit on the palette of our hearts. And somewhere along the way, God gives us increasing moments of respite. Wailing is transformed into dancing—or at least a slight rhythmic shuffling of our feet. Perhaps a clap or two.  Personally, the process of writing this piece has been like starting a new restaurant. I’ve been envisioning it as an open-kitchen concept. The intent of this space is to seek equal transparency between the back-of-the-house and the front. This restaurant undergoes construction with the hopes that opening up the kitchen will not only help me in my own repurposing, but to invite others to see how the dish gets made. And maybe somewhere throughout this entire process, we might find reprieve. A repurposing of cham-uh . Maybe that’s all we can do. Daniel Jung is a graduate of Calvin Theological Seminary and a teaching elder in the Korean Northwest Presbytery. He lives in Northern California, where he serves as an associate pastor at  Home of Christ in Cupertino . In his spare time, Daniel loves the 49ers, good coffee, and writing media reviews for Think Christian. You can find more of his work  here . If you’ve enjoyed this article or other content coming out of the Rabbit Room, you can help support the work by clicking here. Our weekly newsletter is the best way to learn about new books, staff recommendations, upcoming events, lectures, and more. Sign up here.

by Carolyn Arends As a musician, I know that arrangements matter. I remember reading an interview with the guitarist from the Canadian group Blue Rodeo in which he explained that the band’s signature song, “Try,” had once been a lackluster rocker. Their record company had passed on the song, but the band experimented with the tempo. When they slowed “Try” down, it became a soulful ballad—and an obvious hit. The right arrangement made all the difference. Every musician learns (sometimes the hard way) that making good choices about which notes are played—and how loud and long they are played—is the difference between cacophony and harmony. It’s not just in music that arrangements matter. Event planners, travel agents, florists, and funeral directors will all tell you that making good arrangements is their stock-in-trade. I wonder, what might it take to have a well-arranged life? I’ve been asking that question intermittently, but with increasing urgency since I came across author Dallas Willard’s definition of what it means to be a disciple of Jesus in The Spirit of the Disciplines : “The disciple is one who, intent upon becoming Christlike . . . systematically and progressively rearranges his affairs to that end.” I am interested in becoming more like Christ. I suspect that such a transformation might be the only way to make music out of the cacophony of my thoughts, feelings, and behaviors. But how do I “systematically and progressively rearrange my affairs” to that end? An Invitation to the Disciplines Years ago, on a long concert tour, I noticed that our bass player, Dave, was reading a book called Celebration of Discipline . I found the title irritating. Dave was already notoriously more self-disciplined than your average musician. He ate raw vegetables while the rest of us devoured pizza. He went for morning jogs as we slept. His tour bus bunk was always unnaturally tidy. So when I saw Dave reading Celebration of Discipline , I recoiled in a disgust fueled by self-recrimination. Of course Dave would “celebrate discipline.” He probably ironed his underwear. After Dave finished the book, he began gently insisting that I read it. When I finally acquiesced, I discovered that Richard Foster’s famous treatise on the classic spiritual disciplines had something to say not only to neat freaks like Dave but also to messes like me. “Willpower will never succeed in dealing with the deeply ingrained habits of sin,” I read in the introductory chapter. That rang true. There were small but insidious habits of my heart—petty pride, stubborn self-reliance, almost unconscious strains of selfishness—that seemed hopelessly entrenched. “The demand is for an inside job,” I read, “and only God can work from the inside.” In the Book of Romans, the apostle Paul refers to righteousness as a gift from God 35 times, emphasizing repeatedly that no one can achieve a justified and rightly ordered life on her own. Not What I Expected So far,  Celebration of Discipline  was reassuring. I shouldn’t expect my willpower to be sufficient. ( Amen .) I should understand that inner transformation is purely a gift of God. ( Amen, again .) But just when I was beginning to relax, Foster’s argument took an interesting turn: “We do not need to be hung on the horns of the dilemma of either human works or idleness. God has given us the Disciplines of the spiritual life as a means of receiving his grace. The Disciplines allow us to place ourselves before God so he can transform us.” Reading those words, a picture came to my mind. I could see a pool at the bottom of a waterfall that I knew represented the blessings God has for me—peace, love, acceptance, wholeness, and the fullness of his presence. There was no fence around the water. I could jump in any time I wanted. But I was running distractedly around the shoreline—sweaty, parched, and complaining about my need for refreshment. It occurred to me that maybe the spiritual disciplines were simply ways I could wade into the pool and stand beneath the waterfall. If the disciplines could become habits that would help me rearrange my affairs to be more open and receptive to God, then, yes—they were worth celebrating. So I read Foster’s catalog of classic spiritual practices: meditation, prayer, fasting, study, simplicity, solitude, submission, service, confession, worship, guidance, and celebration. Some of them were strange and new; others were old friends.I found myself thinking about a season, back in high school, after my first serious boyfriend and I had broken up. My youth pastor’s wife, Pam, sent me a card, and at the bottom she wrote Psalm 37:4: “Delight yourself in the LORD, and he will give you the desires of your heart.” There was little doubt about the desires of my heart, so I considered Psalm 37:4 a contract. All I had to do was delight in God, and he’d give me back my boyfriend. I wasn’t exactly sure what sort of “taking delight” in the Lord would meet my end of the bargain. So I picked up a copy of Our Daily Bread  in my church’s foyer and began reading it at breakfast and right before bed. Pam had also given me the devotional classic The Practice of the Presence of God , and I decided I’d try to be like the book’s author, a 17th-century monk named Brother Lawrence, by practicing God’s presence all day long. “I’m walking to my locker now,” I’d whisper to Jesus between classes. “I’m going to science class.” Two strange things happened. First, I started to genuinely delight in God—to look forward to our set-aside times together and to have a sense that he was with me throughout the day. Second, the more I delighted in God, the more the desires of my heart changed. After a while, I didn’t want my boyfriend back. God had literally given my heart new desires. An inner transformation had taken place, and I was learning to want the things God wanted for me. The disciplines I had almost inadvertently practiced in that season—prayer, study, meditation, guidance—had indeed been means of grace. Years later, sitting on a tour bus reading Celebration of Discipline , I began to remember that spiritual practices were meant to be not chores but invitations—opportunities to “progressively and systematically rearrange” the habits of my life in order to delight in God—and to increasingly learn how much God delights in me. A Well-Ordered Life When I get up tomorrow morning, there will be a moment when I choose whether to start my day with the disciplines of silence and prayer or whether I simply hit the ground running. Either way, God will still love me. He’ll still be near. Yet I know from experience that I am likely to encounter a day I begin with prayer much differently than a day I don’t. The events of a day initiated in my own strength seem to come at me frantically—as bullets to dodge in the hopes of surviving until dinner. When I begin the day in divine conversation, those events seem graced with potential and freighted with God’s involvement. The notes are the same, but the song has changed. The right arrangement makes all the difference. Revisiting Celebration I’ve been thinking about my first encounters with Celebration of Discipline lately because it is one of the books we’ll be reading this year in the Renovaré Book Club (alongside Worth Celebrating , a new book documenting the originals of Celebration of Discipline and the movement it sparked, The Narrow Way by Rich Villodas , and the devotional classic Abandonment to Divine Providence by Jean Pierre de Caussade.) We begin September 23rd, and we’d love to have you join us. You can learn more at renovare.org/bookclub – and Rabbit Room readers can use the code RABBITFIVE to get $5 off. Adapted from “Transforming Habits,” originally published in Christianity Today . Carolyn Arends is a Vancouver-based musician, author, speaker, and director of education for Renovaré, a far-reaching organization that resources and encourages spiritual renewal. Her passions include human creativity, spiritual formation, and the beautiful sport of hockey. Learn more about Carolyn at her website , more about Renovaré at renovare.org , and more about Carolyn's new video series with the Henri Nouwen Society (A Beautiful Adventure: The Gift of the Arts in Spiritual Formation) here .

by Matt Wheeler The Rabbit Room community is brimming with people of faith who have fascinating stories and who are doing generative, creative work. The subject of this conversation, North Carolina-based singer-songwriter Hope Newman Kemp, and the backstory that culminates in her new album Facing Eden  are compelling examples of this, and we’re pleased to spotlight her and this project. In this dialogue, you’ll be introduced to her long path to this redemptive work, the heart behind her jazz-infused style, and her encouragement to those seeking to craft an artist identity by the intense work in merging the two strong calls of creativity and domesticity. Matt Wheeler: I want to ask about your new album project, Facing Eden , but first, for context: what has your journey been like up to this point, and what role has music played? Hope Newman Kemp : I grew up making music in a home immersed in Jesus Folk culture during the soul-sonic 70’s. At 20, I married a cute non-musician future Army dentist, and children came right after–requiring every ounce of creative collateral I could muster.  I am a piano-driven songwriter, singer, and psalmist, so church worship service was a natural fit while also moving around the world and homeschooling.  In 1998 and 2005, I self-produced 2 CDs of original songs that were not great, some of them not even good, but the creative collaboration proved exhilarating. In 2007, I joined Elon University’s Recording Arts program for a live analog recording of Christmas music called “Unto Us.” Then, in 2017, I wrote and recorded “Hoping for Real: Songs Inspired by The Velveteen Rabbit” (produced by Ben Hardesty of The Last Bison), which we developed into a musical reading show.  During the pandemic, I contributed vocals as part of a quartet with UNC jazz studies professors for an album called “Carolina Bluebird Jazz Project.” What looked like productive artistry on paper felt more like a futile (and very expensive) jumping up and down in one spot.  Meanwhile, our family began expanding to include grandchildren and our home, an intergenerational hub. I told myself, “You can figure this out after the kids are grown!”; a vision I should not have adopted.   Because when that day arrived, I discovered “No Room for Older Women” the prevailing banner anywhere I sought to enter. After 35 years, I had mastered domesticity yet had not blazed trails for making music with other artists or ministries. One might say, “Ok, but now you have the good life: happy marriage, established home, a bit of artistic expression–so what’s the problem exactly?” The problem was a paralyzation in creative forward motion I did not expect.  As a final blow, church worship music began culturally shifting in ways I could not affect, which made it necessary to remove myself from that sphere. This disabled me completely. MW: Sounds like you were stymied—feeling the pull to use your giftings in music in God’s service, but not sure where to point them or where to start. Not sure where “your deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger meet”, as Frederick Buechner put it. How did that start to change? HNK : My stymied state was strangling immediate relationships: my marriage, my friendships, and my own inner life also began to suffer.  By divine intervention, I met renowned artist Babbie Mason, and she became my private songwriting coach for a year.  However, with her, I also learned I had been writing the kind of song meant for a Sunday morning church singer—a path I wholly did not want. Inadvertently, I was painting my own artistic output into a corner! In ridiculous irony, the Lord was giving songs, but I found it too painful to work them out. Then, a few years ago, I met Melanie Waldman at a songwriter’s workshop. She introduced me to The Rabbit Room and the Jesus-loving artists there.  The Lord also separately directed me to Stephen Roach (Makers and Mystics), Rachel Wilhem (United Adoration), and Michael Minkoff (Renew the Arts) as counselors.  Sitting in new, trusted company and learning of their artistic laments, was a reorientation that helped me repent of self-pity and see myself as an artist loved by God, created for good works–particularly while amid artistic desolation.  Even so, I was not making fast progress out of my whirlpool. This was my state when Jeremy Casella and I met.  MW: Jeremy Casella—who I understand produced your new album “Facing Eden.” How did that collaboration come together, and what did he have in mind for the project? HNK : At that point, I had grown so cynical about my artistic identity that I let Jeremy’s message sit for two solid months before replying. He stated that he felt impressed by the Holy Spirit to reach out.   He didn’t know, but that’s the part that caught my attention.  Eventually, I tossed two songs to him that didn’t fit inside the same collection in my mind, but Jeremy heard things he was excited about. He is well-respected, his Nashville relationships are stellar, and he wanted to share them with me. This resonated profoundly. Historically, I’ve had to pursue artistic collaborations—they don’t usually come my way. I finally accepted that this was an invitation from the Lord Jesus Himself via Jeremy Casella.   MW: And the project that emerged from this collaboration is called “Facing Eden.” What is the significance of that title? HNK :   One of my literary character heroes is “Sarah Smith of Golders Green” in C.S. Lewis’s The Great Divorce .  The image I have of her is the one I want for myself: A woman so enamored with the God of Love that she walks face-forward into the barren place as if it is her road sign. She does not consult her fruitful footsteps for compass; rather attention is focused ahead on Love Himself.  Behind her flows the fantastical continuance of nature in seraphim, dancing nymphs, butterflies, waterfalls– as if enfolded in the train of her robes.  I adopted this elevation and commissioned Sarah Haddox (Sincerely Sarah Studios) to produce the portrait (cover art designed by Nicole Anosen, 28 Lions).  She visualizes the variety of song genres as strands of multi-colored hair, picturing what Jeremy has synergized: 11 different songs on one album—love songs, Gospel, jazz, bluesy folk, and a nod to my Jesus People roots (featuring Phil Keaggy, so he’s present in the roots AND fruits!)  The idea for the name, FACING EDEN, is two-fold: what happened there needs to be faced: we—the image bearers of the Creator—were once housed inside but now are exiled to the field. Even so, the misty outline of Eden is always present behind the person/the task/the work before us as the way to bring about that reunion of “on Earth as it is in Heaven.”   I’m in the youth of my old age. The window is Now. So, two songs evolved into three, then an EP, and then “Let’s finish this out into an album!”—something my cheerleading husband also said. In the end, I made this album for me. It is an added delight to share it with the world. MW: The lead single, “Keep on Going,” is especially upbeat and, well, hopeful. What is the story behind that song? HNK:  The phrase “Keep on Going” is a line Pete Peterson sent to me in response to a message.  The song was written while driving home from a Hutchmoot conference. I visualized myself standing on a cliff overlooking a vast cavern where another me was scrambling to find the secret door out of it. I called, “I see you! Keep on going!”   The song doesn’t follow a traditional songwriting structure. It moves along verse after verse after verse, drawing inspiration from the many good works in the lives of the people I had just met. Jeremy produced the song to resound its origin story: the chorus revs up to a near-chaotic constitution of voices and instruments while simply fading away (keeps on going). The other songs on the album were written during long prayer walks around our 100-acre property. MW: What advice would you give to a person in a similar season of life who is looking to venture into a new or renewed, creative pursuit?  HNK:  I get it. I get that the “recipes” don’t fit when you reach a certain stage in life. Reality is real.  But DON’T do as I did and sit ruminating: DO instead ask the Lord to help you find wise counselors to help you see what you might be missing. I’ve lived this contention long enough to have finally learned: The talent He has placed within you—along with the whole of your history—is purposed for His glory and your good. It is His investment as a ready means (for you first!) to enter His presence.  Can you accept its existence could be for no other reason than to keep you hidden in Him? His Spirit has whispered this question to me, releasing greater happiness for my primary work as Overseer of People and Place, like Sarah Smith of Golders Green. Like Jesus.  Your artist identity in Jesus is worth the fight it feels like it’s in. So: Ask Him for vision, then walk in the Light you've been given.   And keep on going! A troubadour, poet with a guitar, & stage banter-conversationalist, Matt Wheeler lives in Lancaster County, PA with his wife & teenage son. He specializes in songs based on classic works of literature - his 2021 album "Wonder of It All", featuring songs & stories based on books including "The Horse & His Boy" & "Watership Down" is an example. His new album, "A Hard History of Love" is inspired by a series of Wendell Berry's short stories & released in September 2023. You can read and listen to more of his work at  www.mattwheeleronline.com . 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 Carly Marlys 'Tis the season for Christmas in July around the Rabbit Room. All week, you'll be seeing festive posts and opportunities popping their heads out of the various nooks and crannies of ye ol' rabbit warren. In the spirit of the Christmas in July season, we present a Liturgy for the Good Work of Waiting by Douglas McKelvey. Also, stay updated on our Christmas in July calendar for more exciting activities and opportunities to engage with the Rabbit Room. Plus, don’t miss out on a $10/month Rabbit Room membership , available this week. *quarterly gifts not included As my life is lived in anticipation of the redemption of all things, so let my slow movement in this line be to my own heart a living parable and a teachable moment. Do not waste even my petty irritations, O Lord. Use them to expose my sin and selfishness and to reshape my vision and my desire into better, holier things. Decrease my unrighteous impatience, directed at circumstances and people. Increase instead my righteous longing for the moment of your return, when all creation will be liberated from every futility in which it now languishes. Be present in my waiting, O Lord, that I might also be present in it as a Christ-bearer to those before and behind me, who also wait. As I am a vessel, let me not be like a sodden paper cup full of steaming frustration, carelessly sloshing unpleasantness on those around me. Rather, let me be like a communion chalice, reflecting the silvered beauty of your light, brimming with an offered grace. Amen. If you’ve enjoyed this article or other content coming out of the Rabbit Room, you can help support the work by clicking here. Our weekly newsletter is the best way to learn about new books, staff recommendations, upcoming events, lectures, and more. Sign up here.

This liturgy is taken from Every Moment Holy Volume 1  from Rabbit Room Press . You can find more liturgies like these at EveryMomentHoly.com . By Doug McKelvey CELEBRANT: To gather joyfully is indeed a serious affair, for feasting and all enjoyments gratefully taken are, at their heart, acts of war. PEOPLE: In celebrating this feast we declare that evil and death, suffering and loss, sorrow and tears, will not have the final word. But the joy of fellowship, and the welcome and comfort of friends new and old, and the celebration of these blessings of food and drink and conversation and laughter are the true evidences of things eternal, and are the first fruits of that great glad joy that is to come and that will be unending. So let our feast this day be joined to those sure victories secured by Christ, Let it be to us now a delight, and a glad foretaste of his eternal kingdom. Bless us, O Lord, in this feast. Bless us, O Lord, as we linger over our cups, and over this table laden with good things, as we relish the delights of varied texture and flavor, of aromas and savory spices, of dishes prepared as acts of love and blessing, of sweet delights made sweeter by the communion of saints. May this shared meal, and our pleasure in it, bear witness against the artifice and deceptions of the prince of the darkness that would blind this world to hope. May it strike at the root of the lie that would drain life of meaning, and the world of joy, and suffering of redemption. May this our feast fall like a great hammer blow against that brittle night, shattering the gloom, reawakening our hearts, stirring our imaginations, focusing our vision on the kingdom of heaven that is to come, on the kingdom that is promised, on the kingdom that is already, indeed, among us, For the resurrection of all good things has already joyfully begun. ALL PARTICIPANTS NOW LIFT THEIR GLASSES OR CUPS May this feast be an echo of that great Supper of the Lamb, a foreshadowing of the great celebration that awaits the children of God. Where two or more of us are gathered, O Lord, there you have promised to be. And here we are. And so, here are you. Take joy, O King, in this our feast. Take joy, O King! GLASSES ARE CLINKED WITH CELEBRATORY CHIME, AND PARTICIPANTS IN THE FEAST SAVOR A DRINK, ADMONISHING ONE ANOTHER HEARTILY WITH THESE SINCERE WORDS: Take joy! CELEBRANT: All will be well! PARTICIPANTS TAKE UP THE CRY: All will be well! Nothing good and right and true will be lost forever. All good things will be restored. Feast and be reminded! Take joy, little flock. Take joy! Let battle be joined! Let battle be joined! Now you who are loved by the Father, prepare your hearts and give yourself wholly to this celebration of joy, to the glad company of saints, to the comforting fellowship of the Spirit, and to the abiding presence of Christ who is seated among us both as our host and as our honored guest, and still yet as our conquering king. Amen. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, take seat, take feast, take delight!

by Cindy Anderson My first-grade teacher taught us our lessons outside whenever possible. My fourth-grade teacher constantly did hands-on science experiments and read books to us. And my eighth-grade teacher read the words of William Wordsworth, Robert Frost, and Maya Angelou aloud to us. My school librarian introduced me to Wrinkle in Time , and to this day, Madeleine L’Engle is still one of my favorite writers. She also helped me track down the rest of the Narnia books after I read The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe and showed me the shelves with Beverly Cleary, J.R.R. Tolkien, and L.M. Montgomery. How could I ever begin to thank someone for such introductions? Today’s book list celebrates the educators, librarians, and book enthusiasts in our lives: the people who point us to beauty, creativity, and great ideas. If you are an educator, librarian, bookshop owner, writer, illustrator, editor, or publisher of beautiful books, a parent or grandparent who reads to their children, or someone who supports local or small online bookstores, these books are about you.  Books by Horseback by Emma Carlson Berne During the Great Depression, Book Women braved the mountainous terrain of rural Kentucky to bring books to children and families. The Pack Horse Library initiative served over 300 libraries and more than 100,000 people. The lovely illustrations in this book enhance the story of what a day would have looked like for one of these librarians. (Recommended for ages 4-8) Planting Stories by Anika Aldamuy Denise This is an inspiring biography of Pure Belpre, a storyteller, librarian, and puppeteer who arrived in America in 1921, carrying the stories and folklore of her Puerto Rican homeland with her. After being hired by her neighborhood library as a bilingual assistant, she began planting the seeds of her stories and became a champion of bilingual literature. The illustrations are lovely, and the story is rhythmic, with Spanish words scattered throughout the pages.  (Recommended for ages 4-8) The Oldest Student: How Mary Walker Learned to Read by Rita L. Hubbard Mary Walker was born into slavery and always dreamed of freedom and learning to read. At the age of 15, she was given her freedom. At age 20, she was a wife and a mother. By age 68, she had worked several jobs, and at age 116, she learned how to read, write, add, and subtract. She was eventually certified as the oldest student in the United States.  (Recommended for ages 5-9) Madeline Finn and the Library Dog by Lisa Papp Madeline wants to be a better reader, but it’s not easy. Fortunately, she finds help when she meets Bonnie, the library dog. Madeline’s courage grows as Bonnie patiently listens to her read-aloud. This is an encouraging and sweet story for anyone who loves books (or dogs).  (Recommended for ages 3-8) Library Lion by Michelle Knudsen Miss Merriweather, the lead librarian, wants everyone to follow the rules, but what are the rules about a lion in the library? After learning some library etiquette, the lion eventually becomes a regular fixture, helping whenever possible. He dusts the shelves with his tail, becomes a comfortable backrest for the children in story hour, and becomes a dependable friend. The charming illustrations are a perfect match for this sweet story.  (Recommended for ages 3-7) Waiting for the Biblioburro by Monica Brown Ana and the other children in her village have little access to books. All that changes when Luis Soriano arrives with his traveling library resting on the backs of two burros. The text has Spanish words scattered throughout, and the illustrations match the story perfectly. This book is based on a true story and reminds its readers of the importance of reading and education.  (Recommended for ages 4-8) The Art of Miss Chew by Patricia Polacco Patricia Polacco is a brilliant picture book writer and illustrator. The Art of Miss Chew  is a heartwarming tribute to the teacher she credits with setting her on her course as an artist. As a child, Patricia struggled with reading, but with the help of some fantastic teachers, she grew as a reader, writer, and illustrator. Her books are ideal for slightly older children as they often cover difficult subjects and are lengthy for a picture book.  (Recommended for ages 5-10) The Dot by Peter H. Reynolds The gentle words of Vashti’s teacher give her the courage to express herself as an artist. Beginning with a simple dot on a blank page, she discovers her own creativity and finds confidence in her ability to express herself. Simple text and fun illustrations make this little book a sweet and encouraging story.  (Recommended for ages 3-7) We are in a Book by Mo Williams I have recommended the Elephant and Piggie series before, but since this title perfectly fits this category, I decided to mention it again. We Are in a Book  is a clever and funny story about what happens when Gerald and Piggie realize they are in a book and are being read. It is a great read-aloud story. (Recommended for ages 3-7) Just Read! by Lori Degman This vibrant and cheerfully illustrated picture book encourages young readers to read anywhere and everywhere. Full of creativity and imagination, this book is a delight for readers of all ages.  (Recommended for ages 4-8)

by Ruth Naomi Floyd "Sing a song full of the faith that the dark past has taught us,   Sing a song full of the hope that the present has brought us…" From Lift Every Voice and Sing  Lyrics by James Weldon Johnson   and Music composed by John Rosamond Johnson  My paternal great-grandmother, Hattie, lived to be 109 years old. Her husband, Thomas, my great-grandfather, lived to the age of 99. Thomas and Hattie were married for over 75 years. When we were children, my two sisters and I would spend one week at my great-grandparents’ home during the summer. Hattie kept a meticulously clean house and an incredible garden. She grew watermelon, collard greens, turnip greens, fruits, and herbs. She taught me to churn butter and ice cream, cook, “keep” house, and beautifully dress a table. One afternoon, I was running the sweeper in the living room. Hattie was in the kitchen, mopping the floor. As I was singing, I experimented with the low end of my voice, and suddenly, I heard the mop hit the floor. Hattie ran upstairs; it was the fastest I ever saw her run. Her daughter, my great Aunt Ella, who was in her eighties, went upstairs to check on Hattie. When Ella came downstairs, I asked her if Hattie was okay. Ella told me that Hattie felt something in my voice that reminded her of her mother’s singing voice. Hattie’s mother was an enslaved African in America.   The echo of Hattie’s mother’s voice dwelled within my voice. It saddened me that this echo startled  Hattie and made her lament. I could never know how she felt. When Hattie came downstairs, she smiled at me and gave me a slice of one of her amazing cakes. We sat silently at the kitchen table as I  ate my cake. My sisters were outside playing, so it was a special moment for us. I would like to believe that Hattie’s lament turned to joy. The soul of her mother’s singing voice continues to sound in her great-granddaughter’s voice. This gift of echoed sound is powerful, and I am deeply grateful.  The song Hattie heard me sing while running the sweeper was the great African American Spiritual Wade in the Water .  Refrain   Wade in the water   Wade in the water, children   Wade in the water  God's gonna trouble the water.  See that man all dressed in white,   God’s gonna trouble the water   The leader looks like the Israelite   God’s gonna trouble the water.  See that band all dressed in red,   God's gonna trouble the water  Looks like the band that Moses led   God's gonna trouble the water. If you don’t believe I’ve been redeemed,   God's gonna trouble the water   Just follow me down to Jordan’s stream   God's gonna trouble the water.      No more shall they in bondage toil,   God's gonna trouble the water   Let them come out with Egypt's spoil   God's gonna trouble the water.   I don’t know if Hattie’s mother sang Wade in the Water , but we sang it at Hattie’s church during  Sunday services. Wade in the Water is among the best-known and beloved African American Spirituals. The lyrics to Wade in the Water first appeared in the 1901 New Jubilee Songs as sung by the Fisk Jubilee Singers. It was co-published by Frederick J. Work and his brother, John Wesley Jr., an educator at the historically black college Fisk University in Nashville, Tennessee.   African American Spirituals contain expressions for the fight for freedom, biblical stories and imagery, and messages about the daily life of enslaved Africans in America. The biblical themes in many African American Spirituals are evident. These themes inspired compositions like Didn’t My  Lord Deliver Daniel, Go Down Moses, Joshua Fit the Battle of Jericho, Steal Away, Every Time I Feel the Spirit, Go Tell it on the Mountain, Crucifixion, and many more.  Like many African American Spirituals, Wade in the Water contains coded messages that were used as alerts and warnings to guide and assist the enslaved fugitives to freedom. The lyrics of the songs remain the same, but the message is sometimes determined by the meter of the music. When the enslaved Africans sang the meter mournfully slow, it represented the journey from life to death, from earth to heaven. When they sang the song up-tempo, it was a signal song for the escaping enslaved Africans to get in the water to avoid the slave catchers by losing the scent of the bloodhounds. Enslaved Africans were hunted across the country, and these alert songs helped them avoid recapture and reach freedom. Wade in the Water is one of the African American Spirituals from the Underground Railroad, a network of secret routes and safe houses, such as homes, barns, churches, and businesses. These places helped enslaved Africans escape the American South and reach free states and Canada.   To create is to protest all that is wrong in the world. The enslaved Africans composed and sang in resistance to the sin of American slavery. For the most part, enslaved people were not allowed to meet with two other enslaved people without white supervision, yet somehow, Black life was able to remain a secret to white America. The enslaved Africans would meet in the invisible church. The clandestine church was hidden in the bush harbors, the woods, and other secret places. There were no set dates, times, or appointments. Songs created by the enslaved Africans convened the invisible church. Although the invisible church was illegal, worship services provided much-needed relief from the white gaze. They also offered a place to engage and practice a theology rooted in Imago Dei, the truth that all humans were created in God's image.  In certain places in the American South, the African drum was considered a dangerous communication tool, so the enslaved Africans bravely played rhythmic patterns on their bodies and shared them with their voices to communicate messages. They could not openly say the things they desired and needed to communicate, but they certainly could sing them.  Hattie sang African American Spirituals, her mother sang them, her children sang them, her grandchildren sang them, and her great-grandchildren and their children's children continue to sing them. This shared musical tradition connects generations, reminding us of our history, faith,  strength, beauty, and resilience. The singing of the enslaved Africans rang out in resistance to the carnage, damage, sorrow, oppression, and horror of American slavery.   There was beauty amid the wreckage. There was beauty in Hattie's mother's voice, a voice that sang its way to freedom. This beauty echoes in my own voice and even in my daughter’s voice. There are gifts of beauty that rise from the ashes that surround this path we call life. We, too, can lift our voices in songs of lament, protest, resistance, hope, love, rage, joy, and, most certainly, worship. And, when it is time for us to wade in the water to the other side, we can sing our way to our promised and heavenly home.  Ruth Naomi Floyd is a vocalist, composer, flutist, educator, independent historical researcher, photographer, and justice worker.  Photograph: “Echo” © Ruth Naomi Floyd Images  To hear Ruth explore more of the history of African American Spirituals, watch her lecture during Housemoot , the web conference offering over 15 hours of new lectures, recipes, and artistic offerings that will launch the same weekend as Hutchmoot (October 10-13, 2024) and continue through December 1, 2024.