What are you looking for?

Mother Nature enjoys a good April Fool’s joke as much as anyone, I guess, and after days of springtime warmth we got hit with another big snowstrom on April 1st that shut down a part of the state. However, it was nice to have a snow day for our last day at home. Today we leave to begin a new adventure: The Spring tour with Shawn McDonald and Downhere. It’s shaped up to be a full schedule of 27 dates in 34 days from Florida to Washington with a only a four day break for Gospel Music Week in Nashville. We are grateful to be a part of such a tour, to be sure, but today we are also feeling a little sad as we prepare to say goodbye to our boys. Taya will be back home for about a week in mid-April, but other than a planned visit during our stop in Minneapolis, I won’t see them for the better part of 6 weeks. This is the hardest part of what I do. Knowing this day was coming, we have tried to make the most of our time together. We had a sweet Easter time as a family and I’ve tried to keep shorter work days the last few weeks. I’ve been especially attentive to Gus, our 4 year old. He’s changing so much these days and I’m afraid of what I’ll miss of his development in this time. He’s my last little boy and he will be a different boy when I get home. And yet we believe that we are on the path that God has for us and that in the grand scheme of things, this is really just a short time apart. We are grateful, too, to have a sense that though there are sacrifices, we have purpose and that there is meaning to our work. I daily pray this is true. We really do have the best of both worlds. The boys will stay with their grandparents, which they are actually excited about. It’s a pretty painless transition for them and we know they’ll have fun. It’s more myself that I feel sorry for. The older I get the more I’m aware of how much I need my family. Can you believe that sometimes I’m actually grateful to be woken in the middle of the night by a scared little boy who needs only a word from dad to help him find the courage to sleep in the dark? Maybe I’m clinging to these days in their lives when I still have the power to make everything alright. One of my most cherished memories is the time that Taya and the boys drove me to Rochester, MN for me to join my first official tour in Spring of 2002 with Sara Groves. Afterward on the drive home that snowy February night, Jacob (then 5 years old) was a little choked up and having difficulty with the idea that they had just dropped me off and wouldn’t see me for several weeks. In his effort to cope with it, he said to Taya: “Mom, can we pretend that we’re driving to pick dad up instead of going home without him?” “Sure, Jacob,” Taya said, “we can pretend that we’re driving to pick dad up and that you’ll see him in just a little bit…” And that little thought was all he needed to help him drift off to sleep for the rest of the drive. It’s these partings that give the time we have together such weight. I’m afraid as I share such personal feelings that there are those who may be tempted to judge our lifestyle and wonder if we sacrifice too much for our ministry. Sometimes I wonder myself, to be honest, though I know in this regard that the times I am home I get to be more present to my boys than many parents, so I think it all evens out. I hope so, anyway. The trick is to be balanced and to jealously guard the time that you do have. These times away are a sacrifice for me, but I pray that God will keep us all and bless our work, and help us to do work that is worthy of blessing. I guess in sharing all this, I’m asking: would you remember us in your prayers? Remember our boys. Remember Taya and I. Pray that our work will have meaning and will be worthy of the sacrifices. Pray that we will be true and faithful to all we are called to do in our ministry both at home and on the road. Thank you.

From the Proprietor: A sure sign that you’re friends with someone is when you don’t mind if they make fun of you. The Captains Courageous and I were on a trip a while back and we decided over dinner to figure out what each person’s worst physical feature was. One had to sit and watch the other two examine him, debate, and conclude which feature a caricature artist would exploit–like G.W. Bush’s pointy ears and upper lip in political cartoons. Only in the company of good friends can you sit and feel loved even while you’re being ridiculed. I’ll post more on that later, because there’s a drawing of each of us with the bad features exaggerated, and seeing it just might brighten your day. That brings me to today’s post. After a few days of really heavy thinking about really heavy issues, I’m going to post something Pete threw together. We’re going to try something new. Once a week, Pete will pose a question and each of the Rabbit Room contributors will post a short answer or thought. Think of it like that show The View, only not annoying and shallow. So for an example Pete worked up the following, in which he posed a question and imagined how some of us might answer. I hope you enjoy it as much as we did. What pie is best and how has the loving of that pie influenced your life, work, and weight? Should you correctly answer that Cheesecake is the greatest of all known pies, please explain why it isn’t called Cheese Pie.

First of all, Andy P, thanks for writing a post that is longer than any of mine. I’ve long been insecure about that, and now you’re the long-winded one (until I write this post, anyway). And secondly, thank you Marc for getting the conversation going; you’re speaking out your convictions, and that’s good. I have some thoughts on the whole thing. Reliant faith in the indwelling Christ brings love in the heart, peace to the mind. As we learn to “stay ourselves upon the Lord” He begins to express Himself through us more and more. But we can easily confuse what God really wants (reliant faith) with the letter of the Law and get overly focused on sin – one of the main problems in the church today. We’re always studying on what sin is and how to avoid committing it rather than thinking on Who Christ is in me. We’re sin-conscious rather than Christ-reliant, fear-driven rather than Spirit-led. How much cussing in a movie is ok? Is one F bomb acceptable? Can we trade an F bomb in for two S words and a D word? What if there is just one “Hell”? Or, if there is no cussing, is it permissible to see a guy get thrust through with a sword? Or an implied sexual encounter? Where exactly is the line between appropriate and inappropriate? Is that line the same for every believer? Don’t take me wrongly; this isn’t a monologue about how we should enjoy hearing four-letter words in movies, a way to defend Hollywood and live in fleshly sensuality. Most of the time the cussing isn’t necessary – most of us can probably agree on that. And we should definitely live our convictions, speak them out, truthfully, with love – if we feel it’s wrong to watch movies with a lot of cussing, we can speak it out. If we believe something is wrong, then it is wrong for us. But not everyone has the same struggles; not everyone has the same sin-history, so each has a different “letter of the Law” perspective. That’s why some judge cussers and others judge drinkers; we often judge the very thing we struggle with, or used to struggle with, or have had family members struggle with. So we can’t expect other believers to share all our convictions. We’re all at different stages along the journey in Christ – a journey out of fear and judgment and into faith. And of course, some will rightly bring up “Faith without works is dead.” Which is true; faith without an outer expression is not faith – it’s merely passive belief. But people take that James verse to mean “Don’t drink don’t cuss don’t smoke don’t chew ‘baccy and you’ll be a real Christian.” It actually means that if we step out in faith on God’s Word and character and really trust Him, there will be outer manifestation, in our behavior, of that inner reliance. But we don’t focus on the results – that produces a short-circuit where we’re trying to make ourselves conform. Our job is to keep faith-ing in the One who produces the results. God wants to go beyond judgment, beyond fear into knowing He has completely erased our sin history in Christ – that we are now new creations, dead to sin, dead to Law, and alive to God, and that now, right now, He is the indwelling Power in us; “I will cause you to walk in My ways and keep My statutes.” All that to say – some cuss-words in movies aren’t going to destroy or weaken the infinite power of Christ living in me. But if a person’s faith in that indwelling Power is weak, cussing in movies may help weaken his faith even more, because the bottom line is we may be trying to live by a point system rather than walking in the Spirit. “What exactly is sin, and how do I avoid doing it? What exactly are the boundaries for seeing sin in movies? Can I wear a skirt this short? Is it ok to drink a beer?” I know a young believer who says nearly every cuss word in the book. He came out of a really bad and dark childhood and found Christ through some of us who loved him. He’s now a believer and still cusses a lot, though he doesn’t get as hot as he used to. Shall I judge his behavior or should I look at his heart? Shall I chide him for his cussing or encourage him for his growth and let God deal with the mouth? Does God look at the heart of a new creation man or woman, or does He merely look at the outer behavior to make sure it conforms to the divine standard? If His new creation being doesn’t “look right” does God then write it off as a total loss, throwing out the baby with the bathwater? Or does He redeem it by seeing what it means, and through seeing the heart of it bringing it deeper into His idea of what it’s meant to be? If God looks at the heart of His own art, His own creation, shouldn’t we look at the heart of art in general? Shouldn’t we look to see what a movie means? Shouldn’t we redeem art by finding the light that is there rather than the darkness that is present? If God doesn’t throw out the wheat along with the tares, why should we? Now, this is coming from a Dad who doesn’t let his kids watch anything with cussing or sex or very much violence. I understand that encoding a child is encoding a child; their minds are so absorbent – little sponges – so I’m careful with them. And I’m careful with my own mind as well. I hate gratuitous violence, sex, and even cussing. Most of the time it just isn’t necessary. But as a grownup human and grownup believer I’m looking for light – and so I sometimes find it even in dark places. It’s a matter of focus. I used to watch movies looking for anti-Christian bias, and I found plenty of it. But now I look for truth, beauty – I look for the good. And I find it much more than I supposed possible. And, of course, if a believer is watching R rated movies in order to be titillated by the darkness that’s another story (but still the same sin-consciousness problem). Some people (especially many women) have an aversion to violence, and it’s right and good for them to refrain from seeing it. I don’t like watching people get their bodies slashed by swords either, but since I can handle the violence a little better than some I’d rather see it than throw out Braveheart (which contains violence, sex, and the F bomb) and miss the call to love, courage, faith, endurance, purpose, mission, meaning and sticking together when everything is falling apart. Regarding cussing I’ve been through many phases as a believer – cussing and not thinking about it, cussing and struggling with stopping, and finally giving up on struggling and asking God to clean up my mouth. The third option works. When we utilize the third option (God doing the actual work, while we’re doing the trusting) we aren’t worried about being pulled back into it. If we didn’t use our own strength to clean up our mouth, we don’t need to to exert our human effort to keep it clean. Seeing a movie star cuss isn’t going to make me start saying F U D G E (for you Christmas Story fans out there) in front of my kids. Just how powerful is the Spirit of Christ? Who is He, really? And where is He? Well, He’s God. He’s all-powerful. And He lives in me – that transcendent, world-creating God, the God who triumphed over sin, death, Hell, and the Devil. Can He clean up my life? Can He keep me from sin? Does He have the power? Does He have the love? Does He have the desire? Or do I have to keep myself through avoidance, effort, hiding from the world? Am I supposed to be of the world (using human effort and a performance-based mentality) but not in it (hiding out from the world), or the other way round? These are all rhetorical questions, really. I think I won back the long-winded title.

I’m hesitant to enter into this sort of conversation in an online format. There’s a lot to be said for body language, tone of voice, and the way someone’s heart can pour out of a face-to-face exchange in a way that surprises even the speaker. But I guess I was the one who opened up Pandora’s box (no offense), so I’d better offer a reply, feeble though it may be. For those of you who didn’t read my post or its comments from a few days ago entitled “What Connects Us All,” here’s a recap. I recommended Once, the independent Irish film about a songwriter, with one caveat: if you’re bothered by the F word, avoid this movie. One brave soul spoke up and questioned the propriety of subjecting oneself to any film that included [expletive] thirty nine times. I’m assuming the commenter knows that because there’s a website somewhere that keeps a tally of such things for discerning viewers. So the issue is language. Specifically, the foul kind. For starters, I want to make a disclaimer. I’m not a theologian. I’m a songwriter (mainly). I don’t think that lets me completely off the hook, as pertains to my duty to be responsible for the things I write and write about, but it does mean that I’m going to approach this argument differently than, say, a seminarian pastor would, or any logical, systematic thinker, for that matter. It took me years after Bible college to learn to rest in the fact that God didn’t give me the kind of mind that can hold its own in a theological debate fraught with proof-texting. I just can’t do it. I’ve tried, I’ve failed, and I’m finished with it. But I do have a decent mind, and can reason through things in an Everyman sort of way, or at least I hope so. So if you’re of the systematic theology camp, be gentle with me. I’m still learning. Also, keep in mind that those of us who lose our keys daily and cry at the drop of a hat might have something to teach you, too. First of all, I think there’s a difference between Cursing and Using Foul Language. We tend to lump them together, but they’re not the same, I don’t think. Cursing, at least in the Biblical sense, has more to do with wishing death and evil upon someone instead of life and goodness; it is meant as the opposite of blessing. According to two concordances, the word “curse” is used in the New Testament only nineteen times, and after a quick read of each case it looks to me like that’s the sense in which it’s used every time. It doesn’t have to do with the use of certain words that society deems foul, but with wishing evil on someone, by using the inherent power of words to hurt and not to heal. Like I said, I’m no exegetical guru, so if I’m reading this wrong, by all means let me know. I think someone uttering and meaning the words “I hate you” is much more offensive than thirty nine casual uses of the F bomb. I’ll say that again. Words are the overflow of the heart, so words spoken in anger, hatred, and bitterness are far more damaging and dangerous than the flippant use of words that are thought of as dirty. To put it another way, cursing is active; it is the result of energy placed into the utterance. Those who use foul language usually do so out of laziness; they don’t feel like thinking of the right word, so they vomit out the lowest, dumbest form of the vernacular. That’s a harsh judgment, I realize, because the idea of vernacular, of the cadence of speech common to a place, is beautiful in its way, and should be preserved, and even celebrated. But within the regional vernacular, wherever you are, there will always be a hierarchy of bad words, and everyone will know it, more or less. But that list of acceptable words will change depending on which culture (and which social situation) you find yourself in. I speak differently on the stage than I do in the car with Ben and Andy on the way to the hotel after the show. We’re not two-faced. There’s a level of comfort and vulnerability and healthy irreverence that is rightly reserved for time among close friends. In England, from what I hear, “bloody” is as vile as you can get. Not so much the case in Nashville. The F bomb in Ireland is more like “darn” in the U.S. There’s a sexual connotation to us, but language morphs and words lose and gain meanings over the years. I’m not from Ireland, but I’m pretty sure that the vast majority of the thirty nine uses of the word in the film are of the “darn” variety and not the sexual euphemism kind. When I was a kid, I wasn’t allowed to say the word “fart”. We said “I passed gas.” The word “butt” was similarly off-limits–“bottom” was encouraged. I also remember that we didn’t call it “poop”. We called it–ready for this?–“boopie”. Say that aloud once or twice. Boooopie. It’s hilarious. My parents had a strong sense of which words were okay and which weren’t, and though my brother and I rode right up to the line of propriety in their presence (and leapt across it among our friends), now I completely understand that they were teaching us good manners. They were giving us the tools to be able to function in a society with rules of proper behavior, just like keeping your elbows off the table, and chewing with your mouth closed, and not burping out loud if you can help it (exception: when you’re in the car with just the guys, or if you’re Alison Osenga). That’s how I’ve approached it with my kids. They heard the S word (for boopie) once and asked me what it was. I didn’t hide from it or cringe when they said it. I just told ’em it was a strong word for poop that wasn’t a good word to say (in most circumstances–being trapped on a rope bridge like Indiana Jones in Temple of Doom might be an occasion in which it is called for). But seriously. They said okay and that was the end of it. I could’ve launched into a diatribe about the evils of the S word, I could’ve forbade them to ever think it, let alone say it, but then if my boys are anything like me it would then be imprinted on their brains forever and they would find themselves saying it aloud when they were alone, for starters. By the time ninth grade rolled around, they’d be addicted. I admit, there’s a difference between not using foul language and chewing with your mouth closed. Nowhere in the book of James is there any mention of bad table manners being like a restless evil, full of poison. But when you grow up with the assumption that “cursing” is just using any one of a laundry list of bad words–a laundry list that changes with every generation, no less–then you tend to focus on the “foul” words and not the foul hatred in your heart. Isn’t the heart what God’s interested in? Can you get through life without ever using the F word and still have a roiling darkness in your heart? Absolutely. Can you have light and love in your heart, the ability to encourage, to bless, to show compassion to those around you even if your banter with them includes some of the words on the naughty list? Absolutely. Sure, it’s not proper, preferable, or wise to litter your language with unnecessary expletives, but I’d rather hang with a salty sailor any day than a whitewashed tomb. And speaking of whitewashed tombs, that’s exactly what I was in high school. See, I studiously avoided bad words when my parents were around, but my brother and I constantly ridiculed my sisters. We called them “stupid idiots”, we made fun of the things they liked, we taunted them. My sisters still bear the wounds of the words I said to them twenty years ago. But I didn’t cuss! No sir. Of course, I’m not saying that everyone who’s sensitive to foul language is a whitewashed tomb. That’s not my point at all. If my mom started speaking with an Irish brogue and using words like we’re talking about, I’d fall over dead. Something in the time/space continuum would rupture and dinosaurs in tutus would pirouette across the White House lawn. My mother, God bless her, is carrying the torch of her upbringing and will forever cringe at the word “butt”; I wouldn’t have it any other way. But our friends in Ireland come from a culture that is quite literally foreign to us. Could it be that the F word carries no more weight over there than “stink” does here? And is it possible for me, with the Holy Spirit in me, to watch a film made by these Irish folks and glean the sweet spirit of their heart, or their intent, from the film without being polluted by something that in their culture is innocuous and in ours is at best impolite and at worst offensive? I think so. I know so, in fact, because that’s exactly what happened when I watched this film. I didn’t wake up the next morning with foul language dripping off my tongue and into my cereal. My kids weren’t cursed six ways from Sunday. No, I had a deep sense of inspiration regarding my calling to write songs. I was reminded of the power of good music. I thought about how good it is to make decisions based on wisdom and patience and not infatuation (you’ll know what I’m talking about if you saw the film). Not to make more of it than it is, but my heart was changed for the better by watching the movie. How can that happen, when they used the F word thirty nine times? Because the Spirit in me–guiding my attentions, my decisions, teaching me gently and patiently every minute of the day–allows me to live my life out of faith and not fear. I have so often shushed the Spirit’s promptings in my life because it contradicted what my flesh lusted for. I have ignored it. I have wished it would leave me alone. But I also have managed to listen at times, and have obeyed. I have learned to feebly trust that I am a new creation, that in some mysterious, wondrous way, God inhabits me. If he’s there in my heart, and I choose (with discernment) to spend 90 minutes experiencing a story told by an image-bearer, what have I to fear? (Remember, we’re not talking about my use of the word, but of my exposure to stories that have characters who might use those words.) Now, here’s the other side of the coin. I made the disclaimer about the movie because I realize that we’re all at different stages on the journey. We all have unique baggage that we’re lugging around, and some things that you might not think twice about will send me up the wall like a cat in a dog pound. If I had watched this film when I was in Bible college, I would have been offended to my core. I know what it’s like to be sensitive to foul language, and I sympathize. I’m not writing this to convince you to not be offended. Let the Holy Spirit speak to you, seek counsel, be humble, love wisdom, and pray that I’ll do the same. I have come to know Christ much better over the fifteen years since my Bible college career began, and I find that I am much less worried about some things and am much more sensitive to others. I believe that words have power. They are a gift unique to the crown of God’s creation on earth, and are to be used carefully. The Bible in James 3:6 calls the tongue a “world of evil”, and after many instances of hurting myself and the people around me with nothing more than my words, I’m inclined to agree (it is the Bible, after all). Just tonight after our Bible reading with the kids we compared Genesis 1:1 with John 1:1ff, and talked about how wonderful it is that Jesus himself was the Word by which the world was made. What power there is in the spoken word! What power to heal, to teach, to preach, to love–and what power to tear down, to despise, to kill. I’m not sure how to wrap this up. It’s 3 AM, and I’m still glad I watched the movie Once. And I still think that it’s okay if you don’t understand how I could enjoy it in spite of its language. I enjoyed sitting on the couch with my kids, taking turns reading through Genesis even more. I’m going to bed, cringing in anticipation of being schooled by you all in the ways of rhetoric and exegesis. So be it. AP

I spent a day last week at the Harn Museum of Art and aside from being a lot of fun, it reminded me of some things about myself that I don’t usually like to acknowledge. While I toured the main gallery and considered its theme of “Paradigms and the Unexpected” one of the boys I was with (the security monitor actually) tugged on my arm and dragged me into a small video alcove. “Mister Pete, you’ve got to see this!” The child’s level of excitement convinced me that surely he had found a depiction of something blowing up, or something involving zombies. To his credit, what he was excited about contained neither. He’d recognized something profound even though he scarcely knew why. It was an exhibit of a work by Oscar Munoz entitled, Re Trato. It’s a simple video, a close-up of the hand of the artist repeatedly painting a face, no sound, no music. But there’s more to it than that. He is painting with water on stone and as he ‘paints’ the water slowly evaporates. The face is never complete. The artist fills in the brow, the hairline, an eye, an ear, but when he comes to the mouth and begins to form it, the water of the brow has begun to dry. Once the chin and jaw line are defined, the brow and hairline are gone. The water has dried and only the grey stone remains, unchanged, unformed. Without pause, the artist begins again. He draws out the brow once more, the eyes and a nose. Each thing created, another evaporated. Endlessly he works, again and again, redefining what fades, over and over making more of the stone than the stone would be without him, yet constantly as he works at creation, the stone forgets what it has been and becomes only what it was before. As is often the case in the best art, the work takes on meaning beyond what the artist intended. The description of the work says that the artist’s intent is to draw attention to the huge numbers of people in Latin America that disappear without a trace for speaking out against the government. He paints the faces of these disappeared from their obituaries. On that level, I think he’s certainly succeeded. But for me it goes much further than a political statement. I can never seem to figure out who am I created to be. I’ve been trying to put the picture together over the years, bits and pieces at a time, but each time I think I’ve got one aspect figured out and made permanent, I realize I’ve forgotten something else. Faith, finance, work, family, fun, why can’t they all line up together? Why doesn’t he ever paint a smile on the face? Why won’t he paint me a marriage? I feel like I’m playing whack-a-mole with my life and my sin and I can never get ahead or find any relief. My creator has to constantly redefine me, recreate me. No matter how hard I try I can never see the whole picture and worse, it’s so much easier to evaporate and be just the stone than to be the face. I’m fearful that his patience with me will give out and he’ll withdraw his hand and let me fade away completely. I’m sure none of this occurred to the boy that dragged me into the room to see Re Trato. It’s entirely possible that he expected Senor Munoz to paint a Kalashnikov in the man’s hand and was terribly disappointed to find out that it was just the face, over and over and over again. Maybe I’m the same way, waiting on things that aren’t in the picture. On the drive home that evening I prayed, and have prayed many days since, that the Artist will continue his re trato, that he will not withdraw his brush. I want to be more than just the stone, even if that means I don’t get to hold a Kalashnikov. And while I struggle to retain my form, I have faith that someday he’ll paint me in permanent colors. Here is a crude example of Re Trato that I’m hesitant to even post. I say ‘crude’ because this YouTube clip is sped up and very brief. The presentation at the museum is in real-time (28 mins) and is much more graceful and meditative.

The musical bumper sticker on my car during the ol’ college years would have definitely read “I’d Rather Be Listening To Acoustic Music.” Therein was my initial foray into the early careers of Square Peg artists like our own Proprietor. I found great enjoyment in the Texan college worship scene (early Crowder, Robbie Seay, Justin Barnard, anyone?). And the great unknown (acoustic) rock over which I stumbled came in the form of Jill Phillips. The destination? A Caedmon’s Call show just outside of Columbus, Ohio with some friends. Opening was a young man who called himself Bebo. I didn’t even know there was another opening act. But out steps this young woman to warm up the crowd. The place was serving refreshments and, since she wasn’t Bebo, I went to get more punch. If you’ve ever heard the music of Jill Phillips, you know what I’m referring to when I say that back at the refreshments table, I froze . The initial, inviting strums and rhythm of “Steel Bars” began to play and I thought, “Wow, this is really pretty good.” But then she started singing. I’m glad I never went back to my group of friends because it would have been embarrassing to cry in front of them. “So this is how it feels at the rock bottom of despair When the house that I built comes crashing down And this is how it feels when I know the man that I say I am Is not the man that I am when no one is around This is how it feels to come alive again And start fighting back to gain control And this is how it feels to let freedom in And break these chains that enslave my soul” The song explores the slow, freeing realization of grace and forgiveness in such beautiful ways and I was moved while I myself was just trying to move away to get something to drink. I’ve been hooked ever since. I bought a copy of the album right there and my journey has continued through all the rest. On the brilliant God and Money, again I found myself transfixed by the very first song, “Last Time,” written by Jill and co-writer/collaborator/husband Andy Gullahorn.  It’s another song of sin management and our attempts to get things right with God and really echoed where I was at in my own life. Other beautiful songs like the title track, “You Don’t Belong Here” and “Falling into God” only further served to cement my love for their music. Overall, Andy and Jill’s music have been a vital part of my spiritual soundtrack. It was in a period of absolute depression and devastation that I found Writing on the Wall, which included my favorite Jill Phillips track: “Wrecking Ball.” “Piece together these little mysteries It isn’t hard to see the writing on the wall Triumph and tragedy, only God can be Both the builder and the wrecking ball” It was the story of the Israelites who found that God safely leads through both the wilderness and the Promised Land and sometimes trust in Him is all you have. It was a beautiful reminder during a period when I was completely alone, isolated and angry at the cosmic being who put me there. It’s been a beautiful ride thus far with these two in my (now) iTunes. On her latest, Nobody’s Got It All Together, the sonic trend continues toward vulnerable, authentic artistry of one sinner/saint singing amidst the rest of us. It’s another fantastic effort in a catalog I was lucky enough to find. It’s amazing to me how God uses simple acoustic shows to begin to weave a thread into your life so that he can deliver the perfect song at the right time years and years later.

“Hope, at the end of the day, is what connects us all.” So said Marketa Irglova at this year’s Academy Awards after she and co-writer Glen Hansard won the Oscar® for Best Song. As of the award show I had seen the movie Once, uh, twice. Jamie has a knack for falling asleep during movies, no matter how much she likes ’em. She’ll be wide awake one minute, and all of a sudden all those motherhood responsibilities from the day–homeschooling and cooking and teaching piano lessons to the neighborhood kids–sneak up on her and knock her out cold. (Have I mentioned that I think my wife is a remarkable person?) So there I was on the couch, finishing up Once while my wife slept with her head in my lap. At the end of the movie I was left with such a bittersweet sense of satisfaction that I’m pretty sure my sniffles woke Jamie up. The next day I re-watched the movie and made her stay awake this time, and she was equally moved. (I don’t think I’ve ever before watched the same movie twice in 24 hours.) So this little independent Irish film made my list of favorites, and I don’t think it’s just because it’s about a songwriter. I got the feeling that the movie has the potential to touch the hearts of all kinds of people, because of the very thing Irglova said at the Oscars®: “Hope, at the end of the day, is what connects us all.” You’ll have to keep in mind that in Ireland, the F word is about as common as “the” in the U.S. of A. If that’s a hurdle for you, pass on this one. But there’s something really special about this film. It’s hard to say exactly what it is. Maybe it’s the really good songs, or the independent spirit of the filmmakers, or the extremely likable lead actors (in real life and in the film), or the thematic elements of the story itself. Either way, something good came together, and it was a thrill to see that the Academy recognized it. I love to see the underdog win, so I almost came out of my chair when Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova won the award. The only downside was that they cut off Marketa before she could say her thanks. But wait! After the commercial break, John Stewart, in a classy move, invited her back out to enjoy her moment and offer her thanks. What she had to say was good, and I had the feeling that it was a fine moment for struggling independent singer/songwriters everywhere. Here’s the chorus: Take this sinking boat and point it home We’ve still got time Raise your hopeful voice, you have a choice You’ve made it now Here’s the video, with scenes from the film, and below it is a link to the acceptance speech. Glen and Marketa may live in Ireland, but watching this makes me as proud of them as if they were a part of our Nashville community. Click here to watch the acceptance speech.

These videos were just brought to my attention. They’re from a show called Faith Café, hosted by Scott Denté. I’d never met him before this taping, but I really liked him a lot. Anyway, the first video is of me, Ben and Andy G. playing an acoustic version of the song “The Far Country”, and the second is “I’ve Got News”, which will be on Resurrection Letters, Vol. II. Speaking of which, I had a great meeting with the folks at the potential record label today (I’d leave off the word “potential”, but I’ve been a part of the music business for long enough that I know not to assume anything’s going to happen until the day after it actually happens). They seem to be great people, and I look forward to working with them to get this record into your hands in the best way possible. Oh, and the Resurrection Letters Tour 2008 was wonderful. Thanks to all the churches and promoters who took a chance on a new idea for a concert, and to all the people who showed up. I pray that the music and the readings helped you to remember all over again how deep, wide, and high is the love the Father has for us. Hope you like the videos.

The Problem of Pain by C.S. Lewis isn’t a comfort type book in the conventional sense, but it does provide an intellectual exploration of why a loving God might allow his children to suffer with pain, seemingly ignoring their prayers. Though it’s a more complex issue than I have the intellect to understand–to put it simply–what I’ve learned is that pain is for my own good. This might be the biggest conundrum of Christian living, the idea that pain, as much as it hurts, is good for us. Several years ago, I made a list of some of the life events that brought me pain. In my forty plus years, it was the worst two year run of pain I’d ever experienced. Here’s the short list summary: dad died, grandma and grandpa died, mother was in the hospital three times for extended periods, a close friend was killed in a stock car race at age 38, brother injured badly in a fall, son in hospital twice with a serious illness, several expensive car breakdowns, aunt died after an extended hospital stay, great aunt died, a favorite cousin–my own age–died of a massive heart attack, home vandalized, my wife and I started primary care giving for my mother-in-law who developed and later died from vascular dementia, office relocation, won a business lawsuit, long-time business partner retired, and we refinanced our home. That’s some pretty hefty pain and stress, deposited on the head of one person in a compressed period of time. I don’t mean to imply that I suffered through all of these events alone. Indeed, much of this pain was shared pain. Some may say simply that this is called life. Hey, those are things–to one extent or another–that have happened or will happen to everyone. Touche’. I agree. It just happened, however, that in my life maybe the statistics of living a charmed life prior to that, finally caught up with me. Rather than spreading these situations over many years, a wacked-out standard deviation placed these events in a relatively short period of time in my own life. I had my share of angry moments. I sometimes behaved rebelliously, acting like a jerk or living as a natural man in some perverse way to “get back at God.” Many times I cried out to God, “Why me? Why another trial to bear? Haven’t I had my share of pain by now?” “These are the times that try men’s souls.” Thomas Paine could have been talking about me. Truly, I still don’t have a pat answer for why God allows still one more trial to follow after a man is already writhing on the ground in pain, spread eagle with his hands towards heaven, crying out for mercy. I just don’t have an answer. What we do know is that God is sovereign and He is good. When doubts arise, I think it’s always helpful to look to what we know for sure about the character of God. We know he loves us and it is impossible for Him to behave towards us with anything outside of perfect love. By that, we can only assume and trust, if God gives us that ability, that he allows us to suffer great pain. He doesn’t provide the answer we seek in prayer because he has a higher purpose–maybe not so clear to us at the time–but very definitely for our own good. I’m perfectly willing to credit myself for blessings that have come from God. Retrospectively, I’ve become convinced that God allows major pain in my life because I’m slow to recognize his grace, so inclined to want to run the show myself, so rarely given to making His will my own. It’s not always correction (I’m getting into deeper theological territory than I belong here). More so, it’s a loving Father, nudging His son in the direction He knows is best. I like this passage, James 1:2-4, which deals with joy and pain: Consider it pure joy, my brothers, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith develops perseverance. Perseverance must finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything. Through these periods in which God is silent, I have learned that my vision is often limited. With God’s omniscience and sovereignty, it’s a little humorous that I sometimes think that I know better. Oh, I would never express it that way, but sometimes I live that way. I’m learning that in allowing so much pain to enter my life, God is actually showing me how much He loves me. He wants me to learn and grow. He wants me to learn those things I’ve been slow to embrace. Remember Caedmon’s Call’s song “Where I Began”?: So you have yourself your ninety nine Isn’t that enough for you? Still you followed me to the shadowed valley Carried me on your shoulders too. I’ve done the work of Sisyphus Thinking that I could get over this hill But the one thing I can’t get over now Is the force of your will. It’s true that during those times when grief surrounds us, clouding our vision, we must peer way deep inside of it, although every part of us wants to look away or run. I’ve learned–alas, I’m still learning–that joy isn’t some esoteric, hard to capture emotion–it’s a choice. It’s an act of my will, enabled by the grace of God. I can choose to be joyful. So, what does it look like? For me, prayer has been helpful. In obedience, praising God for specific aspects of His character–that he knows and I don’t, that he loves me and wants the best for me–and to praise Him for loving me so much that he would allow these things. And that often produces the emotion that might be called happiness. But even if it doesn’t (and sometimes it doesn’t) I need to stand on God’s promises in spite of how I feel. Feelings change. God doesn’t.

Easter is breathing in the east. After downing victuals of mildly grease-soaked Mississippi country sausage bathed in Creole mustard aboard a two-week old onion roll, the remainder of a sweet tea from today’s lunch, and a pair of chocolate peanut butter eggs, I can feel my mind slowing to a stock standstill, eager for the pillow. College basketball is hovering on the muted television, today’s newspaper – a less than stellar daily – is scattered across the couch ad hoc to my right, my son is fast asleep in his cradle, and the family cat, Gurdy, as obese as a pumpkin, flopped down from the foot-high perch on the rocker she’s been curled up in for the better part of the evening. At this point, I can hear only the whirring of my computer’s internal organs and the occasional high-pitched timbre of the analog tube inside the television set. And yet, outside our cottage walls, a freight train crowds the night as it lumbers across the Cumberland River atop Shelby Bottoms, bellows its deep fragrance and leaps northward out of the city. I could live no nearer train tracks than I do now; all that sound, all that steel, the grease, and the smell of oiled and burnt railroad ties, lying there in support of momentary passage, heightened commerce and resurrecting such lumbering vessels. Tomorrow begins. Today ceases. The darkness defies the antihero. He suffers in the garden sweating as if with blood. A scrub jay finally ceases its day long ruckus and roosts on a lower olive bough nearby allowing Jesus a night of fitful prayer to himself. He absorbs the scourge of every man. Another man, in a different town, awakens from a dream in which he has passed through the eye of a No. 8 Schmetz sewing needle. He feels blow after fisted blow. A woman defeatedly hails a cab in the early dawn after a night with her married lover. He carries felled timbers to his own demise. You curse the day you were born into this world. He receives humiliation with abandon. I mock life by hoarding it for myself. He kneels and rakes the dust of the ground with his fingers, telling with no words a story we ache to hear and take part in with as much as fullness as an orchard pregnant with vigor and life. We long for it because we need the commonality of that gentle and forever grace. The proud and the religious and the meek and the sore and the ill and the fallen shall inherit the Good Grace of every fervent second chance, with its undoubtable intentions. But seeing, in the rippled dust of the storyline, a little or large part of ourselves, all shuttered and shackled in anguish and desperation, utterly fallible as lumbering vessels, we find ourselves ultimately delivered; delivered as pilgrims unto the New and Free World, Adam unto Eden, Moses unto Promised Land, Endurance unto safe harbor, Jesus unto his Father’s house. May the risen crowd the dawn with shouts of blessing and exultation, for all are blessed, but not all are risen.

I am a verbal processor. The tangible outcome of being such a person is that sometimes you don’t discover things to be true until you’ve already said them–as if I’m some prophet who makes things come to pass just by speaking them (i.e. Zummi Gummi of the Gummi Bears). And I had such a moment in the last few days. I am a writer and pastor–both part-time. Actually both could be full-time, but money-wise…well, you get the picture. I have a great small group of guys who meet weekly and in said group I said the title words: “I hate what I love. I hate everything I’m doing right now even though I know that I love it all.” Now that’s quite an overstatement and I am definitely known for making those, but I do believe this one to be quite true in the moment I’m living in. I hate the things that I should love. And I hate hating them. We have an amazing church community–a group of young, passionate, missional creative types who are always dreaming of the next big thing and abandoning all creature comforts and security to meet real needs, bring social justice and glorify God in their lives. It’s really the envy of any pastor shepherding the First Church of the Let’s Just Sit There. I also love the writing side. I receive free music, movies, and books all week long and then I get to soak them in and tell you what I think. And I get paid for all that. Seeing your name in print never gets old and I get to work wherever my laptop takes me. It’s a fantastic amount of freedom and a lot of people would love to have it. But as I sat in this small group, I was detailing a hatred toward these things–how I feel robbed of any passion to do them, how I loathe any new commitments I have to take on. And it comes down to one thing: I’ve overcrowded myself. Too much of a good thing equals, well, you know. As I sat there, I said, “I have things that I want to write. When law enforcement storms an enclosed area or building, better believe that one of the officers is carrying a shotgun. Capable of blasting assailants at close range, no weapon is more feared than the shotgun. If you are looking for a weapon to strike fear into the hearts of a home intruder, the shotgun is an ideal choice. However, you have many different choices when it comes to shotgun ammunition – n the following article, we will look at some of the most popular choices for shotgun ammunition, helping you find round best suited to your situation. #ammocave #ammunition #shotgun #ammo. Instead, I’m overburdened with essays and articles and reviews and features that others want me to write. Not only do I not have the time for everyone else, I definitely don’t have any time for me. I don’t even have the time to breathe so that I can figure out the things I want to write. It can be the same way with church stuff. Here we are in Holy Week, we’ve booked events for every rarely celebrated holiday we can possibly find on a Gregorian calendar and next week looks the same. And yet I’m the one creating pressure on myself to be at each thing, to meet with each person, etc. One day we were leaving church, my wife and I, and we stopped to chat with several on the way out. When we were finished, she commented, “Do you realize that you just made all those meetings with people? You were the one saying, ‘We should get together soon.’ You create your own mess.” So as I’m running on the proverbial hamster wheel, I am realizing that I’m the one who constructed the circle, set the speed and got inside of it. Nobody helped me with this. There is no church board saying, “Matt, you need to meet with x amount of people and attend z amount of events.” And there is no person saying, “You have to grab every writing opportunity that you can. Say yes to it all.” It’s my own doing which leads to my undoing. And now I hate the things that I should love. Instead of freedom of self-employment, it’s a prison of never leaving work. And worst of all, I feel robbed of the joy that these things should bring me. God has blessed me in amazing ways with the gifts of both vocations and yet I’m ruining the beauty of what I’m surrounded by. Um, there’s no happy ending here. I’m knee deep in the middle of such feelings, although I realize the last paragraph should properly close these thoughts. Maybe I could use my Zummi powers to say, “And then, Matt realized his mistakes, said no to a million things and discovered the beauty of his life once again.” …didn’t work.

He is risen! I pray that you are having a blessed Easter. Does it seem perfect that Easter weekend fell on the first day of Spring this year? All that was cold and dead is now returning to life, or as I wrote in a lyric for a new song I just finished: “Winter breaks upon the Easter Lily’s bloom…” On Friday morning when Taya was getting Gus, our 4 year old, dressed, she was explaining to him that Good Friday is the day that Jesus died for our sins and that it is in three days on Easter Sunday that we celebrate Jesus coming back to life. “Yep,” Gus said. “And when the devil dies, he’s dead forever, right?” Not knowing exactly how to answer that, Taya and I looked at each other. “Did you tell him that?” “No, I thought maybe you did.” Gus came up with that on his own, I guess, and though I’m not sure if it’s a 100% theologically sound, it’s an interesting thought and there is some truth in there. Gus is always surprising us with his little spontaneous bursts of philosophy. Poet John Donne wrote, “Death, thou shalt die” and in this the worst of hell will be undone. Of all the great hopes that Easter offers, this has to be one of the greatest. Maybe that is the truth of what Gus said. The pastor’s message at last year’s Easter service has stayed with me all through this year. He suggested that Easter isn’t really for those who are in a near miss situation, or those waiting for deliverance or hope in the 11th hour. It’s not really for those waiting for God to intervene just in the knick of time. Easter is for those whose 11th hour came and went, for those whose hope has run out of time, for those who’ve gotten the worst news and live in the time called “too late”. This must have been the felt reality of the disciples – disillusioned as all they had staked their life on had dissipated like a vapor. Their master, the one they had begun to believe was the Christ, was murdered and burried in the ground along with their hopes and dreams. I wonder: Did any of them feel like fools for daring to dream? It was over. It was too late. Period. Too late is when the tomb is sealed. It’s when the prognosis of the terminal disease is in, the divorce papers served, the last breath spent, the world fallen apart and hope broken amid the ruins. And it’s for those who themselves are broken amid these same ruins that Easter is for, because this is the Easter story. When all hope was gone, given over to the grave that never before surrendered what it claimed, Hope rose again defeating the inevitability of hopelessness once and for all. From that moment on, the worst may happen, the virsuses both literal and figurative may rage, death intrudes, the darkness may deepen, and yet… and yet… Easter is the promise of the “and yet…” Hope for the hopeless. The clock turning back on “too late”. The death of Death itself. Dawn breaking. “Death, thou shalt die!” along with all who are in league with you. All because He is risen. Amen

I’ve heard Andrew Peterson say that he doesn’t view himself as a worship leader. I can understand his hesitation in accepting such a designation. It’s an important and worthy title, but often comes with some unfortunate baggage, particularly as it relates to songwriting. More than once, I’ve heard unknowing emcees introduce Andrew Peterson as the guy that will “lead us in worship.” No shame in that, of course, but it’s just not what AP does. Or is it? Worship music at its worst can be trite and trivial. Done poorly, it minimizes and makes ordinary that which is majestic. And when that which is majestic is distorted or disordered, it’s closer to a lie than the truth. As we seek to glorify God as a gathering of believers, if our vision is clear, we find ourselves closer to the truth. Indeed, in the purest sense, that’s what Andrew Peterson’s work does for me, and I don’t think I’m alone in that. Andy’s art allows me to see that which may have previously been austere, distorted, or hidden. Or sometimes isn’t any of those things but is simply constructed so beautifully and so accurately, and with such specificity, that my spirit floods with joy. In that sense, Andrew Peterson is the best kind of worship leader. Whether it’s Behold the Lamb of God or his latest musical vision, The Resurrection Letters, Andy allows his audience to piggyback on his own vision. He lends us his own glasses that offer rare vision and clarity. I see nuance and detail that is sometimes shrouded in fog. I see Jesus. And I see the whole story, not victory without sacrifice, not pleasure without pain, and not divinity without humanity. As it happened, both of these stories were fraught with moments of pain, terror, anger, and injustice, before we could get to the joy. Like Behold the Lamb of God, Resurrection Letters contains great conflict and drama. If it weren’t true, it wouldn’t make a great story. The True Tall Tale of the Coming of Christ segues into The True Tall Tale of the Resurrection of Christ, but as others have perceptively noted, it’s the same story. And ultimately, it’s not just The Greatest Story Ever Told, it’s the greatest Love story ever told. Jesus is fully God, but also fully man. It seems we rarely have difficulty in focusing on Jesus’ divinity. On the contrary, it’s more difficult to apprehend the second half of that truth, Jesus as man. Both of these programs do not hesitate to trumpet Jesus’ divine nature. But further and equally important, we catch vivid depictions of Jesus humanity. There’s great joy, but also great tragedy before the joy can be made full. In fact, as I fathom Jesus’ humanness, I remember that he understands my life, not only because he is God, but because He lived His own life as a man. In seeking to glorify God, a holistic understanding of Jesus’ nature leads me there more expeditiously, as I begin to appreciate all aspects of His character. Resurrection Letters share many components with Behold the Lamb of God, including a larger cast than we would find at a normal AP show, in-the-round presentations by each respective artist prior to the main event, instrumental wizardry from the players, and a show which is God focused and worshipful. Even the audience behaves similarly in both programs, intuitively understanding that clapping and cheering might divert the focus from a vertical to horizontal perspective. The show I attended at Bethany Lutheran in Elkhorn, Nebraska–a group estimated at around 650 or better–listened with rapt attention and only erupted into wild applause after the musicians left the stage at the very end. The audience joined the musicians in the last hymn, “All Hail the Power,” as the artists exited. Then there was a period of silence that lasted at least five seconds followed by thunderous applause and cheering, reminiscent of a basketball crowd expressing surprised wonder at the sinking of a last second winning shot. He is Risen! I’m not going to provide a play-by-play of each song played during the first annual Resurrection Tour. Others have already provided that information in fine detail, including some of my great friends at the Andrew Peterson Forum. What I’d like to do here is to provide some sense for the impact this program had on my heart and soul. As an Andrew Peterson show veteran I should be immune from emotional surges that come from hearing the songs I’ve heard so many times before. Surprisingly, “The Chasing Song” reached up and grabbed me as if I were hearing it for the first time. One part nostalgia and one part new conviction brought that billowing, teetering, stirring sense of emotion that would have resulted in full blown tears had I been driving alone in my car. In public, I used my well developed technique of thinking about monkeys playing in trees to dam up the tears. Whew. That was close. Hearing Jill Phillips sing more than a song or two was a treat. When Andy Gullahorn and Jill sing together, it’s so other-worldly beautiful that words almost become secondary. That, coming from a lyric man such as myself. Like a painter that has learned to apply the most appropriate pressure on his brushstroke, Mr. Gullahorn modulates his harmony volume just so. Any more would be too much. Any less, and we might strain to hear him. Speaking of Andy Gullahorn, he’s written a new song which seemed by every indication except explicit words to confirm it, to be a gift to Andrew Peterson. After performing his first song, “Nobody Wants to Work” Andy G. announced that he had written a new song, “… two days ago.” Andy’s stage demeanor is so deadpan, that as I discussed this announcement with several other members of the audience, nobody seemed to know if it was truly brand new or if he was joking about that aspect of it. I took his words at face value, that he had written it recently. It was the kind of song that makes one think, “instant classic.” Called “The Resurrection and the Life,” it fit the tone and theme of the evening perfectly. The line, “I believe, though it’s hard sometimes, You are the resurrection and the life,” stayed with me. There were also references to Lazarus and Jody (isn’t that the Queen of Iowa?). Andrew Peterson was clearly moved by the song which made the moment even more emotional than it was before. I honestly don’t think AP heard the song until that night. All this before the “Resurrection Letters” portion of the program officially began. Bring on the monkeys. Monkeys, monkeys, monkeys. Whew. Another close call. The songs of “Resurrection Letters” are presented chonologically, so one can follow the narrative of events leading up to Jesus’ crucifixion and resurrection. There are many songs from AP’s forthcoming record, Resurrection Letters, Volume 2, a liberal dose of songs from Jill Phillip’s Kingdom Come collection (which AP says he often plays for his family on Sunday morning and is available in The Rabbit Room Store), a couple of hymns, and the “resurrection letters,” delivered by AP, which neatly tie the songs together with vivid narrative. The Resurrection Letters emanate from a writing project that Andrew Peterson undertook in preparation for the Easter season last year. These journal entries chronicled the events leading to the central defining event of Christianity, the Resurrection of Jesus Christ. The entries were posted at AP’s website and received the kind of feedback from his supporters that is routine. “Awesome stuff,” everybody said. One message board poster, Tim, also know as sevenmiles, made reference to looking forward to these resurrection letters. The ever artistic mind of AP remembered the reference when it came time to title his new record. Resurrection Letters is a great story, as told by a master story-teller. As seasoned Peterson supporters might well imagine, Act III is “High Noon”: Let the people rejoice, Let the heavens resound, Let the name of Jesus who sought us and freed us forever ring out. All praise to the fighter of the night who rides on the light Whose gun is the grace of the God of the sky. As I listened to these words I flashed back to an Easter morning drive several years ago. We were headed to Mom’s house for Easter dinner. As I crossed the bridge, the sun danced off the rolling waters of the stately Platte River as these very same Andrew Peterson words came thundering through my car speakers. It was unplanned, one of those serendipitous moments that I will never forget. Sunlight on the water, reflecting the beauty of the land, Sunday morning, the Sunday morning, full of truth, life, love, and family and poetic words of truth from a gifted songwriter. It was a moment in which several roads of beauty intersected at the crossroads of my senses, leaving me giddy as sophomore at the junior/senior prom. In a moment of impressive theolovision, Andrew Peterson saw some interesting parallels in the classic movie, High Noon. High Noon is a tidy, tightly-scripted, minimalist film which tells the tale of a solitary, stoic, honor-bound marshal, who was left desolate and abandoned by the Hadleyville townspeople he had faithfully protected for many years. Due to the townspeople’s cowardice, physical inability, self-interest and indecisiveness, he is refused help at every turn against a revenge-seeking killer and his gang. Fearful but duty-bound, he eventually vanquishes the enemy, thereby sparing the civilized town the encroachment of barbaristic frontier justice brought by the deadly four-man group of outlaws. High noon in the valley of the shadow When the shadows were shot through with light When the mouth of the tomb Shouted, “Glory, the Groom is alive” So long, you wages of sin Go on, don’t you come back again I’ve been raised and redeemed All praise to the king The victor of the battle High noon in the valley In the valley of the shadow Happy Easter.

Most families will start playing their favorite Christmas music starting Thanksgiving on through Christmas Day. But what about Easter? Christmas gets all the press, but the older I’ve gotten (meaning the less I care about the presents!) the more I’ve come to love Easter as possibly the more substantive holiday. There are fewer Easter albums to choose from (unlike Christmas with baby Jesus meek and mild, it’s much harder to sentimentalize Easter’s story of Christ’s victory by way of a brutal death by execution), but there is one that the Gray family returns to every year with gratitude: At The Foot Of The Cross: Volumes 1 (Clouds, Rain, Fire) and 2 (The Seven Last Words Of Christ). If it’s true that it seems the best albums never get the attention they deserve, it’s also true to say that most of them have a longer shelf life. In the early 90’s Steve Hindalong and Derri Daugherty of The Choir set out to create a unique and modern worship project for Easter. Grossly overlooked at the time, it still sounds as fresh and adventurous today as it did back then. In fact, in a market where much of worship music has become increasingly saccharine, this record sounds all the more adventurous and true. At the foot of the cross is imbued with the dark mystery of it’s subject matter and is an evocative musical meditation on the Easter journey from Good Friday through Easter morning with respect to both liturgical and modern pop/rock music conventions. Fans of Andrew Peterson may remember that Steve Hindalong produced his Love & Thunder record as well as the City On A Hill series. But before that he was a member of the seminal alternative band The Choir from the late 80’s and early 90’s. All the moodiness and vibe that they honed as The Choir is put to good use here on the Easter records. The first of the two, Clouds Rain Fire, was released in 1991 and features performances by an eclectic cross section of artists like Phil Keaggy, Mike Roe, Buddy & Julie Miller, Victoria Williams, Bob Bennett and what may have been Mark Heard’s final recording – his rendition of “I Know My Redeemer Lives” is a gem. The album also featured one of Hindalong & Daugherty’s best songs, “Beautiful Scandalous Night” (later re-recorded for the City On A Hill series by Leigh Nash of Sixpence None The Richer, but never quite as moving as the original.) Volume 1 begins with the lyric: “The dust of your feet, clouds are the dust of your feet… You cover light with clouds… fire is the chariot you ride…you sleigh the night with fire.” This is set against a backdrop of lush orchestration, haunting electric guitars and ethereal percussion. Many of the albums meditations feature similar lyrics (like: “Clouds are round about you, shadows veil your eyes…”) that create a sense of deep mystery, giving us a context for our worship. Interspersed throughout are liturgical selections in Latin with organ and orchestral accompaniments that compliment the atmospheric qualities of the production. These days, it’s not hard to find a church that is trying to incorporate a service with a post modern aesthetic where they light candles, burn incense, and dress up the sanctuary with artsy accouterments to give the setting a certain vibe, but long before any of this was considered relevant, Hindalong and company were making music that could be the soundtrack to the best of these kinds of services. But whereas many postmodern services can feel a little contrived, the music of At The Foot Of The Cross felt like the real thing – full of vibe ‘o plenty but without the pretense. The desire to honor the mystery of God revealed in Easter comes through on every track – in the music, the lyric, and the performances. The album was a modern worship masterpiece, but like many great works was less than a commercial success. At The Foot Of The Cross Volume 2: The Seven Last Words Of Christ was released a few years later and was even more focused than Volume 1. Without feeling compromised, it seemed decidedly more commercial featuring higher profile CCM artists like Charlie Peacock, Bryan Duncan, and Babbie Mason as well as Julie Miller and Gene Eugene. I’d never heard an album that sounded as good as this one and I remember bringing it to the guy who was producing my first record to use as a reference. The producer was an unbeliever and didn’t like most of the Christian CDs I played for him, but he would ask me to play this record over and over again and he would listen, mesmerized by the beauty of it. Volume 2 explores the seven last utterances of Christ from the cross in chronological order, leading us through a meditation of Good Friday with a song dedicated to each of the seven sayings as well as response pieces. One of the most beautiful tracks I’ve ever heard is “The Winds Are Not The Same” with it’s otherworldly percussion, hammered dulcimer, and Irish flute. It’s a track, I discovered, that Hindalong himself is proud of – when I singled it out in a recent conversation with him he was grateful, saying that I was the only person he could remember who commented specifically about that track and that he himself had always been fond of it. The song closes with a reprise of Mark Heard‘s “I Know My Redeemer Lives” in honor of his passing. It makes me cry nearly every time. Musically adventurous, these records fused modern pop/rock, gospel, and folk with celtic and classical influences and featured some of my favorite orchestration I’ve ever heard. As a whole, it transcends the times in which it was made. City On A Hill would later become a bigger success – no small feat considering it’s a worship album that combined artistry, community, and commercial viability – but for my money, his greatest achievement as a producer is At The Foot Of The Cross. I was talking with him about this recently, naming the big blockbuster Christian albums of the time (I won’t name names here). They may have sold hundreds of thousands of copies at the time, but so few people care about or reference them anymore. They were disposable. Steve told me he still gets people who seek him out to tell him how much the At The Foot Of The Cross records mean to them. And that’s because, I suspect, that the ultimate motivation for these records wasn’t only commercial success. For that matter, I doubt they were created with any kind of agenda of making some progressive musical or artistic statement, either. It sounds like they made a record of Easter music that they would like to listen to, and we get to eavesdrop. It’s clear these records were a labor of love, created to testify to the glory, mystery, and hope of Christ’s death and resurrection. And they are the soundtrack to the Easter season in the Gray household. These records are long out of print, but there are still ways to get them. The best way is to download them (for a great price!) from http://www.thechoirdownloads.com/ Also, you can usually find used copies floating around on the net.

A week ago my new friend Jim Horning, the youth pastor at Grace Community Church in Newton Kansas, invited my wife and me out to be his guests at Andrew Peterson’s “Resurrection Letters” concert, which they hosted. I know many of you have questions about this tour. And since its first leg was fairly limited in its geographical scope, I thought I’d tell you about my experience at one show. There are many similarities between this concert and the Behold the Lamb tour, but if you’re wanting a replica of Behold the Lamb for Easter, you might be setting yourself up for disappointment– not in the musicianship or the quality of the songs, but maybe with regards to your expectations. The events surrounding Christmas and Easter hit you differently—though they bookend the same atoning life offered freely for sinners. That said, if you come to Resurrection Letters with open expectations, you will savor this telling of “the rest of the story” from beginning to end. I suppose the most obvious way to go about telling you about my experience at the Resurrection Letters concert is to compare and contrast it to the “Behold the Lamb” tour. So let the bullet points begin. – Resurrection Letters and Behold the Lamb are both “Andrew Peterson Presents” affairs. To call Resurrection Letters an Andrew Peterson concert—as wonderful as those are— is to understate what it really is. Like Behold the Lamb, it features a host of excellent singer/songwriters (like Jill Phillips and Andy Gullahorn) opening the show with original songs in the round. By the way, Andy Gullahorn did a brand new song that brought a powerful silence over the room. I’d try to describe it, but I’d fail, ruining the memory of it for those who were there. But please, for the love, if you have not discovered this songwriter, get thee some iTunes store credit and download “Reinventing the Wheel.” – Resurrection Letters is a work in progress while Behold the Lamb has had years of trial and error and polish. Behold the Lamb concerts now number in the triple digits, Resurrection Letters concerts are still just barely out of the single digits. That said, Resurrection Letters is still excellent from beginning to end—and so if that beginning, end or even the middle changes next year, it will only be in the name of making it better. – Resurrection Letters hit me very differently than Behold the Lamb. And I think for most people, this will be the case. Sitting in the Easter show, my heart sank and rose, ached and sang, broke and healed in the space of an hour. The Christmas story seems to require an epic vantage point with occasional forays into specific moments. The Easter story, on the other hand, seems the opposite in some ways—requiring a vantage point narrowed really on about four days time (Thursday to Sunday) with occasional forays into epic panoramas. – Also, the conflicts in the Christmas story seem to me to be of the nature of near misses—like Herod missing Jesus, or no room in the inn but the cave out back is available, etc. Easter, on the other hand, presents its conflicts as a series of venomous, devastating, direct hits. Both have gloriously happy endings, but Easter requires that we walk a much darker path to get there. At Christmas, its the story of how nothing could stop Jesus’ birth. At Easter, however, its the story of how nothing could stop His death, and then how nothing, not even death could hold Him. Still, He has to die, and that fact is central to the Easter story. I guess what I’m trying to say is these two shows will hit people really differently, and that’s a sign that Andrew and company are telling both parts of Jesus’ story faithfully. – These two concert experiences are among the most substantial and worshipful concepts for concerts I know. They both tell timeless stories. And I believe people will never grow tired of these two shows because the story they tell is the Gospel. On a personal note, these two tours—and the corresponding records that go with them—are helping to introduce my children to the Lord. For that, to Andrew’s entire ensemble, I cannot thank them enough. It seems to me that the impact of both Behold the Lamb and Resurrection Letters lies ahead for Andrew and company. Each will be greatly enhanced by the other. I can see a day when four months of Andrew’s year is more or less devoted to these two tours—and I think they have only begun to find their audience. If you had the opportunity to catch a Resurrection Letters concert this year, you got in on the ground floor of something I believe will become the kind of art people will regard as more than just great. They will call it important. And that will be because the story The Resurrection Letters sets out to tell—the story of the risen Christ, the most important story ever told—will have been told well. Bathe it in prayer, folks. He is risen. He is risen indeed!

Somehow Eric Peters regularly finds his way to my home state of Nebraska. It’s one of those happy little curiosities that evolve over time, that isn’t really easy to explain. When Peters makes his way to these Midwestern plains, I make every attempt to catch as many of the shows as possible. In his latest Cornhusker State appearance, he brought Randall Goodgame. Can you imagine? Eric Peters and Randall Goodgame on the same ticket? As a passionate supporter of both artists, I couldn’t believe my good fortune. Most of their supporters know that these artists are members of The Square Peg Alliance. They also know that though both artists have markedly different styles, they share the gift of writing literate songs which offer the potential to resonate deep in the soul of those with ears to listen. This past weekend, I had the good fortune and privilege of witnessing two consecutive shows from these great artists, both regular contributors to The Rabbit Room. The first show was in Lincoln on the campus of Union College while the second show was just 50 miles up the road in Omaha, in a little coffee shop called, The Foundry. I missed a third show held at another church in Lincoln and a fourth show was cancelled close to the scheduled date. The shows were different in the way that fraternal twins are sometimes different, on the surface looking and sounding similar, but each night delivering show’s with significantly different personalities. Each night sported many of the same songs and song introductions–but offered completely different vibes. One of the serendipitous joys of the first night at Union College was the addition of Bret Welstead on percussion and Ben Yancer on cello. If there was a rehearsal, it must have been brief. Despite that, the accompaniment was complimentary, not dominating. Like an opening act that wears out its welcome, it might have been tempting for Welstead or Yancer to show off with individual musical flashes, standing out like the proverbial sore thumb. To the contrary, the cello and drum inserts were appropriate and rarely out of synch. They were complimentary, not intrusive. Randall and Eric adapted the in-the-round approach to their two-man Friday night show, with each artist playing two songs, then relinquishing the stage, intermittently joining the other in harmony or instrumental support. Eric Peters was Eric Peters. Thoughtful, transparent, accommodating, precise, and so very good. Randall Goodgame seems as comfortable on stage as in his own living room, with a down-home, gregarious, known-you-all-my-life persona. By the way, nobody ever told me that Randall Goodgame played such a wonderful piano. His keyboard style is like a jazz instrumentalist, with unexpected musical ad libs and embellishments. The Set List From the Union College Show: “Dust to Dust” – EP – in the introduction Eric talked about his early walk with God in which he never doubted His existence but sometimes doubted His intentions. Those comments framed this song in a completely different light for me and clarified some long held questions I had about a couple of the lines. “Share the Well” – RG – This Randall Goodgame penned song was the title track from the Caedmon’s Call CD of the same name and also makes an appearance on War and Peace. “Part 1” – RG – Randall shed some light on this song, offering an inside track on Harry Truman’s appearance in the song, for those that scratch their head about such an inclusion. “These Three Remain” – EP – Randall added piano spice on this classic from Eric Peters. It’s one of Eric Peters’s most impressive songs. With Goodgame’s keyboard flourishes and Ben Yancer’s cello contribution, this song sounded as good as I’ve heard it sound in a live setting. “Radiate” – EP – This uptempo showpiece from Scarce really inspired the crowd. “Come Jubilee” and “Heaven Waits” – These are both new Randall Goodgame songs. Both songs showcase Randall’s musical eclecticism with gospel, and jazz flavors. “These Hands” – EP – This one never fails to manufacture a lump in my throat. “Save Something for Grace” – Eric explained from where the inspiration to the song came. It was a line from the Kathleen Norris book, The Cloister Walk, “We try to be holy without being human first.” “Reverie” – RG – A gorgeous song written for his wife, Amy. “Jesus is All I Need” – RG – Another Caedmon’s Call recorded tune which is also on War and Peace. This is one of my favorite later day Randall Goodgame compositions. Without uttering one sermon-like word, this well-crafted song elegantly teaches humility, perspective, and gratitude. “Squeeze” – EP – Eric shared the familiar story of his Young Life friend who gave him the idea for this song, a stone that morphs into something more valuable. “May Your Tenderness” – EP – Eric talked about the evolution of this song, from a poignant ballad to an uptempo, two-step zydego styled song. The line, “Our first winter was not so long ago,” has evolved to, “Our first winter was ten years ago.” I’ve followed this slight lyrical modification from its original form, which by extension means that I have been an Eric Peters fan for a long time now. “Jerusalem” – RG “You Can Be Yourself” – EP – This light-hearted yet substantial gem from Scarce comes off as particularly striking in a concert setting due to its inherent energy. Eric Peters’s rare talent for crafting lyrics which are sing along great, yet also deliver lines such as, “If love is a fool’s maze, I want to get lost,” and “If love is a new day, I want to wake up,” or how about this: “Sometimes we get hurt, and love gets crushed on earth, but we still love because we’ve been loved first.” Like a secret code to those in the know, this allusion to I John 4:19 is one of one thousand reasons why I love Eric Peters music. The Coffee Shop show was–how shall I say–uh, a bit surreal. An unfortunately small audience, eccentric opener, and lackadaisical coffee shop volunteers all combined to create a show from Randall and Eric which was spontaneously laid-back, chipper, care-free, and unconventional. I told my friend John that it was like a house concert without the house. How many shows have you attended in which the performer invites song requests, and then give the audience time to ponder the answer when they are indecisive? (I requested “Charlie Robin,” a treat that Goodgame brought out of retirement; he couldn’t recall doing the song live in over three years.) Granted, it was probably more enjoyable for the audience than the performers, but these Square Pegs made the best of less than ideal circumstances with graceful and passionate performances, and more than a smidgen of good humor. The next time you learn of and Eric Peters or Randall Goodgame concert within a few hundred miles of your home, I strongly recommend you make the drive. These guys are likely to provide a memorable performance, even without an audience. And if you haven’t claimed their music as your own, what’s holding you back? The Rabbit Room Store features collections from both artists. As with all of the art available here, if you make a purchase, consider it your important contribution to insure that this kind of beauty remains available in our world for a long time.

One of my favorite things in the world is going to the art museum. It doesn’t really matter which one. They’re all wonderful. But the one I frequent is the Harn Art Museum in Gainesville, Florida. I love the quiet atmosphere, the open spaces, the slow pace, and the cute little old women that wander around smiling and randomly explaining the gallery pieces to anyone that looks particularly interested—or particularly confused. Part of me always cringes when I arrive with my small platoon of teenage boys. They don’t know to be quiet, or that they shouldn’t be smacking each other on the back of the head, or that they shouldn’t pick up that 12th century ritual dagger from dynastic China. Without fail, we always end up being watched closely by security. I don’t blame them. I’d watch us too. Regardless of which boys I take (the group is always different), they always end up divided into five different categories. The first is the boy that came on the field trip only because he thought he might be able to meet some girls and get some phone numbers. This type generally stands at the back of the group and attempts to look cool, a state attained by placing both hands in the pockets, but only just the fingertips, so the arms can sag and bow out and flop around. While the arms are thus engaged, the head must be tilted slightly forward so that one must raise the eyebrows to slowly look from one side to the other in a nonchalant manner, making certain never to actually look at any artwork. This boy generally does not participate in discussion and almost certainly will not be coming on the next trip to the museum. He also never meets any girls or gets any phone numbers. Not cool enough, I suspect. The second category is the “I could paint that” kid. This kid manifests himself most clearly in the modern and contemporary galleries. This boy believes that nothing short of photorealism is art, and of that which is photorealistic, only that which depicts things blowing up, things recently blown up, or things about to be blown up are really of any merit. This boy is also strangely silent when confronted with any art that depicts the female body and is given to much snickering at that which depicts the male. The third is the boy I call the ‘security monitor’. The security guards are going to get him and possibly us all, therefore he reports to me constantly of their whereabouts and actions. He also scopes the room for cameras, motion sensors, lasers, trip wires, ferocious watchdogs, and any skylights through which a swat team may rappel at any moment. All these things he keeps careful track of and protects us all and no amount of reassurance will persuade him that our imminent arrest may be all in his head. The fourth is a special case that must come in pairs. You see, this sort of boy requires another of the fourth category in order to manifest himself. When a pair is united they will giggle, smack each other, play tag, and hide around each corner in an attempt to scare the other. They must be shooshed, to which they will apologize and then look at each other sideways and begin to giggle quietly. Soon the giggling leads once more to the smacking, to the tagging and hiding, and eventually comes full circle again to the shooshing. This sort of boy requires much patience and rarely comes to the museum twice. Then the final category, that of the enlightened youth. This youth engages in discussion. He learns to look at things in new ways. He often surprises me with insight that even I had overlooked. This youth is the one that is actually cool (and the girls all know it.) This youth admonishes the others to be quiet and quit off their smacking and giggling. This youth rolls his eyes at the security monitor and assures him we will escape un-accosted. This youth is the reason that those of the other categories are tolerated. When he leaves the museum, his world is a bigger place, it looks different, it is full of possibilities. He says in his mind “I could paint that” and it is not an insult, it is an open door. This youth will return to the museum again, and again, and again, and not with me, but on his own and when he is a man he will smile at the kids there on the school field trip and the security monitors will report him as a spy. Maybe when he’s old he’ll even marry one of those cute old ladies. I’m so often surprised at which boys fall into which categories. Sometimes those that I’m sure will be the enlightened few end up being the ‘too cool’ ones and those that I’m sure will be the ‘I could paint that’ kind end up goggle-eyed over a Monet or they tour the entire gallery with one of the cute little ladies, hanging on her every word. Of only one thing am I ever certain when I take a group: the enlightened category will be the smallest. I wish it weren’t so, but it is the one constant, and that spark of knowledge, that thirst for understanding, that hunger for something other is so precious and so fragile that its value is beyond my ability to express with words. God bless those that are brave enough to see. They are too few and too far between.

I have a problem. Not that it is inherently harmful or detrimental or that it shall become your problem. It is certainly not a problem in the “please help me fix this” sense of the word, if you follow. It is more like a benign obsession. For books. Specifically, used books. I am newly addicted to used book stores. OK, I know exactly what you’re thinking: Boring. [Flip the channel]. I am currently sitting in the sunroom, of which there is plenty of sunshine this fine morning, of the McDaniels family, the kind and gracious folks who are hosting myself and eventually Randall Goodgame for our thus far tumultuous tour in eastern Nebraska, of which we have yet to play a single concert. Things already got off to a rocky start before either of us have played a single note (one last-minute show cancellation, one lost guitar). I’ll spare you the details. All I know is that I fell asleep last night to starlight clear skies, and I awoke this morning to iris-blue skies. But somewhere in the middle of dream’s proceedings it snowed. A lot. I can no longer make out the pavement of the street or any of the lawns in this quiet Lincoln neighborhood, occasionally littered with the cawing of crows or the blare of snowblowers. Atop the deck balcony, all piled in white shoulders, sits a good 2-3 inches of snow. It is a strange thing to wake up to, if you’re like me, an unaccustomed soul to the downpours of winter. It passed through the night, this visible ghost, unleashed its bravery, and ebbed away to some other unsuspecting land. I digress, snow does that to me. Now, back to my problem. At some point near about when the calendar conspired to 2008 I somehow morphed into a used bookstore hound. I am borderline obsessive about it. I suppose I should have seen it coming. My dear wife laughs at my preposterousness, but not fellow songwriter and friend, Andrew Peterson, who very nearly shares the same degree of passion and obsession and is quick to join me on used bookstore jaunts. It is good to have friends in your life who share and understand one’s own similar quirks and foibles. It has gotten to the point now where when I travel to far off cities, instead of searching for movie-plexes or malls I scour the yellow pages and internet for local used bookshops. I suppose this might be considered a good thing. I don’t know if it’s a newly-obtained old man tendency (of which I have quite a few) or if I have simply turned into someone worth ridiculing. All I know is that I am hooked to the point of obsessive-compulsion. I dream of, and wake up thinking about, used book stores. Like I said, I have a problem. It is the elusive hunt for those rare, personally treasured authors’ works which gets the antiquarian blood flowing and the heart palpitating much akin to the eager anticipation of seeing a loved one after a time apart. The thought of stumbling upon any work – specifically, first editions – by Frederick Buechner (always my first priority), Annie Dillard, Wendell Berry, Kathleen Norris, J.B. Phillips along with a few others is enough to get the adrenaline pulsing and the heart rate up a notch or two. The outlandish beauty of such a search is that I never, ever know what I’m going to find in these papered stores, and that is exactly what I love about it, the impeccable unpredictability, and is what draws me in time and time again in city after city past shelf after ever-blessed shelf. I am coming to the not-so-well-defined conclusion that a truly great city should not necessarily be defined exclusively by its housing market, economy, mass transit system or other mind-numbingly boring sterile data, but also by the number and quality of used book stores which inhabit its incorporated borders. This may be a tad far-fetched for many of you, I realize, but, still, I can’t help but think there’s an inherently good quality to which a city, however large or small, affords the value of literature, to the written word, to the rare, collectible and unwanted. One man’s trash is another man’s treasure. Flea markets, antique stores, dumpsters and used book stores all have this in common. A quality used bookstore is a window into the heart and soul of a city. Just look on the shelves and you’ll see what people read (and discard), what is taken in, what is tossed out, and is very nearly a quiet and pensive pulse of its civilians. I mean, how can you NOT want to enter shops with alluring names like The Yellowed Pages, or BookMan BookWoman, or A Novel Idea, or my favorite in Nashville, the obvious, unglamorous and simply named Books? Yesterday at a great shop in downtown Lincoln, for example, I bought a first edition of Frederick Buechner’s Brendan. It is a book I never imagined I would ever happen upon, and yet there it was, its clean spine staring me in the bearded face. An audible “Oh my gosh” escaped my lips when I saw the book sitting on the ground-level shelf, apparently – obviously – awaiting my arrival. “I am sorry to have kept you waiting, my love. I am here now to rescue you from these dusty shelves and ces autre livres. Come and find peace, rest and admiration in the temple of my home.” Seeing this book on the shelf, I was beside myself in a near out-of-body experience; such is the degree of nerd-dom I have attained. There are far more dangerous obsessions in life, to be sure. I have a dream of building my Buechner collection of first editions of his entire authorial work. On the shelves they shall long rest, be read and perused, perhaps eventually one day to become my son’s treasured possessions as well. To pass on a love for the written word is my hope for him. Two final things worthy of mention: the generous McDaniel family loaned Randall and I one of their cars for the entire weekend. On the back windshield they created one of those stencil stickers that you see on car windows as advertisements. The one on this Honda reads, “Eric Peters Tour Vehicle. March 6-9, 2008. www.ericpeters.net”. Essentially, I am driving a car with my own name on it. I don’t know how I feel, or how I should feel, about that, but I figure if someone asks, I’ll just talk about myself in the third person: “Oh, he’s great if you like folk-pop singer-songwriters.” To wield such power. Last but not least, one of the McDaniel’s sons, whom I met years ago in my touring travels, is a professional mortician. Ironically, his name is the same as that of the aforementioned book I purchased. Brendan, the mortician. Brendan, the saint. Brendan, the McDaniel. To say that one is friends with a mortician – with no intended disrespect to either the living or the dead – is a mighty unique declaration.

Spring is coming to Tennessee. I made it home in time last night after band rehearsal to sit on an old bench in the woods behind my house and write for a spell, something that hasn’t happened for too long. I’ve been writing on the laptop so much lately that I’ve forgotten how good it is to feel the scratch of pen on paper, the rhythm of making the forms of letters and words rather than just pounding them out on a keyboard. Here’s what came out. I. Music filled the room just an hour ago. Five men, all bound by common purposes, Common needs, thinking, expressing a felt Remembrance, for a time, of the heart’s leap – That led us to commune with the Maker By making; we became younger, older, The moment expanding to encompass The wider, deeper world of which we sang. II. Now, after a short drive through smoke and noise, I am sitting on a wooden bench, hushed In the last light of the day, in silence That fades, as I wait, into another – Kind of music: the sound of birds calling, Brown leafless branches clicking together When a bird leaps and flaps away to nest Before a dark, long, and heavy silence – Takes its place over and among the woods. III. Can God be known here? Here in this wild place hemmed by highways, stitched with black powerlines, Defying what they call “development” And “progress” as the wet green fungus sighs – Over exposed bedrock; as bright new grass In tufts comes out of sleep and crowds the path I cut through the brambles? This place is mine And it is not mine. It is mine because – My name is on the deed. It is not mine Because a bank’s name is there beside it. Mine because I have loved it, if only For a year now, and yet not mine because – I did not, could not, make it, can’t keep it Alive or kill it, because it is ancient And it is a part of an earth that will Outlive me as I now live. A day comes – When I too will be ancient and holy, And this wild place, redeemed, will sing with me. It will belong, I will belong, fully, Joyfully, to him who set us both free. – The earth is the Lord’s, and all within it. IV. The resurrection and the life. Christ, whose Mind imagined and made the ground where now I sit, is as alive as the frogs chirping, Welcoming the night, singing in this way – Because they were made to make this music. The birds answer. The silence answers too: I find myself sinking down into it, Welcoming it, glad to have a good place – To sit, watch, listen, and to remember My place in the world, the woods, in my home. The sound of my eldest son’s voice calling “Papa!” echoes through the cedars and oaks. – “Time for dinner!” I turn, and can see light, Yellow in the warm windows, a glow that, Set against the blue dimness of nightfall, Makes me think of Heaven, and the best tales.

I don’t know how realistic it is, but I’m going to try and keep a video blog of the Resurrection Letters Tour this month. Here’s a clip of Andy Gullahorn, Gabe Scott and myself working out the finer points of an instrumental arrangement of “Christ the Lord is Risen Today”. Like I said, nothing much happens. But it’s a start.

“Make that chicken as big as the paper will let you,” urged Miss Coates, “and remember that your audience needs bold, full color, hefty size, and strongly drawn lines to be able to clearly see these marvelous players of the play which you are creating!” It was puppet show week, and Ms. Smith’s class was planning to perform Beauty and the Beaks. Joe was busy coloring the wall-eyed farmer’s overalls a lovely flesh color, Gordon was busy cutting blue fabric “jeans” to glue on to his character’s stubby legs, and Chloe was decking out her hen with long eyelashes, a lovely skirt, and all the feathery finery. Hayden, one of the most enthusiastic gals in the class when it came to art, was fearlessly charging ahead with her representation of one of the story’s beauty shop regulars, Hattie the Hen. Hayden had a habit of walking up to the “Private Territory of Miss Coates” (otherwise known as her desk) upon which children had to knock if they wished to enter. (There has to be some space that’s sacred and untouched by little hands.) “Knock, knock!” came the squeaky little voice. “Come in!” Miss Coates welcomed her, and her light blue eyes and freckled, rosy face shone. Hayden launched into the continuing saga of the arts and crafts time that they have at her house, hemming and hawing and all but twirling her hair and tapping her toes with a sweet grin about the fact that they were about to turn their playroom into an art studio, “painting the walls and everything!” She giddily skipped to her table and planned out her chicken’s outfit, then set to work in her blue apron, armed with a tray of well-loved oil pastels. Meanwhile, Miss Coates was about the business of assisting with the attachment of feathers, troubleshooting how to make a smile look more like a frown (the farmer’s wife wasn’t supposed to be happy!), and catching a handful of tears that fell from the frustration of not knowing how to draw a dress on a chicken. (I mean, who can blame her?) Oil pastels were steadily being rubbed down to the nubs, scissors were clipping, paper was flying, lines were being practiced, paint stir sticks were being taped to the backs of the little puppet bodies, and no one had fallen apart….yet. Upon visiting the table nearest her desk, the table where Hayden McGuffin sat, tongue-stuck-out, deep in concentration over her chicken’s finely designed threads, Miss Coates noticed that Hattie had a lovely tank top, bows in her feathers, a flouncy little skirt and even purple boots! But sticking out of those boots were tiny little, well, chicken legs, and where the wings should have been were the same sort of chicken-leggish “arms.” Sacré Bleu! Hattie was just too skinny. None of the parents would be able to see her from all the way in the back of the lunchroom, and then there were the grandparents with their failing eyesight. This wasn’t good. A fix had to be had. But how? Hayden had almost completed her puppet with such pride, and Miss Coates was terrified of what this might do to the young artist’s self esteem. “Um, Hayden, let’s talk about your puppet,” she began with fear and trembling, “Do you think that the audience will be able to see those tiny little legs and eyes and that itty-bitty beak?” “Well, no….I guess not…” “Then how about we turn it over and I help you draw a nice big fat new chicken?” Silence. Sniffle number one. (Oh no.) Sniffle number two. (I’m a murderer.) Then came the full-fledged folded-arms-and-head-on-table and the high whine of a cry’s beginning. (I should be shot. Or hanged. Shot in the knee and then hanged.) No words could adequately encompass Miss Coates’ back-peddling at this point, or how deeply each little “sniff, sniff” rang in her ears. Rising above the emotional din, however, she steadfastly, and with a few little warm rubs on Hayden’s back, helped her draw the outline of a new, fuller-figured chicken and assured her that this chicken, too, could have such a fine looking outfit as the skinny one had worn. As they worked together, other children heard her sighs of sadness and gathered ’round to cheer and encourage. As the new chicken took shape, Hayden’s eyes brightened, her sniffles came at lesser intervals, and she even chuckled when Miss Coates tried to make a lame joke about the purple boots. When she was finished designing and coloring and after she had cut out the large shape, the class decided together that it was a far more successful chicken. Her smile finally emerged. Miss Coates still felt like the biggest puppy-killer/tricycle-tire-slasher/balloon-popper on the planet. She was just sure, though, that for Hayden to have a successful chicken puppet, some changes had to be made. She recalled moments of her own childhood (and adult life too) where she had needed to be redirected, turned around and smacked gently on the rear. As she sent the class out the door, swept oil pastel crumbs into her hands and washed the tables, she paused and said a prayer of thanksgiving for these “grown-ups” who had loved her so entirely, then chuckled and sighed at the thought that she was now one of the very same, herself.

I took a break from teaching today and had a chance to sit back. It’s nice for a time such as this and our guest speaker, Beth, did something quite different from the norm. Set up front was a potter’s wheel and all accompanying materials – a bowl of water, tools for scraping and shaping, a towel and more – and she was prepared to speak on the obvious subject ahead. I was surprised how moved I was with all of this. After all, it’s almost as if you knew the whole sermon before she started – how many places can you really go with the potter-and-clay analogy, right? She spoke as she threw (not literally throwing things across the room, but the proper terminology for shaping and molding that which is in the potter’s hands), building proper tension at all the right times. It was beautiful in its presentation but also in its truth. She would explain what she was doing to the clay and then tell her own life story, jumping back and forth. And at one point, she said, “You can’t tell, but I’m placing a tremendous amount of pressure right now to get the clay to move where I need it to move.” That was it for me. That was my highlight, of sorts, to take home. I find myself always attempting to wiggle out of moments that are the pressurized. I guess that’s human nature, but it doesn’t make it right. Stay informed and be aware of the risks. The first step towards a more prepared future is to research and educate yourself. At timetoprepare.net , we provide the most updated articles on survival and emergency preparedness. These articles are written by experts in the fields of survival, emergency preparedness, and emergency management, so that you can be sure that you are getting the best information available. You can also get quick tips when there’s no time to read an entire article. Just go to our quick tips page to get short, actionable steps you can take immediately. Coming up in our communal living scenario, we are facing a time this summer in which we know many changes will take place and it’s something we’re desperately working to avoid – keep things as stable as we can so we don’t encounter too much friction, worry or nervousness. My entire history is like that – in moments of financial pressure, relational pressure, etc. – my tendency is to collapse beneath it all, unwilling to allow myself to take the shape I am intended to. And then I wonder why again and again, I am forced to go through the same thing. It’s obvious that I am supposed to do something different yet I consistently run from that which God wants to do in my own life. Trust. Patience. Endurance. I was late to the character party. I was almost 30 when I married and for good reason – I wasn’t close to ready before then. I was a complete jerk to a number of girls I dated through my teens and twenties and there are various moments I can look back and see where pressure began to build and I would run. Same thing in my jobs and it took a complete collapse and depression to make me see that I continued to sacrifice my character and integrity just to escape things I didn’t want to go through. Now? I hope I’m different, but I know what I am capable of. I’ve also seen the beauty that comes in allowing yourself to be thrown by the one who created all things. It hurts like hell sometimes, but the process is always worth it.

There is a rare joy that comes from discovering a treasure of a book that you’re sure few have ever heard about. It’s like you’re in on a delicious little secret, and it makes a good book even better. It feels like it is increasingly difficult to find these rare gems, and once you do, you become a sort of evangelist, telling everyone who will listen: “You gotta read this!” That’s what happened to me when I discovered the fiction of Russell Kirk. I first mentioned him here in the rabbit room on Halloween when I posted my review of his book of ghostly tales, Ancestral Shadows. A devout Christian man, Kirk was described by both Time and Newsweek as one of America’s leading thinkers and is widely regarded as the father of the modern conservative movement, having written many political essays and books that have helped to shape America, the best known among these being The Conservative Mind. Among other things, he is also the only American to hold the highest arts degree (earned) of the senior Scottish university—doctor of letters of St. Andrews. Well, if this all sounds boring to you, just wait. You see, in his spare time Kirk would put his considerable powers of erudition to the task of writing ghostly tales and thrillers for his own enjoyment and as experiments in “recovering the moral imagination.” His work is similar to Tolkien, Lewis, and G.K. Chesterton in that there are deep convictions and a theology guiding his stories. These deep moorings both anchor his work and give it wings. I’m not one to usually read ghost tales, but with Kirk there is the assurance that he isn’t going to take you anyplace that will leave you feeling sullied or demonized. Make no mistake, his stories are delightfully chilling, but they play out in a very moral universe and testify to redemption, retribution, and hope. After reading Ancestral Shadows, I was happy to discover Old House Of Fear – a novel that outsold all his other books combined. Old House Of Fear is a gothic romance that follows the adventure of Lawyer Hugh Logan who leaves Michigan on an errand for his Scots-born industrialist friend Duncan MacAskival to purchase from a Lady MacAskival the Island of Carnglass in the Hebrides off of Scotland and the Old House of Fear which is perched there. It’s not long before Logan encounters dangerous interference making it clear that there is more to this business in Carnglass than meets the eye. With its heavy mists, unyielding cliff walls, and a deadly reef of “needles” surrounding it, the island is as forbidding as it is remote. After overcoming incredible odds to merely reach the island, the worst still lay ahead for Logan as he discovers that the island and Lady MacAskival are now under the control of a kind of Marxist warlock named Dr. Jackman – an extremist political refugee and evil genius with “a third eye” in the middle of his forehead, a scar from a war wound that ought to have taken his life. It’s soon clear that Jackman has dark plans for The Old House Of Fear and it’s inhabitants, including the captive young Mary MacAskival. On one level, this is just a rousing thrill of a little book, but it’s also more than that if you care to dig deeper. “What Kirk has actually achieved is a political morality tale. For all the apparent ectoplasm floating about it, the Old House of Fear is haunted not by ghosts but by the shadow of the welfare state,” wrote Time in 1960. The good news is that the book never feels like it has an agenda and like the best of G.K. Chesterton’s novels is just an exciting tale well told. If you’re in the mood for a thrilling mystery set on a misty Scottish Island in an imposing castle where bogles may roam the corridors, haunted eyes gleam in the dark, trap doors beneath the cellar give way to curiously deformed skeletons, and theatrical baddies hatch diabolical plans while an unlikely hero and heroine (did I fail to mention that this is in part a love story as well?) try to thwart their plot before perishing on the island, then Old House Of Fear is for you. It’s also a book that is as intelligent as it is entertaining, offering a “microcosm of modern existence” as it pits the philosophies of its chief characters against each other. Oh yeah, and it’s just good clean fun, too. C’mon, give it a chance – and then let me know what you think of it!

I’ve only read pieces of a few of Peterson’s books, but it’s enough for me to know that he’s an admirable thinker and writer. Several years ago I had the honor of performing at the book release of The Message, in Anaheim, California, and was disappointed to learn that my fellow Peterson (no relation, of course) wouldn’t be there. how to take fake id photo. That he chose to stay at home with his wife in Montana rather than attend the big hoo-hah of such an impressive, difficult work increased my appreciation of the man. My friend Ben May sent me the following link to an interview with Peterson, in which I became an even bigger fan at the mention of Wendell Berry, who is perhaps my favorite living author. After seeing this, I’d love to know which Eugene Peterson books you would recommend to a newbie like myself.

Since nobody here has weighed in yet on the passing of Larry Norman, I thought I would post some thoughts. Interestingly (perhaps only to me) I felt reticent about discussing Larry Norman here, wondering if his work would be considered relevant to the rabbit room culture. But as I’ve been slaving over a piece about Mark Heard I hope to post soon, I realized that I only know of Mark Heard because I discovered him through Larry Norman. The same is true of Randy Stonehill, whose records I learned how to play guitar to. I discovered Rich Mullins because I heard he played the hammered dulcimer, an instrument I fell in love with on Mark Heard’s records. Later, I fell in love with Andrew Peterson’s music because he reminded me of Rich Mullin’s. I eventually became friends with Andrew, and there you have it: I’m a part of the rabbit room because of Larry Norman. As I reflect on Larry Norman’s life and work, I’m beginning to realize that I may be deeply indebted to him for so much of what my life looks like now. For the uninitiated, Larry Norman is widely regarded as the first Christian rock artist. While some like to debate this, it’s undeniable that Norman galvanized and became the poster child of a generation passionate to make their faith relevant to their culture. Leading the charge to “sing a new song” was Larry Norman, who appears to have just made things up as he went along and in the process – without any kind of CCM industry to bully him and censor what he was doing – made compelling, utterly original music, some of which is still scandalous to timid Christian ears more than 30 years later. He re-imagined Jesus as an outlaw with a group of “unschooled ruffians” as his followers, and later compared him to an UFO in his second coming. He fearlessly addressed the fruitless attempts of 60’s & 70’s culture to fill their God-shaped hole with sex in lyrics like “Gonorrhea on Valentine’s Day, but you’re still looking for the perfect lay…” (from Why Don’t You Look Into Jesus?) His songs intelligently employed social, cultural, and philosophical commentary. And he was really funny. He also looked and acted like a legitimate rock star and his music never sounded “Christian” in the worst sense since he wasn’t making it for a Christian market. It could be said that we haven’t seen a Christian artist since who was as relevant to his culture, perhaps with the exception of Derek Webb. A mythology grew up around Norman as stories of his adventures seeded and took root, like how he and a friend would solicit prostitutes in order to share the gospel with them (without, of course, taking advantage of their services). He kept company with cultural icons both secular (Paul McCartney) and spiritual (Malcolm Muggeridge), and stories of how he led Randy Stonehill to Christ and nurtured Keith Green further established him as a cultural icon in his own right. And perhaps nobody was better at fostering this mythology than Norman himself with his enigmatic, radical, and compelling persona. I discovered Larry Norman’s music through my youth pastor and found in him an artist whose work challenged my timorous notions of Christianity. He seemed like a firebrand and inspired me to a more genuine evangelical ideal. His was the music of the street and steered clear of church speak. Norman inspired me to take the gospel beyond the church walls and thus the first concert I ever performed was at the local coffee-shop that was owned by two lesbians and frequented by a decidedly unchurched crowd. In fact, I played “The Outlaw” there that first night. Larry Norman’s work helped to shape my worldview as a young Christian, and much of the way I see ministry today I still owe to him. The first Christian rock concert I ever saw that I really cared about was when my youth pastor Dave Flavin took me up to The New Union in Minneapolis to see Larry Norman (The opening act was an up and coming local band called PFR!). Norman was already almost unbearably odd by then and rumors of tensions between him and Randy Stonehill, Daniel Amos, and the other artists he worked with had begun to sully the Larry Norman experience. And yet I hung on his every word, mesmerized. And when he sang “Messiah” I was surprised that Jesus hadn’t come back at that very moment. For years I was an avid collector of Norman’s music, tracking down long out of print records and videos. My biggest score was when I managed to get my hands on Norman’s very rare album, “The Son Worshipers” which at the time was valued at more than $300. I eventually traded it for two items I still have to this day: Mark Heard’s first record (infinity + 3) and one of the only VHS copies of Heard’s last performance at Cornerstone after which he had the heart attack that would eventually take his life. And this is how my passion for all things Norman began to wane. I felt like I outgrew him and got weary of all the controversy surrounding his personal life. I became suspicious of his quirky antics and my attention turned instead to less sensational artists and thinkers like Mark Heard, The Vigilantes of Love, and Frederick Buechner. Larry Norman passed away at the age of 60 on February 24th 2008. When I read the news, I was filled with nostalgia for the season of my life where the sun rose and set on this idiosyncratic and mercurial figure. As I revisited some of his music, I was glad to find how well it holds up. Though a bit dated – Norman was a man of his times, to be sure – the songs still strike me as relevant. I think this is because embedded in the DNA of his work is this reckless desire to bring the gospel to bear upon the world as he knew it. Whatever you want to say about Larry Norman, I think it can be argued that he never compromised his convictions of making music from his gut, music that was relevant at the street level. Though overshadowed by controversy and what looked to some like a slow descent into a kind of theatrical psychosis, (even in his death, one Norman biographer admits that if he heard that Norman had faked his passing and was now living out his final years in Thailand, he wouldn’t be altogether surprised), Larry Norman’s contribution cannot be dismissed. In my own life, it’s clear to me now that it was Larry Norman’s work that first woke me out of the stupor of facile Christianity and stirred an insatiable appetite in me for art, thought, and faith expression that was original, intelligent, and genuinely evangelistic. Larry challenged me to stop playing church and look outward with my faith and he asked me to want more than the status quo from my Christianity, and I haven’t been satisfied since. For more on Larry Norman: www.larrynorman.com Recommended: Only Visiting This Planet (produced by the Beatle’s George Martin and consistently listed as one of the most seminal albums in Christian music.) Available at: larrynorman.com Youtube clips: Great American Novel The Tune The Outlaw Why Don’t You Look Into Jesus?