What are you looking for?

November of last year, with autumn awakening in me again the desire to write, I set myself the task of fifteen songs and fifty poems. Any poetry I had written up to that point I had written for myself, as a spiritual and creative practice. But I wanted to see if I could make something beautiful, or at least good, in the realm of poetry, to see if I could make a warm little house on a rainy, treeless hillside, out of poems. The forthcoming collection, Snowmelt to Roots, turned into a little house of more than one hundred poems. But however cozy the house may be, sometimes I forget I invited God to stay here as well. And it hardly seems fit to welcome him… (let the reader understand) God and the Guest Room I asked God to come live with me only I didn’t mention what a mess my house is and now I’m in the guest bedroom trying to shove everything into the closet anxious sweat on my brow trembling hands, shuffling and shoving, but when I go out to explain the state of his room I can’t find him the living room is empty I look out the front window— maybe he’s gone? brow-knitted, I turn and decide to make tea put the kettle on, wondering walking down the hallway to grab my book from the nightstand only to find that God has taken my room and in a tone that betrays an amusement with my surprise he says, “thanks for having me” Check out more information and support Zach Winters’ newest project over at Kickstarter here.

There was a time towards the end of Hutchmoot UK this year when I experienced one of those fleeting moments of sharpness in life. Do you know the kind I mean? The moments when you suddenly become painfully aware of the ordinary beauty all around you. The moments when, hurrying through a faceless crowd, dozens of extraordinary individual lives burst into instant bloom to your left and right. The moments when a line of writing hurls itself from the page to pierce through to your inmost being: to somewhere you thought no one else knew. There is a kind of poetry in these moments of sharpness. Oddly enough, when I experienced one at Hutchmoot, it happened during a Found Poetry workshop I was hosting in the leafy surroundings of Swanwick, Derbyshire. Around 180 of us had gathered at The Hayes for a few days of feasting together on music and story and art. Perhaps 20 or so had come along that afternoon to share a couple of their precious Hutchmoot hours with me. As I waited in the sunshine, the group came drifting back from the first task, which had been to roam the site finding fragments of text which we would then tear up and remake into poems. They had gone hunting in books, on signs, in leaflets. They had overheard shards of conversation, sifted through papers, and scoured the old wartime photographs on the walls. The sharpness came upon me suddenly as they pressed these “found: words into my waiting hands, scribbled on bright strips of colored paper. I was awe-shocked by these Hutchmooters: they had reveled in being given permission to look differently at their surroundings. There had been a thrill for them, I realized, in eavesdropping a little; in freeing text from its everyday moorings ready to make it new. (It is a thrill those of us who write regularly know well). As my hands filled up with paper and words, I was pierced once again with the sheer wonder of it all. There is earthy, God-fueled poetry everywhere. I mean: everywhere. Even on emergency exit signs. The moment flared and faded. I was soon absorbed in witnessing my newfound poets play with these fragments of text, in reading and discussing the extraordinary poems they forged. If you have never dabbled in found poetry, I highly recommend it. You may have had the misfortune to have been told—or indeed to tell yourself—that you are not a writer. Go tear up other people’s words and write them into something new. You will be surprised at what you find. Anyway, the day continued, the night passed. Hutchmoot UK was soon, with regret, finished for another year. I came away with my heart full and my hands aching to write. And yet I cannot tell you a polished, flowing story about what I, or any of us, found at Hutchmoot. I found it in fragments. I found it as poetry. Ruth Moore But as the weeks since have drifted by, I have noticed that found poetry is a strong metaphor for what it was like to experience Hutchmoot. I have not yet had the delight of visiting the mother ship, the original version in Nashville. I hear it can be a little tricky to secure a ticket! Here in the UK, this was our third edition—my second—and the first on either side of the Atlantic to be residential. We came from all over the UK, Europe, and far beyond. We ate breakfast, lunch, and dinner together; we bore witness to the joys and struggles of the creative life together; we prayed; we listened; we made. We slept, we woke, we dived in again. I came away with my heart full and my hands aching to write. And yet I cannot tell you a polished, flowing story about what I, or any of us, found at Hutchmoot. I found it in fragments. I found it as poetry. Take, for example, the moment when I looked around a crowded seminar room where people were claiming space on the floor and the window ledges to hear Doug McKelvey speak On Weakness. What an extraordinary thing: to know that it is not only me whose heart has been broken lately by community. To hear it ventured that, in fact, my very brokenness is what can make community anew. Or the first night, when our Music in the Round brought the wondrous voices of Andrew Peterson, Christopher Williams, Miriam Jones, and Matshidiso into conversation; when we listened to them trade smoky, tuneful tales from far-flung cities while the Derbyshire dusk deepened outside. Or joining strangers at the breakfast table one morning to find myself engulfed in stories of wild Alaskan adventures and joyous, cramped family caravan holidays in Wales. There was poetry in the hands of the people as we gathered to hear acclaimed artist Alistair Gordon’s keynote, as we pressed our fingers into air-dry clay to form physical responses to the hard-won words he offered on God and art. There was poetry in the bar late at night, as I eavesdropped on old friends re-finding each other, and as new friendships swirled over a sip or two of whisky shared. There was poetry—mischievous, brilliant poetry— in serving alongside the team, a heady blend of Brits and Americans. The year before, we had labored many hours together over chopping boards and sinks due to a last-minute catering catastrophe. This year, it was a joy to watch these gem-like sisters and brothers express their gifts at a more leisurely pace: there is a great deal of poetry, I find, in being unhurried. There were times when the sheer volume of this found poetry threatened to overwhelm. The fabric of the conference was rich and varied: you can see more for yourself here of the excellent artists who shared their work and wisdom from the trenches. It began to feel that every time I sat down to another meal, or outside in the unseasonably strong sunshine, I would find myself in the midst of something unbearably real, or funny, or deeply challenging. I wasn’t always sure there was enough of me to absorb it all. But that’s the thing with Hutchmoot poetry, isn’t it? There comes a time when it has been enough, even if it breaks your heart a little. There comes a time when you must pick up your bag and return to the real world. But here I am, weeks later, and of course, the poetry is still with me, because its Writer is as close beside me as ever He was at Hutchmoot. It is He who leaves these treasure trails of sharp moments, of poetry found and remade. Whether you journeyed with us to Derbyshire this year, or whether such an experience or community feels painfully beyond your reach, hear this: There is an earthy, God-fuelled poetry everywhere. I mean: everywhere. Go find it and make it into something new. Get to work. *** A deep and heartfelt thank you to my fellow UK teammates: Glenn Johnston, Heidi Johnston, Jason McFarland, Mark Meynell, Jo Tinker, Michael Tinker. Thank you for welcoming me into your midst. And to the splendid fluffle of Rabbit Room staffers and supporters who crossed the ocean to labor alongside us. Thank you for everything, even the goat yoga…

Join our book club to read Corrie Ten Boom’s beloved memoir The Hiding Place ahead of the global cinematic release of A. S. “Pete” Peterson’s new filmed stage adaptation. Starting July 6th through August 10th we will meet weekly at 6pm CST over Zoom to discuss the book and the upcoming theatrical film adaptation. A. S. “Pete” Peterson will lead the group and welcome a few cast members into the discussion along the way. Join the book club by signing up for our Rabbit Room Theatre email list here. The Zoom links will be available to access in an email every Thursday. View the reading guide below and download a copy here: Week One: Chapters 1-4 July 6 @ 6pm CST: Zoom w/A. S. “Pete” Peterson. Watch the recording here!Week Two: Chapters 5-8 July 13 @ 6pm CST: Zoom w/A. S. “Pete” Peterson & Nan Gurley. Watch the recording here!Week Three: Chapters 9-12 July 20 @ 6pm CST: Zoom w/A. S. “Pete” Peterson & Carrie Tillis. Watch the recording here!Week Four: Chapters 13-15 July 27 @ 6pm CST: Zoom w/A. S. “Pete” Peterson & Deborah Seidel. Watch the recording here!Week Five: Movie Night August 3 & 5: No Zoom. Watch The Hiding Place in theaters across the U. S. A. and Canada Week Six: Movie Discussion August 10 @ 6pm CST: Wrap-Up Zoom w/A. S. “Pete” Peterson & cast and crew from the film. Watch the recording here! If you don’t have a copy of the book, you can purchase it through the Rabbit Room store here. Use the exclusive discount code: BOOKCLUB25 for 25% off your order. A. S. “Pete” Peterson’s filmed stage adaptation of The Hiding Place will bring Corrie Ten Boom’s story to theaters across the world for the first time in nearly 50 years. Seats aren’t guaranteed for this limited release, so secure your tickets now! Book tickets and learn more information about the film at https://www.thehidingplacefilm.com JOIN THE BOOK CLUB #semifeature

In many ways, we’re in the Golden Age of worship music. Great congregational music is released every week, it seems. But it’s a rare project that engages the listener with spiritual depth, passion, and musical excellence. Anchor Hymns’ new project Sing, Sing, Sing pulls it off, all while covering difficult subjects like doubt, lament, and suffering. Sing, Sing, Sing also accomplishes what few worship albums manage to do. These songs are completely appropriate for a congregational setting as well as being intimate and personal. The album allows the guest vocalists to shine and show their personality while never sacrificing the communal “singability” of the songs. Thematically, this entire EP centers around the idea that the good and right response to trials and difficulty is not to suffer in silence, but to sing. These songs bestow on the listener permission to bring their pain and lament to the feet of the Lord. This idea is summed up in the title track, “Sing, Sing, Sing.” The opening organ and vocal run immediately take you to church, and then the first verse hits hard, “Grandma taught me life gets hard / but one little melody has brought me this far / when you feel lost babe, just look up to God / and let this be your song/ sing, sing, sing / something happens when we sing.” The rest of the song, powered by the vocals of Sarah Kroger and Jasmine Mullen, along with lines from “Blessed Assurance,” reminds us that this phenomenon isn’t new. This idea that singing to God about our troubles is as old as stories themselves, but it can be our story now. “By the Savior’s Power” opens the album with a potent reflection on the idea that, while our sin drags us beneath crashing waves, Jesus’ power and grace are able to lift us out and drag us to shore. The theme of the song is the power of Jesus to overcome the darkness, and Dee Wilson and Ricky Vazquez’s vocals are the perfect way to illustrate that. The lead vocals here are stunning, and just when you think you’ve heard the best part, the final verse hits you like a freight train. ‘Oh, the mighty Great I Am, rules with victory in his hands/ he will crush the gates of Hell and bring us with him to dwell.” “Those Who Have Not Seen” is led by the trio of Matt Maher, Taylor Leonhardt, and Paul Baloche, and this meditation is like a soothing balm to those of us who struggle with seasons of doubt. Punctuated with sections of “When I Survey The Wondrous Cross,” this slow-driving hymn reminds us of Jesus’ words of comfort at the end of the book of John, “Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed.” It’s an incredible moment of comfort when the trio sings, “I have my doubts but you have my heart.” On “It’s Alright,” Dee Wilson and Jasmine Mullen reinforce the overall theme of the record with lyrics like “If I’m buried in suffering, don’t worry about me, it’s alright/ cause the tomb of my Savior stands empty.” And if you didn’t believe that it was going to be alright before, you absolutely will after you listen to this, because this is not a song about platitudes, it’s about the holiness of Jesus and that he is the source of our assurance. Maybe the best moment of the entire album comes on the bridge of this song, a rising affirmation of the foundation of our life and strength. “When We Walk Together,” sung by Travis Ryan and Andrew Osenga, is a simple yet anthemic pronouncement of the fact that, whatever we do, we are better when we do it together. Be it walking, mourning, or dealing with times of weariness, the family of God feels those things alongside you, and you aren’t alone. “When we walk together, no one walks alone / and we bear each other’s burdens so the road doesn’t feel so long.” This is a song to come back to when you’re at your lowest. It’s tough to call Anchor Hymns a “bright spot” in the worship music landscape, simply because these songs are so full of struggle and doubt. But Sing, Sing, Sing exhorts the listener to take these difficult subjects and do just what the title says—to sing. Powered by passionate guest vocalists and masterful instrumentalists, Sing, Sing, Sing is a challenging and hopeful record that encourages the listener toward Christ as the source of our strength. This collection of songs has personality, and it’s filled with artists at the tops of their game—nothing here feels empty or vacuous. Anchor Hymns is creating worship anthems that are worthy of your time and attention.

Back in April, I saw two movies in theaters: CREED III and the theatrical re-release of the Indian blockbuster RRR at the magnificent Belcourt Theatre in Nashville. If you’ve never heard of RRR, it’s an overwhelming and rollicking piece of epic historical fiction that quickly became the highest-grossing movie of all time in India last year–and you can watch it on Netflix. The story follows two real-life Indian revolutionaries who fought against colonialism, imagining the two of them as near-mythic heroes who go from the worst of enemies to the best of friends. More to the point, seeing RRR and CREED III back to back got me thinking about an emerging pattern within many of the blockbusters we’ve received since the pandemic. Let me explain. The plot of CREED III hinges on a long-lost friend (he’s described as being ‘like a brother’) who resurfaces in Adonis Creed’s life after a betrayal years earlier tore them apart. The enigmatic Damien, played by Jonathan Majors, feels let down by Adonis’s lack of loyalty to their friendship and wants to offer payback in a myriad of ways. The ultimate fight in the third act is a near-Shakespearean confrontation between Adonis and Damian, not just feuding as wrestling opponents, but doing battle as former brothers torn apart by the wounds they’ve inflicted on each other. Watching that brutally engaging, anime-inspired final fight, I was hit by something: we’ve been seeing this a lot recently. My favorite movie of last year, The Banshees of Inisherin, might best be summarized as a movie about broken brotherhood as well. Pádraic Súilleabháin and ColmSonnyLarry have been “the best of friends” for years, going to the pub at 2 pm every day to idly chat about Pádraic’s donkey, until one day Colm decides that he’s done denying the obvious: Pádraic is not an interesting friend, and Colm has better things to do with his time than listen to his nonsense. Pádraic is, of course, deeply wounded by this betrayal—and the movie’s central conflict spins out from there. Top Gun: Maverick might have more of a father/son-type relationship than a friendly one, but Maverick and Rooster certainly have brotherly conflicts. Rooster resents Maverick for his involvement in his father’s death, and for holding him back from flight academy at his mother’s request. Maverick doesn’t know how to make things right. Then there’s Avatar: The Way of Water, where the tension between Lo’ak and his older brother Neteyam—and their tension with the other boys in the reef tribe—drives much of the drama in the second act. Not to mention Jake Sully and Colonel Quaritch, who were in some sense military “brothers in arms” in the first film and have since taken completely opposing sides in a war. Even AmbuLAnce, the first great movie Michael Bay has made in 20 years (!), has a fascinating adopted-brother relationship (and conflict) between Jake Gyllenhaal and Yahya Abdul-Mateen II. And then there are the movies that have come out this year, like Disney’s Peter Pan & Wendy, which imagines Peter Pan and Captain Hook as former best friends who betrayed each other and eventually find a way to reconcile. Or John Wick: Chapter 4, where the sinister High Table forces one of John Wick’s former allies (Cain, played by Donnie Yen) to attempt to track him down and kill him. I won’t spoil John Wick: Chapter 4, but that friendship plays an interesting role in the finale. When I think about a movie that best exemplifies the ideal concept of brotherhood, though, it’s definitely RRR. Indian revolutionaries Ram and Bheem are mortal enemies who don’t know it, and through a seemingly coincidental twist of fate, accidentally become the best of friends. There’s a montage set to a song called “Dosti,” which literally means “Friendship,” including lines like “an unpredictable gust of wind has erased the distance between the two of them,” and “won’t this friendship break one day in the form of betrayal?” As their bond grows, the lingering threat of their eventual conflict does, too—and it all culminates in the second half. I think it’s pretty clear: there’s a pattern of brotherly conflict and betrayal in all of these movies. In most of them, both ‘brothers’ are somewhat sympathetic to the viewer; sometimes the conflict comes from misunderstanding, or difference of priorities, or unresolved pain of the past, or a sense of masculine duty. But in all of them, things eventually come to a head. The brotherhood breaks. And then something new rises from the ashes. Maybe, in some sense, these movies resonate deeply with audiences because they acknowledge that male friendships can be just as difficult and complex, and just as integral to human flourishing, as romantic relationships. Houston Coley The masculinity in these movies is interesting to dissect. It’s been a season of bromances—even in movies like The Batman, which doesn’t quite have the ‘broken brotherhood’ element. I think what’s so refreshing about bromances is that they go hand in hand with sincerity; male friendships in the real world are typically defined so heavily by their irony and sarcasm and macho-posturing, and to see two guys onscreen earnestly expressing non-romantic affection for each other requires a total lack of that sardonic self-mockery, both from the characters and from the artist portraying them. One of the reasons RRR felt so fresh to American viewers was that the friendship between Ram and Bheem was pure and wholesome and affectionate in a way that we’re rarely bold enough to depict in our own blockbusters. Speaking as a guy myself, it’s the kind of ultimate-bro-friendship I’d dream about having, but have never fully managed to attain. Even with my closest friends, there’s still a level of self-deprecation and posturing that has to be breached to have a truly sincere conversation. It’s taken 14 years for me and my best friend to be able to say “I love you, man” every now and then. Maybe, in some sense, these movies resonate deeply with audiences because they acknowledge that male friendships can be just as difficult and complex, and just as integral to human flourishing, as romantic relationships. The role of the female characters in some of these films is an equally interesting component. Kerry Condon’s Siobhan in The Banshees of Inisherin is probably the most reasonable and even-tempered character in the film, intuitively reading between the lines of the juvenile and stubbornly masculine conflict around her. Eiza González’s character in AmbuLAnce has a similarly clearheaded disposition toward the macho insanity of Danny and Will. When the boys fight for her sake in Avatar: The Way of Water, Sigourney Weaver’s Kiri just rolls her eyes and laughs at the absurdity of it all. In Top Gun: Maverick, Penny provides Maverick with the parenting knowledge he needs to realize that he can let Rooster make his own mistakes. And even in RRR, Ram’s fiancee Seetha is the one who selflessly saves Bheem’s family and provides him with the revelation that Ram is not a traitor, catalyzing their reunion and teaming up in the third act. The women in these movies, then, are often able to see the ways that the men are seeing past each other—and kindle something that looks like a true relationship. It’s always important to me to ask why a certain theme might be resonating through such a huge set of movies in a given period. When I ponder this “brotherly conflict” playing out in the real world, I can only think about the countless friendships and family relationships that have been impacted by the contentious events of the last few years. The pandemic felt like a time when everyone was pushed to the brink and showed their true colors; I don’t have the stats to back it up, but it feels like we could all probably think of at least one person in our lives who has, intentionally or not, become more distant from us post-2020. I guess some people came out of the pandemic feeling like we “beat it together,” but I think for the majority of people in the US especially, the world feels more divided than ever before. The tension had been bubbling beneath the surface for years, but COVID brought it writhing and wriggling into the light, and nobody has been exactly the same. The good news about these movies, though, is that they all seem to suggest one thing: conflict built on honesty is better than peace built on denial. Colm and Padraic’s conflict reveals the way that Padraic’s ‘niceness’ has been intertwined with the repression of negative emotions, and brings Colm’s true struggle with depression into the light, forcing him to decide that he has something to live for. When Ram and Bheem finally learn the truth about each other after multiple butt-kicking misunderstandings, it allows them to team up and wreak havoc on the imperial forces like neither of them could’ve done alone. Rooster and Maverick being forced to sit in the same cockpit together and fight for their lives—and accept that they have been saved by each other—ultimately brings closure for both of them around Goose’s death. I don’t know exactly what all of this says about our current world, but maybe it’s an encouragement that actually facing our division and conflict with honesty and clearheadedness (like Siobhan in Banshees) could lead to something more livable, even if it’s not exactly friendly. “Can’t we all just get along?” isn’t working. I’m not exactly advocating for a simplistic “both sides” narrative where we’re all just completely reasonable people seeing past each other for exclusively innocent reasons, but I do think that our division often comes from willful misunderstanding or mischaracterization of what the other person is trying to say or communicate. I’m particularly drawn to 14-year-old Kiri’s summation of the brotherly brawling in Avatar: The Way of Water: “This is so stupid!” Maybe we need some kind of divine mediator who can see through the stupidity. Fascinatingly, I think the real revelation of these movies is that seeing two brothers fight is just as integral to the experience as watching them join forces. Watching Damien and Adonis punch each other in the face at the same time, anime-style, in CREED III was awesome. The “fire and water” standoff between Ram and Bheem in RRR is profoundly cool, but seeing them both riding a motorcycle and a horse to fight an army together is even more gratifying when it comes an hour later. Maybe, even in our personal relationships, we need to embrace conflict to truly earn those epic team-ups. Maybe the two go hand-in-hand.

“Oh, Mom! JJ Heller!” my two-year-old, Shiloh, exclaimed in the backseat as the song shuffled through the speakers. I didn’t know she was listening, much less processing and correctly identifying the singer-songwriter. I was proud, but it made sense. Heller has filled our house with daily anthems, lullabies, anxiety-soothing balms, and beautiful music these last two years. Shiloh was born in early 2021, while the world was still plagued by uncertainty as COVID fears stretched on. We didn’t know if anyone would be able to greet her, so the privilege of my family being present to welcome my daughter home from the hospital was meaningful enough. My sisters came prepared, keyboard in tow. One sister held my tiny newborn while the other sang Heller’s “Hand to Hold.” This Christmas, we brought our son, Judah, home from the hospital. My sisters repeated the ritual, and it became a beloved tradition. May you never lose the wonder in your soul May you always have a blanket for the cold May the living light inside you be the compass as you go May you always know you have my hand to hold. Experiencing the newborn phase the second time makes me want to go back and offer grace to myself as I struggled through several first-time mom moments of crippling anxiety. Even now, I feel the thirst for grace as the floods of worries and inadequacies creep up. I type these thoughts out while sitting on the floor, caked in layers of spit-up, cooing nonsense babble, in the twenty-minute window where Shiloh naps and Judah is semi-content. Heller’s songs offer me the grace I struggle to give myself: “It feels like forever / But it’s gonna get better / Hold on.” When I look back on certain seasons of my life, hindsight highlights ebenezers of artwork. Art marks time; it helps me characterize and see beyond immediate vantage points. In this physically demanding season, I don’t have time to linger slowly through my favorite museums. My emotional tolerance for great plot has tragically diminished. Reading and writing used to fuel my faith, but I’m so tired even when I’m gifted time to engage in these acts. Instead of feeling shame, I feel hope because the cornerstone in this season’s ebenezer is music, and Heller’s songs are a foundation in that pile of rocks. Her songs are gentle reminders to pay attention. I sit on the porch with my babies and play “I spy.” I notice the sparkling beads of water that pool up on top of the grass blades. Shiloh’s learning colors, so I wonder what color to name that bit of shine. A pinecone falls from the tree across the street and rolls down the hill. I don’t have time to capture it in a poem, but I appreciate Shiloh’s laughter. And later, when I listen to Heller sing, “Every park bench is a pew / There’s a sanctuary everywhere that I go / When my eyes are open / I see you,” I remember the pinecone rolling down the street. I’m glad JJ Heller’s music, like all good art, helps me in the sacred work of understanding, of believing, of glimpsing, of loving. Sarah Bramblett I had never pondered the poetic truth that “All who live in love are Thine / Teach us how to love each other/ Lift us to the joy divine” until Shiloh requested Heller’s version of “Joyful, Joyful, We Adore Thee” be played on repeat as we play with a bucket of water. Shiloh stomps on a sponge so she can see her footprints. Judah coos. I’ve heard it said before that children are sponges, but I didn’t fully appreciate it until I saw how my mood can impact my four-month-old, until I heard Shiloh lift up a teacup and say, “Ah, delicious!” just like I often do. All who live in Love are Thine—stomping on the sponge, soaking up the water. Teach me how to love my children—a footprint. Let them soak in their belovedness. I might not utter long, thoughtful prayers these days. But as “Joyful, Joyful” plays, Shiloh is absorbing truth and I’m letting the Spirit intercede, through Heller’s voice. Because we’re listening on repeat, these songs are becoming my voice, too. Before I had kids, I never sang. I loved music, but I doubted my voice. Shiloh strips me of my self-consciousness, and I sing for her, “You are poetry in motion and you want to dance with me.” I also catch myself singing when I’m alone, fighting ants for the crumbs scattered under the kitchen table, no music playing, “Big magic in the mundane / The big picture in a small frame / Everything is sacred when you take time to notice / Big love happens in the small moments.” These songs root in the heart; they speak to moments and lifetimes. Shiloh asks to read “the light book,” Heller’s picture book Hand to Hold (she calls it the light book because of the little lamp with stars in the corner). We turn to the page with the photo album, the picture with the words, “Every day, you’re changing, sometimes I wish it wasn’t true. Hearts are made for giving, I’ve given mine to you.” I struggle to maintain an even, happy tone since Shiloh can’t yet understand why the beauty of growing up makes me want to cry. And if she asks her favorite question, “OOT (what) that, Mama?” I’m not sure I’d be able to explain the profound mystery. I’m glad JJ Heller’s music, like all good art, helps me in the sacred work of understanding, of believing, of glimpsing, of loving. You can find more about JJ Heller here.

I’m guessing that many of you may feel like I do a lot these days when you look at the news—both angry yet impotent to do much of anything significant about the world’s ills. It’s one of the problems of our age, that our sphere of knowledge dwarfs our sphere of impact. In these moments I often find myself “doomscrolling”, thumbing through one bad thing after another on the Internet until I’m in a bad mood. On one such day recently I just had to ditch my phone and go for a walk in the woods. This poem emerged mostly as a message to myself, but I hope it meets you where you are too. Dear you, yes you, scrolling past this post, on your way, to another dose of despair. Lift up your eyes, look out your window at the real world. Leave your smartphones and smartwatches behind and go. Lift up the limbs that you’ve been given to the sun, breathe in the oxygen, the trees have so lovingly made for you, see and smell the blossoms they have bloomed for you. If you can, hold the life of a small creature in your hands, and feel its tiny life and beating heart, so much like your own, both of you so small in this vast world. You are small, yes but you are not nothing. You can smile at another, you can plant seeds in earth, you can love your friends and your family, you can speak a kind word, you can give a few dollars to a good cause, you can even, write a poem. Shut out the voices of the megalomaniacs making money off your fear, feasting on your paralyzed flesh like a pack of crazed hyenas. Do not despair, do not give up, do not give in, but stand in your small earthen self and be. This poem was originally posted on Chris Yokel’s Substack Beauty Is Truth

A year ago this month, Rabbit Room Theatre launched with my stage adaptation of Corrie Ten Boom’s The Hiding Place. It was a project that stretched me and the whole theatre team in a wealth of ways, and we were overjoyed with the reception. The show ran for 4-weeks to sold out performances at the Soli Deo Center in Nashville, Tennessee, and since then theater-goers and Corrie-lovers all over the world have been asking, “What’s next?” Well, the time has come to tell everyone what we’ve been working on for the past year. What most folks don’t know is that during the run of shows in Nashville, the stage play was filmed for cinema audiences over the course of two marathon-days of shooting. Today, I’m SO excited to announce that, in partnership with Trafalgar Releasing, WTA Media, Matt Logan Productions, and MA2LA, Rabbit Room Theatre’s production of The Hiding Place is coming to a cinema near you. First, on August 3 & 5 for the U.S. and Canada, and then August 16 everywhere else. I am beyond proud of the entire cast and crew and cannot wait for folks to see their work on the big screen. Tony and Laura Matula have worked tirelessly in post production to edit, add foley effects, score, record additional dialogue, color correct, and export terabytes upon terabytes of files for editorial screenings and testing. These two friends are also the creative all-star team behind the design of all the show’s posters and title treatments and photography (in fact they’ve done that work for my other shows as well, The Battle of Franklin, Frankenstein, Sonata at Payne Hollow, and Lindenfair), and none of this would exist without their patience, hard work, and dedication to creating something amazing. Corrie’s story is one that changed me for the better. It’s been changing people for a generation. It’s a tale that deserves to be told over and over again, and I’m humbled to be able to play a part in her legacy. We hope you’ll come see it, and then we hope you’ll spread the gospel that Corrie spent her life declaring: that Christ plays in ten thousand places and there is no pit so deep that he is not deeper still. Christus Victor. Tickets are now on sale at TheHidingPlaceFilm.com. To inquire about groups sales, or to find out how to request a showing in your hometown theater, visit the website link above.

What a friend we have in Jesus.” We sing those words, and we take comfort in our personal relationship with the Maker, but just a moment’s pondering reveals our inadequacy. We do not rate such access. We have never before known a friend so giving, so interested, so committed. We can only fail in our half of the relationship, but somehow that’s okay. This grand friendship is the subject of Friend Forever, the fourth release from Mission House. Members of the Rabbit Room community are likely familiar with both Jess Ray and Taylor Leonhardt as beloved singer-songwriters. Jess can be heard on the 2019 Behold the Lamb of God reissue, and Taylor was the featured musical guest at Hutchmoot 2022. It’s possible, though, that many have missed the pair’s convergence as a folk worship duo called Mission House. If that’s the case, Friend Forever serves as a great introduction. The project’s nine songs include fresh versions of band favorites—both solo offerings and revisited Mission House songs—along with hymns, a folk song, and a Delirious? cover that lends the album its title. These are technically studio tracks, though they were recorded live at a friend’s home. They retain the spontaneity and connection of a live performance but are rendered with a warmth and intimacy that’s often difficult to capture with a concert recording. The songs are quiet and peaceful, and it is apparent from the opening track, “Place to Land,” that this is comfort-bringing music. That’s not to say it is lightweight or that it lacks depth. Instead, the lyrics often feel hard-won, like the gentle compression of a pillow under a weary head. “I need a peaceful pasture / I need a steady hand / You are the one I’m after / You are my place to land.” What a friend we have, indeed. Production is delicate and understated, taking a back seat to the meaningful words and expressive vocals. In this setting, the bridge to “Behold” arrives with reassuring confidence: “We’ve been struck down, we’re not destroyed / We’ve sown in tears, we’ll reap in joy.” This proclamation is not in-your-face but matter-of-fact, like a faith that is quiet and wise and not boisterous. Similarly, “Take My Life” is no empty platitude here. It carries the earnestness and desperation necessary to lead one to real surrender, and it demonstrates the kindred nature of brokenness and worship. We are often struck paralyzed by the paradox of our kindred Creator. We contemplate omnipotence and wrath, and we rightly tremble before such might. But the unique mystery of Christ is the coexistence of omnipotent wrath and omnipotent friendship. “Friend Forever” is a soothing balm for those who need a friend, and an opportunity to rest, ponder, and praise him.

The drug of comeuppance no longer satisfies me. I’ve tasted it too many times, mostly in movies, or in the rolling celluloid fiction of my mind. The high has vanished now, leaving in its place a shadow that looks like Saint Peter drawing a sword at Gethsemane, an echo that sounds like a Savior disappointed, even slightly alarmed. Comeuppance is a thing we all covet to some degree, as evidenced by its mass-market appeal. Storytellers go to great lengths to keep their heroes from glorying in victory though. Disney plays variations on the theme of throwing villains off cliffs. Clint Eastwood types have post-shootout crises of conscience, or they leave town. Antagonists get taken down by accidents, or by their own machinations. The dynamic of oneupmanship between enemy and hero gets neatly answered. Real life is rarely so simple. Good justice might be poetic, but I don’t think it should always rhyme. Like everyone I know, I grew up with bullies. I didn’t really see them as people very often, just elements, forces of nature, things that could be avoided by a degree of manipulation. Imagine rain. You can’t really beat it, but you can stay dry with a raincoat. There was no avoiding the weather of cruel schoolmates. There was only keeping one’s head down, using a side entrance, or on rare occasions, spitting out a timely riposte. These aren’t always manipulation, of course, but for me, the spirit was certainly there. I grew street smarts. Street smarts are made to work by manipulating a situation, reading terrain, and making it work for you instead of against you. Troublingly, manipulation is itself a bully’s game. Underneath it (again, for me), was that desire for comeuppance, the longing for young oppressors to get what was coming to them, or better yet, to admit they were wrong. The problem with comeuppance is that it’s not extemporaneous, in a very literal sense of the word. We understand things done extemporaneously are done with no preparation, but the Latin ex-tempore literally means outwith time or out of time. When the villain gets his in the story, he gets it within time. With the exception of Revelation, Daniel, and lesser smatterings of apocalypse salted through the literary corpus, all judgment is both temporal and partial. It is not God’s final judgment; therefore, it is not an ultimate word. Even in dealings with the diabolical, we do well to temper our sense of heroism. On days when I wish to see a villain beg for mercy, I hear a warning in Jesus’ admonition to his disciples. In Luke’s account, seventy-two of them go out with instructions to preach and heal the sick. Then back they come with, “Lord, even the demons submit to us in your name!” You can almost hear the mix of emotions in Jesus’ response. “I saw Satan fall like lightning from heaven,” he says. “Behold, I have given you authority to tread on snakes and scorpions, and over all the power of the enemy. Nothing will harm you. Nevertheless, do not rejoice that the spirits submit to you, but rejoice that your names are written in heaven.” (Luke 20:18-20) “Yes, indeed,” he seems to be telling them. “Satan is defeated, and through me, you partake in that victory. Yet there’s danger in being grossly happy over this particular thing.” Revelation, perhaps predictably, is understated in its description of the devil’s doom. Even in a book that, if we may say so reverently, is gloriously Lovecraftian as a creature feature, Satan’s end is a little dry. Yes, there’s a battle, and he’s thrown into the lake of fire. Yet it’s followed by John’s simple “tormented day and night for ever and ever,” and we don’t hear from Ol’ Scratch again. No one really gets to see him squeal. I kind of want to. In missing Jesus’ point, in reveling in an enemy’s fall, even The Enemy’s, perhaps we become something other, something self-obsessed. Adam Whipple What is the danger in this? In missing Jesus’ point, in reveling in an enemy’s fall, even The Enemy’s, perhaps we become something other, something self-obsessed. I’m not often one for changing the lyrics to old hymns; we move menhirs at our peril. Still, I chafe at the verse in “Be Thou My Vision” that sings, “High King of Heaven, my victory won.” My victory? My own? My precious? That’s too easy a thing to say, especially for an American like me. Irish journalist Mary Byrne, in 1905, translated part of the original Old Irish as “With the King of all, with him after victory won by piety.” She followed this with a verse translation that reads, “Beloved Father, hear, hear my lamentations. Timely is the cry of woe of this miserable wretch.” Hardly victorious. Even Eleanor Hull’s later translation, from which the ‘my victory’ line is drawn, has an alternate reading: “High King of heaven, Thou heaven’s bright Sun, O grant me its joys, after vict’ry is won.” There, the ownership of such victory sings more as though it belongs to the Lord than to me, the singer. Real fights don’t feel victorious. The few times I’ve been part of a physical altercation, the emotions were overwhelming. I can revisit with great clarity the moments of fights or possible fights, even down to colors and smells. Adrenaline courses, and the busy scribes of the subconscious start writing in capitals. Given time to reflect, the wolf in me that wishes to glory in some outcome feels eerily akin to the wolf I saw in the other person or persons involved. In arguments of various stripes—fights not with bodies but with words—our ideology is built not only on its coherence but on our tactics and the way we employ them. We cannot become wolves and bullies. What I want—what I used to want—was for people to change their minds. I still desire this, but in hoping so jealously for it, I have felt the vapidity of coveting such a thing. Hearing scripted nonsense in my head—those with whom I disagree finally admitting their wrongfulness—I can also hear my own continual hunger for something more. The little book of Obadiah is a powerful indictment of Edom for the way they stood by, and even profited, as Babylon sacked Jerusalem. This was a divine punishment rendered. Yet even to take a prideful, arm’s-length joy in it, for Edom, was deadly. “Do not gloat when your enemy falls,” says Proverbs 24. “When they stumble, do not let your heart rejoice, or the Lord will see and disapprove, and turn his wrath away from them.” Let’s say, ideologically, that I get everything I want in an argument. Two things happen. Firstly, I find myself in grave danger of an unassailable and all-consuming self-righteousness. Secondly, being in triumphant possession of others’ admissions of error does not make me love them. And I am commanded to love people. Perfect justice belongs to the Lord and shall be rendered in His time only. Kairos, not chronos. Adam Whipple Do not hear in this a disavowal of orthodoxy or of non-contradiction. There is always room for discussion. We follow Scripture, and we pray the Spirit guides us into all truth. It is natural, in most disagreements, that someone is wrong. Yet if Scripture cannot be broken, I can also depend on the fact that, on some level, the person who is wrong is me. Regarding cruelties both large and small, we look for earthly justice—insofar as we may render it—to reflect Christ’s justice. As lawyers may note, this is a great way to beat our heads against a wall. Our justice system is not perfect and must never be recreated due to its native fallenness. Our native fallenness. Perfect justice belongs to the Lord and shall be rendered in His time only. Kairos, not chronos. I love the new-seeming focus in school systems and parent groups on the dangers of bullying. We must continually confront ourselves with the harm that we cause and, in following Jesus (and by His own grace), make efforts to better serve our neighbors. Part of that, I think, means not becoming bullies ourselves: refusing to cheer when the cruel are punished. This confrontation of the self means recognizing that cruelty, since the Fall, is seeded like a poison plant in the heart of each of us. I, for one, am thoroughly exhausted by my own continued belligerence, along with that of everyone else. It feels as though a combative spirit is demanded of me, a constant sword. In better moments, I want nothing so much as to lay it down. Chased down for years now by a Sho Baraka line, by the book of Proverbs, and by my own addiction to shifts in the earthly power dynamic, I finally wrote a poem to codify my thoughts, or at least to wrestle with them. I’m not sure it is complete, but here it is in part. from “Fear and Trembling, Southbound, 2022” “Do I want peace, or do I want power so I can try it?” —Sho Baraka Once, we came easy, intuiting and fearful, to biting tongues, thin-lipped when bullies got theirs. Darian MacMahan sniffed out trouble to taste it, for example, another grade school farm-punk laurel-crowned by hiding his fears in cruelty. He bet our Sunday school teacher, a Navy Seal, that he could whip him in a straight wrestling match, till amid a chorus of laughing boys, the man tied him in a granny knot in our small basement classroom and sat on him; it was different than mornings of sandpaper nerves when going to school again meant walking past the boy, past his orbit of hungry sycophants, knowing his father had chastened him after a phone call the previous evening: your own parents, confronting. Then after the boy died early, drunk-wrecked, the reverend shooed away the unsure gang guzzling piss-cheap beer in the churchyard, grasping with Protestant, redneck blindness the gut-deep emotion of an Irish wake. They were still boys, and gone was their leader, flame-to-glory in boondock martyrdom. Now in every wiry, bookish child is a skeeving, rat-hearted thing that gnaws the faces of bullies until they weep penance. What we hope to know by grace, unspoken, is that not all hungers can be quelled. Some grow like crocodiles, to fill available space.

Waking up to joy can feel like spring. One day, it’s all gray skies and brown sticks. The next, the ground has softened into mud and the trees are covered with flowers you barely noticed were budding. That’s the feeling of Andrew Osenga’s new EP Living Water, five songs that prepare the way for his upcoming album Headwaters like a garden bursting into bloom. Longtime fans know Osenga for thoughtful story songs with a melancholy yet ultimately hopeful and often playful edge. He’s taken us on a journey into deep space with a lonely astronaut, explored his genre versatility through his Heart and Soul, Flesh and Bone EP collection, and explored the depths of pain and hope in 2018’s The Painted Desert. After over two decades of music-making, he’s ready to take a different turn, from the desert to the waters of life. “This is definitely the most gospel-forward project I’ve done personally,” he said in a recent Rabbit Room interview. After years of processing sadness and struggle through music, now he finds himself ready to offer something new to his daughters and the Church—something joy-filled and hopeful, telling stories of resurrection and restoration. A couple of different styles come together on this EP. On the one hand, it shows Osenga’s flair for rock ’n roll, something we haven’t really heard since his (incredibly fun) Flesh EP. “Living Waters” explodes from an electric guitar solo and keeps The Killers-esque driving momentum all the way through. At the EP’s midpoint, “Hold On To Me” rides an easy rock groove for a song about keeping hope alive, even in darkness. The rest of the tracks explore territory we haven’t really heard much on Osenga’s past albums: Church-centered worship songs. On the first listen, “Rejoice Again” may catch longtime listeners off guard. Its straightforward melody and singable lyrics wouldn’t feel out of place at your local church, but it feels intentional in its simplicity. The themes of resurrection continue through “Risen One,” and “Peace of God” rounds out the collection with a gentle acoustic prayer: “Peace of God / Reign in me / Beyond my understanding / Beyond my unbelief.” For fans of worship artists like Mission House, these songs will feel like an easy choice to include in a Sunday morning playlist. Happy songs are everywhere in the world of Christian music, but genuine joy? That’s challenging to capture. But the hope in these songs feel earned, real, and truthful, like a balm for weariness or cynicism. For Osenga, this is only the beginning of a fruitful new era of music — from producing community projects like Anchor Hymns and The Faithful Project, to hymns released under the name The Quiet Hours, to even more solo singles leading the way to Headwaters. Living Water is the sound of new life breaking forth, the year of the locust giving way to a season of spiritual and artistic abundance. Jen Rose Yokel is a poet, freelance writer, and spiritual director. Her words have appeared at She Reads Truth, CCM Magazine, and other publications, and she released her first poetry collection Ruins & Kingdoms in 2015. Originally from Central Florida, she now makes her home in Fall River, Massachusetts with her husband Chris, where you can find her enjoying used bookstores and good coffee.

Creators of dystopian fiction often emphasize the losses of a post-apocalyptic world by featuring remnants of a former, easier life. From the H.G. Wells 1936 film Things to Come to the 2023 HBO release The Last of Us, directors show everyday objects we take for granted grown precious in the realm of the survivor: a box of shoelaces, a Top 100 Billboard Hits book, airplane parts, a can of peaches–bits and bobbles of pre-disaster ease now precious to people trying to scrap together life in a world grown dark. Maybe “apocalyptic” is too strong of a word, but many Western Christians have experienced severe spiritual disorientation over the past decade. Leaders, organizations, and ideologies aren’t what we thought they were. Our lives and relationships don’t look like we were told they would. There have long been disappointments surrounding the use of the name of Jesus, but the recent concentration of trust-destroying events has been the highest I’ve seen in fifty years. As I survey the wreckage of faith systems that once felt like home to me, a few pre-disaster relics have held their value. Tim Keller’s life and ministry are on my short list here. I don’t mean that every word he ever wrote or spoke gees and haws with how I now view the world. I no longer expect that of any teacher. However, when so many other pastors sold out to political panic and manipulation, he didn’t. He remained kind, focused, curious. 'The sky is falling' was never Keller’s vibe. How badly I needed to see at least one older pastor behave this way in our present chaos. Rebecca Reynolds In a reductionistic culture intent on forcing us to choose between extremes, Keller continued to think outside many boxes, even on issues that made him a pariah in extremist circles. His nuance made feverish corners of the establishment itchy. Yet, he also held to certain tenets without wavering. He stood confidently in those beliefs while maintaining a posture of respect for other viewpoints, offering to share his platform and engage in civil discourse. “The sky is falling,” was never Keller’s vibe. How badly I needed to see at least one older pastor behave this way in our present chaos. But even more critical than these marks of ethos, Keller’s teaching reminds me of a redemption that I desperately need, freely given by a Prodigal God. It feels weird to talk about needing redemption post-’90s religious trauma. Shame was used to control many believers in decades of my young adulthood. Youth speakers drove forks violently into oranges, warning us about the ruin we would bring upon ourselves and our future relationships if we made a sexual mistake. We were given rule books telling us how God wanted us to date, do marriage, parent, and engage in outreach. Extreme examples of devotion were constantly set before us, and we didn’t want to be the sorts of fools who strove to keep what was fading while forfeiting what we could never lose. So, we committed to radical “obedience.” Eventually, though, it became evident that some of the teachings we followed were dead wrong. Radical religious advice was doing harm to our marriages and our kids. Sin-talk was being wielded to keep us inside damaging systems run by narcissistic leaders. We realized that corrupt political machines had been using religious language and religious networks for earthly power grabs. Our early willingness to give our lives for faith began to ring with the disillusionment of Wilfred Owen’s grave poem “Dulce et Decorum Est.” In the aftermath of such trauma, who wouldn’t flinch at the suggestion that we need redemption? Our spiritual vulnerability was commandeered by selfish and dangerous people pointing fingers at us and telling us we needed someone to die for us—doesn’t it make sense that we would at least temporarily feel safer shedding that entire dynamic? Recently, however, I re-opened Keller’s Prodigal God, and after a few pages, I realized how thirsty I’ve been to hear the pure, simple good news of the gospel. While I’ve needed to learn more about manipulation, boundaries, and inherent self-worth, those discoveries haven’t negated my deepest need for a savior. Hebrews 12:27 describes a hard season of revelation in which debris is shaken off truth so everything which cannot be shaken becomes evident. Think of a white sheet snapped in the summer sky. Lies fall away. Beauty, truth, and goodness linger almost weightless in the breeze. Maybe what has felt like dystopia has actually been some sort of Divine reclamation instead. And on the other side, I find I still need the grace Keller describes. “There is no evil that the father’s love cannot pardon and cover; there is no sin that is a match for grace.” “Nothing, not even abject contrition, merits the favor of God. The father’s love and acceptance are absolutely free.” The true gospel is freeing, not constraining. Rebecca Reynolds “It’s not [the older brother’s] sins that create the barrier between him and his father, it’s the pride he has in his moral record; it’s not his wrongdoing but his righteousness that is keeping him from sharing in the feast of the father.” Liberty. Wave after wave of liberty. Keller doesn’t wield sin as a tool to corral us into an earthly system of religious power. In fact, such teaching can protect us from the conniving of harmful religious organizations and leaders. The true gospel is freeing, not constraining. A few days ago, my sister-in-law sent us a photo of a coffee shop called Shadrach, Meschach & ABeanToGo. Their slogan is: “Master roasted, never burnt.” I bet you just groaned. We did, too. But some things do pass through the fire and emerge sweeter. Papa Keller’s ministry has been that sort of gift to me. I’m going to miss his ready presence on earth. But, I’m so thankful he held our hands through the chaos. I’m so thankful he didn’t go crazy when so many others did. I’m so thankful he continued to walk with Jesus to the end. I’m so thankful his words linger to guide us still.

This Friday last, pastor, teacher, and author Tim Keller took one final drag on the air of old creation, then breathed his first breath of the unadulterated rest of Christ, in which rest he now awaits the further glory to be revealed at the Resurrection. For Tim, this transposition is great gain, though it is a hard loss for many left behind: thousands whom Tim pastored and mentored; hundreds of thousands whom he taught through his incomparable sermons, lectures, and writings; many personal friends; and, of course, for Kathy, Tim’s wife of nearly fifty years, and their three children. It would of course be too much to say that Tim’s voice was the stability of our times. But everything about Tim’s faithful discharge of his vocation – in pulpits, at lecterns, and in his many books and articles – exuded the reassuring stability of a man firmly rooted in the grace of God in Christ. In the midst of interesting times, his voice remained clear and steady, his rhetoric measured, his mind nimble and curious, and his heart warm and hospitable. These were gifts of God to Tim, and gifts to us through Tim. We will miss them. There were too many notable features of Tim’s life and teaching to do many of them justice in a brief remembrance such as this. But for a community committed to story and beauty, two may be particularly salient: his robust application of common grace, both in his teaching and, evidently, his life; and his emphasis on working from rest. First, regarding common grace. During his public career Tim did not, so far as I know, change his mind about any significant point of doctrine or morality. He remained committed to the doctrinal distinctives of the Protestant reformation, particularly as touching matters of sin and the doctrines of grace. Yet even a cursory glance at his engagements and the content of his output show that this doctrinal and moral constancy did not hold for the reasons usually given by the suspicious – reactionary fear and anger, financial or power interest, the Dunning-Kruger effect. He was plainly a marvelously curious and open man. This essential openness I ascribe to his robust view of common grace: he knew God could plant startling goodness and beauty anywhere, in anyone, any painting, or song, or novel, or stageplay. He could be open to the veins of beauty in anyone’s story. His doctrinal consistency over time, then, owes much to the fact that his robust view of common grace made all his other doctrinal and moral commitments uncommonly supple: his theological and philosophical wineskins retained enough newness, enough give, to take in good vintages old and new, retaining their form while holding the wines. Second, regarding working from rest – specifically, from rest in Christ. Tim spoke and wrote often about functional saviors and self-justification projects. These could relate to family or other relationships, financial status, or success in one’s vocation. Self-justification by vocational success can be particularly vexing for artists, for success in painting, creative writing, or composing is hard to measure. Even good efforts remain subject to reproach, especially the artist’s self-reproach. This is one of the many places where Tim’s broad application of the grace of God in Christ shows its quality: for those whose ultimate validation and identity are found in Jesus, vocational success need not be a cripplingly stern master. To Tim: If messages go from blogs to the Church Triumphant, thank you. Thank you for leaving us a substantial body of work from which we may yet learn and grow. Enjoy your well-earned rest in the peace of God.

We could never go back and be strangers All our secrets are mixed and distilled But you’ve taught me to temper my anger And you’ve learned what it’s like to be still Jason Isbell sings these lines in a song called “Running With Our Eyes Closed,” which is also the title of a new documentary by Sam Jones that follows the recording and release of Reunions–the chart-topping record put out by Isbell and his band, The 400 Unit, in early 2020. “Jason Isbell is one of those songwriters that makes you feel like you know him and he knows you,” Jones, the director, says from the jump. “This collection of songs are some of the most personal he’s ever written so I wanted to discover where the life and the art connect.” Twenty-two minutes into the documentary we’re treated to a scene of Isbell belting out a heartbreaking ballad called “Dreamsicle” that delves into his chaotic childhood rooted in small-town Alabama and his parents’ divorce when he was an adolescent. “There was a pretty big religious undertone to everything down there,” Isbell says, and this preacher’s kid from Arkansas can relate. Creative Writing classes regularly teach students about three kinds of stories: Romance, Comedy, and Tragedy, but Isbell says there’s essentially one kind of story, “Will you listen to what my life is like and let’s compare?” After Isbell finishes singing, he joins his wife, Amanda Shires, under the soundboard and they share a quiet moment holding hands as the vocals replay and you understand just how deep this song cuts for everyone in the room. It was at this point in the documentary that I began wishing for a happy ending to Jason’s (and perhaps my own) story. I’ve been listening to Isbell since 2017, when songs like “Cumberland Gap” and “Anxiety” became a regular part of my husband’s kitchen rituals. Whether he’s cleaning up after dinner or preparing to try out a new recipe, John usually has loud music blaring from the Google speaker as he putters around the kitchen, and after twenty-five years, I can tell what kind of mood he’s in based on the playlist. That Spring was a particularly tough one as we prepared for our oldest to fly the coop. Lyrics like, “Even with my lover sleeping close to me / I’m wide awake and I’m in pain” and “Mama said ‘God won’t give you too much to bear’ / Might be true in Arkansas but I’m a long long way from there” provided some companionship in that season for our grief, anger, and fear. As we worried endlessly over the future, life felt a lot like this chorus from “24 Frames”: You thought God was an architect, now you know He’s something like a pipe bomb ready to blow And everything you built that’s all for show, goes up in flames In 24 frames Isbell’s songs from the last few albums cover everything from his own struggles with addiction to his longings to change Southern culture. Still, I wasn’t prepared for the level of intimacy this film sheds on Isbell’s early life—particularly the storms his marriage has weathered over the last ten years. These storms have produced songs like “Cover Me Up” and “It Gets Easier,” both powerful anthems, that also carry the potential to trigger former addicts as well as victims of domestic violence. The documentary does not end with the entire Isbell family sitting in church on Sunday morning–the neat and tidy ending my crooked heart longs for, but it does show an authentic story of redemption. And if Christianity has taught me anything, it’s that redemption is messy and difficult, rather than clean and easy. Which reminds me of the main character in the song “River.” He’s a man who’s done terrible, awful things, but the melody feels like a lullaby, and Isbell ends the song with these words: The river is my savior She’s running to the sea And to reach her destination Is to simply cease to be And running ’til you’re nothing Sounds a lot like being free So I’ll lay myself inside her And I’ll let her carry me The initial savior in Isbell’s life is Shires, as she helped him get on the road to recovery; by the end of the film, it’s clear that Isbell needs more. Shire’s sacrifices are not capable of providing a lasting solution for all his sins. As Isbell attests when speaking about his mother’s failed attempts to change his father’s behavior in the early nineties, “For a long time I thought that was possible,” he says. “And… it’s not, turns out.” Isbell’s story, as it turns out, is just as complicated as either of his parents, but this movie sparks hope in my heart as it bears witness to a life that’s still in process, just like mine.

I started dreaming about the theme of my next album just before 2020, and found myself drawn toward the Psalms. So in my personal devotion time, I began studying and meditating on a new Psalm each day, praying them back to God and letting these ancient prayers shape my own. Little did I know how difficult the next few years would turn out to be, or how the Psalms would end up giving me words to pray through a worldwide pandemic, my own ministry burnout, and the unexpected death of my dad after heart surgery. Psalms: The Poetry of Prayer is the fruit of those years praying the Psalter, its songs giving voice to trust, joy, confession, thanksgiving, lament, and more. The tracklist is ordered intentionally, loosely patterned after the A.C.T.S. model of prayer or the flow of a church service. I also attempted a quasi-chiasmus structure, with the first and last song being about God’s Word and the center song being the only one that names Jesus explicitly. My hope is that these songs will give listeners the language to sing, pray, and converse with God through all kinds of emotions and circumstances. 01 – “Like A Tree (Psalm 1)” Psalm 1 serves as an introduction to the Psalter, so it felt right to have this song kick off the album and set the table for the rest of the tracklist. As I pray/sing in the chorus, I want to be like a tree planted by God’s river and rooted in his nourishing Word and presence… even when the sun gets hot and the winds pick up. Musically, producer Paul Demer and I had a lot of fun with this one – the echoing gang vocal was his idea – and I love the rootsy (get it? A rootsy tree song?!) sound we captured: part Americana foot-stomper, part spiritual. 02 – “No Place Better (Psalm 84),” co-written with Wendell Kimbrough This was one of the last songs added to the tracklist and, to be perfectly honest, I only started writing it because I felt the album needed another upbeat moment. But now it’s one of my favorite songs on the record. This one is super-visual for me: the drum rolls, hand claps, and trumpets conjure up the image of a marching band on parade, pilgrims joyfully making their way through the wilderness, all the way home to Zion. 03 – “Better Than Life (Psalm 63)” I hope this song serves as a worshipful prayer for those longing for God; but I also hope it gives words to the person who doesn’t feel much desire for God, yet wants to want him even still. David wrote this Psalm in the wilderness, where he allowed his physical thirst for a sip of water to point him to that deeper, more fundamentally human thirst for God Himself, the only one who can truly satisfy. I have a clear memory of writing this one: it came almost all at once while I was on a solo hike in Chattanooga before a concert. 04 – “Have Mercy (Psalm 51)” Psalm 51 seems to be the penultimate prayer of confession in scripture, so I knew I wanted to write a song from it for this project. I love that David acknowledges both the dark severity of sin and the bright hope of forgiveness in this Psalm, knowing his appeal for mercy is being heard by a God who has revealed himself as “rich in mercy,” a God who will not turn away a broken, contrite heart but runs out to meet the prodigal. I’m hopeful this song is congregational enough to find a home in Sunday morning worship, and the male vocal singing an octave down is a nod to the idea that we can confess both individually and corporately. 05 – “Like A Child With Its Mother (Psalm 131),” featuring Jess Ray I wrote this song in a season of melancholy and worry, when a complex, lose-lose situation in our community left me feeling disoriented, misunderstood, and questioning how God could possibly make things right. As I’ve struggled with bouts of anxiety over a number of things in recent years, this image of a weaned child calmed and quieted in her mother’s arms has been one I have returned to again and again. This song is both a prayer and a heart posture. My self-sufficient pride, anxious wrestling, and emotional upheaval are all regulated by God’s loving presence and sovereignty over all things. Musically, Paul Demer’s production and Jess Ray’s beautiful voice invoke these same themes: peace, rest, and quiet trust. This is another favorite on the record. My self-sufficient pride, anxious wrestling, and emotional upheaval are all regulated by God’s loving presence and sovereignty over all things. Caroline Cobb 06 – “Shepherd, Walk Beside Me (Psalm 23)” The only track that explicitly mentions Jesus by name, I intentionally placed this one at the very center of the album: a chiastic nod to the idea that Jesus is central to the story of scripture and to our ability to access God in prayer. Hundreds of songs have been written from this Psalm, but I hoped to take a unique angle by addressing the Shepherd directly and then pointing to Jesus as the Good Shepherd (John 10) by the third verse. To me, even the music feels “pastoral” (in the agrarian sense), with its three-part harmonies (Paul & Trisha Demer) and the pedal steel from Aaron Fabbrini rising and falling like the hills in the countryside. I’ve loved singing this one as a corporate worship song. 07 – “Good To Give Thanks (Psalm 92),” co-written and feat. Wendell Kimbrough Wendell, Paul, and I had a ton of fun with this one. We were able to “paint” with a lot of different sounds throughout: stomps, claps, trumpet solos, and a call-and-response vocal in the outro. A worship song with major kid-song energy, this track reminds us that it’s good, right, and life-giving to give thanks to the Lord using all musical instruments we can find. It made sense to me to put this song right after the song about what Jesus has done for us, and my hope is that it will help listeners dance and laugh like kids again—for “he has made us glad!” 08 – “My Refuge, My Fortress (Psalm 91),” featuring Paul Demer During the pandemic of 2020, two separate Kickstarter supporters commissioned a Psalm 91 song. I struggled with the theological tensions this psalm contained: it says “He will deliver you from the deadly pestilence…it will not come near you,” and yet we know God does not always physically protect us from pestilence like COVID, from suffering, or even from death itself. In writing this song, I tried to hold this seeming contradiction together even as Jesus did when he prayed both “take this cup from me” and “thy will be done.” I hope this song becomes a simple hymn for the suffering, a prayer of trust on hard days. 09 – “Don’t Hide Your Face (Psalm 102),” co-written by Rachel Wilhelm Old Testament scholars estimate that laments make up two-thirds of the Psalter. And yet, as I neared the start of production for this Psalms album, I realized the working tracklist did not yet include a true lament. A few months before, our close neighborhood friends had lost their young daughter Lily. My friend Kathy, Lily’s mom, had posted online about how Psalm 102 had given her words in her grief. So, with their story heavy on my heart, I sat at the piano and started writing. My friend Rachel Wilhelm – a songwriter known for her work in lament – helped me finish it, adding even more ache and really unique chord choices. 10 – “I Love Your Word (Psalm 119),” co-written with Anne-Claire Cummings As I sat down to put the tracks in order, I intentionally chose to bookend the album with songs about God’s Word. In writing this track, my hope was to condense the famously-long Psalm 119 down to its core message: we love and desire God’s Word because we love and desire God. My prayer is that this is a song someone could use both in their alone time with God—say, at the outset of a “quiet time” in the early morning—and in a corporate setting—say, the song a congregation sings just before a Sunday sermon. I really, really love this one and I’m grateful my friend Anne-Claire would help me take it across the finish line. 11 – “Selah” We had recorded a long instrumental at the end of Psalm 119, but decided late in the game to make it a solo track. There were several reasons behind this choice, but one was to make sure Psalm 23, the Jesus song, sat at the center of the record. My friend and fellow singer-songwriter Graham Jones had the idea to call it “Selah,” an idea I loved right away. The word “selah” occurs 71 times in the Psalms. Though its exact meaning is difficult to nail down, many believe it’s a musical term directing us to pause and praise God for whatever was just prayed or sung in the previous verse. On this album, this song offers a moment of rest, a moment to pause and praise God after all we have covered in tracks 1-10. It feels like a perfect ending to a Psalms record. You can listen to Caroline’s new album, Psalms: The Poetry of Prayer here.

Graduation season is almost upon us! Five years ago I wrote letter to my high school self, and I just released a song inspired by some of these thoughts. Here’s some of what it said… Dear JJ, Congrats on making it into vocal ensemble! You won’t get very many solos, but don’t let this discourage you. God has something amazing in store for your future. I would tell you about it, but you wouldn’t believe me. Don’t beat yourself up too much for missing that potentially game-winning shot sophomore year. You worked hard in practice and gave it your all. You can rest in that. Life is more than wins and losses. When you have a house of your own someday, you won’t have a single trophy on display. You’re not going to find the love of your life in high school, so don’t take things too seriously. Just use this time to learn about relationships. Now listen up, because this is important. When your senior-year boyfriend tells you that he doesn’t care for brown eyes, tell him that you don’t care for his insensitivity. Someday soon you’ll marry a man named Dave who will love your brown eyes. The two of you will have a daughter named Lucy whose dark brown eyes will melt your hearts. And then you’ll have a daughter named Nora who will have your husband’s gray/green/blue eyes that will look just like the ocean. Make sure to thank your freshman English teacher for telling you that you have a talent for creative writing. Her suggestion to move you up to honors English will be one of the best decisions of your life. You’ll fall in love with the power and beauty of words in that class. Give your sister a compliment now and then and look for ways to connect. Make sure to tell her you love her. High school is hard on everybody. Thank Mom for not just coming to every single volleyball match, softball and basketball game, but for being the most enthusiastic one there. No one could deny the love in her voice. She will always be your cheerleader. Thank Dad for taking you to “the little gym” every Sunday night so you can practice your shot. You will shoot thousands of times over the next few years, and with every rebound, Dad is saying, “I love you.” The popular kids will disappear from view as soon as you pack up your graduation gown, so spend time with the people who love you. Invest in your family. They will be in your life when high school is just a memory. In some ways, life will surpass your wildest expectations, but it will also bring darker times than you ever imagined. It may take a while to learn, but you’re stronger than you give yourself credit for. You will make mistakes, but you are loved. Don’t try to grow up too fast. Love, Your future self Make sure to visit JJ Heller’s official site for more music and updates!

The last few years have found Jess Ray wrestling on several fronts—with her calling, her music, her spirituality. She’s not the only one. A global pandemic shook the trees for a lot of us, a forced reconsideration of most aspects of life as routines were interrupted and institutions were weakened. What has made Jess’s music so compelling is how her lays bare such struggles and questions in ways that invite us in. She gives us permission to wonder (or wander) and makes us feel less alone on the journey. It’s found in the beauty of albums like Born Again or even her work with Taylor Leonhardt in Mission House. We recently asked Jess to update us on what she’s doing musically these days and what to expect at this week’s special edition of The Local Show. I’d love to start with a musical update from you on all fronts, just to keep readers informed as to what you’re doing. Well, I put out a record called Born Again last year. It came out like September or October and I worked all year long on that. I just loved making that album. I loved every bit of it. In some ways, I’m a little sad it’s over, I think, because I’d started a podcast related to it and was hosting conversation around what I was getting at with that album. It was all different themes that will probably be relatable to a lot of people, everything from deconstruction and the reconstruction of my faith to being at a mega church at the beginning of the pandemic and then left that. I really went through about a year-and-a-half of sabbatical and the time of healing after that was just a challenging season. So that album is full of songs that were related to a lot of things going on personally in my life and in the world over the past few years. Getting to share the songs and then the podcast and the conversation around that has been a really meaningful thing to do the past year or so. I think I want to keep doing that. I’m sure anyone else who’s creating music these days feels the same, but it just seems really consumable. People on Friday will kind of check out your song or album or whatever, and by the next week, they’re kind of moved on to the next thing. So there’s some frustration, I think, being an artist these days. I think we want our music to last longer. We want people to care about full albums and stuff like that, but the systems don’t really lend toward that. So I would say, I am probably going to finish up the podcast. I don’t know that I’m going to do a second season, but I’m leaning more towards that than not at this point. And then I’ll just continue to release songs related to a lot of the same content that should feel really compatible with my album born again. That is probably what I’ll do for the next year. I want to continue to host conversation both in song form and podcast form, specifically aimed at people who find themselves in an interesting spot given this moment of crisis we feel both in our nation and in church. So I’m trying to continue to offer resources and companionship for people who find themselves in that spot. How does all of this fit with Mission House? Because you have this whole other project we’ve not even mentioned, right? Yeah. With Mission House, Taylor [Leonhardt] and I writing worship songs for the church. It started in 2018 or 2019 after we had realized we had kind of this pile of worship music, and then we got signed to Integrity [Music]. Then a pandemic happened as we were starting a band. So I would say there are numerous things that really knocked the wind out of us as a band. We were literally writing songs for church gatherings, and then everyone stopped gathering for church. I believe if God means to continue to work through Mission House, I’m sure he will, but yeah, it’s been a bumpy road keeping the thing going. At the same time, we didn’t go looking for it, it wasn’t something that Taylor and I wanted to do. Doors were just opening and it was something we felt more called towards than necessarily something we’d dreamed of. So it’s been a really good and meaningful couple of years, even with the challenges. But we’ve just turned a corner. This year, I have an even clearer vision of what we’re going to do, at least for about a year or two, for Mission House. We are hosting these live recordings where we’ll pick locations in the U.S. We’ve sent out practice tracks for people to actually learn alto, tenor and soprano parts for the songs. So we’re actually turning our crowd into a choir, and they can really feel involved in a special way. Our hope is that we write good songs that are easy for people to sing. We were literally writing songs for church gatherings, and then everyone stopped gathering for church. Jess Ray We just did one in Dallas, and it was beautiful. It was so fun. We know we’re going to do three of those potentially this year. If they go well, that is probably what we’ll do for now with Mission House—a mix of a touring experience and recording albums at the same time. It would just be a running list of what we’re calling family nights, with these albums that come from those recordings. With how it went so well in Dallas, I can’t help but imagine us doing this kind of for the next couple of years. And then, yes, I’m still trying to produce produce my own music, and I produce a lot of Mission House stuff and then trying to have at least an artist or two each year that I’m working with to produce their music as well. It’s mainly those three things that go around. You said people were responding to Born Again, but is there one song in particular that you hear about again and again? It’s not one. I have little stories from a number of them, but one would be “Place to Land”. I’ve gotten a lot of feedback on that. I think the number of people who just feel the frenzy of the days we’re living in… this era is just forcing us to live an inhuman pace of life. It shows our desperate need for Sabbath and rest and to disconnect from things. So I get a lot of feedback about that song. “At Your Mercy” is another one that people talk about. I call that song “my trust fall back into God.” I wasn’t ever fully walking away from God, but this past season has brought me to rededicate my life to Christ, to come face-to-face with the stuff that are hang-ups for me and work through those. It’s not that they’re all completely sorted at this point, but it’s me coming to that decision again saying, ‘Into your hands, I commit my spirit. I can’t understand this. But I am giving myself completely to this again.’ And I think there are so many of listeners who have been in that same moment, coming kind of to the end of themselves and then giving themselves again to God. I love to hear that! You’ll get to play some of these songs at The Local Show coming up. Any special plans there? Oh, they’ve let me pick all the people which was so cool. My friends, The River Indigo, a husband and wife, will be there. Cecily Hennigan, an incredible singer-songwriter, has the coolest voice ever and will be there. And then Paul Demer writes beautiful acoustic folk and has a wonderful voice. I’m so excited because I haven’t really collaborated with any of them before, but I like all of them. So that’s gonna be really cool. And in that kind of setting, it’s cool because it makes you strip back all of your songs to just a guitar or piano. That’ll be really fun, especially these new songs that are so pop-driven. It’s fun to get to kind of present those in a very stripped back way, but it’s also a little bit vulnerable. Because the songs have so much built up on the tracks, it’s a fun challenge to say, ‘All right, is this a good song? When you just play piano or guitar, does it still work?’ I love The Local Show. I mean, I credit it for numerous opportunities that I’ve received since the first time I did that. So I’m very grateful for it and I’m excited to be back.

In the past few years, I’ve grown increasingly attached, first to the development of Rabbit Room Press, which is constantly growing into new and exciting areas, and more recently, to Rabbit Room Theatre, which has exciting things coming up in the near future. At the same time, the organization has grown by leaps and bounds since I was appointed Executive Director in 2016. Over the course of the last couple of years, I’ve consistently asked the Rabbit Room Board to allow me to focus more intentionally on the Press and Theatre, and now we’ve collectively agreed that the time make that shift has come. As of today, we are officially searching for a new Executive Director, and I’m directing all of my efforts toward the continued health and growth of the Press and Theatre programs. I could not be more excited about this opportunity to lean wholly into my creative gifts. And I’m equally excited to discover the person who will fill my previous role and usher the organization into its bright future. –Pete Peterson At its heart, the Rabbit Room aims to cultivate a joyful working environment in which each member of the team is empowered to think creatively, to strive for excellence, and to faithfully, generously, and humbly pour out their unique gifts in order to reveal the beauty of Christ to the world. As our Executive Director, you will manage and oversee the implementation of directives set forth by the Rabbit Room Board of Directors. You will get to develop strategic plans for driving the mission of the organization and will play a key part in shaping the public’s experience of the Rabbit Room and its programs. You will get to collaborate with team members and senior leadership to develop new processes and gain insight into current ones. To be successful, you will need to be a self-motivated professional with proven experience and an outstanding track record in leadership, critical thinking, business relationships, communications, and team collaboration. You will need the skills to lead a creative team as they engage with a global audience through a variety of media and will need to show a creative approach to problem-solving while embodying a spirit of generosity. Most importantly, you will use your skills and experience to help the Rabbit Room in its mission to cultivate and curate stories, music, and art to nourish Christ-centered communities for the life of the world. What You’ll Be Doing Acting as a liaison between the Board of Directors and the Rabbit Room staff Leading and encouraging a collaborative, productive, and healthy culture among the Rabbit Room staff Developing strategic relationships with supporters and organizations Overseeing business management as well as tracking progress toward financial goals and budgetary plans throughout the year Analyzing and managing operational processes and performance, recommending solutions for improvement when necessary Ensuring that Rabbit Room communications adhere to the voice, ethos, and orthodoxy of the organization Executing contracts and liaising with general counsel on legal and strategic matters Ensuring insurance compliance Acting as a Rabbit Room representative at conferences, conventions, etc. Conducting regular staff meetings Conducting quarterly employee evaluations for program heads What We Are Looking For At least a bachelor’s degree in organizational development, business, communications, public relations, or related fields A desire to make and maintain personal connections within a broad community of creators, artists, organizations, and supporters Five years of experience in related fields Proven gifting in leadership, emotional intelligence, collaboration, and communication Strong analytical and quantitative skills; ability to use hard data and metrics to back up assumptions and drive good choices Ability to work collaboratively across departments Strength in creative problem-solving, attention to detail, and the ability to work in a deadline-driven work environment Other Information Location: Nashville, Tennessee (Cane Ridge). This is an in-person role. Beginning: Spring/Summer 2023 Reporting to: Board of Directors Compensation & Benefits: Minimum starting salary is $90,000/year (plus healthcare package) 4 Weeks paid time off annually + 15 days off for holidays Paid parental leave Paid learning stipend Flexible schedule You get to work in the beautiful North Wind Manor and staff office. Access to Rabbit Room events year-round, including international conferences Opportunity to work in a creative environment in a growing organization About the Rabbit Room The Rabbit Room was conceived as an experiment in creative community. After author/singer/songwriter Andrew Peterson’s first visit to the Oxford home of C. S. Lewis, he returned to Nashville with a renewed conviction that community nourishes good and lasting artistic work. The Rabbit Room, the name of the back room of the pub where the Oxford Inklings (including Lewis, Tolkien, and Charles Williams, among others) shared their stories, began as an online store for books and music and a blog with contributors who are authors, songwriters, artists, and pastors. Over the years, it has grown to include a publishing house, podcast network, an annual arts conference called Hutchmoot, a theater program, a beautiful community and event space called North Wind Manor, and a vibrant community of artists and creators. To Apply Email andy@rabbitroom.com with your resume and a cover letter to apply.

C.S. Lewis was a Christian mystic but not in the pagan sense, in the Tozer sense: he experienced his faith deep in his sentient being, always aware of God’s presence in his own nature and the world around him. Lewis’s friend George Sayer said Lewis’s life experiences were not literary but “mystical experiences of the presence of God.” As a young boy, Lewis’s aesthetic experiences were mediated through nature. This affinity for the beauty of nature persisted in his life. Before breakfast, recalls Sayer, Lewis would walk the garden to drink in “the beauty of the morning, thanking God for the weather, the roses, the song of the birds, and anything else he could find to enjoy.” When Lewis and his brother Warren reminisced about their childhood, Jack “lamented the lost simplicity of country pleasures: the empty sky, the unspoilt hills, the white silent roads on which you could hear the rattle of a farm cart half a mile away.” In Lewis’s final work of fiction, Till We Have Faces, when Psyche admits to Orual that the sweetest thing in all her life is to go to the mountain to find where all the beauty came from, we hear Jack’s voice pining for the One Thing behind the thing. In Lewis’s mysticism, we find hidden instructions for chasing beauty in our everyday callings and in our art. Lewis would have us be reachers and builders. Consider the painting of a child. We’ll call her Phoebe. Phoebe’s mother invites her to paint the sunset. So, Phoebe sits with her paper, looks at the melting colors in the sky, and smears wonder marks, filling her makeshift canvas. Think about Phoebe’s act. She sees. She listens. She thinks. She paints. With her senses afire, she rebuilds the awe-full sky before her. She uses the materials given to her to paint what she sees. What does her painting show us? Is it mere mimesis? Or is it something more profound? Phoebe reaches for the awe trapped in the colors that dazzle her sense of sight. Her innocence gives her purity of voice. She paints unaffected by forces telling her how to represent what she sees. In her act of sky-building, she paints from her truest self. Lewis, however, points to the fact that only God truly creates; he alone brings something from nothing, and he alone brings forth existence itself. Timothy Willard The vision of the sunset elevates her mind. Though her strokes to an adult appear raw, a rhythm of joy flows across the page—felt more than seen. The great translator of Homer, W.H.D. Rouse, said the hallmark of all great poets is plain, unaffected language. Perhaps this is why a child’s painting can be simple yet possess unexpected beauty. Now, what does her act of painting achieve? Phoebe’s smears reach to seize what the wonderful scene whispers. That there is thought—Logos—somewhere there. Of course, she does not call it Logos. She doesn’t even call it beauty. She calls it something more elemental and uses pure description as only a child can. Perhaps she calls the sunset a rainbow or a dance. Maybe she calls it a color song. This Logos touches all living things in creation. I love meditating on the truth that God thought of creation before it, or I, existed. And it is my existence that recognizes this mysterious and supreme Logos-Existence in everything and reaches to hold it. I’m reminded of how the French philosopher Pierre-Marie Emonet described the radiant thrust (phys) within a flower that reaches toward the light so that it may acquire its flower characteristics or flowerness. Phoebe, like the flower, possesses this radiance of being, the echoes of which are smeared in paint strokes on the page. Reaching to hold. As Psyche reached toward the mountains. Why? On June 26, 1954, Lewis wrote to a young admirer named Joan, who had sent Lewis a sample of her writing. She’d described a very special night in her letter and asked Lewis about the art of writing. Lewis replied: “ … you describe the place & the people and the night and the feeling of it all, very well—and not the thing itself—the setting but not the jewel. And no wonder! Wordsworth often does just the same. His Prelude is full of moments in which everything except the thing itself is described.” Then Lewis discloses his own creative journey to Joan. “If you become a writer,” he says, “you’ll be trying to describe the thing all your life: and lucky if, out of dozens of books, one or two sentences, just for a moment, come near to getting it across.” Joan and Phoebe’s–and even Lewis’s–creative paths are similar. Each experienced something special in the event of beauty—the blazing sunset and the memorable evening. Each used what Lewis might call their raw materials to build something to document their encounter. Joan used words, syntax, intuition, and imagination. Phoebe used her imagination, paper, paint, brushes, and fingers. The reaching ignites building. We never create, wrote Lewis in Letters to Malcolm, “We only build.” And that might dent our modern sensibilities. We create, we express, or so we like to say. Lewis, however, points to the fact that only God truly creates; he alone brings something from nothing, and he alone brings forth existence itself. We shouldn’t bristle at Lewis’s distinction between the verbs create and build. With the rise of the autonomous self and the art world’s emphasis on self-expression and transgression as the goal of art, our culture could use a dose of creative humility and a guiding hand away from a more Promethean approach to the creative process. Lewis himself never believed he’d captured beauty once and for all. It was the hunt—the reaching—he loved. Timothy Willard The late Oxford philosopher and writer Sir Roger Scruton believed we live in a time of desecration. Our society values the profane over the sacred. The goal of art before the Enlightenment, says Scruton, was beauty–something beyond the self, transcendent. Now the artist’s goal bends inward. This bent-in notion emerges in Lewis’s Cosmic Trilogy, manifesting in the Bent One (Out of the Silent Planet), the Uman (Perelandra), and the insidious political agency N.I.C.E. (That Hideous Strength). All embody the theological concept of incurvatus in se or “curved in on oneself.” Sin takes root, and beauty is banished, replaced by the profane, often disguised as progress. Let’s follow the trajectory of Phoebe’s gaze. She looks toward the image of beauty, reaching beyond herself to capture the dazzle of heaven within it. Jane also gazes outward. She describes a brim-full experience with words too feeble to capture the moment’s weight. Both offer a public work (liturgy) expressing private adoration of Beauty itself. They build cathedrals of imagination and wonder. A kind of artisan workmanship is attached to Lewis’s thought of “building.” Even a humility that understands the beautiful moment, tends to it, and works with tools and imagination to free the angel in the marble. You and I are reachers. Artists, writers, educators, bankers, ministers, gardeners, it matters not. Our “building” occurs in the pursuit of our callings. Some of us follow Phoebe and Joan’s path, rushing daily to build out our view of beauty on a canvas, in verse, a photograph, in song, in clay. The reaching and the building forge us into people of “gentle hearts.” Lewis himself never believed he’d captured beauty once and for all. It was the hunt—the reaching—he loved. His raw materials? Inkwell, nib, loose leaf paper, and an imagination baptized by Beauty itself. “Yes, you are always everywhere. But I, Hunting in such immeasurable forests, Could never bring the noble Hart to bay.” —C.S. Lewis, “No Beauty We Could Desire.”

Have you ever dealt with a bad case of jet lag? Yeah, same. It can be really disorienting and even a bit frustrating; getting where you’ve worked to get and then feeling so unwell that you barely feel there at all. A few years ago, I hatched what I thought was a brilliant plan to deal with jet lag on an upcoming international flight. I would stay up all night before my flight, sleep the entire 11 hours from SFO to Frankfurt and when I arrived, I’d feel refreshed and focused. It almost worked, this “brilliant” plan. I did, in fact, sleep the entire flight and wake up when the plane touched down. I also felt refreshed, mentally, having slept. But I’d spent that sleep balled up and crooked in my window seat, so when I stood up and grabbed my bag, I threw my back out and spent the next three days in pain, struggling to get out of chairs much less get out of bed. My host (who was an Army chaplain) was patient and kind with my slowness as well as all the noises I was making. Eventually, he said “We need to get you checked out. I’ll call the chiropractor.” Thing is, the chiropractor he referred me to was working on the army base in Heidelberg and seeing an army doctor wasn’t the most comforting thought. I was imagining myself doing jumping jacks while being barked at by Gunnery Sergeant Hartman from Full Metal Jacket: “You want me to adjust that back, son? Adjust that attitude first! It wasn’t that way at all. The chiropractor was a soft-spoken Canadian named Sara who got me straightened out over an hour-long session, during which she said “Wow, you really slept wrong.” I found that such a strange sentence and idea. That I could “sleep wrong.” Turns out, there are quite a few ways I have tried to rest that are actually harmful. We rest so we can get back to work. We rest as a reward for work We rest infrequently That’s naming just a few. I’ve certainly found other ways to rest poorly. The heart of the matter in all of it is that I’ve too often treated rest like a simple tool to fix my tired, distracted soul. But true rest is a practice. In fact, rest is a life-long practice in and through which I learn myself, over and over, so that I can be more whole (not only more rested). Rest is a loving and curious conversation between my conscious mind, my soul, and The One Who Holds My Life together. On my way to Germany, I had “rested” in a way that, quite literally, distorted me. I think that happens more often than we figure. The best example I can recall is the way I might become “vacation dependent.” I’m not anti-vacation, but I do think vacations or leisure trips can be more restorative (and more enjoyable) in the context of a life in which rest is a regular practice. Consider how many people you know come back from a long-awaited vacation and immediately wish they had a few days of vacation to recover from their vacation! Too many of us return from an escapist vacation adventure to our regular patterns of work and home with a deeper resentment for daily life. Justin McRoberts More problematic than that, a reliance on vacations can distort my relationship with my everyday life. Maybe you’ve heard people talk about how badly they wished they lived in Hawaii or Tahiti or Tahoe or wherever it is they “get away.” As much as I understand that sentiment, it’s also a dismissal of the goodness available right where we live. “Home” becomes a “boring” place where things get done, while “fun,” “happiness,” and “the good life” are on a beach a thousand miles away. That’s a terrible way to live. A dependency on vacation can also mal-form my relationship with work. I can end up thinking of “work” as a thing I have to do but something I am happier getting away from. Work becomes a necessary evil, while “vacation” becomes the antidote. Too many of us return from an escapist vacation adventure to our regular patterns of work and home with a deeper resentment for daily life. All of that is to the detriment of the loved ones and projects and organizations we’d joyfully given ourselves to at some earlier point. I’d hope a departure from our normal patterns can lead to a renewed love and joy for the life we get to live. Too often, in the absence of a regular pattern of rest, “vacations” steal that everyday joy. So here’s what I’ve learned: A regular Sabbath practice gives me the opportunity to stop in the middle of the good life I’m already living and appreciate it so that I am not resting from the life I’m living; I’m resting in it. The proximity of a Sabbath practice (in that it happens in regular, direct relationship to my every day relationships and circumstances) helps to clear my vision to see what I have more completely and lovingly. A regular Sabbath practice isn’t just about “recovering from work” or even “getting rest.” In a regular Sabbath practice… I learn what “rest” looks like for me in this season of life. I have room to pay attention to my own soul so I can re-learn what rest looks like when the season of my life changes (because it will). I have room to stop and see (and remember) I have a good life, given to me by the same Good God who is also inviting me to rest. I re-remember the goodness of my life when I forget. As it turns out, one of the reasons jet lag knocks people out so hard is that our bodies and minds are already so tired that we don’t have the ability to recover quickly from the disorientation. Which is to say, part of what I learned in Germany was that it probably didn’t matter how I went about addressing my need and desire to show up “rested” for that trip. I needed to learn what my soul even meant by “rest.” That knowledge has only come by way of practicing. You can read more of Justin’s work on Sabbath in his latest book Sacred Strides: The Journey to Belovedness in Work and Rest available on May 30 from Thomas Nelson Publishers.

Our friend W. David O. Taylor should be no stranger to anyone here. He’s served as the keynote speaker at Hutchmoot, written for the blog, and appeared on podcasts, and we’ve always appreciated his sharp mind, his strong faith, and his generous spirit. David’s latest book, A Body of Praise: Understanding the Role of Our Physical Bodies in Worship, released earlier this year, is an insightful work on the human body and the importance of embodiment. In order to whet your appetite for the book, we have an exclusive excerpt to share with Rabbit Room readers! The Spirit Who Plays Jazz A final aspect of a theology of spontaneity is captured in the language of the Spirit as jazz player. While this particular metaphor is widely used in theological writings about the Holy Spirit, it remains useful for our purposes here too. Jeremy Begbie helpfully unpacks the meaning of the metaphor as it relates to the context of corporate worship. Over against the presumption that only order and disorder might characterize our experience of worship, Begbie proposes a third mode, non-order, and uses laughter as an example. “It is not order (predictably patterned),” he writes, “but nor is it disorder (destructive).” It is instead what might be called non-order or the jazz-factor. Begbie explains at length: Note: You can order A Body of Praise from the Rabbit Room Store here. 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.

I am by nature a thrifty, proceed-with-planning kind of person. So what exactly is it about a garden center in spring that makes me lose all restraint? Something about a hint of warm air, the smell of dirt, and a “We’re Open” sign by the road makes me immediately shift gears. More specifically, downshift! Because I can’t risk missing this abrupt turn! I’ve just got to hightail it in there and peruse all that green glory. What is this thing that commandeers my being, that makes me throw all normal practices right out of that rolled-down car window? I guess I’ll blame it on the spring air blowing up my nose. It seems to flush the stuffiness of the months of closed-window car trips right out my ears and take any good sense with it! Those full-chested, crisp inhalations are intoxicating and make me hallucinate about those green-tipped trees along the roadway. I’m just sure they are those infamous money trees, and they’re going to share their bounty. That makes it completely fine to buy whatever I want. When it’s cold, it seems that somehow I don’t even notice these temporarily shuttered greenhouses. I want to be out and about as little as possible, so there’s no time for pausing in the brisk air to smell the lack of roses. But somewhere along the journey through slush and frigidness, there is always a magic moment of change. The air somehow feels cleaner and the sun feels like it’s smiling. And as if out of nowhere, there it is! This beacon of windows and glass-walled rooms stands waving its “OPEN” banners like a race track flagman! Every gardener knows the emergency detour that is suddenly created in their soul. Spring itself is a waypoint encouraging us onwards. Gina Sutphin Were you headed to important plans? Well, they’ll just need to be rescheduled. Were you supposed to meet a friend for coffee? Nothing says “I’m sorry for my late arrival” like a potted plant. Were you on your way to work? Surely you’re coming down with a case of Spring Fever, and are likely very contagious. The day has now officially taken charge of its own schedule and must be tended to! After all, it is one of the most Hope-Filled days of the year. And isn’t that really what this is all about to us? We who garden, garden because we hope. We hope in the seed and the labor and time invested. When winter is cold, we hold that hope that the truth of spring will still find us no matter how dark it has been. When all around us feels bleak, we hope in this thing that we know cannot be changed or shaken: that spring, glorious spring, will always come and there is nothing we can do to change or stop it. In a world that has felt so very uncertain, spring is certain. It cannot be moved, cannot be injured or stricken with sickness, cannot be tainted, and cannot be bought. Year after year, it has literally and figuratively stood its ground, pressing through unfriendly soil to spread forth tiny tendrils reaching toward the sun. And that enduring hope is what we all carry inside of us. Spring itself is a waypoint encouraging us onwards. So okay, maybe don’t throw all caution, or financial sense, or promised appointments out the window when the opportunity arises. We do all have a certain level of maturity and character that helps us be mostly reasonable about such things. But just know you’re not alone when you consider hitting the brakes to take that squealing, unexpected turn. And if you do have a moment of weakness and shuck responsibility for the day, you can count on one of us other gardeners to help cover your rubber-laid, tire tracks. After all, we know you weren’t being irresponsible. You were just being Hopeful. And that’s exactly what true Living and Breathing feel like.

I spend a lot of time reading books to my three little ones. Some days my throat grows hoarse from reading lengthy Beatrix Potter books to them, only to find my children waving yet another hardcover book in front of my face with pleading eyes. Eventually, supper must be cooked, and I gather up the books back onto the shelves for another day. After reading a book like Potter’s, I can’t help but marvel at the wonder and imagination hardwired into her. She must have looked at nature with eyes wide open and a mind twirling with questions and what-ifs. What if a dog and a cat operated a dollhouse store? What if a poor and sickly tailor discovered mice had finished the sewing project he had begun? What if there was a mouse who was tidy and particular about her little burrow? I remember thinking that way as a child. I watched a mallard and his mate swim in the pond and believed they not only mated for life but also worked together each year to plan and raise their young. I imagined my horses forming friendships with one another. I saw birds fight for a spot in the bird feeder and made up conversations for them. As I grew, that kind of wonder and imagination faded from view. Isn’t that the way it’s supposed to be: the turn to adult things? There’s a real world out there, and you can’t be preoccupied looking for love stories between toads. Get good grades in every class and start thinking about what you want to be when you grow up—and it better not be an author with her head in the clouds. As a little girl, I faced my nightmares and trials through imagined stories, but as I grew up, I became weary and cold-hearted as I distanced myself from those stories—both the ones in my head and the ones in books. I traded in my fiction for commentaries, theology textbooks, and Bible studies. And while those are good things, I lost something in that trade-off: wonder and child-likeness. What started to bring me back? Kidlit, like Beatrix Potter’s books. But not just any kidlit—good, true, and beautiful children’s books. How do we know the difference? First, we must understand childlikeness and childishness. Childlikeness Versus Childishness When reading kidlit, we may wonder: Am I moving towards childlikeness or childishness? I learned the difference between these two categories from a pair of homeschoolers. Two years ago, I had a two-year-old son and newborn twin boys, so my in-laws hired two homeschooled sisters to help me throughout the workweek with feeding babies, changing diapers, and staying on top of housework. One was a storyteller like me. She wrote entire novels, short stories, and poetry, and she wanted to try her hand at nonfiction as I had done for the past several years. As I helped her learn to write for Christian nonfiction publications, she reminded me of the beauty of stories again. As I read her stories and listened to her talk about them, I felt the wonder I had pushed aside for so long begin to swell again. She had a dream to write novels, and she hadn’t allowed “reality” to crush it. The younger sister, despite the suffering she had seen as well, still carried an untameable joy. I loved listening to her as she talked about climbing trees and watched her make imaginative games with my toddler. I saw something in them that I didn’t see in other teens their ages; they had remained childlike without being childish. What is childlikeness? The childlike person stands firm in who they are, , not pretending to be someone else to impress others. Those who are childlike play with little kids, even if it means looking silly. They can laugh at themselves when the twins puke down the back of their shirts. They trust in God’s goodness even when everyone else shakes their heads cynically. They find beauty even in the most aesthetically displeasing places. I’m still learning this from them, and I’m also learning it through children’s authors like Potter. I’m trying to look at the world with the eyes of a child to see the stories, the beauty, and the jungle gym before me. Most children have yet to be jaded by this world, and good fiction written for children helps us regain that innocence. Choosing the Right Kind of Kidlit Good fiction truly captures the real child experience. On the Worthy podcast, young adult and middle-grade author K. B. Hoyle laments the state of YA books in recent years, and how many of them have become about adults in teenage bodies. These kinds of books fail to capture the wonder that should be found in those books. Again, they embody that childishness that’s trying to fill out adult clothing too soon rather than a childlike quality that’s working toward maturity. As adults, we need the former because we’ve grown jaded and weary of this world. We need to be reminded again of what it’s like to hope and dream, to look up at the sky with innocence instead of cynicism. When they tried to wave the little children away, Jesus told his disciples to let them come to him because “anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it” (Mark 10:14–15). This is a call to receive Jesus’ gift of salvation with unhindered joy and faith. When suffering makes us bitter and cold-hearted, we must find ways to renew our hearts and minds. When we’re becoming more downtrodden, maybe kidlit can help spark that light for us again. Kidlit also harnesses the power of humor and levity. As cynical, weary adults, we take on a solemnity and seriousness that can make us feel heavy and dead. But children’s authors, especially those writing for children and middle-grade readers, must approach their writing with some levity. Their prose must have a lightness to it, and it thrives even more with witty or even silly humor. Some of our beloved and tattered books are both beautiful and hilarious—like The Gruffalo by Julia Donaldson and The Tale of the Flopsy Bunnies by Beatrix Potter. As we get older and more hardened by life, this part of childlikeness becomes less natural. As G. K. Chesterton wrote in his book Orthodoxy: Pride is the downward drag of all things into an easy solemnity. One “settles down” into a sort of selfish seriousness; but one has to rise to a gay self-forgetfulness. A man “falls” into a brown study; he reaches up at a blue sky … It is really a natural trend or lapse into taking one’s self gravely, because it is the easiest thing to do … For solemnity flows out of men naturally; but laughter is a leap. It is easy to be heavy: hard to be light. Satan fell by the force of gravity. With such a natural disposition towards solemnity, we need to make room for books that cultivate this gaiety in us as they draw light into our lives. To move from cynicism and bitterness, we all need not just a bit of wonder and an eye for beauty, but a heart that can laugh. This is the life God created for us: “Light is sown for the righteous, and joy for the upright in heart” (Ps. 97:11). As believers, we have much to be joyful about, and we know laughter is a gift from God. Do we want others to see a dreary or joyful faith? I wonder if kidlit can help lighten our heavy hearts so we can better embody the joy God has given us. Kidlit for All Ages Some of you may not have grown up with a love for reading. Maybe you weren’t exposed to many books—whether good or bad. Perhaps all you remember of reading is being forced to consume dreadful books in school for assignments. You might feel like you’ve missed out. When it comes to choosing literature for children, Leslie Bustard writes in Wild Things and Castles in the Sky, “A steady diet of dumbed-down stories, illustrations, and conversations will not prepare them for all the glorious ways words can be used in times of joy and delight and in times of sorrow and suffering” (p. 9). She goes on, “These young image-bearers of God will be formed by many, many things. Therefore, we must provide the children in our lives with words, conversations, and stories that will plant the seeds of abundance in their hearts and minds … And with these seeds growing in their lives, our children will have deeper roots to draw from in how they love, think and speak” (p. 11). We need to do the same for ourselves; we can change the relationship we had with books and find wonder and formation in the kidlit we missed out on. As you’re rounding out your book list for the new year, don’t feel ashamed for sticking some middle- grade or young-adult books on your list. If you’re a mom or daycare worker reading countless books to little ones, keep your eyes open to the pages. Don’t zone out through the familiar and simple words, but engage your own mind and heart with these pieces of literature. All good kidlit offers something timeless, true, and beautiful to all ages.

If you’re like us, then you’ve got a weathered copy of Watership Down somewhere on your shelves. The classic adventure novel by Richard Adams has been an important read for 50 years, and now we’re excited to see the book receive a beautiful new graphic novel adaptation featuring the work of a two-time Eisner Award-winning cartoonist James Sturm and our good friend and illustrator Joe Sutphin. Today is the official cover reveal for the book and it makes us even more excited to see the final work in full. You can check out the new cover below and pre-order the book here from the Rabbit Room store. And our own proprietor Andrew Peterson has already taken a look and loved what he saw. “I’ll never forget the first time I picked up a copy of Watership Down. I read a blurb on the back that said, ‘I announce, with trembling pleasure, the arrival of a great story.’ I was immediately hooked, and as I turned the last page and sat in the glow of Richard Adams’s masterpiece, I heartily agreed. Translating a great story like Watership Down into a great graphic novel would require a truly great illustrator, and I believe Joe Sutphin has proven to be just that. I’ve walked the real Watership Down, wandered through the churchyard, and stood at the river where Hazel and Fiver and their company escaped—and I can honestly say the next best thing to being there is savoring every frame of art Sutphin crafted for this story. His attention to detail, his dogged determination to capture the look and feel of the English countryside, the care with which he designed the characters we know and love, are all expressions of his dedication to the craft, his respect for Adams’s tale, and his towering talent. I don’t think there’s another artist alive who could have pulled this off. And so I’m thrilled to announce, with trembling pleasure, the arrival of a new and beautiful adaptation of a great story.”

Hutchmoot UK is only a few weeks away, so to celebrate a weekend of conversation about art, music, community, story, and the Great Story, we wanted to do something to include you in a small part of the festivities. We are going to bring you a sneak preview of, “The Psalm Code: Genesis Imagery in the Psalms,” one of the lectures that Andy Patton is giving at Hutchmoot UK. Andy is on staff at the Rabbit Room and is a former worker at the English branch of L’Abri Fellowship. You can find more of his writing at the Darkling Psalter (Andy’s Psalm poetry project), Three Things (a monthly newsletter of three good food-for-thought resources), and BibleProject.com. Though only our members can participate in the discussion live, the lecture will be available to our Rabbit Room Community in the coming months. The Psalm Code: Genesis Imagery in the Psalms Have you ever wondered why God fights with sea monsters (Psalm 74:13, 14), why there are trees in the temple (Psalm 92:12-14), or why God is so often compared to a cliff, a mountain, or a fortress? (Psalm 18:1, 2)? It all goes back to Genesis 1. Genesis is the fertile soil out of which all of the core biblical images grow and the Psalms are the trellis that spreads their fruits out to the sun. We’ll be looking at the Sea of Chaos, the Mountain of Refuge, and the Garden of God. Sign Up for the Lecture Lecture Details—When, Who, and Where Date: Thursday, May 4, 2023 Time: 6:00 pm, Central Standard Time Where: We’ll have the lecture on Zoom. Who Can Join: The lecture and discussion will be posted for free for the whole Rabbit Room community in the upcoming months, but only members get to join the discussion live. Let us know you’re coming by filling out this Google form. How to Become a Member: To become a member, just go to our member portal and follow the instructions. What is Membership at the Rabbit Room? Rabbit Room members make it possible for us to do all the things we do. Membership is about coming together as a community in common belonging and purpose. It’s made up of those who feel called to this mission and people, who recognize that they have a place in this work and want to share in its stewardship. Members get to: Support the mission and help make the work possible. Get backstage updates and advance notice on Rabbit Room happenings. Connect with staff and other members. Share your creative work at monthly Zoom meet-ups. Give input or assistance on current projects and needs. Receive our gratitude through gifts like the annual Member Mug, Hutchmoot Audio Archives, and Quarterly thank-you gifts.